The last place Sophie wanted to go that night was to Vega’s, but at eight o’clock she walked up the steps.

“Welcome, Mrs. Campbell,” said Forbes, the manager, as he helped her out of her cloak. “I trust you’re well this evening.”

If he were as curious as everyone else would be to know what had happened between her and Jack—­not Jack, the duke, she reminded herself—­Forbes didn’t show it. She gave him a bright smile. “Thank you, I am.”

He sent the cloak off with a footman. “Mr. Dashwood would like to have a word at your convenience.”

“Oh?” Sophie tensed, then made herself relax. She’d never fool anyone if she twitched like a startled mouse every time someone spoke to her. “I am free at the moment, if he will speak to me now.”

“This way,” he said, and led her to Mr. Dashwood’s office. It took real effort to keep her muscles from knotting; what was Mr. Dashwood going to say? Forbes had obviously been instructed to bring her in immediately. Had she breached some rule and was about to have her membership revoked? She had been to Mr. Dashwood’s office only three times: when she applied for membership, and the two very happy occasions when she’d won wagers large enough that the owner had overseen payment.

Although, after her time with Jack, Sophie began to suspect that it was more likely her sex and not the size of the wager that had brought Mr. Dashwood into those matters. She had won two hundred seventy pounds from Sir Edward Tisdale, and then almost five hundred pounds from a very drunk viscount who stared at her bosom more than at his cards. Someone confided to her later that the viscount claimed she’d dressed indecently to distract him. Sophie hadn’t felt the slightest twinge of guilt over it. Her gowns were no different from any other fashionable lady’s, and if a man allowed himself to be that dazzled by a hint of female flesh, he ought to restrict his gambling to male company. Both men paid, though rather grudgingly in the case of the viscount. Mr. Dashwood had made sure of it.

Sadly, she was not in possession of a winning marker this evening.

Forbes knocked at the last door. “Mrs. Campbell, sir,” he called, then nodded in apparent response to a reply. He stepped back, opening the door wide for her. “Mr. Dashwood will see you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Forbes,” she murmured, pressing her hands flat against her skirt to steady them. Lifting her chin, she walked into the office.

Mr. Dashwood was on his feet, coming around his desk. “Mrs. Campbell. How good to see you back at Vega’s.”

“Yes,” she said with a smile, as she dipped a shallow curtsy. She had practiced that gracious, unperturbed expression until it came effortlessly, but tonight it was difficult to hold. “It is good to be back.”

He tilted his head, giving her a sharp look. Everything about Dashwood was sharp: his mind, his features, his ambition. He was a ruthless shark in gentleman’s clothes. “You caused a commotion when you left the other evening.”

Sophie drew a quick breath and clasped her hands. She’d known this was coming. “I am sorry for that—­”

“No doubt,” he said, cutting her off. “That’s not the sort of wager I want in my club.”

Her face heated. “Nor is it the sort of wager I delight in making. His Grace insisted, as you heard—­”

“But you agreed.” Dashwood folded his arms and leaned one hip against his desk. His piercing gaze was almost physically uncomfortable to endure, and he wasn’t letting her put out any of her practiced excuses.

“I did,” she conceded in a low voice. “It was a mistake.”

“I hope you won’t make the same mistake again. If that’s the sort of wager you’re after . . .” He shrugged. “There are plenty of places to make them. But not at the Vega Club.”

Sophie’s breath rasped in her throat. Her spine was as stiff as an iron spike, and her face was surely three shades of scarlet. “Nor do I. It—­it was a momentary madness, certainly on my part and, I believe, on His Grace’s. It was not a serious bet—­I had never met His Grace before that night. I suspect he only proposed such a wager to prevent me from playing hazard with his brother, Lord Philip. I believe there had been some unpleasantness over a debt that caused tension between them, and the wager was made in a moment of anger.”

Dashwood cocked one brow skeptically. “A harsh punishment for you. Not so harsh for Lord Philip.”

She blinked rapidly. “As you can see, it was not fulfilled.”

Something like sympathy drifted over his face for a moment. “You’ve not been here since then.”

“I was indisposed,” she said. Colleen had told two people she was ill in bed, which was as good a story as any. Her hands were gripped together so tightly, she couldn’t feel her fingertips. “I struck a bargain with His Grace. In exchange for my promise not to wager with Lord Philip again, he took me home.” That was true, even if it left out mention of the fact that it happened only this morning. “I took a chill in the rain that night, and was confined to bed for a few days.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Rumors are slippery beasts, madam, hard to cage and even harder to put down. I suggest you avoid His Grace so as not to provide succor to any beastly rumors.”

“I assure you, sir, I have no intention of doing anything remotely similar ever again.” But her heart was hammering wildly.

“Very good, Mrs. Campbell,” he replied after a moment. “See that you don’t—­not here, at any rate.”

