Having delved in her reticule, Aunt arched forward to throw a guinea upon one of the red squares etched onto the baize. With lace fan clasped to her chest, she watched as the croupier dropped a small ball onto the wheel, her hazel eyes oozing with the joy of life, a satin evening gown of coquelicot matching her lips.
The ball leaped, hopped and…
“Botheration. Perhaps we should try the hazard ta–” Aunt’s eyes flashed, lashes fluttered and she…pouted. “There he is,” she hissed.
“Who? The Prince Regent? The Sultan of El-Djazair?” Hebe swung her head around. “Or Byron?”
“More impressive than them, and to tell you the truth, the sultan fell short of expectations. No, it’s the Prince, owner of this sumptuous establishment.Don’tlook!” She grabbed Hebe’s shoulders. “I’ve been thinking. You need a lover.”
“What!”
“Hmm.” Hebe was summarily turned. “So how about him?”
Even amongst the rabble of lords, it was evident who her proposed paramour was to be.
A man of vertiginous height and swarthy complexion angled across a card table to speak to the croupier before he straightened with brutal grace and glared over his domain, one hand still brushing the baize. An aura of danger and darkness clung to him, but also…
Hebe identified with a certain sense of aloneness – he was in the room and yet not. She knew how that felt.
Often she would stand within a crowded ballroom and yet feel so detached from the laughter and life that paraded before her. She could not reach out to it, could not feel it or taste it. Her mortal being may be there, dancing and conversing, but her emotions remained frozen beneath ice.
The finest scarlet jacket clad the Prince’s broad frame, a raven-black feather adorned his lapel, cravat immaculate, breeches tight and a swordstick slapped his thigh. His aspect was attractive despite a slashing scar below one cheek, but his lips were thinned as though sick of the world and all those who inhabited it.
Hebe shivered. “I don’t think…”
“They say he can kill with merely a touch.” Aunt leaned in, voice a whisper. “And steal a woman’s heart with merely a glance from those obsidian eyes.” She sighed. “We all like a bad boy, don’t we, dear?”
Hebe bit her lip. “To be honest, no.” Her deceased husband had stolen her young heart with merely a glance. And then stomped on it till it had bled all over the Aubusson rug.
“Oh. I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Hebe.”
“No, ’tis fine. But–”
The Prince swirled and those obsidian eyes latched upon hers.
Hebe swallowed, no longer frozen but…
Terrified.
His fingers slid from the baize before he languidly moved in their direction, the rabble of lords parting like the sea for Moses before he halted before Aunt.
“Mrs Cassell. Welcome to my…hell.” He bowed with a flourish, the scent of leather gusting, and Hebe noted the vicious facial scar looked to be the handiwork of a knife and that similar welts marked his knuckles in pathways of bygone pain. “And Mrs Locke, I do believe? I was acquainted with your husband. My felicitations on his demise.”
With a frown, Hebe curtseyed. “Condolences, surely you mean, sir?”
One coal brow raised in silence, eyes as black as the devil’s toenails.
She tamped down the whimper which rose in her throat.How could this man possibly know of…“Was my husband a member here?”
His lips may have twitched; it was hard to say. “Until he was barred for debts.”
Oh. Of course.
Tobias Locke had spent her initial dowry and pawned all her inherited jewellery within three months. Only Father’s savvy had saved her from the poorhouse.
“I can pay whatever he owe–”
Hebe stilled as he slanted close and a scorched whisper curled in her ear. “Never fear, Mrs Locke, for I…recovered what was owed to me.” He reared. “I wish you both a successful evening.”
