Chapter Two
Rhys Carlyle stared at the closed door of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office, more curious than he cared to admit about the humble young woman who had somehow managed to waltz right into the most coveted and exclusive gambling house in the entire country.
His first thought was who was she, followed immediately with the reminder that it didn’t matter.
Since returning home from the Battle of Leipzig two years ago, Rhys had drastically changed the way he approached the world.
Before he might have smiled or flirted with her.
But ever since he lost all the hearing in his right ear, he preferred to keep his distance from most people.
It was easier to just let Mrs. Dove-Lyon, or as he called her, Bessie, do her job of finding him a wife, especially now that he had finally agreed to marry.
It was what they had been discussing before being interrupted by Snug and the plainly dressed mystery woman.
“Tell me, Rhys,” Bessie had asked when he first arrived that night. He had promised to stop by before his return trip north. “Exactly what sort of woman would you hope for in a wife?”
Rhys remained perfectly still, having the nervous fidgeting zapped out of him since the war. He had explained to Bessie upon his first visit to the Lyon’s Den that if and when he decided to marry, he would allow her to facilitate it, as he cared very little about courting or wooing.
“Whatever type will do.”
“As all women are so interchangeable,” she said with annoyance. “Surely you have a preference?”
He shrugged.
“I suppose it would be fitting if she were attractive.”
“Yes, that would be an absolute must, I presume.”
“Well, not necessarily. Attractive wives could cause trouble.”
Bessie glanced up from her desk.
“Would a homely wife satisfy you then?”
Rhys shrugged again, indifferent to looks. He had witnessed a great deal of honor and cowardice in his time on the battlefield, and his perception of people had become skewed.
“Pretty or homely, I don’t think it matters.”
“Of course it matters, but perhaps I’m not giving you the benefit of the doubt. Tell me. What do you want in a wife exactly?”
Rhys thought about it for a moment before speaking.
“I suppose I should appreciate someone who is not put off by my hearing loss,” he said slowly, speaking on the one thing that worried him most. “I’m sure a number of ladies would find themselves displeased to learn that their husband had the hearing of an eighty-year-old man.”
“Hm. What else?”
“It would be nice if she were not so well born. Fenwick Park is still months away from being completed, so someone who isn’t particular about moving into a barely functioning estate.”
“A help mate then, in every sense of the word?”
Rhys sighed and slumped down in one of the leather club chairs that sat before Bessie’s desk. The chocolate leather beneath his hands was smooth and cool to the touch.
“Must I really list off a number of qualities like I’m buying a horse or something?”
Bessie leaned back in her chair.
“My dear boy, this was your idea. You were the one who said you didn’t have time to go courting ladies, being locked away in that heap of rubble up north.”
“It’s hardly a pile of rocks,” he countered. “And why waste your time worrying about me?”
She gave him a look.
“Because, despite us being vaguely related—”
“Hardly. Your dearly departed husband was my mother’s uncle. There’s no blood between us.”
“That may be so, but your mother was always kind to me, and I do not readily forget those who showed me kindness. I promised her, before she passed away, that I would see you settled when you returned home from the war—”
“Bessie—”
“And I will not renege on that promise. Now, you’ve already been at Fenwick Park for two years—”
“Eighteen months.”
“Very well. Eighteen months. Yet you cannot continue on like this, living a life of solitude. You need to rejoin society. Especially since the Crown has named you specifically for the Order of Bath.”
Rhys had been given hundreds of invitations from nearly every prominent family in London since his return from war, and he had successfully avoided each and every one.
Yet two former commanding officers had informed him that the queen had personally expressed her desire to see the lieutenant married, since her son, the Prince Regent, had become enamored with Rhys’s heroics on the battlefield.
It was widely known that the Prince Regent had not chosen a wife and with the king in poor health, the queen was determined to have the prince married before he ascended the throne.
Which was why Rhys had finally come to the Lyon’s Den. Though he had served his country bravely and boldly, a soldier’s work, it seemed, was never done. This was simply his duty and more importantly, the queen’s command.
“Then, perhaps you might be able to find a woman who will not swoon at heroic stories. I do not want to disappoint my future bride when she is met with a half-deaf husband and a crumbling estate.”
