Читать книгу The Lady Gambles - Кэрол Мортимер, Carole Mortimer - Страница 7

Three days later—Nick’s gambling club, London, England

Caro moved lightly across the stage on slippered feet before arranging herself carefully upon the red-velvet chaise, checking that the gold-and-jewelled mask covering her face from brow to lips was securely in place, and arranging the long ebony curls of the theatrical wig so that they cascaded over the fullness of her breasts and down the length of her spine, before attending to the draping of her gold-coloured gown so that she was completely covered from her throat to her toes.

She could hear the buzz of excitement behind the drawn curtains at the front of the small raised stage, and knew that the male patrons of the gambling club were anticipating the moment when those curtains would be pulled back and her performance began.

Caro’s heart began to pound, the blood thrumming hotly in her veins as the introductory music began to play, and the room behind the drawn curtains fell into an expectant silence.

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?’ Dominic turned away, expecting rather than waiting to see if the older man followed him, his impatience barely held in check. Nevertheless, he still managed to greet and smile at several acquaintances as he moved purposefully towards the back of the smoke-filled club to where Drew’s office was situated.

He barely noticed the opulence of that office as Drew followed him into the room before closing the door behind him and effectively shutting out the noise from the gaming rooms. Although Dominic did spot a decanter of what he knew to be a first-class brandy, and he swiftly poured himself a glass and took an appreciative sip before offering to pour one for the manager, too.

The older man shook his head. ‘I never drink during working hours.’

Dominic made himself comfortable as he leant back against the front of the huge mahogany desk. ‘Well, who is she, Drew? And where is she from?’

The manager shrugged. ‘Do you want my take on her or what she told me when she came to the back door asking for work?’

Dominic’s gaze narrowed. ‘Both.’ He took another sip of his brandy, giving every appearance of studying the toe of one highly polished boot as the other man began to relate the young woman’s tale of woe.

Caro Morton claimed to be an orphan who had lived with a maiden aunt in the country until three weeks ago, the death of the elderly lady leaving her homeless. Consequently she had arrived in London two weeks earlier with very little money and no maid or companion, but with a determination to make her own way in the world. Her intention, apparently, had been to offer herself as companion or governess in a respectable household, but her lack of references had made that impossible, and so she had instead been driven to begin knocking on the back door of the theatres and clubs.

Dominic looked up sharply at this part of the story. ‘How many had she visited before arriving here?’

‘Half a dozen or so.’ Drew grimaced. ‘I understand she did receive several offers of … alternative employment along the way.’

Dominic gave a humourless smile as he easily guessed the nature of those offers. ‘You did not feel tempted to do the same when she came knocking on the door here?’ He had no doubt that Miss Caro Morton was a young woman most men, no matter what their age, would like to bed.

The older man shot him a frowning glance as he moved to sit behind the desk. ‘My lord, I happen to have been happily married for the past twenty years, with a daughter not much younger than she is.’

‘My apologies.’ Dominic gave a slight bow. ‘Very well.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘That would appear to be Miss Morton’s version of her arrival in London; now tell me who or what you think she is.’

Drew looked thoughtful. ‘There may have been a maiden aunt, but somehow I doubt it. My guess is she’s in London because she’s running away from something or someone. A brutish father, maybe. Or perhaps even a cruel husband. Either way she’s far too refined to be your usual actress or whore.’

Dominic eyed him speculatively. ‘Define refined?’

‘Ladylike,’ the older man supplied tersely.

Dominic looked intrigued; a woman of quality attempting to conceal her identity would certainly explain the wearing of that jewelled mask. ‘And you do not think that actresses and whores are capable of giving the impression of being ladylike?’

‘I know they are,’ Drew answered. ‘I just don’t happen to think Caro Morton is one of them.’ His expression became closed. ‘Perhaps it would be best if you were to talk to her and decide for yourself?’

That the manager felt a fatherly protectiveness towards the ‘refined’ Miss Caro Morton was obvious. That the doorman, Ben Jackson, felt that same protectiveness was also apparent. If she really were a runaway wife or daughter, then Dominic felt no such softness of emotions. ‘I fully intend doing so,’ he assured the other man drily as he straightened. ‘I merely wished to hear your views first.’

Drew looked concerned. ‘Are you intending to dismiss her?’

