Fortune Favors the Viscount, page 1
PRAISE FOR THE WAGERS OF SIN
“Romance readers will not be gambling at all in choosing RITA Award–winning Linden’s latest as she once again delivers another impeccably executed, witty, and sensual Regency historical.”
BOOKLIST (STARRED REVIEW)
“Intelligently written, strongly characterised and gorgeously romantic . . . Ms. Linden further cements her place as one of the best authors of historical romance writing today.”
ALL ABOUT ROMANCE
“[A] satisfying and romantic ending that won’t disappoint fans of this stunning series . . .”
LIBRARY JOURNAL
For all the readers who wrote to me, asking for this story
You are the reason I keep writing
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Thank you for reading!
The Wagers of Sin
About the Author
Also by Caroline Linden
CHAPTER ONE
There was little to alarm about the exterior of the Vega Club: an imposing mansion near Piccadilly, seven bays wide and three floors tall of clean gray stone, with pedimented windows and iron railings leading to a broad door painted dark blue. But everyone knew that wickedness and vice raged within.
Emilia Greene peered up at it through the grimy window of the hired hackney, and took another bracing swig from the flask. She replaced the cap with a grimace; no wonder men did stupid things when drinking brandy.
Just the sort of courage you need right now, she reminded herself. She stowed the flask in her reticule and opened the door.
The carriage creaked as the driver turned to look at her stepping down. The sky was overcast, the morning fog muffling the streetlamps that still burned. “Thought you’d changed your mind, miss.”
“No.” She handed him a coin. “How much for you to wait half an hour?”
He glanced up at the sickly gray sky and sighed heavily. “Three shillings.”
Too much. “Never mind, then,” she said, pushing aside her misgivings about being marooned at the most notorious gaming hell in London. “Thank you.”
He touched his cap as he lifted the reins, and within a minute she was alone.
Emilia faced it again, her own dangerous Rubicon. She considered another sip of brandy, then forced down her nerves and mounted the step.
Early morning, she had been told, was the best time to go. The club closed around dawn, when any lingering patrons had been turned out, and the only people present would be staff, cleaning up after a night of scandal, debauchery, and all manner of cheating and plundering. Or so she assumed; something wicked must happen there, to have earned such a reputation.
Once upon a time, her friend Arabella had plotted in excited whispers how they might manage to sneak inside gentlemen’s establishments like the Vega Club. They had an air of danger, of licentiousness and tantalizing ruin, of unbearable thrills and excitement. Emilia had played along, more amused than engaged. Of course she’d never sneak into a gaming hell, let alone the most infamous one of all.
No, it turned out she would simply walk up to the door and let herself in.
The entrance hall was as fine as the one at the Willows, with a black and white marble floor and walnut wainscoting. She could see past some towering potted palms into a large salon, where servants swept polished wooden floors and dusted around elegant furnishings. It could have been the aftermath of any society ball. It was much like the great house where she had grown up, and she found that even more disconcerting than if the walls had been covered in black satin and hung with obscene paintings.
How very . . . ordinary. Arabella would be so disappointed.
“Apologies, ma’am, the club is not open.” A large burly man appeared from nowhere right in front of her.
Emilia almost leapt out of her skin. “I’m here to see Mr. Dashwood,” she said, straightening her shoulders and aiming for a regal, implacable air.
“An appointment is required for that,” he said, unperturbed. “Send a note and Mr. Dashwood will fix a time if he wishes to see you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She took a note from her reticule and held it out. The man hesitated, and she fluttered it at him, brows rising. “At once, my good man.”
It was the sort of thing Lady Watney would say, imperious and slightly impatient. Emilia had disliked that sharp tone when it was used on her, but she’d always obeyed it. To her relief, this man did the same.
With a frown, he took the note, then hesitated again.
Emilia gave a delicate, slightly exasperated sigh. “Read it if you must, but take it to Mr. Dashwood.” She kept her chin up as he unfolded the paper.
The note was a fraud, but a very convincing one. Oliver wouldn’t mind that she’d taken liberties with his name; he was the only member of the Vega Club she knew, so she’d had little choice. She only hoped no one would know that Oliver had been rusticating in Aberdeen for the past three months, and couldn’t possibly have signed this note.
The large man in front of her shot her an assessing look, as if he weren’t fooled, but he merely nodded and said, “Wait here, please,” before he disappeared through a concealed door.
Carefully she let out her breath, fighting off any sense of relief. This was only the first hurdle, and the next would be far more difficult. So make a running start at it, she told herself. She stepped forward and gently pressed open the door, slipping through it.