“Of course not,” she said through dry lips. And then, because she couldn’t let a single instance of suspicion go unchallenged, she added, “I trust your code of conduct for members will cover this.”

He knew what she meant: the embargo on speaking of what happened at Vega’s. “It does, and I will enforce it to the best of my ability.” He gave her a speaking look. “I am not God, Mrs. Campbell. If the truth is at odds with rumor, you would be wise to promote the truth at every opportunity.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of the warning. “I shall.”

Mr. Dashwood went behind his desk again. “One more thing, Mrs. Campbell. Your account.”

“Yes?” Her stomach threatened to revolt. What was wrong with her account?

The club owner gave her a long look. “You won over six hundred pounds from the Duke of Ware. I did as he directed and credited it to your account. If you’ll sign here, I’ll make the funds available.” He pushed a slim account book across the desk surface and held out a pen.

Sophie let out her breath. “Of course,” she murmured, dashing her signature across the page. Six hundred pounds. It was a fortune, more than she’d ever won before, and it left her cold. What would Jack think when he had to pay it? Would he even notice?

Her head felt hot and fuzzy as she left the office and followed Forbes back to the main salons of the club. She was walking on thin ice already, and now it felt like it was cracking beneath her feet. She flexed her shoulders, trying to relieve some of the strain in them, and a dull ache shot up her neck toward the base of her skull. This evening was already very trying, and she hadn’t even entered the club.

There was a brief hush when she strolled into the salon. No one stared openly, but she caught a few veiled glances of rabid curiosity. Graciously she nodded to the people she knew, repeating over and over in her mind that she must behave exactly as she normally did. Most people returned her nod, some with speculative looks that only increased her tension.

She started when someone spoke at her shoulder. “Good evening, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Mr. Carter!” Her laugh was almost a gasp of relief. “How delightful to see you again.”

“Yes, it has been a few days.” He bowed, but his expression was unreadable.

She summoned an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, I was unwell. A chill from the rain. I was quite miserable and am so sorry I was unable to receive you when you called.”

“Your maid seemed rather nervous when I called.”

“Was she?” Sophie affected mild surprise. “I can’t imagine why. Perhaps it was your handsome face, sir.” She smiled.

He studied her for a moment; he wanted to believe her. Sophie couldn’t bear it. He was a decent man. She liked him, and now she had to lie to him. She dropped her gaze and squeezed her hands together. “No, you must know the full reason why I stayed away. I—­I was mortified by how I behaved that night. I lost my temper and allowed myself to be goaded into things I ought not to have done. That kept me from returning to Vega’s before tonight.” She looked up at him. “I hope you can understand, and forgive me.”

His expression had softened considerably. “I do understand.” He hesitated. “Then the duke did not . . . ?”

“He allowed me to go home, and apologized for causing such a public spectacle. I believe both of us regretted that dreadful wager as soon as we left Vega’s.” She shook her head, picking her words carefully to escape further outright lies. Lies by omission and suggestion were unavoidable. Jack had indeed let her go home and offered an apology. She simply couldn’t tell Mr. Carter it had happened this morning, and not four nights ago.

“Ware also disappeared for several days.”

“Did he?” She tried to look blank. “I had never met His Grace before that night. I’ve no idea what his habits are.”

Carter shifted. “Well, he’s not often about in society. Now that I think of it, I’ve only ever crossed his path twice. Perhaps it was coincidence.”

Sophie said nothing. Against her will, her memory was conjuring up images of Jack stretching his neck as he untied his cravat, touching her under the chin before he kissed her, the way his fingers tangled in her hair. She knew some of his habits.

Abruptly she jerked a little straighter and inhaled in dismay. Across the room Lord Philip Lindeville had entered, his hair ruffled, his expression moody. His dark eyes roved around the room. She ducked her head and prayed he wouldn’t spot her.

“What is it, my dear?” Mr. Carter leaned toward her.

She mentally cataloged the endearment: a positive sign. “Lord Philip has arrived.”

Mr. Carter’s mouth flattened.

“I do not wish to see him,” she said with unfeigned vehemence. Not only had she promised Jack, she had lost most of her sympathy for Philip. He was reckless and irresponsible and he’d deliberately used her to taunt Jack, making far more of their friendship than there was. In time she might forgive him, but for now she still felt the sting of his actions too plainly.

Carter shifted to block her from sight. “Then you shall not.”

They made their way to a quiet table, sheltered from full view of the room by a stand of plants, and Mr. Carter called for cards. Sophie didn’t feel like playing but knew she had to. This was why she came to Vega’s, after all, and it would attract notice if she did not. Besides, nothing about her Grand Plan had really changed.

Sophie was too distracted by Philip’s presence to play her best, but she still managed to take some tricks, and she lost only ten pounds. Carter gave her a swift glance as he totted up the score, then pushed back his chair. “Perhaps you would care for a glass of wine, Mrs. Campbell?”

