Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

And how did one defeat a cheat?

Beneath the overhang of a crooked double-storied dwelling in an insalubrious alleyway, he stopped to consider the question, startling as a mangy cat rubbed against his ankle.

Cheats were sly and secretive. They caught one by surprise, just as Cyril had done when he’d plied Hugo with drink and then challenged him, on his sweetheart’s honour, to a game of Hazard.

What did cheats resort to? They resorted to cheating, of course.

A terrible thought struck Hugo; one that he would never have entertained had he not been desperate.

A short diversion was all that was required for him to equip himself with the tools that he hoped might be at least of some help to getting his darling Charity out of the terrible situation he’d created.

Chapter 6

Charity ran her tongue over her top lip and fanned herself as she smiled at the gentleman facing her across the gaming table. Despite the snow outside, it was hot upstairs with the multitude of bodies pressed up against one another as they gambled, drank, and flirted with the few women about.

The smoke from the cheroots the gentlemen smoked made the back of her throat feel scratchy but, of course, she had to smile and pretend she was in her element. Ladies had to always pretend they were enjoying themselves.

Mr Cyril Adams, it appeared, was definitely out to enjoy a night on the town. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his coat well cut with contrasting collar, his waistcoat decorated with a watch chain and a diamond pin adorning his Ascot tie.

Yes, he might look the part but Charity wondered how well accepted he was by society in general when rumour described the ways he’d earned his pile of coin. Their grandfather had earned a fortune through honest trade, half of which Mr Cyril was to inherit, but in the meantime, he’d earned his own dubious fortune—which ebbed and flowed, she’d heard.

Mr Adams now leant over the table to give Charity a more assessing look. “What’s your name, lovely lady?”

Charity had been preparing herself but it was nevertheless a shock to find herself face to face with Hugo’s nemesis — and hers.

For here was Cyril Adams close up. Ever since her friends had whispered excitedly that this was the gentleman she was to impress, she’d been watching him covertly.

He certainly fancied himself as a ladies’ man, the way he’d tossed his head as he’d swaggered up to the baize-topped table that was littered with markers, coins, and banknotes.

“I’ve not seen you before. What’s your name, lovely lady and are you going to make me a lucky man this evening?” he asked.

Charity dropped her gaze and blushed easily. “My name’s Cathie,” she murmured. She was not about to step into any trap by revealing her true identity. “And I don’t think I’m your lucky charm because I’ve never gambled before.”

“Then you’ll be worth your weight in gold for beginner’s luck,” he said with too much bonhomie. He’d been drinking. She could smell the whisky on his breath as he came around to put his hand on her shoulder and rub his nose against her neck.

Charity tried not to recoil from the brush of his bristly moustache. The next few minutes could make all the difference to how she managed the outcome Emily and Rosetta had worked so hard to mastermind.

Charity must rise to the challenge. She’d never had a hand in changing her fate — it had always been thrust upon her. But coming here tonight was the first step towards changing what might otherwise be a soul-destroying destiny.

“Oh, sir, but you’ll be cross if beginner’s luck deserts me,” she said, playing upon her innocence.

“A roll of the dice requires nothing in the way of expertise.” He seized her hand and pressed something into the palm which she opened, looking rather stupidly at the two white cubes.

“Give me nine and make me a happy man,” he said.

Charity glanced around her and realised a few more interested gentlemen had wandered up to the table. Young and middle-aged, there was speculation and definite admiration in the way they sized her up. Even Charity, self-effacing though she was, could see it. It terrified her.

“But the highest number is six,” she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger. She pressed her hand against her hip and felt the outline of the two dice in her pocket that Rosetta had given her. What use would they be to her?

A rumble of genial laughter echoed round the table before Mr Adams said, “Indeed it is, my pretty. But a four and a five make nine, as do a six and a three.” He raised her hand to the sky and gently traced the outline of her fist as he declared to the others in their orbit, “My pretty talisman will give me a nine, just see if she doesn’t.”

Charity now realised that Mr Adams did, in fact, have an opponent, a surly northerner it appeared when he grumbled that he’d waited long enough for play to resume.

“Please, do the honours on my behalf, Miss Cathie.”

Charity glanced about her, raised her hand and obediently threw the dice. For what could she do?

A small silence preceded the scattering of the cubes which rolled across the green baize table top. The first landed cleanly upon a five while the second dice rolled slowly towards the edge. The whispering of a couple of gentlemen to her left stirred the curls at her temples and sent a shiver through her.