The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides #1)(10)

As much as she’d learned the reason to fear the streets of London firsthand as a girl, there was also her growing need to look at the world as a woman grown and have some control. Control that extended beyond her brother’s protective influence.

She came to a sudden stop, and as her modest green satin skirts fluttered noisily at her ankles, Helena stared blankly at the door.

How many years had she been ordered about and away? She had a decided role to fill, just as each sibling did . . . and they were to not look beyond those responsibilities.

Do not do it, Helena . . . Do not . . .

Ignoring the logical litany echoing around her mind, she strode to the door and pulled it open. The distant rumblings of ribald laughter and cheering filled the corridor. Before her courage deserted her, or logic was restored, Helena started down the corridor.

She held her breath, and stole a glance about. Alas, her private offices were strictly off-limits for even the most loyal workers at the club. Guards were stationed at various entryways and stairwells to prevent wandering lords from reaching the main living quarters and offices.

“You are not doing anything wrong,” she muttered under her breath.

No, what harm was there in stealing belowstairs and discreetly evaluating the actual consumption habits of the guests? The same guests who were making a bloody mess of her calculations. Helena reached the end of the corridor, and started down the stairwell. She blinked several times, struggling to adjust to the dimly lit space. Ominous shadows, cast by a handful of sconces, danced off the white plaster walls. Panic rioted about her mind. Mayhap it was the earlier talk of Diggory, the demon of her past, but an icy shiver worked along her spine. Do not look. Do not look . . . Except, like a moth drawn to that fatal flame, her gaze strayed to the crimson tip of a candle. The acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh flooded her senses, and she grabbed the stair rail.

Helena sucked in slow, even breaths as memories assaulted her. The vicious agony as Diggory melted her flesh with a burning candle . . . her own screams and pleas . . . Stop!

A loud cheer went up, jolting Helena back to the moment. She slid her eyes closed as the boisterous excitement within the club continued to filter up the stairway, calming and safe. Ordinary sounds that blotted out remembered cries. Helena brushed her palms along her skirts.

Is this why Ryker kept her hidden away from the gaming floors and outside world? Did he see that for what she’d managed to survive all those years ago, there was this weakness in her, still? Firming her resolve, she pushed away from the wall and resumed her determined march downstairs.

The wood creaked under her footsteps; however, the increasing din on the gaming hell floor drowned out all hint of sound. She reached the bottom landing and wiped her hands on her dress once more. One of the guards quickly turned. Blast and damn. The day had apparently come where she, once a skilled pickpocket, couldn’t escape the notice of a handful of guards. Her mouth soured. How bloody frustrating to have had more freedom of movement as a child of five than a woman nearly two decades older.

Oswyn frowned. “Miss Banbury?”

“Hello, Oswyn.” All of the women employed at the Hell and Sin had perfected a distracting, whispery smile. By the pained twist of her lips, Helena’s attempt was really more a grimace than anything. The tall, muscled guard scratched at his bald pate.

Her tongue grew thick in her mouth. He’s going to have me sent abovestairs. And once again she’d be shut away while the world carried on around her. Say something. Say anything . . . “Ryker wished me to evaluate the inventory of spirits for the remainder of the week,” she said quickly. Which wasn’t altogether untrue. After all, she had been instructed to calculate the numbers. Those calculations, however, had in no way merited a night visit to the floors. Not by Ryker’s estimation, anyway. In Helena’s, well, she required more judicious movement in the club . . . and beyond.

With a nod, Oswyn stepped aside.

She hesitated. How many times as a young girl had she sat at the top of those very stairs, trying to make order of the discourse and laughter from those powerful peers below? Surely it could not have been this easy to gain entry? Oswyn looked questioningly at her, and that sprung her into movement.

Helena hastily stepped past the guard, and entered the hall. A cloud of cheroot smoke hung heavy in the expansive room, stinging her eyes. She blinked several times and continued to take in the club during the height of activity. The crystal chandeliers cast a bright glow upon the floors that lent an almost artificial sense of day to the nighttime scene. Hastily skimming her gaze over the crowded floors, she did a search for Ryker. With no hint of her fierce brother, she started along the perimeter, taking care to avoid gazes and notices . . . an easy feat given the well-placed pillars constructed about the hall. Heart pounding, Helena borrowed shelter from one Scamozzi column and surveyed the guests.

Alcohol flowed freely, with the tinkling of crystal touching crystal as bottles were poured. The women of the Hell and Sin Club moved between tables, providing additional spirits to the revered patrons. Helena did a quick inventory, silently counting. One, two, three . . . “At the very least, fifteen cases of whiskey,” she muttered to herself. And that was still being conservative in numbers because of her frugal brother.

She studied the gentlemen freely tossing cherished coins upon the card tables, and gave her head a sad shake. Granted, their freedom with their purses provided her and every other employee within this hall a livelihood. Yet, even with that, distaste filled her at the wastefulness of it all. Was life so boring and empty for these men, that this was all the joy there was? Recalling the task at hand, Helena gave her head another shake and did an inventory of the tables within eyeshot. Silently counting the bottles and glasses, she shook her head in exasperation. Her brother might fault her for the erroneous supply count, but the foxed lords deep in their cups consumed spirits the way a man stranded in a desert, who’d stumbled upon water, might.