Dominic hesitated at the entrance of Nick’s, one of London’s most fashionable gambling clubs, and one of his favourite haunts even before he had taken possession of it a month ago.
Newly arrived back from Venice that afternoon, he had decided to visit the club at the earliest opportunity, and as he handed his hat and cloak over to the waiting attendant, he could not help but notice that the burly young man who usually guarded the doorway against undesirables was not in his usual place. He also realised that the gambling rooms beyond the red-velvet curtains were unnaturally silent.
What on earth was going on?
Suddenly that silence was bewitchingly broken by the sultry, sensual sound of a woman singing. Except that Dominic had given strict instructions before his departure for Venice that in future there were to be no women working—in any capacity—in the club he now owned.
He was frowning heavily as he strolled into the main salon, seeing at once the reason for the doorman’s desertion when he spotted Ben Jackson standing transfixed just inside a room crowded with equally mesmerised patrons, all of them apparently hearing only one thing. Seeing only one thing.
A woman, the obvious source of that sensually seductive voice, lay upon a red-velvet chaise on the stage, a tiny little thing with an abundance of ebony hair that cascaded in loose curls over her shoulders and down the length of her slender back. Most of her face was covered by a jewelled mask much like the ones worn in Venice during carnival, but her bared lips were full and sensuous, her throat a pearly white. She wore a gown of shimmering gold, the voluptuousness of her curves hinted at rather than blatantly displayed, and the more seductive because of it.
Even masked, she was without a doubt the most sensually seductive creature Dominic had ever beheld!
The fact that every other man in the room thought the same thing was evident from the avarice in their gazes and the flush to their cheeks, several visibly licking their lips as they stared at her. A fact that caused Dominic’s scowl to deepen as his own gaze returned to that vision of seduction upon the stage.
Caro tried not to reveal her irritation with the man who stood at the back of the salon glowering at her, either by her expression or in her voice, as she brought her first performance of the evening to an end by slowly standing up to move gracefully to the edge of the stage as she sang the last huskily appealing notes.
It did not prevent her from being completely aware of that pale and disapproving gaze or of the man that gaze belonged to.
He was so extremely tall that even standing at the back of the salon he towered several inches over the other men in the room, his black superfine tailored to widely muscled shoulders, his white linen impeccable and edged with Brussels lace at his throat and wrist. His fashionably styled hair was the colour of a raven’s wing, so black it almost seemed to have a blue sheen. His eyes, those piercingly critical eyes, were the pale colour of a grey silky mist, and appeared almost silver in their intensity. He had a strong, aristocratic face: high cheekbones, a straight slash of a nose, firm sculptured lips, and a square and arrogantly determined jaw. It was a hard and uncompromising face, made more so by the scar that ran down its left side, from just beneath his eye to that stubbornly set jaw.
His pale grey eyes were currently staring at Caro with an intensity of dislike that she had never encountered before in all of her twenty years. So unnerved was she by his obvious disdain that she barely managed to maintain her smile as she took her bows to the thunderous round of applause. Applause she knew from experience would last for several minutes after she had returned to her dressing-room at the back of the club.
It was impossible not to take one last glance in the scowling man’s direction before she disappeared from the stage, slightly alarmed as she saw that he was now in earnest conversation with the manager of the club, Drew Butler.
‘What is the meaning of this, Drew?’ Dominic asked icily under cover of the applause for the beauty still taking her bows upon the stage.
The grey-haired man looked unperturbed; as the manager of Nick’s for the past twenty years, the cynicism in his tired blue eyes stated that he had already seen and done most things in his fifty years, and was no longer disturbed by any of them, least of all by the disapproving tone of the man who had become his employer only a month ago. ‘The patrons love her.’
‘The patrons have neither drunk nor gambled since that woman began to sing some quarter of an hour ago,’ Dominic pointed out.
‘Watch them now,’ Drew said softly.
Dominic did watch, his brows rising as the champagne began to flow copiously and the patrons placed ridiculously high bets at the tables, the level of conversation rising exponentially as the attributes of the young woman were loudly discussed, along with more bets being placed as to the chances of any of them being privileged enough to see behind the jewelled mask.
‘You see.’ Drew gave an unconcerned shrug as he turned back to Dominic. ‘She’s really good for business.’
Dominic shook his head impatiently. ‘Did I not make it clear when I was here last month that this is to be a gambling club only in future, and not a damned brothel?’
‘You did.’ Again Drew remained completely unruffled. ‘And as per your instructions the bedchambers upstairs have remained locked and unavailable to all.’
A gentleman, an earl no less, owning a London gambling club of Nick’s reputation was hardly acceptable to society. But it had been a matter of honour to Dominic, when Nicholas Brown had challenged him to a game of cards the previous month for ownership of Midnight Moon, the prize stallion kept at Dominic’s stud at his estate in Kent. In return, Dominic had demanded that Nicholas put up Nick’s as his own side of the wager and obviously Dominic had won.
Owning a gambling club was one thing, but the half-a-dozen bedchambers on the first floor, until recently available to any man who had wished for some privacy with … whomever, were totally unacceptable; Dominic drew the line at being considered a pimp! As such, he had ordered a ban on women—all women—inside the club, and the bedrooms upstairs to be immediately closed off. With the exception of the mysterious young woman, who had so recently held the club’s patrons enthralled—and not just with her singing!—those instructions appeared to have been carried out.
Dominic’s mouth compressed. ‘I believe my instructions were to dispense with the services of all the … ladies working here?’
‘Caro ain’t—is not, a whore.’ Drew visibly bristled, his shoulders stiffening defensively.
Dominic frowned darkly. ‘Then what, pray, is she?’
‘Exactly as you saw,’ Drew said. ‘Twice a night she simply lays on the chaise and sings. And the punters drink and gamble more than ever once she leaves the stage.’
‘Does she bring a maid or companion with her?’ The older man looked amused. ‘What do you think?’ ‘What do I think?’ Dominic’s eyes had narrowed to icy slits. ‘I think she is a disaster in the making.’ He scowled. ‘Which gentleman has the privilege of escorting her home at the end of the evening?’
‘I does.’ The doorman, Ben Jackson, announced proudly as he passed them on his way back to his vigil at the entrance to the club, his round face looking no less cherubic for all that his nose had obviously been broken more than once. His ham-sized fists did not come amiss in a brawl, either.
Dominic raised sceptical brows. ‘You do?’
Ben beamed contentedly, showing several broken teeth for his trouble. ‘Miss Caro insists on it.’
Oh, she did, did she?
Ben Jackson could make grown men quake in their boots just by looking at them, and Drew Butler was a cynic through and through, and yet Miss Caro appeared to have them both eating out of her delicate little hand!
‘Perhaps we should continue this discussion in your office, Drew?’