My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(5)

God no. He might see someone he knew and be caught in conversation. Jack wanted this over and done with as soon as possible, preferably with no one aware that it had happened. “I’ll wait here,” he replied in a tone that made it clear he did not expect to wait long.

The manager bowed his head. “Perhaps you’d rather play a hand or two in the meanwhile?”

Over the man’s shoulder Jack could see into the main salon of Vega’s. It wasn’t tawdry or garish, as he had somewhat expected, but refined; it looked like a normal gentleman’s club . . . except for the women. Not house wenches clinging to men’s sides, but society ladies. Jack’s brows went up a fraction as he glimpsed Lady Rotherwood, playing whist.

“Vega’s doesn’t exclude the ladies,” remarked the manager, following his gaze. “It’s a bit of a surprise to some gentlemen, but they soon see the benefit.”

Jack’s mouth firmed. Empty--headed ladies could lose a fortune just as easily as reckless young men. “No doubt.” He wondered if Philip had ever lost so dramatically to a woman and then decided it hardly mattered. Money lost was money lost.

Still, it piqued his curiosity. Ladies, gambling with men. How novel. The manager left to inform Mr. Dashwood, and Jack took a step forward to survey the club through the protective screen of a tall stand of palms.

He recognized Angus Whitley and Fergus Fraser, some of Philip’s mates. They sat at a table with another man, and a woman in a vivid crimson gown who had her back to him. Her dark hair was swept up in a twist, exposing her pale skin. She wore a thin black ribbon around her neck, tied in a neat little bow at her nape, and the loose end curled enticingly, tempting a man to tug it loose.

Jack’s eyes lingered on her. What sort of woman wanted to be a member of a gaming club? Every decent woman would shy away from the mere thought of it. Lady Rotherwood, for all that she was a viscountess, was known to be a bit fast. What were the requirements for membership, he wondered; did they differ for men and women? Not that Vega’s could be very stringent, as Philip had had no difficulty gaining entry. Philip, with only his illustrious name and considerable charm and abominable luck at cards to recommend him.

Whitley made an exclamation, tossing down his cards. Fraser laughed, preening in victory. He reached for the pile of money in the center of the table, but the woman stopped him by laying her fingers on his wrist. Jack had no idea what she said, but from the way Fraser’s face went blank with shock, he supposed it wasn’t good news. The other man laid down his cards and began to laugh, a hearty bellow that turned heads. Clearly the woman had trounced them all.

And rather than being dismayed at being the focus of attention, she responded to it. She said something that made Whitley give a shout of laughter, and fellows at the next table chuckled. Jack couldn’t see her face but he could tell she was pleased, just from the angle of her head, tipped ever so slightly to one side as she collected her winnings and Whitley shuffled the cards for another round.

No wonder Philip liked the place. Jack wondered if his brother knew the lady in crimson.

“Your Grace,” said a voice behind him. Jack turned, glad to shake off that thought. The manager was back. “Mr. Dashwood will see you.”

He led the way through a door set discreetly beside the palms, down a short corridor to another door. He knocked once, then swept it open and bowed as Jack went in.

“Nicholas Dashwood, at your service, Your Grace.” Dashwood bowed. He was a tall rangy fellow, his face all lean hard lines and angles. “I apologize for the delay. I didn’t expect you.”

“I’ve come about my brother’s debt.”

One corner of Dashwood’s mouth lifted at Jack’s cool tone. “He said you might.”

Jack repressed a spike of fury that Philip had presumed that strongly enough to tell Dashwood. He should have known, though; Philip was shameless in getting out of anything unpleasant.

The club owner walked around his desk and picked up a paper lying on its surface. “Two thousand one hundred and twenty pounds.”

Jack took a controlled breath to control his temper yet again. Philip had lied about that, too, claiming it was less than two thousand. “May I see?”

Dashwood handed it over with a faint smile. He must deal with this all the time. It took only a cursory examination to determine that it was Philip’s handwriting, promising the large sum to Sir Lester Bagwell. “Is it customary for you to guarantee debts for your members?” Jack handed back the note.

“I guarantee nothing.” Dashwood leaned against his desk. “Members are free to exchange notes or funds directly. On occasion they prefer to have me hold them—-not as guarantor but as a favor. I am an intermediary, if you will. We have only a few rules at Vega’s, the most important of which is to pay your debts.”

Meaning Sir Lester feared Philip wouldn’t pay what he owed, and wanted Dashwood to enforce the rule of the club. Grimly Jack wrote a draft on his bank for the sum, mentally excoriating his brother. Without a word he offered it to Dashwood, who handed him Philip’s note in exchange.

“A pleasure, Your Grace.” Dashwood went to the door. “If you’re ever in search of a table to play, I hope you’ll return to Vega’s.”

Not bloody likely, thought Jack.

Dashwood escorted him back to the front of the house. On impulse he looked toward the main salon again, through the palm fronds. His brother had solemnly promised to give up the tables for a month in penance, to retrench on his spending and learn some moderation in his habits. Philip would not be here. But the lady in crimson . . . He had the strangest desire to see her face. Just to know what sort of woman joined a gaming hell.