“We serve dinner from six o’clock until four o’clock in the morning,” he said. “Not quite anything you want, but close.” He took a decanter from a nearby table and poured two glasses of wine. “And we keep an excellent cellar.”
She took the glass he held out without thinking, then blushed as his fingers touched hers on the glass. “I didn’t come for wine.”
“But you might as well have some, now you’re here.” He sipped his wine and waited until she took a reluctant sip herself.
Oh merciful heavens. It had been an age since she’d had good wine. Her eyes half closed as she took another sip, this time slower, savoring.
Mr. Dashwood was watching, his expression intent. Emilia lowered the glass with a twinge of regret. She wasn’t used to drinking, and needed to keep her head clear. “I would like to know your thoughts, sir.”
He nodded. “First the tour. This way.”
He led her through the dining room and very briefly through the kitchen, which was a whirl of activity and delicious smells. He showed her into what looked like a library, with dark paneling and leather chairs and ranks of freshly ironed newspapers. Upstairs were elegant salons that held tables with bowls set into the center for markers, and rooms that resembled a gentleman’s study, scented of pipe tobacco, with shelves full of leather-bound books. He took one out and showed her; it was a listing of private wagers between members.
Emilia tried to hide how impressed she was. The club was elegant and refined, nothing tawdry about it. No wonder it was popular.
He opened yet another door and Emilia stepped into a room of unquestionable luxury. The table was polished mahogany, the chairs upholstered in deep blue damask silk that matched the thick drapes covering the window. No fire burned in the small hearth but the room was still pleasantly warm. Fine crystal sat on the small sideboard. A bucolic landscape in a heavy gold frame was opposite the mirror over the fireplace, lending a genteel air to the room. The only hint this wasn’t a lord’s private closet was the faro box and stack of dice on the mantel.
He closed the door behind him. “Now,” he said, “we can discuss.”
CHAPTER SIX
Emilia nodded, her heart racing again. “We could have done that half an hour ago.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I wanted you to see the Vega Club. So you know what I’d be risking if I fell in with your mad scheme.”
Her mouth dropped open in outrage. His mouth curled but he only pulled out a chair courteously.
Emilia sat, trying to gather herself. Calm, confident, and persistent, she told herself.
“My scheme is not mad,” she said.
“Brandy?”
“Indeed not,” she said, sounding like the stuffiest dowager she’d ever heard. She still held her glass of wine. This was not going well. He had put her off-balance and kept her there, when she had plotted so carefully to be more prepared this time.
He poured a glass and set it down in front of her anyway, and took the chair opposite. “Your scheme is delusional.”
She breathed deeply. “No, it is very rational. I’ve brought a summary of the documents I found.” She took them out of her reticule and began spreading the papers on the table. Six months of work, condensed into three short pages. It had taken her hours to decide what to include. “If you would call on me, I can show you the comprehensive records, which demonstrate your right to the title . . .”
“Put it away. I don’t care to see your notes.”
Emilia closed her mouth, murder burning in her heart. He had a deck of cards in his hands, expertly flipping them from hand to hand as if he hadn’t a care in the world. She was half dead from anxiety about this, and he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to help her, or Lucy. What else could she do? She had wagered everything on him . . .
“What do you play?” he asked.
“Whist,” she said after a moment. “But only penny stakes.”
That curious, seductive half smile crossed his face. “We’re far past penny stakes, Miss Greene.” The cards jumped between his hands as if they were living creatures performing at his command.
“Believe me, I know,” she muttered. And then, before her brain could stop her mouth, she blurted out, “I’ll wager I can prove your claim to the title.”
Dashwood’s brows went up. “Would you?”
Emilia nodded, her face stony. She wished fervently she had any other option besides this man.
“What is your stake?”
She frowned.
“Every wager requires a stake, Miss Greene,” he said in a low, taunting voice. “What will you risk?”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “If I prove it, you’ll be a viscount. Isn’t that enough for you to win?”
He shook his head, his gaze never straying from her. “I already told you, I don’t want that. Here’s my wager. If I win, you’ll burn every scrap of your evidence. And in exchange,” he added at her horrified expression, “I’ll give you five thousand pounds for the keeping of the little girl.”
Emilia was frozen, mouth open in the beginnings of a furious protest. “What?” was all she managed to croak.
He was mocking her again, damn him, his eyes glittering and his mouth crooked in that devilish smile. “I’m not a monster. If she is indeed my cousin of some degree, I wouldn’t like to see her suffer.”
Her thoughts were whirling, at once too fast to organize and too slow to instruct her words. “That is deranged,” she finally said.
He laughed.
“You would rather give me five thousand pounds than inherit an estate and title.” She had to say it aloud before she could believe that’s what he truly meant. He was nothing like she had anticipated.
“Far rather.”
Emilia pressed one hand to her forehead, dazed. “You’re a very odd man, Mr. Dashwood.”
He grinned and shuffled the deck, the cards a blur in his fingers.
“If I win,” she said slowly, thinking hard, “you’ll agree to pursue your claim to the title.”
He made a quiet noise of assent. “But I shall need something from you.”
She blinked at him. “What could you want from me?”
Too late she realized what she’d said. He realized at once, of course, and his tawny gaze flashed over her, hot and all-seeing.
“If you win,” he said, each word careful and precise, “I’ll examine your proof and give strong consideration to pursuing a claim to the title. That is all I can promise, without seeing the documentation,” he added as she drew breath. “If it’s as sound as you say, you’ve nothing to worry about.”
Suspicious, but unable to argue, she nodded slowly.
“And in return for the monumental inconvenience and disruption to the life I have chosen and built, you will do me . . . a favor.”
Her skin flushed hot all over. “What?”
He leaned forward. “It’s not that sort of favor,” he said, softly mocking. “Don’t flatter yourself, Miss Greene.”
Emilia knew herself to be a terrible, wicked person—not because she had flushed at his request for a favor, but because it had been more from arousal than alarm. Mr. Dashwood was a magnetically attractive man, especially when he was tilting toward her like this, his eyes glowing and his wicked little smile suggesting he knew exactly what sort of wicked things had burst into her mind at the word favor—and worse: that she didn’t find them repulsive.