“Ah, Sir Clarence.”

Before Claire even had a chance to get her bearings, she was met by a man of middling years, garbed in the evening black of a servant. A man Clarence would know and likely greet by name. Indeed, the man looked at her expectantly.

Her heart pounded in her throat, a rapid tattoo against her newly tied cravat—almost as hard as it had when Andrew had nearly kissed her moments ago.

Any excitement she’d had about getting a glimpse inside this forbidden male realm died. Who was she kidding, thinking to pass herself off as her brother in a place where he was known? What if she made a mistake and gave the whole game away?

Claire’s chest tightened and breath became difficult to take in. She should leave, just walk out before—

And then Andrew was there beside her. He didn’t say a word, and certainly didn’t touch her, but she felt him just the same. Immediately, the knot inside her loosened and she was able to breathe again.

The servant before her was not liveried like the footman who’d escorted her to the door. He was older and more polished. This must be the majordomo of the club, she decided. Andrew had given her his name when they’d discussed the battle plan for the evening.

She nodded to the man. “Good to see you again, Paulson.”

“And you, sir,” the majordomo replied, and Claire nearly went weak with relief. Pleasantries were exchanged, hers and Andrew’s coats taken, and snifters of a sharp amber liquid placed in their hands before they were left to meander toward the large set of double doors at the end of the long chamber.

“You handled that well,” Andrew murmured as they made their way into the room.

“Thank you.”

She could do this. She could. Still, she felt a little wobbly. And Lord, her throat was dry. Perhaps a little liquid courage was in order. She eyed the snifter. Clarence had always seemed to like the stuff. She brought the cut glass to her lips and took a healthy swallow.

Dear God, the burn!

Claire’s eyes immediately started watering as she did her best not to cough up the fiery liquid now scorching its way down her gullet.

Andrew, damn his hide, had the temerity to chuckle at her distress.

She was going to give him what-for…when she could properly breathe again, that is.

But then the burn softened into a glowing warmth in her middle that seemed to be spreading through her limbs, and that warmth felt…nice. Calming. Precisely what she needed. She brought the crystal to her lips once again for another, more cautious, sip.

“Go easy, Claire,” Andrew said, no longer laughing. “You need your wits about you.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, the word vibrating against the rim of the glass.

Now that she’d cleared the first hurdle of gaining entrance into the club—and bolstered by her newfound beverage of choice—Claire took a moment to assess her surroundings.

“You know, for a place named the Devil’s Den, it certainly seems rather heavenly, don’t you think?”

Far from the dim and dubious decor she’d expected, walls of silk damask in the palest cream rose to meet intricate plaster moulding. Claire lifted her gaze to the arched ceiling, painted to depict fluffy clouds in a blue summer sky and—

She blinked. “There are even bloody cherubs frolicking up there. Golden harps and all.”

If Andrew was taken aback by her swearing, he didn’t show it. The word felt a bit foreign coming out of her mouth, but it was expected from a man in a place like this, wasn’t it? And if she wanted to pass as a man, she’d need to act like one.

“I suppose they find the juxtaposition amusing,” he commented.

“Hmph.” Claire took another sip as she eyed the row of intricate crystal chandeliers lining the center of the room. “If I didn’t know better,” she said, a bit disappointed that the infamous gaming hell was not living up to her expectations of a den of iniquity at all, “I’d think I was walking into any number of Mayfair mansions.”

“Indeed,” Andrew agreed, nodding to the two footmen who stood poised at the closed doors before them.

The servants turned in unison and pulled on the handles.

A blast of raucous male laughter burst through the opening.

Claire started, but she thought she hid it well.

Another quiet chuckle from Andrew told her differently.

She frowned at him, then walked through the doors.

And entered a world unlike any she’d ever been in before…and yet somehow strangely familiar.

Juxtaposition. That’s how Andrew had described the decor in the entryway, and that theme certainly continued into the main part of the hell. The rooms themselves were still rather elegant, though there was a bit more gilt and flourish.

It resembled an aristocratic ballroom more than anything, she realized.

The place was a crush, much like a good ball. Refreshment tables lined the walls on one side of the room but from the delectable smells wafting their way, Claire figured she’d find more than dry cakes and tepid lemonade there. The din of the crowd was as loud as any rout, but more masculine in flavor. And certainly more jolly. Shouts, guffaws, and ribald repartee flew freely around the room and Claire caught more than a few words that made the tips of her ears burn.

It was shocking, thrilling, and bewildering all at once.

“Don’t stand there gawping,” Andrew whispered in her ear.

Claire coughed to cover her blunder, and got moving.

As they’d discussed before coming tonight, she and Andrew casually skirted the room, giving Claire a chance to orient herself without having to directly engage with anyone who’d known Clarence. While she got the lay of the land, Andrew’s job was to quietly observe whether or not she was being observed.

There were groups of men gathered around long green tables, hollering and whooping as one or the other of them tossed dice. Hazard, then.

Another table held a spinning wheel which men and their companions crowded around, their eyes fixed on the rotation as if their very fortunes hung on the whim of one tiny bouncing sphere.

