Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

Casting a last look at the gaming table where Cyril’s floppy dark hair obscured his sneer of concentration, Charity drew back into the crowd. No matter how much she desperately wanted to see Hugo, she must keep away from him. Charity needed to be a much finer actress than she was if she were to hide her dangerously transparent feelings for him from the world.

From Mr Cyril Adams.

“Hurry, Charity! This way!” Rosetta steered her through a knot of guests congregated by the supper table but a tall, sandy-haired gentleman reached out his hand to grip her by the wrist and draw her within the circle of his discussion, saying, “My dear little friend, meet my associate, Mr Daniel Roberts — ”

And in that moment, the double doors from the lobby were thrown open and Hugo stood upon the threshold, staring in their direction as if he had a sixth sense telling him exactly where to look for the woman he sought.

Charity couldn’t move without making a scene for she was trapped between Rosetta and an elderly gentleman who looked about to speak to her in a very warm fashion as she turned in the hopes of side-stepping Hugo’s piercing glance.

But he’d sighted her and was advancing with speed and determination.

“Excuse me, but I must — ” She ended on a whisper, turning only enough to extricate herself from the immediate group before Hugo was pressing against her, albeit briefly as he contoured her waist before plunging his hand into her pocket and whispering, “Someone will call an eight and you must produce these. At least, you must try, my love.” And then, as he stepped back, saying a touch more loudly for the benefit of the two gentlemen who’d flicked their glances in his direction, “Excuse me, madam, I trust I didn’t step on your foot,” before he’d disappeared into the crowd.

“Miss Cathie!”

Still caught up in the horror of what Hugo had unwittingly done, Charity turned at the familiar tone. Rough yet cultured, demanding yet steeped in cloying civility, she looked up to see Mr Cyril Adams beckoning to her from across the room.

“Where’s my Lady Luck, eh? Ah, there she is! Come this way, please. To the table, yes!”

A pathway was immediately made for her. Charity turned back in panic to Rosetta and Emily who halted their conversation with their admiring male contingent and nodded encouragingly at her before Rosetta slipped into her wake. “Don’t worry, Charity. I’m here. The dice are in your pocket. You — or someone else — will find a way to use them.”

Charity opened her mouth to explain the disaster but her friend gave her a gentle push towards Cyril, saying, “You’ll play it just right. Don’t you worry.”

Don’t worry? How could she not when they were all doomed? What had Hugo done?

Rosetta and Emily blithely imagined everything was set up for success. Hugo had such hopes, too, as she took her place, once again beside the most hated man in the room.

But everything was ruined and Charity was a jelly of fear. Now what would happen? How could she possibly save Hugo from the terrible fate that awaited him in India? He was about to sink himself even further.

Mr Adams tipped her chin and pinched her cheek as if she were a plaything, smiling at her in such a fashion that suggested she should be gra

teful for his attention.

She swallowed and tried to respond as she knew she ought. How could one as inexperienced as she summon up bravado she didn’t have for the ‘right’ kind of smile? The new girls at Madame Chambon’s were all instructed in the ‘right’ way to do all manner of things for the gentleman but because of Charity’s special status, she’d been spared from anything more than verbal information.

“Please don’t ask me to throw, sir,” she pleaded. “It’s not beginner’s luck anymore. I’ll throw badly…not what you want…and then you’ll be cross.”

“Cross?” His voice sounded too loud. Too indulgent, as if he were decades older and she just a child. Indeed, he stroked her cheek as if she were one and as his hand lingered to stroke the corner of her mouth, Charity caught a flash of hurt and anger as Hugo stepped into view.

Please don’t say anything that will implicate we’re together, Charity begged him with her eyes before she turned a weak smile upon Cyril. Surely Hugo would not be so stupid?

“How could I be cross with an angel?” Mr Adams asked to the sound of corroborating murmurs. It was as if the gentlemen surrounding them were united in their paternalism. “Now! I want another nine!”

Charity glanced at the faces ranged about her. There was the northerner, glowering, down on his luck, apparently, hoping for the dice to turn against his cocky opponent. Beside him, the third player — the pale sandy-haired gentleman who’d drawn her into his orbit earlier — looked warily at Charity. Communicating with her?

She looked down at the table, at her shaking free hand, then up again at the speculation on the faces of the other gentlemen. Everyone here knew Cyril was a cheat. It was whispered by more than just those who had fallen foul of him.

Rosetta had indicated that someone was about to call him out on it.

Please, let it not be Hugo.

Now she was required to throw the dice that Cyril had pressed into her hand.

A nine!

Cyril crowed his triumph amidst soft murmurings as the two cubes rolled gently across the table top.

Of course, she’d thrown a nine. He’d supplied the dice.