Page 42 of Cocky August Rake

A few heads turned, but no one panicked.

Denny stood between the inner hall and one of their regular patrons. He ranked just below Boris when it came to keeping order, and though he wasn’t nearly as large, he knew how to make himself difficult to pass. Most importantly, he had the compact, coiled look of a man who knew exactly how to use the weapons hidden beneath his coat.

Rose winced, immediately recognizing the offending patron: always well-dressed, well-fed, and well-accustomed to being welcomed.

“Miss Violet is not receiving tonight,” Denny said.

Mr. Harcourt smiled as though the guard had made some small mistake. “She will receive me.”

“No.”

Mr. Harcourt’s smile thinned. “I have been a patron of this house for three years.”

“And we are pleased you have enjoyed your visits, sir.”

“Then you will tell Miss Violet that I am willing to be extra generous.”

“She is not available.”

Rose quickened her pace, stepping forward before the man’s temper sharpened further. It wasn’t something she’d normally do. But this was Lord Reginald’s first night at The Domus, and she didn’t think that a skirmish at the door would further their cause.

“Denny?” she said smoothly. “Perhaps another lady might please Mr. Harcourt this evening.”

Huffing, the frustrated client turned.

His gaze traveled over her slowly. The mahogany curls. The delicate silk. The bare line of her shoulders.

It was in that instant she realized her mistake.

“Miss Rose,” he said, his irritation easing into satisfaction. “I suppose I can settle for another… flower. Yes. I’ll take you.”

Every instinct in Rose went taut.

She’d set out to draw Lord Reginald’s eye.

Not to invite the attention of the first disgruntled gentleman who crossed her path.

“I’m afraid…” If she went with Mr. Harcourt now, their entire plan for the night would be a waste.

“Miss Darling is not available.”

The voice came from above them, and in that second, even the dice fell silent.

Rose looked up.

Lord Reginald stood at the top of the grand staircase, one hand resting on the rail. In contrast with every other gentleman in the room, however, he had made no effort to dress for the evening. His coat was absent, his dark waistcoat plain, and a lock of hair had fallen loose near his temple.

He ought to have looked unfinished beside the careful elegance surrounding him.

Instead, he made the other men seem overdressed.

The careless attire made him seem harder—stripped of pretense.

And as his gaze moved over the room with the calm, assessing authority of a man accustomed to being in charge—he wasn’t smiling.

This was the captain.

Mr. Harcourt turned at the sound of his voice as well. “Not available?” he sputtered incredulously. “Tell me, are there any ladies in this establishment who are working tonight? Why, I never—! And who, precisely, are you to decide this, anyway?”