“My luck has changed,” Ivy murmured as she surveyed the room with pride.
Two years ago, she had lost everything: her reputation, her way of life, and a respectable future. Lost on the turn of a card.
But Ivy had fought against what seemed to be inevitable and won. She was now the proud owner—ironically, she had to admit—of a thriving gambling house in London. She would never get back what she had lost, but she could do better—she could control her own future.
The club was still empty, save for the staff, even though it had been open for at least an hour. Late nights were the norm, so Ivy wasn’t concerned about the lack of clientele. They would come. They always did.
The club was well-appointed, with comfortable chairs for long evenings of play set near the purposed tables—one for roulette, several for card games, and a few that were intended for customers who wished to drink instead of gamble. Red velvet wallpaper hung on the walls, and Ivy had hunted down a variety of paintings portraying people in various states of gaming, from ladies from the previous century playing faro, to lampoons of gentlemen losing much more than they ought, to even a few whimsical paintings depicting dogs playing cards.
The paintings made her laugh, as did anything she found the slightest bit amusing—it was important, when one’s survival depended on serious things like running a business, to keep a humorous perspective.
What was the point in living if you couldn’t also enjoy life?
That was Ivy’s philosophy, especially now that she was barred from all the traditional things a well-bred young lady should expect.
This was much more fun than being a well-bred young lady.
Miss Ivy’s was unusual in that it admitted both men and women of any status. She figured that was more fun for all her customers—who didn’t enjoy a spot of flirtation when one was betting on the future?
The only requirement for admittance was that each gambler, male and female, brought enough cash to settle their gambling debts that evening. If they couldn’t pay? They were blackballed from the club and were dunned every day until they fulfilled their obligations.
Her policies were at odds with other, older establishments such as White’s and Brooks’s. The gentlemen who habituated those establishments didn’t have to settle up right away, so some of the winners could wait forever. In years past, losing gentlemen would escape to the Continent to avoid payment. Ivy’s took the doubt that a winner would receive their money out of the equation.
“Psst! Ivy!” It was her younger sister, Octavia, a girl who could never hide who she was, making Ivy both proud and concerned. Octavia was brash, opinionated, and reckless—taking after her older sister, but Ivy knew how to hide it better.
“I thought we talked about how you are not to be here when the doors are open. What if you’re seen?”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “You talked about it. I listened. Nobody is here yet, sister. And besides, it is far more fun to be in your den of dubious activities than upstairs working on my embroidery or planning my next good deed.”
Ivy laughed at her sister’s scornful tone. “You do not embroider, and I believe your last good deed was rescuing those kittens from the cellar. I highly doubt you planned that.” She paused. “And you have gotten as much goodness out of the kitten rescue as the animals themselves.”
“True,” Octavia agreed. “Oh, Carter says she has homes for them, she’ll take them there tomorrow.”
A relief, since kittens were a cute distraction they did not need.
“I could embroider, at some point in the future,” Octavia added.
“Or teach the kittens how to embroider before they leave. They might be in need of some useful skills,” Ivy replied with a smirk.
“Or . . .” Octavia said, wrapping her arm around Ivy, “I could come down here and work as a dealer.”
“Absolutely not!” Ivy said, shaking Octavia’s arm off her shoulder and trying to look like a disapproving older sister. “You are a lady, you have a chance for a respectable future. As long as we keep our relationship a secret. And, though this should go without saying, that you not work in a gambling house. Or, as you put it, my ‘den of dubious activities.’”
Octavia was not to be dissuaded from her thoughts, however. “And you? You are a lady also, and you own a gambling house.”
“I’m not a lady any longer,” Ivy retorted. She’d mourn that loss of status if it didn’t also give her the freedom to choose what to do next.
Their father had seen to that—a gamester himself, he had ruined the family by gambling away everything he owned, and several things he did not. Such as his daughter Ivy, who discovered she had been won as a bride by an older man, a gentleman farmer, who wanted a wife to take charge of his adult children and work on his farm from dawn until dusk. Ivy was even more appalled at discovering the man’s oldest son was her age.
Ivy had challenged the man to a game herself after discovering her father’s loss, and had won, but the damage had been done—her father’s wager, her own daring to take back her freedom, had ruined her in the eyes of Society.
