Viola studied the room with obvious trepidation. “I don’t like the way those men at the bar are leering at us as though they’re perusing a menu at a chophouse and have decided to order the Young Lady Special.”
“I’ll make this as brief as possible.” Hetty turned to the footman she’d brought for protection. He wore a greatcoat to disguise his livery, so as not to divulge their identity. She must keep a low profile. It wouldn’t do for word to get out that she’d visited this wicked establishment. “This way, Leland,” she said, leading them across the room.
Mr. Ellis rose and made a bow.
Hetty had forgotten quite how much of him there was. He towered over his companion, a handsome, elegant man with closely cropped curly black hair, fashionably garbed and clean-shaven.
Mr. Ellis’s coat was rumpled, his cravat askew, and he hadn’t shaved since they’d met last night. He was still handsome as sin. And entirely too self-possessed, standing there with a mocking smile on his face, brawny arms folded across his chest.
He was enjoying this.
Go ahead, try that seductive smile as many times as you like. I’ll remain impassive.
Her heart wouldn’t pitter-patter any faster, her palms would remain dry, and her temperature low.
“Lady Henrietta,” he said smoothly. “May I present my business partner, Mr. Jacques Smith?”
When he spoke, he held her gaze with such heated intensity that Hetty nearly grabbed a tumbler of gin from the table and gulped it down. But that would only add flame to the fire. She must keep her wits about her.
It didn’t matter one jot if she found him attractive. He was her opponent now, and a dangerous one, at that.
“Mr. Smith.” She nodded. “This is my friend, Miss Viola Beaton.”
Mr. Smith bowed. “A pleasure to meet you both, Lady Henrietta. Miss Beaton.”
Viola turned to Mr. Ellis. “I know you, sir,” she said with a stern expression on her normally placid face.
“I don’t think so, Miss Beaton,” he replied.
“I’m music instructor to the Duke of Westbury’s sisters. I know that you ruined him.”
“And how is Westbury? Haven’t seen him here lately,” Mr. Ellis replied.
“That’s because you’ve stolen all of his money.”
“No one forced him to walk through these doors, dear girl,” said Mr. Ellis. “Speaking of which, why are you ladies here?”
Had she thought his eyes held silvery moonlight? They were more like a silty pond. Murky and difficult to read.
He was hard-edged. Cast in bronze. He was danger. She felt it like an icy wind at her back.
He’d seen the underbelly of life. Done wicked things. Stared into the yawning maw of hell. Perhaps he hadn’t fallen completely yet, but he had one foot over the edge.
“Is there somewhere private where we could speak?” Hetty asked.
“This is a secluded table. The room is mostly empty.”
“Very well.” Hetty took a seat and Viola sat next to her. Leland remained standing behind Hetty’s chair. He was stalwart, and loyal, and she trusted that he would never repeat a word of this to anyone.
“Mr. Ellis,” Hetty said sharply. “I’ll be brief. I know you can’t possibly be the heir to my father’s dukedom. Besides your dreadful reputation, and your reprehensible habit of ruining noblemen, I’ve done my research and determined that you are a fortune hunter. I’m here to find out the price to be paid for you to withdraw your preposterous claim.”
Mr. Smith chuckled, giving Hetty an appreciative stare. “You’re everything Ash led me to believe you’d be, Lady Henrietta.”
A cold light entered Mr. Ellis’s eyes. “Here to buy me off, is that it?”
She nodded at Leland. The footman glanced around warily before opening the velvet-lined jewelry box he carried to reveal a mound of gleaming diamonds, rubies, and pearls.
Mr. Ellis whistled. “My, my, Lady Henrietta. I don’t come cheap, do I.” He reached into the jewelry box and hefted a diamond necklace. “Very impressive.”
“I was given this necklace by my father on my sixteenth birthday. I wore it to my first ball.”
“It’s lovely.” He held it toward a lamp, and rose light danced through the diamonds. “But it’s a forgery.”
“I beg your pardon!”
Mr. Ellis turned the necklace to the clasp. “Someone has taken your real jewels and replaced them with diamonds made from paste. See here?” He pointed to the clasp. “The original was crafted by Bailey and Hart, Master Jewelers to the Crown. They always incorporate a distinctive filigree box clasp. This clasp is not nearly so intricately carved, nor does it have their insignia displayed correctly. This is a clever forgery, but a forgery nonetheless.”
“How can that be?”
“That I can’t answer.”
Hetty’s heart skipped a beat. She remembered how furtive her father had been lately. The guilty glances she intercepted when he arrived home early in the morning, smelling of whisky and cigars and unsubtle perfume. Was he in financial trouble? She knew he’d been gambling, and making some questionable investments, but she’d been so wrapped up in planning the grape harvest that she hadn’t been paying close attention.
“This piece, on the other hand . . .” He touched the diamond and amethyst bracelet she wore. As if by accident, his fingertips slid across the inside of her wrist. A warmth radiated outward from his touch, spreading through her body. “It’s worth a small fortune.”
“That one’s not on offer.” She snatched her hand away. “It was my mother’s favorite.”
Mr. Ellis caught her eye, his gaze as hard and icy as diamonds. “And I’m not on offer, either.”
“I have access to more jewels, and cash reserves. Name your price, Mr. Ellis.”
He lifted a gaudy gold timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. “My customers will be arriving soon. I think you should leave, Lady Henrietta.”
“Name your price.”
Mr. Smith was watching the conversation with obvious amusement, and Viola kept glancing toward the door, as if longing for escape.
“It’s inadvisable to display such valuable trinkets,” said Mr. Ellis. “You’re a pigeon begging to be plucked.”
“Is that how you see me?” Hetty tossed her head. “I assure you, I’m no pigeon.”
“There are dangers lurking in wait for innocent young ladies who flash expensive jewelry in places like this.”
“And you chief among them, Mr. Ellis.”
“You wound me.” He mimed thrusting a knife through his heart.
“I’m sure you’ll recover.”
“The last time I checked, there’s no law that says a notorious gaming hell owner can’t be proved to be the heir to a dukedom, Lady Henrietta.”
“I know what goes on in this room, Mr. Ellis. And Mr. Smith. The good men you’ve ruined. The families left destitute.”
“We run a gaming house, Lady Henrietta,” Mr. Smith replied. “There must be winners and losers.”
“I’ve heard rumors of cheating. Rumors that you two are sharps.”
Mr. Smith waved his hand through the air. “Vicious gossip.”