It led into a long, narrow antechamber, with three doors. Two were closed but the one at the end was open; the man who’d taken her note leaned in that doorway, arms crossed.
“A right haughty little ladyship,” he was saying in disapproval. At the click of the door behind Emilia, he glanced over his shoulder. “If you’ll wait, ma’am—”
“I am here to see Mr. Dashwood on an extremely urgent matter,” she retorted, still projecting Lady Watney. “And see him I shall.”
He turned. He was a big man, tall and broad-chested, and if he meant to throw her over his shoulder and pitch her back into the street, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. “No, ma’am. That won’t be possible.”
“Nonsense,” she said crisply. “It will be a very great loss to him if he doesn’t hear what I have to tell him.”
An even greater loss to her, but she didn’t want to think about that, let alone say it.
His face settled into stony lines, and her stomach took a swift drop as she thought he might actually throw her out—until he paused. He glanced into the room behind him, then cast his eyes upward. “As you wish, madam.” He stepped to the side, bowing obsequiously and sweeping one arm toward the doorway.
Emilia ignored his tone and hurried into the room before he could change his mind. The big man closed the door behind her with a loud snap.
The room was dominated by a billiard table. Three lamps, suspended above the table, illuminated the green felt surface. A man stood at the far end, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up, holding a cue. His face was impossible to see in the shadows.
“Come in, Miss Greene.” His voice was rich and smooth; dry, faintly amused. “Since you insist.”
Now Emilia’s nerves began to twitch, when she most needed them to remain firm. “Mr. Nicholas Dashwood?”
He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “The very one.”
“Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
“I wouldn’t, normally.” He glanced pointedly at the note lying open on the edge of the billiard table, its forged signature just visible. “A delicate and important matter, is it?”
Emilia nodded once. “I have a proposition to make to you.”
His shoulders shifted. He leaned down to line up his cue. The light fell across a hard, angular face and cropped hair. His nose had clearly been broken, but his lashes were thick and dark and he was undeniably attractive, if in a dangerous sort of way. “I rarely accept propositions.” He took the shot he’d set up, sinking the red ball into the pocket right in front of Emilia.
“You’ve never received one like this,” she told him honestly.
He straightened and began unrolling his sleeves. He was back in shadow, but she still saw his eyes flick downward, moving over her with lightning quickness and hot enough to make her face burn. “Odds are that I have.”
She flushed. “It’s not that sort of proposition. Don’t flatter yourself.”
He paused, looking at her more keenly. The lamplight caught his face, giving her a good look at him for the first time. His eyes were amber, like a cat’s, she
“A business proposition.” Please let this work, she prayed one last time.
His mouth curled. “No.”
She started. “You haven’t even heard it!”
“I don’t need to.” He pulled on his jacket, settling it on his shoulders with a sharp jerk. He smoothed one large hand over his chest, and suddenly looked far more dangerous, in his elegant evening attire, than he had before.
“Please,” she said in a rush. “I came here at dawn, specifically to speak to you when the club isn’t busy. The least you can do is listen.”
“But I don’t need any more business dealings.” He said it gently, as if speaking to a child. “I don’t wish to waste your time.”
“It’s a cracking good one, my proposition,” she retorted, losing her temper for a moment. “Only an idiot would refuse it.”
His face had grown hard as she spoke, but at the last he suddenly grinned. “Indeed? I’ve been called worse.” He regarded her for a moment, then waved one hand toward a door at the back of the room. “Very well. I discuss business in my office.”
Head high, heart pounding, she marched through the door and took the seat he indicated. He went around the desk and sat down, leaning back with that trace of amusement still clinging to his face. “Do tell me all about your unrefusable proposition, madam.”
She frowned at the way he said the words. “Do you know the name Henry Sidney?”
“He’s not a member, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Of course he’s not,” she said tartly. “He’s been dead for a hundred years.”
“Has he really?” He lifted one shoulder. “Then I can hardly know him.”
She took a deep breath. This man. “With his wife Genevieve, Henry had a son, Thomas, who had a son, and a grandson, and so on and so on.”
“How remarkably virile of dear Henry,” he said, sounding more than a little derisive. For a moment, Emilia burned to storm out and let the stupid man carry on as he was, a low-class cardsharp.
But she couldn’t do that. Damn him. She needed him.
She kept her seat and carried on, her voice growing stern. “But with his second wife, Catherine, Henry had another son, William. William of course was a younger son, but he had a son and grandson, too. Do you know the name Samuel Sidney?”