But, Ivy had reasoned, she would have been miserable if she had followed what her class dictated, marrying some squire’s son and trying to pretend she wasn’t as intelligent as she was. The wager and her winning of it merely meant she could chart the course of her own future.
Far better to be a ruined gamester in charge of one’s fate than a woeful wife at the mercy of a husband.
Some ladies might have taken that experience to mean that gambling was abhorrent, and something she would never wish to do, or to associate with those who did. But Ivy took it as a sign that risking everything was the only way she would ever be happy.
“Someday, sister,” Octavia said in that “far too old for her seventeen years” voice, “you will find your own respectable future.” She tugged on Ivy’s sleeve. “I could wear a mask, you know. Nobody would know it was me. I know you’re short on staff. I could help.”
“Absolutely not.” Ivy struggled to maintain her stern tone. It would be fun to have Octavia here, she had to admit, but she wanted her sister to wait a bit before shutting the door that led to a respectable future. The gentlemen who gambled here would never choose a gambling house employee or even an owner as a wife.
That was a relief for Ivy, who wanted to be firmly among the regular people. But she wanted Octavia to have a choice, a wider choice than Ivy herself had had. One that didn’t depend—literally—on the turn of a card.
Ensuring Octavia’s security was the biggest motivation for working so hard to make the club a success—eventually, Ivy thought, she’d make enough money so she could buy a cottage by the sea for her and her sister, hopefully in an area where there were young eligible gentlemen. Gentlemen who wouldn’t know of their past life in London. Not for herself, of course, but for her sister—Octavia deserved to fall in love and get married. Ivy just wanted books, tea, and an excellent view.
Ivy heard voices and nudged her sister toward the door that led upstairs to their lodgings. “People are coming, you have to go.”
Octavia rolled her eyes again, accompanying the gesture with an exaggerated exhale, but she moved quickly, and was out of sight before the guests arrived. There would come a time, Ivy knew, when her younger sister would no longer follow Ivy’s commands, but at least that day was not today. Hopefully she could stave off her sister’s rebelliousness until after they’d moved to that quiet cottage.
Ivy approached the door as the two gentlemen arrived—and they were most certainly gentlemen. Men who worked for their livings, even ones who’d made fortunes, didn’t have the air of total entitlement these two had.
She recognized one of the men as having been in the club before, although she recalled all he had done the previous time was drink and grunt in response to any of the other guests’ polite overtures.
The other one, the stranger, looked like the manifestation of every man she’d ever dared to dream about: tall and lean, with a sly grin on a classically sculpted face. Although, truth be told, she’d thought the same thing when she had seen the statues of the Greek and Roman gods in the British Museum.
This gentleman was not made of stone, however. That was a good thing. But he wore much more clothing. Unfortunately.
She bit her tongue before she asked him if his name was Adonis. Although she couldn’t suppress her giggle.
He surveyed the room with a discerning look, as though he were appraising everything. He would not find it wanting, she was certain of that.
He caught her eye and his lips curled up into a rakish half smile, as though he was aware of what she had been thinking. Perhaps she would be called upon to explain why she was picturing him on a marble pedestal wearing a fig leaf.
Ivy could keep her expression serene, it was part and parcel of being a good card player, but she was feeling an unduly interested reaction bubbling inside her as he approached. She hoped he had a squeaky voice, or a dislike of ladies with younger sisters, or anything to jar her out of her current fascination.
“Good evening.” Damn it. His voice was low and rumbly, making her insides tremble even more. “My hat and coat,” he said, removing the items to hand them over to her.
Oh. Well, that was lowering. But it did have the desired effect—he didn’t seem nearly as intriguing. Just another example of the aristocratic species, albeit easier on the eyes.
“I’m not—” she began.
“She’s the proprietor,” the other gentleman said flatly.
The half smile froze on the Assumptive Aristocrat’s face. She would have laughed if he wasn’t so clearly appalled.
“I of all people should know not to judge anyone by how they look,” he said, his tone contrite. “I apologize, I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Ivy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, wishing his assumption didn’t sting. “It’s fine. It happens all the time.”
Because nobody could imagine a woman who wasn’t a maid or a loose woman being at a gambling house. That she was neither, that she didn’t fit into expectations, was one of the things that set her, and her establishment, apart.
