The thought gave him pause. It was a frightening thought indeed, and all the more reason he was glad he never planned to marry. The pact he’d made following Arrington’s funeral only solidified that vow.

  Staring into the fire burning brightly behind the grate, Sebastian relaxed in his chair again and took another sip of the brandy. He had yet to witness a woman behave the same as another woman would in a similar situation. Where Lady Arrington took a fire iron to her husband, his mother had retreated into herself until she was only a shell of the woman he had known as a child. After father lost everything that they owned gambling he turned to drink. That is what killed him in the end. It was a shame he didn’t have the decency to die at home, but in his mistress’s bed instead.

  That had been the fatal blow to mother. She had given up. She’d been too humiliated to go into public and too hurt to eat. His uncle, Earl Walcutt, did nothing to help mother, which probably angered Sebastian more than his father’s activities. Uncle could have easily seen that the debts were cleared but did not feel they were his responsibility. However, he made certain Sebastain got an education that would rival any lord’s son but that was only because Sebastian was the heir. His uncle had only daughters and it was unlikely there would be a son in the future. Unfortunately, the neglect his uncle showed toward mother would be his downfall. Never would Sebastian marry, and he most certainly would not sire the required heir. The title could go hang and disappear into oblivion for all he cared. His younger brother might do the necessary duty, but Sebastian was not compelled to do so himself.

  Besides, even if Sebastian felt the urge to procreate and provide a future for the family, he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife. There were too many instances where it did not go well for the husband.

  The firelight reflected off the fire iron standing in its holder as the flames danced. He had never thought of it as a deadly weapon before, but it looked lethal from where Sebastian sat, and nobody was even holding it. Beside it was a glass case filled with a variety of weapons. He could use the knives, swords, and guns with deadly accuracy, not that he ever had despite the rumors. Sebastian simply kept them on display to discourage anyone who thought of threatening him when called to the office to discuss gambling debts.

  Sebastian looked from the case, back to the fire iron, and then to the small but heavy figurine of a child sitting at the corner of his desk. It had been a favorite of his mother’s, yet even that innocent object could be used to harm someone. In fact, almost any object could be used if the lady was in the frame of mind to kill her husband.

  Just the thought of some woman, upset and bordering on madness, coming at him with a weapon sent a trickle of fear through him. If it were a man, Stanwick wouldn’t hesitate to use his dagger, but he could never physically harm a woman, no matter what she did. If he ever was the cause of scarred or bruised skin, Stanwick wasn’t quite sure he could forgive himself.

  He took a drink, and the liquid burned down his throat, warming his belly.

  If only women were more like men, life would be much easier.

  Sebastian finished his drink and placed the glass on his desk. At least he was safe in Dagger’s Haven where no women were ever allowed.

  Two

  Hélène glanced at her reflection in the mirror one last time. Nothing was out of place or odd. Had she not heard the tale of Miranda Casemore’s foray into a gaming hell, it would have never occurred to her to even try such a feat. Yet, when Acker tossed his invitation into the trash, she knew it was fated that she attend.

  “Are you sure this is something you should do?”

  Hélène glanced at the reflection of her sister, Genviève, in the glass. “How else are we going to come up with the funds to return home?”

  Geneviève’s grey eyes met her blue ones, concern marred her brow. “It is risky.” She shrugged. “What if you are caught?”

  Hélène snorted. “I won’t be.” She returned her attention to her appearance and patted down her cravat. Juliette and Lord Acker had left early that afternoon for dinner with Acker’s cousin in the country and didn’t plan on returning until morning. This gave Hélène the opportunity she had been hoping for, and she and Genviève went to the house Acker had once purchased for Juliette on Henrietta Street to prepare. She left a note for Acker and Juliette, telling them she and Genviève were going to review the renovations so they would know where the two of them were if they didn’t make it back to Acker’s townhouse before he and her sister returned the next day.

  Hélène turned to the side to make sure everything that proved she was female was hidden. Her breasts had been bound tightly, past the point of comfort, but she could still breathe. She had also added a small pouch to her belly so that it appeared thicker. She turned and looked over her shoulder. Thank goodness the jacket was long so that it covered her behind. Sometimes disguising a feminine bottom was harder than anything else.

  Hélène faced forward once again. She had added padding to the jacket to make her shoulders a bit broader, and everything fit perfectly. After all, she had tailored it herself nearly two years ago for a production. The wig was the same mahogany color as her own hair so that it wasn’t in contrast to her eyebrows. Women usually had thinner eyebrows, and so she had bushed hers out as well as drew them further in toward her nose. As a final touch, she’d glued a slight sideburn at the front of each ear, and this seemed to pull her face down, making it longer instead of round. Other than that, her face was devoid of any makeup. Hélène learned a long time ago that the more you do to change your appearance, the more likely someone will notice something is not right. Even if someone looked at her closely, they would not suspect she was a female, as long as she didn’t give herself away with gestures.

  Hélène didn’t fear that happening. She had played the part of a man too often in the theatre and had studied men often. She could make her voice low, though she intended to talk only when necessary and move with confidence and masculinity.

