The Darkest Sin by Caroline Richards Page A

pointed in the direction of the Duke and Duchess of Osborne. But it was not the Duchess’s bejeweled diadem that caught his attention.
    The Baron Sebastian, sleek as an otter in his evening clothes, sat in the adjacent loggia, his dark eyes finding him like a bullet homing in on its mark. Galveston ran a finger around the stiff collar beneath his cravat. The crush of people, the cacophony of voices onstage, and the Baron’s gaze closed in upon him to a distressing degree. Excusing himself abruptly to a startled Lucinda, Galveston exited their box, his mind already on a night at the gaming tables, always soothing to unexpectedly frayed nerves. The last images of Felicity Clarence flashed through his mind. Uncharacteristically disturbed, he shook off the vision with impatience, standing on the steps of the theater, summoning his carriage with a flick of his gold-handled cane.

Chapter 6
    I t had been surprisingly straightforward to storm the citadel that was Crockford’s Club. Rowena had simply swept the major domo who attended the door up and down with an imperious stare and demanded that he make way for Lord Rushford’s mistress, Miss Frances Warren. Accustomed to the irregular behaviors of a demanding clientele, the major domo had summoned Hastings, the establishment’s manager, who came onto the scene with great alacrity and a barely raised brow before sweeping the winsome and confident Miss Warren inside the notorious town house.
    The club was, as Rowena had expected, extravagantly decorated, the heavy greens and golds meant to suggest the vastness of distant ducal palaces despite the reality of the narrow confines of a warren of salons, which encouraged intimate tête-à-têtes and hushed conversation. An abandoned gallery ran high along one side of the tight hall, its gilt arches pointing toward a rollicking gallery of cavorting mythological figures. Rowena wandered for a few minutes, trying to take the measure of the place while avoiding any specific invitations to join a circle.
    She had met with cursory interest in her entrance, but in red velvet and fair curls, she passed scrutiny in what was regarded as a thoroughly dissolute circle that devoted itself to gambling and other barely reputable pastimes. Allowing a half smile to appear on her lips, she assessed the small crowd, mostly men and a few women, in the atrium and the adjoining salons. The laughter trilled a little too loudly and the colors of the silks and satin shone too brightly for decorum, but the club was known for its eclectic mix of high brow and low. Rowena stood on the threshold of one of the salons, a glass of champagne spirited into her hand by a passing servant, her attention captured by a man with heavy white mutton chops leaning over the décolletage of a red-haired woman.
    â€œI shouldn’t be surprised if a few fortunes are overturned this evening,” he said, the turquoise satin of his waistcoat catching the gaslight.
    The redhead, the jeweled combs in her hair flashing, placed a plump hand to her bosom. “Do you believe so?” she asked in a breathless voice schooled to flirtatious perfection. “Lord Rushford is a difficult man to intimidate across a card table.”
    Rowena took a sip of her champagne, fixing her eyes on a painting of a clutch of cherubs above the mantel, pretending to study the brush strokes closely as she eavesdropped from a modest distance.
    The man’s brow lifted in amusement. “I shouldn’t try, my dear Constance, as I don’t have a fortune to lose. My dear and careless father made certain of that some time ago, alas.”
    The red-haired woman made a moue of disappointment. “Do not tell me that I am wasting my time, Cecil, darling. I simply could not bear it. The House of Braemore in straitened circumstances! Only imagine . . .” She ended the sentence with a girlish giggle.
    It was Cecil’s turn to laugh. “You always were refreshingly