Now that her insides had been given a good talking-to by his presumption, she could concentrate on what really mattered—making money. The two arrivals were handsome, to be sure, but what mattered more than their looks was the size of their wallets. And how much they were going to lose. They were marks, nothing more or less.
Judging by the fine quality of their clothing, they had plenty of money to lose, and she hoped she could lure them into deeper and deeper play—but not enough to ruin them. She monitored all her guests to make sure there wasn’t irrevocable damage. Just enough to smart, and to line her pockets with more coin.
“Welcome to Miss Ivy’s,” she said, gesturing to one of her staff to take the gentlemen’s outerwear. “I am Miss Ivy, and I am here to ensure your pleasure.”
Adonis gave her a knowing look. Apparently, he recovered quickly from mortification. Or rakishness was so ingrained he could be mortified and flirtatious.
“What game are you interested in playing, my lords?” she continued hurriedly. She would have to watch her words.
The handsome stranger frowned, nearly as deeply as Ivy had just a few moments earlier. “Mr. de Silva,” he said shortly. Had she accidentally offended him? By presuming he was an aristocrat rather than a mister?
She didn’t think she would point out the irony of his having just presumed information about her that was incorrect.
“Mr. de Silva,” Ivy corrected. She hadn’t ever heard of him, but then again, she didn’t travel in Society circles any longer. She hadn’t done so since she’d won the last hand of hazard against her would-be bridegroom.
“And I’m Nash,” the other man said.
Mr. de Silva punched his friend on the arm. “The Duke of Malvern. Not everyone has a title they can toss around, you know.” He gave his friend a pointed look.
The duke shrugged. Ivy had the feeling he didn’t care much one way or the other about his title.
But if he didn’t, she certainly did—a duke patronizing Miss Ivy’s! Even a taciturn stone-like duke was better than no duke at all.
“We might as well play something while we drink,” the duke said to Adonis de Silva. He glanced at Ivy. “A game of roulette to start.” He looked back at his friend, and his lips nearly curled into a smile. “Who knows, maybe your luck will change?”
As he spoke, Ivy beckoned to Samuel, who stood against the wall wearing the club uniform. Samuel was one of the completely loyal employees who made it possible for a female to own a gambling house. None of her employees argued with her decisions, they didn’t think they would be better suited for the position, and they were hard workers who helped make Miss Ivy’s the success it had been thus far.
“Samuel is my best roulette spinner.” Samuel grinned at her, acknowledging the compliment. She waited for the men to register that a Black man would be manning their table, relieved when they didn’t voice any objection, as some of her customers had. Regretfully, those customers were ex-customers, but her staff’s loyalty to her was equal to her loyalty to them.
“One more thing, gentlemen.”
It was always awkward to remind her customers about the house rule, but if she didn’t, there would invariably be someone who claimed ignorance.
“At Miss Ivy’s, we pay to play.”
Mr. de Silva looked puzzled, as did the duke, but after a moment, the duke’s face cleared.
“I’ll take care of all of that tonight,” he said, shooting a look that Ivy couldn’t describe toward his friend.
“Take care of—?” Mr. de Silva asked.
Ivy explained. “Miss Ivy’s requires that anyone who gambles must settle their debts at the end of the evening. Pay to play, so to speak.”
Mr. de Silva’s expression froze. “Because I—Goddamn it.”
Ivy started at the intensity of his voice, but reminded herself it wasn’t her business. The only thing that was her business was . . . her business.
“If you’ll step over to my table?” Samuel said, gesturing toward the far corner. The two men nodded, then followed Samuel, sitting down at the roulette table.
Ivy watched them settle themselves, then turned around, relieved she was able to keep herself focused on what was most important. He was just unduly handsome, that was all. She’d had handsome marks in the club before, and she would again—she would just have to figure out how to contain her reaction.
That she hadn’t realized responding appropriately to a ridiculously handsome gentleman would be a general side effect of being in this business was her own fault.
And then she chuckled to herself as she thought it out. She’d have to share that with Octavia—her sister did enjoy laughing at her. As she enjoyed laughing at herself.
Sebastian sat next to Nash, resisting the urge to glance back at the gambling house’s proprietor. Miss Ivy. Looking at her, however, was certainly better than being reminded he was now Mr. de Silva.
He hadn’t expected such a young woman to own a gambling house. Obviously, since he’d mistaken her for a maid. He winced as he recalled his assumption.