The amusement left his face, snuffed out like a flame. “You’d better go, Miss Greene.”
“You do know who he is.” It was embarrassing how much her confidence soared in that moment. Until that tiny sign that he knew, there had been a sliver of doubt in her mind. If she’d got the wrong man, not only would this interview have been a waste, her entire scheme—desperate as it was—would have turned to dust. “He also called himself Sam Blake and Sidney Blake, I believe.”
“He’s dead,” said her host coldly.
“I know.” She rubbed her hands on her knee, her palms damp with sweat inside her gloves. Now her heart was pounding from relief. “It took a devilishly long time to sort it all, particularly since he changed his name so many times. But I’ve got it right, haven’t I? He was your father.”
“Only,” said Mr. Dashwood thinly, after a very long pause that make her think he might deny it after all, “in the most nominal sense.”
“That’s the only sense that matters.” She couldn’t stop a smile. “Then you, sir, are the next Viscount Sydenham.”
CHAPTER TWO
He didn’t say anything for several minutes. His eyes were hard and opaque, and they gave no clue to his thoughts.
That didn’t surprise Emilia. She had expected him to be surprised, shocked, even disbelieving. It had taken a great deal of searching to discover him, and from what she’d learned of his family, Mr. Dashwood probably had no thought of inheriting anything worthwhile. Indeed, she’d had to go all the way back to his three-times-great-grandfather to find his connection to the Sydenham title.
And now she had just told him he would inherit a viscounty. Not just any viscounty, but one nearly three hundred years old with hundreds of acres entailed upon the holder. He likely wouldn’t know all that, of course; she would have to explain it to him. She sat quietly, a little giddy in her triumph, waiting for the news to sink in, for him to realize what she’d just told him, for his expression of amazement and gratitude.
His mouth twisted in contempt. “Ballocks.”
She started. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rot,” he said lazily. “Balderdash. Whatever word you prefer that means nonsense.”
Emilia bristled. How dare he? Her research was absolutely sound. Perhaps it was fair for him to doubt her, she being a complete stranger, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it. She’d just told him he was being elevated to the aristocracy, nothing insulting or demeaning, how dare he—
She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter if he insulted her. She’d told Arabella that she would strike a bargain with Lucifer himself, and it appeared Fate had been listening. “The last Lord Sydenham died without an heir seven months ago. The title must stay in the family. According to the family records, traced from your great-great-great-grandfather, your lineage makes you the heir presumptive.”
He laughed—not in amusement, but in scorn.
She pressed her lips together, clinging tightly to the shreds of her temper. “It’s a bewildering process, but I am ready to help you petition the Crown for it. I know the procedure, and can recommend a solicitor who can shepherd your claim through the Committee for Privileges—”
He flicked one hand. “No.”
“What?” Her mouth dropped open. “Why wouldn’t you want my help?”
“I don’t want the title or your help.” He rose. “We’re done, ma’am.”
She also jumped to her feet, now in fear. “What do you mean, you don’t want it? What sort of fool are you?”
His smile was chilling with indifference. “One who likes his life the way it is. Find another victim, Miss Greene, and inflict your prim history lessons upon him.”
“I can’t,” she said through her teeth. “There are rules. You are the heir with the closest claim. It must be you!”
“You said an heir must petition for the title,” he retorted, unmoved. “I refuse to file any such petition. I have a position and a profession that suit me very well, and I see no need to change either.”
“All right,” she replied, feeling the stirrings of panic—and fury. “But what about the future?”
He shrugged, glancing pointedly at the door.
Emilia rushed on before he could call back his man to drag her out. “Hear me out! You—you may be tolerated by society, at least when they’re winning at this club, but that would vanish in the blink of an eye if you should suffer a reverse. Imagine if just one aristocrat lost a fortune at your club and felt he’d been cheated. Imagine if he told everyone in London that you’d rigged the game! Would all your patrons keep playing here?”
He raised his brows in an expression of exaggerated alarm. “Good heavens. Rigged games! Aristocrats losing fortunes! Charges of cheating! How have I never once thought of those things, let alone dealt with them, in all these years of running every sort of card and dice game for the most inveterate gamblers in Europe?” He clapped one hand to his heart in a patently false swoon. “What a marvelous stroke of fortune you’ve come to inform me about the risks of running a gaming hell. I don’t know how I’ve survived without your insightful advice.” He dropped the affect and waved one hand at the door. “Go home, Miss Greene.”
