“As you say, sir.” The manservant sighed with resignation, and turned the paper back so he could read it himself. “Besides, sir, this says that membership will be most exclusive. Unless a gentleman is already a member of Brook’s, White’s, or Boodles, then he will not be admitted to Penny House tonight unless he has received his invitation directly from the membership committee.”
“Invitations to have your pockets emptied? Give that to me, Neuf.” He grabbed the paper from his manservant’s hands. “Even for London, that’s carrying it too damned far.”
Neuf folded his now empty hands before him. “It’s true, sir. I did not invent it, nor could I.”
“Who in blazes could?” Richard frowned as he scanned the page, feeling more and more as if it were a personal challenge to him rather than a simple scrap of society gossip. Not that any of these fine folk would know his past, or guess that they played at cards with a collier’s son. “They say it’s to ensure the ‘genteel air’ of the club. What’s genteel about drinking so much that you’re willing to toss away every last farthing to your name?”
Neuf shrugged his narrow shoulders. “This is London, sir, and these are London ways.”
“I’ll show them London ways.” Richard tossed the paper on the table, and tugged his shirt over his head, ready to dress for the evening. Walking through the door didn’t mean he’d have to play deep, or even play at all. “I’d like to see those three merry sisters try to keep me out of their precious gaming house because I don’t have the proper scrap of pasteboard.”
Neuf caught Richard’s discarded shirt as it he tossed it toward a chair. “Then you are going to this Penny House, sir?”
“Yes, Neuf, I am.” Richard grinned, his earlier restlessness forgotten. So far his time in London had been dull and proper. Now this evening had a purpose, an excitement. He might have stumbled at the auction house from lack of experience, saying and doing the wrong thing with the young lady in mourning, but a new gambling club run by women of dubious reputation—ah, where else would he feel more at ease?
Neuf nodded, still managing to make his unhappiness clear to Richard. If he’d known Richard long enough for a certain degree of familiarity, he’d also known him long enough to understand the combined temptation that Penny House could offer, and the futility of any warning he might give to his master.
“As you wish, sir,” he said instead. “As you wish.”
“As I damned well please, Neuf,” Richard said cheerfully, his mood improving by the moment. “And may the devil take the man who tries to stop me.”
The man’s face was round and red and very shiny, and he’d had so much to drink that he didn’t notice that the ends of his neckcloth were sticking out on either side of his plump neck like well-starched handles.
But Cassia noticed, and it was hard—very hard—for her not to reach out with both hands to tuck the ends back into the collar of his coat.
“And you say you arranged everything in this house in the very latest taste, Miss Penny?” he marveled, patting the front of his waistcoat. “You’re such a dear young girl that I cannot believe it to be possible!”
“Thank you, Lord Russell,” Cassia said, fluttering her fan as she squeezed back against the wall to let two other gentlemen pass them on the stairs. “Perhaps I did not paint every last baseboard with my own hand, but I did choose the colors, and assemble all the paintings and other little pieces to amuse the eyes of our guests.”
Lord Russell tapped the side of his nose with one finger, narrowing his unfocussed eyes. “That’s what a good English lass is supposed to do with her house, Miss Penny, and so I tell Lady Russell. But she’d rather have an Italian do it for her, fussing with the furnishing until a fellow can’t tell where he’s supposed to sit.”
“Then you shall simply have to return to us, my lord.” Cassia smiled, though her mouth already ached from smiling at gentlemen because she had to. She could not believe how many men had crowded into the house, more men—old and young and in between, handsome and homely, but most of them titled and all of them wealthy—than she’d ever seen together in her entire life in Woodbury. Amariah had been right: this wasn’t like the flirtatious fun at the Havertown Assembly. It was work, hard work, and the tall clock in the hall had yet to chime ten.
Lord Russell leaned closer, swallowing as he glanced along the front of her bodice. “You know, Miss Penny, you are a fine girl, deuced fine, and a good deal easier to talk to than my wife. I’m a generous man, Miss Penny, especially to those I favor, and when you tire of this, we could make an arrangement that would benefit—”
“Have you found our hazard table yet, my lord?” Cassia said brightly, fighting the very real urge to forget her promise to Amariah and shove His Lordship back down the stairs the way he deserved. “It’s in the drawing room at the top of these stairs, just to your right, and we’ve also tables for cribbage and whist, if those are more your pleasure.”
“So you like a man who’s not afraid to play deep, eh?” His Lordship leered, or at least as close to a leer as his baby-round face could manage. “You like a man who’s not afraid of courting danger at the table?”
What Cassia liked was a man who’d play deep and lose badly and make their bank fatter for Father’s charity, which was exactly why Lord Russell had been invited tonight.
Not, of course, that Cassia could say that to him. Instead she deftly twisted away, putting more space between them as she kept smiling over her fan. “I hear the gentlemen have already predicted it will be a lucky table, my lord.”
“Have they now?” He leered again, smoothing his plump, pink hand down the front of his waistcoat. “Up these stairs, you say?”
“To the right of the landing, my lord,” she said with relief. “You cannot miss it.”
“Very well, Miss Penny,” he said with a slight bow. “I shall— What in blazes is that racket down at the door?”
“Doubtless an overeager guest, my lord.” Cassia leaned over the railing, trying to glimpse what was happening below. “I’m sure the staff will sort it out in a moment.”
But Lord Russell was right: it was a racket. Men were shouting at each other, while the house’s servants in livery were pushing and shoving and trying to keep order. Other gentlemen were crowding the doorways, determined to see the source of the excitement. In the very center, Cassia spotted the top of Amariah’s head, her hair bright as a copper coin tossed in the middle of so much dark male evening clothes. For a moment, Cassia thought she glimpsed an arm, gesturing wildly in her direction, and then Amariah looked up and caught her eye.
Pratt appeared magically beside her, his face so purposefully bland that she knew things must be very bad indeed. “Excuse me, Miss Cassia, but Miss Amariah has requested you come to her directly. This way, miss, if you please.”
Cassia nodded, closing her fan with a little click. She gave one last smile to Lord Russell, with what she hoped was sufficient regret, then hurried down the curving staircase after Pratt. The opening was supposed to be genteel, elegant, meant to make gentlemen want to join their club. It was not supposed to degenerate into a brawl.
“What has happened, Pratt?” she whispered. “Tell me! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that can’t be set to rights in a moment, miss,” Pratt answered discreetly, no real answer at all. “Miss Amariah will explain.”
He cut a path for her through the sea of gentlemen, keeping her moving through the crowd still clustered in the front hall, while newcomers at the door tried to make their way inside. “Excuse me, my