  She sighed and pocketed the twenty pounds she had been able to save. It was more money than she could afford to lose, but not enough to get her and Genviève back to Milan and support them until they worked again.

  She turned to Genviève and did a slow circle. “How do I look?”

  Genviève lifted an auburn eyebrow and studied her from head to toe. “I see nothing out of place.”

  Hélène grinned. She loved becoming someone different and trying on different characters as they fit her needs. “I don’t know how late I will be.”

  “I’ll still wait up.”

  “Just don’t worry.” Hélène picked up the voucher she had swiped from Acker’s trash and pocketed it so she could gain entrance to Dagger’s Haven and prepared to play the most important role of her life.

  Sebastian’s chest filled with pride as he glanced around his gaming hell. Most of the tables were full of gentlemen betting and losing more often than not. There were many hells throughout London, but he knew his was the best. For one, cheaters were dealt with quickly and swiftly. Nor did he employ the tactic himself because the odds were always with Dagger’s in any given game.

  He glanced over to a young man entering who was new to Dagger’s. Sebastian may not personally know everyone he sent a voucher to, but he knew what they looked like. He did not recognize this gentleman and wandered over to his employee accepting the vouchers.

  The gentleman stood slightly shorter than most men, but the clothing was of a fine cut and well-tailored. The dark hair had been clipped to where it barely brushed his collar, and his sideburns were neatly trimmed. He had an air of wealth about him.

  “Where did you come by your voucher?”

  The man cleared his throat. “Lord Acker.”

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. Did the man have a French accent? “How do you know Acker?”

  “He married my sister.”

  Ah, that explained the man and the accent. Acker had married the ballerina, Juliette Mirabelle. She was raised in France and later moved to Milan before coming to England with her family. Sebastian knew little else about her and nothing of her family. If Acker had given the voucher to the young man, he was welcome to join in the gaming.

  “Your name?”

  “Henri Mirabelle.”

  “Welcome to Dagger’s Haven.” He stepped back and let the young man pass.

  Three

  After several hours in Dagger’s Haven the pressure was building for Hélène. When she played the role of a man on stage, she also knew the production by heart, knew where she had a line and what actions she needed to take. This evening was unscripted, and she had to constantly remind herself to act the part of a gentleman. As much as she wished to cross her feet at her ankles, she kept them planted on the floor. When lifting a glass of brandy, she used a firm grip and tried to drink and not sip. It was because she had to remember so many things that she had only taken three drinks throughout the night, and only then because she was parched. She could not afford to lose her head, or she might make a mistake. Besides, only a fool drank and gambled at the same time.

  Smoke hung heavy in the room, and her eyes often watered. How could gentlemen spend so many hours in such a place and not feel as if their lungs were about to explode while their noses burned and eyes watered? Gentlemen, as a whole, were a strange lot. She didn’t understand their humor, and a few had cast her a strange look when she hadn’t laughed with everyone else. She wasn’t going to pretend she understood, so she simply concentrated on her cards.

  Still, Hélène couldn’t believe her luck. So far, she was winning and had already tripled her original twenty pounds. She now had enough so that she and Genviève to travel back to Milan and live and it was best to bring this evening to an end.

  Hélène began to rise from her seat when a hand settled on her shoulder. “You aren’t leaving so soon?”

  She glanced up at a man of approximately forty with sandy brown hair. The room wasn’t as full as it had been earlier, and many gentlemen were leaving. How long had she been here? “It grows late.”

  “You’ve had amazing luck. Let me join you and see if some of it doesn’t flow my way.” He took the empty chair beside her, and Hélène was at a loss as to what to do. She really should leave, but what explanation could she give? She didn’t dare talk much for fear of giving herself away, so she resumed her seat and hoped she could escape within the hour.

  The dealer shuffled the deck, and another gentleman sat in the chair on the opposite side of her. She gave a quick glance at the man of approximately thirty with dark hair and glanced back down at her cards. Hopefully this game would go quickly, and she could leave the establishment.

  Sebastian had been watching the gaming throughout his club. It was nearing two in the morning and almost everyone had left except for Carrington, Mirabelle, and Thorn. The deck was being shuffled, and the next game of Vingt-et-un would begin shortly.

  There was something odd about Mirabelle, but Sebastian couldn’t place what was bothersome. The Frenchman didn’t speak much, nor did he drink. The same glass of brandy had been with him the entire night and looked as if barely any had been drunk, whereas many of the other patrons had drunk and played until they were deep in their cups. Mirabelle was a smart player. He didn’t speak to those around him and only concentrated on his cards. He’d only lost a few times, and Sebastian wasn’t so sure he wanted the young man gambling here often. Such a person could put a dent in his profit.

  Sebastian sauntered over to the table and took a seat.

  “Did you wish to play?” the dealer asked.

  “No.” Sebastian shook his head. “I simply wish to watch.” A footman placed a glass of brandy before him, and he settled back. The deck currently being shuffled was beginning to show some wear. Is that why Mirabelle had been successful? Was there something that tipped him off to what the cards were? Nobody he knew won at Vingt-et-un with such consistency. Sebastian took the deck from the dealer and produced one that had not yet been used. Mirabelle didn’t even blink.