Nor had he anticipated she’d be so attractive.
He wondered where she came from, and why such a lovely young woman was the proprietor.
Not that he’d ever pondered what the owner of a gambling house should look like. Except that they were usually male, often loud, and frequently obnoxious. She was none of those things. Which was why he’d been so dreadfully wrong.
She was approachably beautiful: short, with wide brown eyes, dark brown hair, a wide mouth, and luscious curves. He wondered what she looked like when she smiled. When those large eyes were suffused with passion. How those curves would feel in his hands.
“Seb?” Nash nudged his arm. “If you’re going to sit there and let your mind wander, we can just as well go get drinks and skip the gambling. I’d much prefer that,” he added in a grumpy tone.
“No, it’s fine, I’m just—” he replied. Nash grunted in response.
Sebastian shook his thoughts free of the exquisite proprietor, glancing instead around the room. Not nearly as compelling. But still interesting.
The room was large, with tables set at specific intervals. The chairs were comfortably upholstered in a dark fabric, while the walls were hung in red, paintings of—was that a dog playing cards?—punctuating the intense color.
Seb squinted at the other paintings. Some of them were what he might expect, but there was a smattering of ones just as whimsical as the one that had first caught his eye.
Someone here had a distinct sense of humor.
Was it her? he wondered.
“What number do you suggest?” Nash asked, interrupting his thoughts.
One dukedom, one illegal marriage, two spouses, two affected children, plus twenty-odd household staff . . . “Twenty-six,” he replied.
Nash tossed his chip onto the number, glancing around the room. Likely searching for the server with their drinks.
Sebastian watched as the roulette ball spun around the outside of the wheel.
And leaned back as the ball landed on the red thirteen.
Why hadn’t he told Nash to choose that number? Perhaps because it would have been too on the nose? Number thirteen, since all I’ve had today is bad luck.
That thought was perilously close to moping. He would not mope. Nobody wanted a mopey duke, much less a mopey not-duke. Especially not him.
Thankfully, there was plenty to distract him.
He rose suddenly, turning to look at the other tables in the room. Roulette was entirely a game of chance, but there were other games that required more thinking on the part of the player. Not that Nash would care; as long as the drinks were flowing, his friend was happy. Or at least as happy as Nash ever got. Which was usually slightly to the right of mildly satisfied.
Unless he was embroiled in a fight. Then he seemed intent, focused, and nearly happy.
“Let’s try the baccarat table,” he said. Nash rose also, following Seb to the table he’d indicated. They had to push through other customers, nearly getting a drink or two spilled on them, while a few of the ladies looked up from their play to appraise them as possible playmates. But Seb kept his gaze firmly locked on the table—he wasn’t in the mood this evening, and Nash wasn’t one to voluntarily flirt.
They reached the table and sat, Sebastian casting a quick eye at the other players. Nobody he recognized, thank goodness.
Baccarat was nearly as dependent on luck as roulette, but at least there were cards involved. Not just a little ball spinning around a wheel.
If he was going to lose Nash’s money—since he didn’t have any of his own—he’d rather it be because he’d played the wrong card than because a ball took the wrong bounce.
Funny how gambling wasn’t nearly as enjoyable when you had literally nothing to lose.
His life had changed irrevocably that afternoon in ways he couldn’t imagine. The thought of not being able to afford anything—he had never had that. He didn’t know what things cost, much less how much money one needed to afford them.
A woman stood at the table, obviously the dealer. Yet another unusual aspect of this club—Sebastian didn’t think he’d ever seen a female dealer. She was an older woman with sharp features and black hair scraped back into a severe bun. She wore equally severe clothing and no gloves. She nodded at them, then resumed efficiently shuffling a deck of cards.
Sebastian heard voices and turned around to see people coming steadily into the room. Some of the people he recognized, so he snapped back around. He didn’t want to have the “oh yes, I am an illegitimate nobody” conversation with anybody right now. Or, worse yet, have them be unaware of his changed status and treat him as an important personage, not some poor bastard who’d discovered his true heritage.
He could still hear a few bits of conversation around him and picked up on some accents that did not belong to the cream of Society. It appeared Miss Ivy’s was egalitarian in its clientele in both gender and class. Bring your money, come in. It was an easy equation, almost impossibly simple to parse.
