Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

When a cry of surprise rang out, Charity had only just steeled herself for the jubilation of the man for whom she’d evidently won a good deal at the expense of the northerner.

She began to turn away, more than ready to be swallowed up by the crowd. Mr Adams’ die had been loaded, surely?

But then Emily was pushing her back to the table, whispering in her ear, “That one was luck, truly it was, Charity, for his opponent supplied the dice.”

And then Mr Adams was swinging her into the crook of his arm as he cried, “Gentlemen, my lucky charm! Did I not say she’d win for me?”

But Charity was not going to allow herself to become a plaything with no object other than lining Mr Adams’ pockets when Rosetta had a clearer plan in place for later that evening.

Firmly she pushed herself free of his grasp before another opponent had stepped up to the table ready to take on Hugh’s gambling cousin who was, it seemed, more ready for another game of Hazard than following Charity through the throng.

Charity disappeared back into the crowd, her skin still crawling from Mr Adams’ touch. She’d utilised every bit of willpower to hide her revulsion for the man who’d actively sought to destroy her beloved Hugo; a man who, furthermore, wanted to rub salt in the wound by pursuing Charity. Only the fact that he did not know her identity had given her the strength to keep her strong. That, and the fact that Charity knew she had to push herself to do, and be, more than she ever had before. She had to help Hugo as much as she could. Not just to save what they had, as a couple, but to prevent him f

rom leaving on a dangerous journey to a land he had no wish to visit, doing work that was anathema to him. Hugo was a poet and an artist, not an adventurer.

He was not in a position to reverse his ill-fortune but maybe, just maybe, Charity could.

“The Devil’s own luck,” Rosetta congratulated her when she was safely in the company of her friends and sipping champagne partly concealed by a tasselled velvet curtain beside a tall sash window that looked onto the street.

“Yes, but I don’t know how it’s going to do me much good,” said Charity, dolefully.

“That’s because you haven’t the slippery instinct for getting ahead that we have, my dear.” Emily’s eyes danced as she raised her glass to her lips and drank deeply. “We are going to win big at Mr Adams’ expense. The fact that you really did throw what he wanted gives us an enormous advantage.”

“How? We have no money to gamble with?”

Emily raised one eyebrow and bit her lip as if withholding a great secret. “I’ve entered into an arrangement with a special friend who knows exactly what we’re about. Someone who has his own concerns regarding Mr Adams. A score to settle, if you will.”

Charity’s mood plummeted even further. “And I am to be the means by which he will settle his score? No, I can’t.”

She might have rolled the dice and achieved a successful outcome but she was terrified at the thought of what else she might be required to do.

Emily and Rosetta shared a meaningful glance before Emily said, “My friend, who’s here tonight, just spoke to me. He saw the interest our not-very-esteemed Mr Cyril Adams has in you. He thinks you may be able to address his concerns when you go back to his townhouse tonight.”

“I can’t!” Charity gripped her champagne flute against her chest so hurriedly that the front of her gown suffered from the spillage, causing Emily to lean forward and whisper, as she dabbed at the damp spot, “We’ve discussed this, Charity, and I’ve also heard it said just now — by no less an authority than Mr Adams’ last valet who was summarily dismissed just last week and who has vengeance in his heart to equal yours — that Mr Adams curates a detailed account book of the various misdemeanours occasioned by various society personages. A blackmail diary if you will. My friend is very anxious to know if he features in that book.”

“How can I possibly get access to that book if Mr Adams is…with me the whole time?” Charity straightened with sudden determination. “I can’t do it! I won’t do it! I won’t go back to his house and prostitute myself to…to this man. No! I can’t do this to Hugo!”

Emily patted Charity on the shoulder. “It would be the noblest sacrifice for Hugo,” she said gently. “Of course, you’d do everything you could to avoid sleeping with him but if that’s what you had to do to — ”

“No! Never! I’d rather starve in a gutter. Don’t you see? It wouldn’t be noble at all!” Charity stared at her two friends. “It would be the greatest disloyalty to Hugo if I slept with the very man who sought to destroy him.”

“Well, you’d try not to, obviously, but Hugo would think you the bravest, noblest person in the whole world that you’d take such risks on his behalf,” Rosetta said energetically. “Oh, my Lord!” Her tone changed as a look of shock crossed her features.

“What is it?” Charity and Emily cried in unison, craning their heads to see what had discomposed her.

“It’s Hugo. I just saw him in the light of the streetlamp below, about to enter the club. He’s on his way now.” Rosetta glanced about the crowded room, her face ashen even in this light. “He could ruin everything.”

Charity took a step away. “I must leave now,” she said, wanting desperately to throw herself into Hugo’s arms at the same time as wishing desperately she was as far away as possible from the dangerous, detestable Cyril Adams.

“No, no, I’ll waylay him and explain why you’re here,” Emily said hurriedly, grabbing her wrist to stop her as she communicated something quickly with Rosetta. “He’ll know it’s in nobody’s interests for you to be revealed as his mistress.”

Charity wished her friends wouldn’t use such language. She didn’t see herself as Hugo’s mistress and nor did he. It was so much more than that. And if not for Cyril Adams…

Her fear hardened to anger and grew. She turned back from the door to look at her beloved’s cousin. Son of Satan, that’s what he was. Like Hugo, he was descended from the same enterprising steel merchant but he was as different from Hugo as it was possible to be.

Cyril was cut from the same cloth, it seemed, as both his father and his uncle who wanted their cake and to eat it. They wanted to be richer than anyone else, they didn’t mind what they did to achieve this — and yet they wanted to be accepted by society.

Well, it wasn’t so easy. Charity knew that very well.