Then Came You (The Gamblers #1)(8)

Dressed in a pale blue gown, her small br**sts emphasized by a scoop-necked bodice edged with sparkling cream lace, Lily strolled through Craven’s unaccompanied. Her presence attracted little attention, for by now she was a familiar sight, an accepted oddity. She was the only woman Derek had ever allowed membership at Craven’s, and in return he had demanded complete honesty from her. He alone knew her darkest secrets.

Peering into room after room, Lily took in the sights of early evening at the gambling palace. The supper rooms were filled with guests partaking of fine food and drink. “Pigeons,” she said softly, smiling to herself. That was Derek’s word for his guests, although no one but her ever heard him use it.

First the “pigeons” would dine on the best cuisine in London, prepared by a chef to whom Derek paid the unthinkable salary of two thousand pounds a year. The supper would be accompanied by a selection of French and Rhenish wines, which Derek furnished at his own expense, ostensibly out of the goodness of his heart. Such an appearance of generosity encouraged the guests to spend more at the tables later.

After supper, the club members would proceed through the building to the game rooms. Louis XIV would have felt entirely at home here, surrounded by stained glass, magnificent chandeliers, acres of rich blue velvet, dazzling and priceless artwork. Set at the center of the edifice, like a precious jewel, was the hazard room with its domed ceiling. The air was filled with a quiet buzz of activity.

Skirting the edge of the octagonal-shaped room, Lily absorbed the rhythm of ivory dice rattling in the box, the crisp shuffle of cards, the hum of voices. A shaded lamp hung directly over the oval-shaped hazard table, concentrating brilliant light on the green cloth and yellow markings. Tonight several German embassy officials, a few French exiles, and a number of English dandies were grouped around the central hazard table. A wry, pitying smile touched Lily’s lips as she saw how absorbed they were. Bets were placed and dice tossed with hypnotic regularity. Were a foreigner to come here, someone who had never seen gambling before, he would assume that some sort of religious rite were taking place.

The trick of winning was to play with detachment, taking calculated risks. But most of the men here did not play to win; they played for the thrill of casting themselves on the mercy of fate. Lily played without emotion, winning moderately but consistently. Derek called her a “rook,” which was for him a term of highest praise.

A couple of the croupiers at the hazard table, Darnell and Fitz, nodded discreetly as Lily passed by. She was on excellent terms with Derek’s employees, including the kitchen staff. The chef, Monsieur Labarge, always insisted that she sample and praise his latest creations—lobster patties covered with breadcrumbs and cream, miniature potato souffles, partridge stuffed with hazel-nuts and truffles, omelets filled with jellied fruit, pastries, and mouthwatering custards layered with crushed macaroons.

Lily glanced around the hazard room in search of Derek’s slim, dark form, but he was not there. As she headed toward one of six arched doorways, she was aware of a light touch at her gloved elbow. Turning around with a half smile, she expected to see Derek’s lean face. It was not Derek, but a tall Spaniard wearing a golden insignia on his sleeve that designated him as an ambassador’s aide. He bowed to her perfunctorily, then reached for her with insolent familiarity. “You have attracted de notice of Ambassador Alvarez,” he informed her. “Come, he weeshes you to sit with him. Come weeth me.”

Jerking her elbow away, Lily looked across the room at the ambassador, a rotund man with a thin mustache. He was staring at her avidly. With an unmistakable gesture, he motioned her to come to him. Lily returned her gaze to the aide. “There’s been a mistake,” she said gently. “Tell Señor Alvarez that I am flattered by his interest, but I have other plans for this evening.”

As she turned away, the aide took her wrist and jerked her back. “Come,” he insisted. “He weel pay for hees pleasure.”

Obviously she had been mistaken for one of Craven’s hired women, but even they were not subjected to this sort of treatment, as if they were whores procured from a street corner. “I’m not one of the house wenches,” Lily said through her teeth. “I’m not for sale, do you understand? Now let go of me.”

The aide’s face darkened with frustration. He began to chatter in Spanish, trying to force her toward the hazard table where Alvarez was waiting. Several guests paused in their gambling to observe the commotion. As embarrassment joined her irritation, Lily shot a murderous glance at Worthy, Derek’s factotum. He stood up from his desk in the corner and began toward them. Before Worthy reached the aide, Derek miraculously appeared from nowhere.

“Well, now, Seny’r Barreda, I see as you’ve met Miss Lawson. A beauty, ain’t she?” As he spoke, Derek deftly extricated Lily from the Spaniard’s grasp. “But she’s a special guest—my special guest. There’s other women we ’as for the ambassador’s convenience, an’ sweeter to the taste. This one’s a sour little apple, she is.”

“You know what you are,” Lily muttered, glaring at Derek.

“He wants thees one,” the aide insisted.

“ ’E can’t ’ave ’er,” Derek said, his voice pleasant. The gambling palace was his own private kingdom, his word the final one in all matters.

Lily saw the flash of uneasiness in the Spaniard’s gaze. Having once attempted to face down Derek, she knew exactly how daunting he was. As always, Derek was dressed in expensive garments—a blue coat, pearl gray pantaloons, and an immaculate white shirt and cravat. But in spite of his exquisitely tailored clothes, Derek had the rough, seasoned look of someone who had spent most of his life in the streets. Now he rubbed elbows with the cream of society, knowing as everyone else did that his elbows had originally been meant to occupy far less exalted places.