He wondered how many members of the House of Lords sniffed at Miss Ivy’s, either because of the unsuitable clientele or because they lacked the cash necessary to play. No wonder Nash liked it; it was as devoid of false pretense as he was.
“How long has Miss Ivy’s been open?” he asked the dealer. She shot him a look that indicated she did not want to waste time answering questions. He responded by giving her one of his easy smiles.
It did not work. She only looked more forbidding.
When he’d lost his title, had he lost his charm?
“I’ll take over, Caroline.” Miss Ivy nodded at her employee, who almost seemed to soften, and then stepped away.
“Not just the proprietor, but also a dealer?” Seb asked.
She shrugged, a touch of pink on her cheeks. Why had she stepped in, anyway?
He wouldn’t be Sebastian, now not the Duke of Hasford, if he didn’t believe it had something to do with him.
She tapped the deck of cards on the surface of the table. “Place your bets.”
Nash nodded at Seb, who shrugged and placed one of Nash’s chips on the player side.
Miss Ivy shuffled the cards, then dealt two for the player, two for the dealer.
Seb added the numbers up quickly in his head, but not as fast as Miss Ivy did. Impressive.
“Player wins,” she said, sliding a chip to join the bet.
“I can ask you, since your dealer wasn’t inclined to answer.” Seb tried his smile again, this time with much better results. He saw her eyes widen, and her throat move as she swallowed. If he were not a good card player, he would have grinned at her reaction. “How long have you been open?”
She tilted her head as she calculated. “Approximately six months.”
Ah. No wonder he hadn’t come here before. Six months ago was when his parents had died. And he hadn’t had time for pleasure in the time since. “And your clientele is . . . ?”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Why are you so interested, Mr. de Silva?” She frowned. “You’re not from Crockford’s, are you?”
Sebastian held his hands up in surrender. “No, I promise. I’m just interested.” He put his hands back down on the table and leaned forward, his voice taking a conspiratorial tone. “Besides which, I’d be a horrible spy if I were just asking the questions directly, wouldn’t I?” It felt so much more normal, and like himself, to be teasing a lady. And thank goodness he hadn’t lost his charm, after all.
Her expression eased, and she nodded. “Excellent point. Although perhaps you are a horrible spy.”
Seb chuckled. “What would a horrible spy be like, anyway?”
She laughed, her entire face expressing delight. He had to concentrate on keeping his expression neutral; her smile was nearly blinding. It wasn’t the sensual smile that ladies intent on seduction wore. It was wide, and sincere, and made him want to live up to its promise. To conjure the joy of the smile, to be worthy of all that brilliance.
And where did that idea come from?
The loss of a dukedom must have done something to his brain.
“Please share all your secrets so I might report them back to your rival,” she said, lowering her voice to sound more masculine.
“Tell me who your most profligate customers are so I can lure them away to my establishment,” he rejoined.
“And while you are at it, please indicate which of your employees are the best at their jobs. Purely for interest’s sake.”
They shared a smile for a brief moment.
“Well,” she said, smoothing her expression, though her eyes still danced in laughter, “since we have established you are not a spy, perhaps we should continue the play.”
“Yes, I would prefer to lose money rather than listen to you flirt,” Nash said in a dry tone.
She opened her mouth as though to respond, then snapped it shut again. Her cheeks got pink.
“Stop complaining and place your chips on the dealer,” Seb said to Nash, who complied, giving Sebastian a knowing look.
Fine, Seb wanted to say. I was flirting. Can you blame me? I am me, and she is lovely.
“Dealer wins,” Miss Ivy said after a few minutes, jolting Seb from his thoughts. She nodded toward one of the workers, who stepped forward at her gesture.
He looked smugly at Nash, who was already rolling his eyes. “My entire life might be in shambles, and tomorrow is in doubt, but at least I am still able to predict a turn of the card.” Poking Nash was nearly as much fun as teasing ladies.
Nash drew his chips toward him, flipping one at Seb. “Here, let me be the first to stake your future.” The worker had stepped away, and he felt her focus back on the two of them.
Sebastian caught the chip, placing it on the table, shifting it between player and dealer. At last he decided where to place it, then glanced up to meet her eyes. “I’m betting on the dealer,” he said, watching as her eyes widened and she took a few short breaths.
Perhaps his luck hadn’t entirely changed.