Dominic gave the thought some consideration before answering. There was no doubting Drew Butler’s claim that Caro Morton’s nightly performances were a draw to the club, but even so she might just be more trouble than she was worth if she really were a runaway wife or daughter. ‘That will depend upon Miss Morton.’

‘In what way?’

He raised arrogant brows. ‘I accept that you have been the manager of Nick’s for several years, Drew. That you are, without a doubt, the best man for the job.’ He smiled briefly to soften what he was about to say next. ‘However, that ability does not give you the right to question any of my own actions or decisions.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Where is Caro Morton now?’

‘I usually ensure that she has a bite to eat in her dressing-room between performances.’ Drew’s expression challenged Dominic to question that decision of his.

Remembering the girl’s slenderness, and the pallor of her translucent skin, Dominic felt no inclination to do so; from the look of her, that ‘bite to eat’ might be the only food Caro Morton had in a single day.

‘I’d like to be informed if you decide to let her to go. She has wages owing to her,’ Drew defended as Dominic looked surprised.

She also, Dominic decided ruefully as he agreed to the request before leaving the office, had the cynical club manager wrapped tightly about her tiny little finger, and no doubt the older man would offer her his assistance in finding other employment should Dominic decide to let her go.

Deciding for himself who or what Miss Caro Morton was promised to be an interesting experience. It was a surprising realisation for a man whose years in the army, and the two years since returning to England spent evading the clutches of every marriage-minded mama of the ton, had made him as cynical, if not more so, as the much older Drew Butler.

Caro gave a surprised start as a brief knock sounded on her dressing-room door. Well, not a dressing-room as such, she allowed ruefully, more a private room at the back of the gambling club that Mr Butler had put aside for her use in between her performances.

A room that he had assured her was completely offlimits to any and all of the men who frequented Nick’s …

She stood up slowly, nervously making sure that her robe was securely tied about her waist before crossing the tiny room to stand beside the locked door. ‘Who is it?’ she asked warily.

‘My name is Dominic Vaughn,’ came the haughty reply.

Just like that, Caro knew that the man standing on the other side of the locked door was the same man who had looked at her earlier with those disdainful silver-coloured eyes. She was not sure why or how she knew that, she just did. There was an arrogance in the deep baritone voice, a confidence that spoke of years of issuing orders and having them instantly obeyed. And he was obviously now expecting her to obey him by unlocking the door and allowing him inside …

Her hands clenched in the pockets of her robe, the nails digging painfully into the palms. ‘Gentlemen are not allowed to visit me in my dressing-room.’

A brief silence followed her statement, before the man replied with hard impatience, ‘I assure you that my being here has Drew Butler’s full approval.’

The manager of Nick’s had been very kind to Caro this past week, and, what’s more, she knew that she could trust him implicitly. But having a man approach her dressing-room in this unexpected way and simply stating that Mr Butler approved of his being here and expecting her to believe his claim was not good enough. ‘I am sorry, but the answer is still no.’

‘I assure you, my business with you will only take a few moments of your time,’ came the irritated response.

‘I am in need of rest before my next performance,’ Caro insisted.

Dominic’s mouth firmed in frustration at this woman’s stubborn refusal to so much as open the door. ‘Miss Morton—’

‘That is my final word on the subject,’ she informed him haughtily.

Drew had claimed that Caro Morton was ‘ladylike’, Dominic recalled with a narrowing of his eyes. He could hear that quality himself now in the precise diction of her voice. A subtle, and yet unmistakable authority in her tone that spoke of education and refinement. ‘You will either speak to me now, Miss Morton, or I assure you there will be no “next performance” for you at Nick’s.’ Dominic stood with his shoulder leaning against the wall in the darkened hallway, arms folded across the broad width of this chest.

There was a tiny gasp inside the room. ‘Are you threatening me, Mr Vaughn?’ There was a slight edge of uncertainty to her voice now.

‘I feel no need to threaten, Miss Morton, when the truth will serve just as well.’

Caro was in something of a quandary. Having fled her home two weeks earlier, sure that she would find employment in the obscurity of London as a lady’s companion or governess, instead she had found herself being turned away from those respectable households, time and time again, simply because she did not have the appropriate references.