“There is absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t…”
But the door had opened to reveal Snug and the young woman with wisps of auburn hair that framed her face, and their conversation ended. And now here he was, hands on the waxed wooden banister as he overlooked the gaming hall below.
The crowd was larger than usual tonight, or at least there seemed to be more people than there usually were when he visited.
Fenwick Park was a two-day trip north and he only came to London a handful of times a year.
Still, the air was thick with anticipation, like a fog of electrically charged excitement had settled over the Lyon’s Den and Rhys knew why.
Tonight, the infamous Marked Swan game was to be played.
It was a game where rich, well-born ladies came to be paired up with impoverished, titled gentlemen. At least two dozen marriages in the peerage had been started at Bessie’s gambling tables this way, and there would be three more tonight, if everything went according to plan.
Rhys shook his head as he eyed the people below.
“Unsuspecting fools,” he muttered to himself as he turned back, only to see Bessie’s office doors opened. Now he was face to face with the pretty Louisa. Or was it, Louise? Although he had become proficient in lip reading, he still struggled with some words.
Her gray eyes widened as her gaze landed on him. It was just an insignificant thing, but for some reason it caused his heart to pound. He had always had a preference for redheads, and he wondered if he was reacting to her auburn hair, or the way it framed her heart-shaped face.
Rhys cleared his throat, as a light of foot Bessie exited the room behind her visitor.
Rhys knew this bounce in her step and instantly was on guard.
She came forward and leaned close to his left side.
It was difficult to hear in a gambling hell, what with the constant background noise of laughter, music, arguments, and chatter.
“Just the man I was hoping to see,” Bessie said. “Rhys, this is Miss Louisa May Babcock.” Bessie leaned back but continued to face Rhys so that he could hear out of his left ear. “Miss Babcock, may I introduce Lieutenant Rhys Carlyle.”
So, it was Louisa. Taking a step forward, he bowed ever so slightly and spoke.
“How do you do?”
He hated speaking aloud. He was never certain if he was being too loud or too low, and really, he preferred not to speak at all.
“Very well, thank you,” she said, or at least that’s what he read on her lips.
Once again, Bessie moved close to him and leaned into his left ear.
“Miss Babcock has agreed to humor me by joining in the festivities tonight. Isn’t that wonderful?”
No, it most certainly wasn’t wonderful. The Lyon’s Den was well known for being one of the most dangerous gambling hells in all of London.
People didn’t merely lose money at faro tables here.
It was where uncommon games were played, where people bet more than money—they bet their lives—and while Rhys had always respected Bessie’s handle on things, this seemed beneath her.
There was absolutely no way this woman understood what it was to play a game in this establishment, let alone know about the Marked Swan, which was why there were so many people here tonight.
“No,” he said, though Bessie’s chin dipped slightly at his disapproval.
“Yes,” Bessie said as she waved to someone across the balcony. “Ah, there’s Snug.” She waved her man over and he hurried towards them. “Snug, take Miss Babcock to my private rooms and see to it she changes into something a little more, acceptable, hm? The canary-yellow silk, perhaps.”
“Er, yes, ma’am,” Snug said as he held out his arm for the young woman.
They were halfway down the mezzanine when Rhys turned on Bessie.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What I always do.”
“She obviously didn’t come here for whatever it is you have planned. Did you see how she was dressed? It’s as plain as day that she has no money.”
“Yes, I could tell that.”
“Then what are you doing?”
Bessie sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Really, Rhys, I don’t see how this woman is a concern to you.”
“The Marked Swan involves monied ladies, Bessie. Monied ladies in search of husbands.”
“Yes, that’s how it’s usually played.”
“Is she searching for a husband?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“And she has no money?”
“Correct.”
“Then what do you mean to do by having her play? You are potentially throwing her into harm’s way by matching her with a man who thinks she possesses a fortune.”
“Shhh, Rhys, please,” she said slowly, as he swallowed his words.
Embarrassment flooded him. Damn it. He was talking too loud again.
“It isn’t right,” he tried. “You know it isn’t.”