Prologue
A warm fire dispelled the gloom of the late February weather. Not that many gentlemen throughout the discrete gambling establishment would have noticed the chill air. They were far too intent on the vast stakes exchanging hands, All except the three gentlemen who claimed a distant corner.
With a faint smile, Philip Marrow, Lord Brasleigh, settled more comfortably in his seat as he regarded his two friends. He felt a hint of sadness at the knowledge that they would soon be parted. Simon Townsled, Earl of Challmond, had already stated his intention to travel to Devonshire, while Barth Juston, Earl of Wickton, was honor bound to make an appearance in Kent to announce his proposal.
It seemed like only yesterday the three had been in Europe helping to exile Napoleon. It was a grim affair that had drawn the friends even closer than if they had been true brothers. In truth, it had forged a bond that would never be broken.
Not that it had all been grim, Philip acknowledged. Thankfully, after Napoleon’s exile they had traveled to Italy together in escort of the pope. What a delightful change from the stench and horror of war. Glittering parties, luscious women, wonderful food, and such works of art he thought he must have found a bit of heaven.
Of course, there had also been that odd encounter with the gypsies, a tiny voice from the back of his mind reminded him. Strangely enough, that memory seemed more vivid than any other, even those of the war. Not that it should have lingered in his mind. It had not been anything special. One morning, he, along with Wickton and Challmond, had happened upon an old gypsy being attacked by a gang of angry farmers. As true soldiers, they had rushed to her rescue and escorted her back to her people. In reward, she had offered them a blessing. Brushing their foreheads with a perfect red rose, she had muttered: “A love that is true, a heart that is steady, a wounded soul healed, a spirit made ready. Three women will come, as the seasons will turn, and bring true love to each, before the summer again burns. . . .”
Ridiculous nonsense, of course. The sort of thing that gypsies offered to the gullible or desperate. But more than once he had awoken in the midst of the night to have the words echoing through his mind.
A faint frown marred his noble features as he pondered the disturbing memory.
As if sensing the brooding in the air, Simon, a tall gentleman with auburn hair and emerald eyes, attempted to rally his friends by lifting his glass in a sudden salute. “What shall we drink to?”
Catching the mood, Barth lifted his own glass, his hazel eyes glittering with a boyish charm. “Lovely ladies.”
Philip’s smile returned. He was always prepared to toast lovely ladies. And one lovely actress in particular. “The more the merrier.”
“So much for the gypsy’s blessing.” Simon took a large drink of the amber liquid.
“Blessing?” Barth snorted. “Curse is more like it.”
Philip nearly choked on his brandy. So, he was not the only one to recall the strange blessing. Somehow, the thought made him even more uneasy than before. Why the devil did those words continue to haunt them? With an effort, he conjured a mocking smile. He was not about to admit that he was unnerved by the absurd encounter. “Ah, but the heat of summer has not yet come.”
“You do not believe in such nonsense?” Barth demanded.
Philip rolled his eyes at his friend’s accusing tone. Of the three of them, he was without a doubt the most cynical. “True love? Fah.”
Simon gave a low chuckle. “I do not know. I loved Fiona this afternoon. Until she threw that vase at my head.”
Barth refilled his glass. “Casanova had the right of it. Love is meant to be shared with as many willing beauties as possible.”
Philip was in full agreement. He knew that love could be more a burden than a blessing. Far better to enjoy the delights of women who realized that a gentleman was not a stallion to be trained to the lead. With an abrupt motion he rose to his feet. “Let us make a wager.”
“A wager?” Simon demanded.
“Let us say . . . a thousand pounds and a red rose to be paid the first day of June by the fool who succumbs to the gypsy’s curse.”
“A thousand pounds?” Barth growled.
Well aware that his friend was constantly in dun territory, Philip offered him a teasing smile. “Not frightened that you might succumb to the wiles of a mere female, are you Barth?”
“You forget, I am about to be wed. How can a gendeman find true love when he is shackled by necessity?”
“Simon?”
Simon shrugged. “I have no fear.”
“Then we shall meet here the first day of June.” Philip waited for Simon and Barth to rise to their feet and touch their glass to his own. “To the Casanova Club. Long may it prosper.”