Everything in London had been so much more expensive than Caro had imagined it would be, too. The small amount of money she had brought with her, saved over the months from her allowance, had diminished much more rapidly than she had imagined it would, leaving her with no choice, if she were not to return to an intolerable situation, but to try her luck at the back door of the theatres. She had always received compliments upon her singing when she’d entertained after dinner on the rare occasions her father had invited friends and neighbours to dine. Those visits to the theatres had resulted in her receiving several offers of employment—but all of them were shocking to a young woman brought up in protected seclusion in rural Hampshire!

She owed her present employment—and the money with which to pay for her modest lodgings—completely to Drew Butler’s kindness. As such, she was not sure that she could turn Dominic Vaughn away from her dressing-room if for some reason the older man really had approved the visit.

Her fingers shook slightly as she took her hands from the pockets of her robe to slowly turn the key in the lock, only to step back quickly as the door was immediately thrust open impatiently.

It was the silver-eyed devil from earlier! He looked even more devilish now as the subdued candlelight illuminating the hallway threw that scar upon his cheek into sharp relief and his black jacket and white linen only added to the rawness of the power that seemed to emanate from him.

Caro took another step backwards. ‘What is it you wished to speak to me about?’

Dominic deliberately schooled his expression to reveal none of the shock he had felt as he looked at Caro Morton for the first time without the benefit of that concealing jewelled mask. Or the ebony-coloured wig, which had apparently concealed her own long and gloriously golden curls. Those curls now framed sea-green, almond-shaped eyes, set in a delicate, heart-shaped face of such beauty it took his breath away.

An occurrence, if she were indeed a disobedient daughter or—worse—a runaway wife, that did not please him in the slightest. ‘Invite me inside, Miss Morton,’ he demanded dictatorially.

Long-lashed lids blinked nervously before she ar rested the movement and her pointed chin rose proudly. ‘As I have already explained, sir, I am resting until my next performance.’

Dominic’s mouth hardened. ‘Which I understand from Drew does not take place for another hour.’

The slenderness of her throat moved convulsively, drawing his attention to the bare expanse of creamy-white skin revealed by the plunging neckline of her robe. His hooded gaze moved lower still, to where the silky material draped down over small, pointed breasts. Her waist was so slender that he was sure his hands could easily span its circumference. He also privately acknowledged, with an unlooked for stirring of his arousal, that his hands could easily cup her tiny breasts before lowering to the smooth roundness of her bottom and lifting her against him for her to wrap those long, slender legs about his waist …

Caro found she did not much care for the way Dominic

Vaughn was looking at her. Almost as if he could see beneath her robe to the naked flesh beneath. Her cheeks became flushed as she straightened her shoulders determinedly. ‘I would prefer that you remain exactly where you are, sir.’

That silver gaze returned to her face. ‘My lord.’

She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He introduced himself. ‘I am Lord Dominic Vaughn, Earl of Blackstone.’

Caro felt a tightness in her chest as she realised this man was a member of the ton, a man no doubt as arrogant as her recently acquired guardian. ‘If that is meant to impress me—my lord—then I am afraid it has failed utterly.’

He raised dark brows as he ignored the sarcasm in her tone. ‘I believe it is the usual custom at this point for the introduction to be reciprocated?’

Her cheeks burned at the intended rebuke. ‘If, as you claim, you have spoken to Mr Butler, then you must already know that my name is Caro Morton.’

He looked at her shrewdly. ‘Is it?’

Her gaze sharpened. ‘I have just said as much, my lord.’

‘Ah, if only the saying of something made it true,’ he jeered.

That tightness in Caro’s chest increased. ‘Do you doubt my word, sir?’

‘I am afraid I am of an age and experience, my dear Caro, when I doubt everything I am told until proven otherwise.’

There was no doubting that the cynicism and mockery of this man’s expression gave him a world-weary appearance, and that scar upon his left cheek an air of danger, but even so she would not have placed him at more than eight or nine and twenty. Not so much older than her own twenty years.

Nor was she his ‘dear’ anything! ‘How very sad for you.’

Not the response Dominic had expected. Or one he wanted, either; the wealthy and eligible Earl of Blackstone did not desire or need anyone’s pity. Least of all that of a woman who hid her real appearance behind a jewelled mask and ebony wig.

Could Butler’s assessment of her be the correct one? Had this young woman run away to London to hide from possibly an overbearing father, or a brutish and bullying husband? She was of such a tiny and delicate appearance that Dominic found the latter possibility too distasteful to contemplate.