There were smaller tables where Claire saw men at faro, vingt-et-un, rouge-et-noir and even common ballroom fare such as loo, whist, and piquet.

And there were several doors leading to private rooms in which Claire could only imagine what went on.

“I see several of Clarence’s friends,” she commented, her voice pitched low so only Andrew could hear.

She also saw the women hanging on to many of said friends’ arms. Clinging, more like, in a fashion she’d never seen the like of. Laughing with an exuberance no debutante would dare. Touching, and being touched, in ways that would scandalize innocents and fussy matrons alike.

Claire averted her eyes before her cheeks pinked. But she couldn’t stop her imagination from wondering what it would be like to be that free with herself.

“As do I,” Andrew replied, his lips close as he bent his head toward her to keep their conversation private.

Her chest stilled. Had she uttered that scandalous thought aloud? She couldn’t have. Andrew seemed to be able to read her mind of late.

She dared a glance at him, but he was still just watching the room. She let out the air that had been caught in her lungs, and huffed at herself. Ninny. He just meant that he saw people Clarence had known, as well.

Though now that she was looking at him, she couldn’t drag her eyes away. She’d not seen Andrew in full evening dress since that night he’d abandoned her at the Danburys’ Christmas ball, nearly six years ago to the day. He’d been a beautiful man even then, but now… She had to admit that his tailor had done him justice tonight in his dark-blue jacket, burgundy waistcoat, and close-fitted buff trousers.

But it wasn’t the fine figure he cut that kept Claire enthralled. The years and war had changed Andrew, had given him a lean, hard edge he’d not had before.

And she liked it.

The warmth already in her tummy from the brandy flared. If she were at the Devil’s Den as herself, rather than as her brother, would she be as bold as the other women here tonight? Would she turn her face and give in to the impulse to kiss Andrew before God and everyone?

And would he return that kiss, while sliding his hand down her back and placing it possessively on her derrière, as other men in this room were doing to their lady loves?

“What I haven’t seen,” he went on, oblivious to her risqué wonderings, “is any undue interest in you—from any quarter. Or either sex.”

His words brought Claire out of her reverie. Her eyes returned to the boisterous assemblage.

She hadn’t given much thought to Clarence’s contact being a woman, but it was certainly possible. The person they were looking for could just as easily be one of the beautifully dressed Cyprians as it could be one of the patrons or a game operator or a servant or—

Claire took another gulp from her snifter, which she was surprised to find nearly empty.

“It could be anyone,” she murmured. The enormity of her task threatened to overwhelm her, but Claire beat the doubt back. She had to find something or someone here that would help her discover her brother’s killer. She had to.

She handed off her empty glass to a passing servant and made for the hazard table. “So let’s find him. Or her.”

For the next two hours, Claire and Andrew haunted the tables. And all the while, full snifters of that delightful liquor kept finding their way into her hands by servants no doubt instructed to keep the players plied with enough alcohol to lubricate the play.

She won at hazard, lost at roulette, and made a killing at faro—which, she discovered, was not really a card game after all, but instead a game of chance that happened to use cards.

Through it all, Claire looked everyone in the eye—friend or stranger, lord or servant, doxy or dealer—searching for recognition or some hint of deeper alliance. But all she’d managed to do was send one aging viscount off in an angry huff, dragging his giggling mistress behind him so that “Clarence” could no longer tempt her with his soulful gaze.

“This is hopeless,” she groaned. Her eyes burned and itched from all the cheroot smoke and staring. And they were heavier than they should be—from the brandy, she suspected.

Andrew agreed. “Perhaps we should call it a night.”

Claire nodded, ready to follow Andrew’s lead back through the gaming rooms towards the double doors that led to the entryway. “We’ll try again tomorr—”

A manicured hand slid along the inside of Claire’s jacket sleeve and clasped her arm with possessive familiarity.

“Clarence, darling,” came a husky female purr, as a woman sidled up to Claire and pressed the side of her body full against her—breasts against her arm, hips and thighs touching her own.

For the briefest of moments, Claire froze. That was the best way she could describe it. Her breathing stopped, her heartbeat paused, her mind completely blanked. Then it all slammed back with a jolt that made her suck in air as her heart rabbited and her thoughts flew.

She dared not look at Andrew. She had to play her part.

Claire turned in to the woman with as close to a lazy smile as she could manage and raised her arm to place a kiss upon the back of the lady’s hand. She was only stalling, she knew. She had no idea who this woman was, but it seemed Clarence had. How would she possibly bluff her way through this type of encounter?

The beauty—and she was a beauty, with black hair and delicate features and who smelled of rosewater—laughed at Claire’s gesture.

“Oh, mon cher… Quel gallant! But you must know by now,” she said, her English heavily accented, “a mere peck upon my hand is not nearly enough to satisfy me.”

And she tugged Claire’s face toward hers.

Oh, God. Oh, Lord! What was she to do?

The woman’s lips brushed past Claire’s own, bussing her cheek instead. Her hand came around Claire’s nape and pulled, bringing the two women cheek to cheek in an intimate embrace.

Then a harsh whisper met Claire’s ear.

“Who the hell are you?”