places.”
The way he said it . . . suddenly she felt as hot in men’s clothing as she did under her stays.
She couldn’t protest anymore—a man’s face appeared at the door’s grille. He saw the duke and admitted them instantly. Bald, six and a half feet tall with a huge chest, the servant did not speak a word, but Greybrooke allowed the man to divest him of his greatcoat, then handed over his tall hat and gold-tipped walking stick.
The servant turned to her. She had only Will’s tailcoat, but the man pointed to her hat. Obviously, he did not speak.
Instinctively she grabbed her hat—to hold it on. It hid her hair. She couldn’t give it up.
Greybrooke gave a discreet shake of his head, and the doorman retreated. She had worked in ton families, but it amazed her to see the duke’s innate power. He could command people without even uttering a word himself.
What would happen once a man accustomed to such obedience got her alone in his house?
A second servant hastened forward from his post by a closed set of double doors. Wearing an immaculate black coat along with a snow-white cravat, shirt, and waistcoat, the man bowed to Greybrooke with the bearing of a ducal butler.
“It is good to have you here this evening, Your Grace. Your usual table for faro? Or is it to be hazard, Your Grace? I acquired a crate of a most excellent French vintage and have reserved it in anticipation of your visit.”
Greybrooke’s teeth flashed in a teasing grin—one intended just for her. Helena’s stomach gave a little flip-flop.
“Champagne tonight, Melman,” he said casually to the servant. “Allow me to introduce my youthful cousin, Mr. George Caldwell, down from the country. Caldwell, this is Melman, the major domo of this establishment and the reason Black’s is the most famed gaming house in London.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The major domo bowed to her. Then, as he straightened and he studied her face, his brow shot up. Bother. Apparently she didn’t make a sufficiently convincing male.
“Is Black here tonight? I require a word with him.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall take you to him at once.”
The major domo whisked them through gilt-encrusted doors and through the gaming rooms—some were bathed in the golden light of chandeliers, other were shrouded in gloom. They mounted a sweeping stair and were shown into a massive, elegant parlor. It could have been the drawing room of Winterhaven House. Melman knocked discreetly on a pastel blue door. He returned in moments. “Mr. Black is honored to meet with Your Grace and Mr. Caldwell.”
“Oh, but I thought—I thought I could speak to him alone.”
The duke’s dark brow rose. Of course she’d made him suspicious. “It’s just that it’s a private family matter, Your Grace,” Helena said hurriedly in a false deep voice. “And my brother does not know of your involvement. . . .”
“I understand, cousin,” Greybrooke growled. “Allow me to speak to Black for a moment. Then you may go in. At that point, I guarantee he will grant you any request you make.”
How could he be sure of that? Her heart thundered and she paced. Did she give this man the truth—admit she was a female? Greybrooke returned and held the door for her. “Smile at him, admit you’ve dressed as a man on a dare, and Black will eat out of your hand.”
She had faced peers of the realm and told them how to improve their behavior with their children—she could face a gaming hell owner. Especially with the duke nodding encouragement. “You could not fail to charm him, my dear.”
“I’m not a great beauty.”
The duke’s brows shot up. “My dear, you are stunning.” She blinked. But there was no teasing smile—he was being honest. The Duke of Greybrooke thought her stunning?
“Outside and in,” he murmured.
Squaring her shoulders, she went inside the offices of Mr. Black. The man behind the desk looked like a pugilist. Gleaming bald head, heavy square jaw, nose
The way he said it . . . suddenly she felt as hot in men’s clothing as she did under her stays.
She couldn’t protest anymore—a man’s face appeared at the door’s grille. He saw the duke and admitted them instantly. Bald, six and a half feet tall with a huge chest, the servant did not speak a word, but Greybrooke allowed the man to divest him of his greatcoat, then handed over his tall hat and gold-tipped walking stick.
The servant turned to her. She had only Will’s tailcoat, but the man pointed to her hat. Obviously, he did not speak.
Instinctively she grabbed her hat—to hold it on. It hid her hair. She couldn’t give it up.
Greybrooke gave a discreet shake of his head, and the doorman retreated. She had worked in ton families, but it amazed her to see the duke’s innate power. He could command people without even uttering a word himself.
What would happen once a man accustomed to such obedience got her alone in his house?
A second servant hastened forward from his post by a closed set of double doors. Wearing an immaculate black coat along with a snow-white cravat, shirt, and waistcoat, the man bowed to Greybrooke with the bearing of a ducal butler.
“It is good to have you here this evening, Your Grace. Your usual table for faro? Or is it to be hazard, Your Grace? I acquired a crate of a most excellent French vintage and have reserved it in anticipation of your visit.”
Greybrooke’s teeth flashed in a teasing grin—one intended just for her. Helena’s stomach gave a little flip-flop.
“Champagne tonight, Melman,” he said casually to the servant. “Allow me to introduce my youthful cousin, Mr. George Caldwell, down from the country. Caldwell, this is Melman, the major domo of this establishment and the reason Black’s is the most famed gaming house in London.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The major domo bowed to her. Then, as he straightened and he studied her face, his brow shot up. Bother. Apparently she didn’t make a sufficiently convincing male.
“Is Black here tonight? I require a word with him.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I shall take you to him at once.”
The major domo whisked them through gilt-encrusted doors and through the gaming rooms—some were bathed in the golden light of chandeliers, other were shrouded in gloom. They mounted a sweeping stair and were shown into a massive, elegant parlor. It could have been the drawing room of Winterhaven House. Melman knocked discreetly on a pastel blue door. He returned in moments. “Mr. Black is honored to meet with Your Grace and Mr. Caldwell.”
“Oh, but I thought—I thought I could speak to him alone.”
The duke’s dark brow rose. Of course she’d made him suspicious. “It’s just that it’s a private family matter, Your Grace,” Helena said hurriedly in a false deep voice. “And my brother does not know of your involvement. . . .”
“I understand, cousin,” Greybrooke growled. “Allow me to speak to Black for a moment. Then you may go in. At that point, I guarantee he will grant you any request you make.”
How could he be sure of that? Her heart thundered and she paced. Did she give this man the truth—admit she was a female? Greybrooke returned and held the door for her. “Smile at him, admit you’ve dressed as a man on a dare, and Black will eat out of your hand.”
She had faced peers of the realm and told them how to improve their behavior with their children—she could face a gaming hell owner. Especially with the duke nodding encouragement. “You could not fail to charm him, my dear.”
“I’m not a great beauty.”
The duke’s brows shot up. “My dear, you are stunning.” She blinked. But there was no teasing smile—he was being honest. The Duke of Greybrooke thought her stunning?
“Outside and in,” he murmured.
Squaring her shoulders, she went inside the offices of Mr. Black. The man behind the desk looked like a pugilist. Gleaming bald head, heavy square jaw, nose
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