Whatever the mystery surrounding this woman, he was of the opinion that neither he, nor his gambling club, was in need of the trouble she might bring banging upon the door. ‘Are you even of an age to be in a gambling club, Caro?’

She looked startled. ‘My lord?’

‘I simply wondered as to your age.’

‘A gentleman should never ask a lady her age,’ she retorted primly.

Dominic slowly allowed his gaze to move from the top of that golden head, over the slenderness of her body, the delicacy of her tiny wrists and slender hands, to the bareness of her feet, before just as slowly returning to her now flushed and slightly resentful face. ‘As far as I am aware, ladies are always accompanied by a maid or companion; nor do they cavort upon the stage of a gentlemen’s gaming club.’

Her little pointed chin rose once more. ‘I do not cavort, my lord, but simply lie upon a chaise,’ she bit out tartly. ‘I also fail to see what business it is of yours whether or not I have a maid or companion.’

Dominic glanced into the room behind her, noting the tray on the dressing table, with its bowl of some rich and still-steaming stew and a platter of bread beside it, a plump and tempting orange upon another plate, obviously intended as her dessert. No doubt that ‘bite to eat’ Butler had mentioned providing for her.

‘I appear to have interrupted your supper,’ he acknowledged smoothly. ‘I suggest that we finish this conversation later tonight when I, and not Ben, act as your escort home.’

Her eyes widened in alarm before she gave a firm shake of her head. ‘That will not be possible, I am afraid.’

‘Oh?’

This was not a man used to receiving no for an answer, Caro realised ruefully as she took in the glittering arrogance in those silver eyes beneath one autocratically raised brow. And her lack of maid or companion was easily explained—if she had felt inclined to offer this man any explanation, which she did not! To have brought either maid or companion with her when she fled Hampshire two weeks ago would have placed them in the position of having abetted her in that flight, and she was in enough trouble already, without involving anyone else in her plight.

‘No,’ she reaffirmed evenly now. ‘It would hurt Ben’s feelings terribly if he were not allowed to walk me home. Besides,’ she added as his lordship would have dismissed that excuse for exactly what it was, ‘I do not allow gentlemen I do not know to escort me to my home.’ A man she had no wish to know, either, Caro could have added.

Mocking humour glittered briefly in those pale grey eyes. ‘Even if Drew Butler were to vouch for this gentleman?’

‘I have yet to hear him do so. Now, if you will excuse me? I wish to eat my supper before it becomes too cool.’ Caro’s attempt to close the door in Dominic Vaughn’s face was thwarted by the tactical placing of one of his booted feet against the door jam. Her eyes flashed a warning as she slowly reopened the door. ‘Please do not force me to call upon Ben’s help in having you removed from the premises.’

A threat that did not seem to bother the arrogant Dominic Vaughn in the slightest as he continued to smile down at her confidently. ‘That would be an … interesting experience.’

Caro eyed him uncertainly. Ben was as tall as the earl, and obviously more heavily built, but there was an underlying air of danger lurking beneath this man’s outward show of fashionable elegance. An aura of power that implied he could best any man against whom he chose to pit the strength of those wide shoulders and tall, lithely muscled body. Besides which, Caro very much doubted that the Earl of Blackstone had received that scar upon his face by sitting comfortably at home by his fireside!

She forced the tension from her shoulders as she smiled up at him. ‘Perhaps we might defer discussing your offer to escort me home until after I have spoken to Mr Butler?’

And perhaps, Dominic guessed, this young lady would choose to absent herself without so much as bothering to talk to Drew Butler. ‘I will be waiting outside for you when you have finished your next performance.’

The irritated darkening of those beautiful sea-green eyes told him that he had guessed correctly. ‘You are very persistent, sir!’

‘Just anxious to acquaint myself with one of my own employees.’

She gasped, those sea-green eyes wide with alarm. ‘Your … ? Did you say your employee?’

Dominic gave an affirmative nod, and took great pleasure in noting the way the colour drained from the delicacy of her cheeks, as she obviously realised he did indeed have the power to ensure she never performed at Nick’s again. ‘Until later then, Miss Morton.’ He bowed elegantly before returning to the gaming rooms, a smile of satisfaction curving his lips.