“Don’t let her sit with us. She’ll take our money...again.”
“I fold, I fold!”
Despite their teasing protests, gentlemen made room for her at each table she passed. Her face was as familiar as the Queen of Diamonds’. More importantly, Sampson had declared Miss Unity to have a lifetime seat at the table of her choice, and she had taken him up on this promise on several memorable occasions.
Sometimes the hole beneath her floor held far more than one hundred and thirty-five guineas.
But gambling was for pigeons. No matter how talented you were, luck ruled the table at the end. Unity preferred to rely on skill.
One of the gamblers gave her a gap-toothed smile. “What’s a hoyden like you doing in a hell like this?”
She rolled her eyes and kept walking. She wasn’t a hoyden or a spinster or any other such label. Those were names given to people who had expectations. The only person who expected anything from Unity was herself.
And she was the only person she could rely on to achieve it.
She would make her own way and become financially independent at any cost, come what may. Unity had sworn to never again rely on any man for anything but company. There was nothing she cherished more than her freedom.
“Well?” Sampson appeared at her side, a towel folded over one arm. “Are we falling apart without you?”
“You’re doing fine,” she assured him.
Eshu’s Altar was flourishing. Unlike her cousin Roger, Sampson had paid close attention to everything Unity did or suggested. They had learned from each other.
Cousin Roger’s club, the Wit & Whistle, on the other hand... Well. Within a year after Unity’s departure, its popularity was already waning. Last she heard, he’d gone through three men of business last season alone and was barely staying afloat.
Unitymighthave whispered a few choice tidbits into gossips’ ears to help the process along.
She would not be sorry.
“What do you know about the Duke of Lambley?” she asked Sampson.
His coffee-brown eyes widened. “This isn’t his haunt.”
She wrinkled her nose. “White’s? Boodle’s?”
“The Cloven Hoof.”
Now that was interesting. The Cloven Hoof was a larger, more infamous gambling den. It was located on the literal edge of the fashionable district, and its clientele spanned the divide between the classes. No truly fashionable lords frequented the establishment, but she was unsurprised to hear someone as unconventional as Lambley would rub elbows with the lower classes. From all accounts, his parties were just as eclectic.
“What do you know about his masquerades?” she asked.
“Is that your next venture?” Sampson’s brows lifted. “You’re going to compete with the Duke of Lambley?”
“It’s not competing if we cater to separate audiences,” she replied. “I’ll be competing against you.”
Sampson grinned. “I’m not certain this is a masquerade crowd.”
“And I am certain there are men and women in Cheapside who would love to attend such an event,” Unity answered. “When Vauxhall hosts a masquerade, one can hardly wade through all the people in attendance. Many of whom are thieves and footpads. A masqueradeclubfor the common folk could offer a secure environment at a comfortable price.”
“It does sound like it would do well,” Sampson admitted. “Knowing you, you’ve already fathomed out every aspect.”
She shook her head. “I’m still gathering information. I know what Vauxhall’s parties are like firsthand, but I’ve never attended a private masquerade.”
“Well... there are private masquerades, and then there areprivate masquerades.” Sampson gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of the goings-on at the duke’s residence?”
Her cheeks heated. “I wouldn’t copythatpart.”
“Yes, you would,” Sampson said. “If it was the most profitable, most efficient, or most likely to be what the people want. You’ll do whatever makes you the most successful. You can’t help it. You give your all.”