  Play began, and Mirabelle lost the first two hands.

  Maybe there had been something in the old deck that was tipping him off.

  However, four hands into the game, Mirabelle began to win again. How was that possible? Carrington was beginning to lose everything he had gained, and Thorn remained steady, not winning or losing a great amount on each hand.

  A footman refilled Carrington’s brandy. Perhaps that was the answer. The man had been drinking steadily since his arrival, whereas Mirabelle had not.

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes, no longer paying attention to Carrington or Thorn, but the young Frenchman. Mirabelle watched his cards, would glance at what was revealed in front of the other players and then the dealers. Over and over, his concentration was so intense.

  Bloody hell, Mirabelle was counting cards.

  Many men had tried in the past but were usually unsuccessful. It was near impossible to remember every card that was played and calculate the odds of what would be turned up next or what was being held by the other players at the table, yet somehow Mirabelle had perfected the practice. Though it wasn’t cheating to be able to remember, it still did not sit well with Sebastian. After tonight, the young gentleman would not be allowed back in his club.

  Four

  Hélène sighed when the last card was dealt. Even if the remaining two gentlemen wished to play, she would not. She must get home. She still needed to return to Juliette’s house, change her clothing, and return to Acker’s before the morning was too far gone. Besides, she had already won far more than she needed and, if her calculations were correct, she’d be leaving with one hundred pounds.

  The older gentleman clapped her on the back in congratulations. It was all Hélène could do to hold her seat and not fall forward. Why weren’t gentlemen’s backs bruised from such manly affection?

  She rose to find the younger gentlemen at her side. “Congratulations.” Stanwick, the owner of this establishment, approached. “Might I have a word with you, Mr. Mirabelle?”

  Hélène blew out a silent sigh.

  Stanwick stared at her, feet planted apart, fists anchored at his hips. He jerked his head towards the hall. “In my office.” He turned, and Hélène followed him down a dim hall, leaving the other two gentlemen at the table. Hélène glanced out the window. It was still dark, but she had lost track of time. How late was it, anyway? Had she been here all night? Hopefully, Mr. Stanwick would make this quick.

  Stanwick closed the door and moved to the other side of the desk. Hélène remained standing, anticipating leaving with the fortune. Stanwick’s dark eyes narrowed and studied her. Surely, he hadn’t seen through her disguise. Hélène was confident she played the part of a gentleman perfectly this evening and never once made a mistake.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, Stanwick didn’t even appear tired. All she wished to do was crawl into bed. The night had been exhausting, and she was ready to be rid of her disguise.

  His dark evening wear was without a wrinkle, his cravat knotted neatly, as if it had been tied just a short time ago instead of hours. Not even a hair of his black as midnight hair was out of place. Yet his jaw was tight. Though clean-shaven earlier in the evening, there was masculine, dark stubble shadowing his chin. Why did he seem angry?

  “I don’t allow cheaters in my club.”

  She straightened. “I did not cheat.”

  “It is not honorable to count cards.”

  She had no intention of ever coming back here, but his insult was too much. “Everyone counts cards,” she said. “How else can you determine if you’ve reached a number between two and twenty-one?”

  His eyes narrowed. “That is not what I meant. You counted and remembered each card played.”

  “All gentlemen do the same, I can assure you.” They did, didn’t they? “How else does one calculate the odds?” She needed to not say as much. The longer she spoke, the harder it was to hold her tone low. She could just pray her French accent disguised any feminine tones.

  Stanwick’s nostrils flared with his breath. “Many have tried, but none with the success you showed tonight.”

  Hélène bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling at the compliment. He was angry enough already. Perhaps Stanwick simply didn’t like to lose. Yet he hadn’t lost tonight. He made a blooming fortune. She had glanced at the play taking place at the other tables. Time and time again, gentlemen miscalculated and lost the money they came here with. While he may have lost to her, Dagger’s Haven made a nice profit this evening.

  “I don’t know how you managed to do it, and I still find it impossible that you could count and calculate so quickly.” He leaned forward. “When I determine how you cheated, I will be asking for your winnings back.”

  Hélène’s mouth popped open, and she gasped. He couldn’t take her winnings. She needed those funds to return to Milan. “I do not appreciate my honor being called into question.” She huffed, sticking out her chest and raising her chin. Then remembering that she had breasts, even though they were currently bound, Hélène quickly relaxed before he saw through her disguise.

  Stanwick simply lifted an eyebrow and looked down at her. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, which incensed her further. How dare he accuse her of cheating and then find humor in her indignation? She wanted to slap the smirk off his face. Hélène glanced about the room trying to think of a way to extract herself from this situation with her pride intact, as well as the winnings.

  What would any normal gentleman do in this circumstance, where honor was at stake?

  Then she spied the case of weapons. That was it. “Swords.”

  Stanwick straightened as his eyes widened for a moment. In a snap, his condescending attitude was gone. “Pardon?”

  Hélène lifted her chin a notch. “You’ve called my honor into question.”