Gratefully she rose. She had taken the first step by returning to Vega’s tonight. That was enough for now. Tomorrow some of the surprise would have died down, and the day after, even more; soon she would be treated more normally again. And leaving now could be excused not as cowardice—­which it was—­but as a lingering weakness from her fictitious malady. “You are so kind to offer, Mr. Carter, but I think I ought to return home. It seems I’m not as recovered as I thought. I feel a headache coming on.”

“Of course. You look rather pale.” He offered his arm, which she gratefully took, and they circled the room, heading discreetly for the door. Philip was nowhere to be seen, to her immense relief. He must have gone into another room. Jack would be furious at him—­but that was not her concern, or her problem to solve. Sophie just wanted to go home. She really might be falling ill this time.

They had nearly reached the stand of palms near the manager’s office when someone stepped in front of her.

“There you are, Mrs. Campbell.”

She jolted and barely restrained a small scream of surprise. Philip Lindeville gave a bow so deferential it was almost mocking. He’d spoken loudly and warmly, and she heard the pause in the room noise as everyone turned to look. She had no choice: face him or risk another scene. Gritting her teeth, she curtsied. “Good evening, sir.”

“Indeed it is, to see you.” His gaze flicked to the man beside her. “Good evening, Carter.”

He gave a tight nod. “Lindeville. You must pardon us. I was about to see Mrs. Campbell home.”

His eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Home? Surely not. It’s not even ten o’clock, and the lady hasn’t been at Vega’s in several nights. Don’t deny the rest of us the pleasure of her company.”

“You flatter me, sir,” she said, smiling as best she could. Act normally. “But to my great regret, I feel unwell.”

“Good heavens.” He rocked back on his heels. “After you’ve been ill these last several days? I’m growing concerned, Mrs. Campbell.”

And the eavesdroppers were growing interested. How cruel it would be if she single-­handedly brought down Vega’s pledge of secrecy by being so scandalous no one could resist gossiping about it. “How kind of you, my lord, but unnecessary. It is nothing more than a headache,” she said firmly, keeping her voice low. “I’m sure a good night’s sleep is all I need.”

“No, no, a glass of wine shall restore you.” He reached for her arm, subtly edging Giles Carter aside. “Say you’ll stay.”

Sophie stubbornly resisted and looked him full in the face—­his face, enough like Jack’s to make her heart twist. “Not tonight, sir.”

“The lady said no, Lindeville,” said Carter quietly.

Philip’s eyes grew dark and turbulent, and his mouth pulled into a hard line. “Perhaps we should send for a doctor. It seems very serious, this illness—­it’s lasted several days, and it came upon you very suddenly, didn’t it?” He cocked his head. “Right about the time my brother appeared.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “Although I find his presence also makes me feel ill of late.”

“Oh no,” she said, pretending he hadn’t spoken suspiciously and angrily. “I wasn’t seriously ill—­only a cold, miserable as they are. I may have overtaxed myself by coming out tonight.”

Philip glanced at her companion. “Carter, be a sport and give me a moment with Mrs. Campbell.” When Carter scowled, Philip laid one hand over his heart. “I’ve been worried about her.”

He was going to make a scene; he was already making one. Sophie gave Mr. Carter a slight nod, and after a moment he stepped backward and bowed. His expression was inscrutable. “I see. Good evening, Mrs. Campbell.”

With a sinking heart, Sophie watched him walk away. She turned to Philip and reminded herself that she could not slap him, no matter how much he deserved it. How had she let this spoiled, arrogant young man have such sway over her life? “My head is aching already, and I haven’t the strength to argue with you.”

He looked offended as he pulled her hand around his elbow. “There won’t be an argument. I only want to talk.” He led her to one of the small sofas at the edge of the room. It was still in the main salon, but far from the hazard and faro tables, where the crowd was concentrated.

“Lord Philip,” she began as soon as she took a seat, “this cannot contin—­”

He raised one hand in a gesture so like Jack, she stopped midword. “Answer one question. I have to know. Did my brother do anything offensive to you?” His tone implied suspicion of all manner of abuse and humiliation.

She snapped her mouth shut before she could give herself away by springing violently to Jack’s defense. “No.”

“Nothing?” He pressed her hand between his. “If he did, I will make him regret it.”

Sophie tugged her hands free of his grip. “Philip, this is madness.”

He scowled. “What?”

“You’re making a spectacle of me,” she said bluntly. “Of yourself. Please stop.”

“Mrs. Campbell—­Sophie,” he protested. “I would never do such a thing.”

She looked at him in reproach. “Think, my lord. You insist I stay and talk with you. You turn away Mr. Carter, who was merely escorting me to the hall so I could have Mr. Forbes summon a hackney. The other night you interrupted a perfectly cordial game of whist I was playing with Mr. Whitley and Mr. Fraser and insisted I play hazard with you instead.”

For a moment he looked shocked, but then a penitent smile curved his mouth. Again he looked like Jack, and again it made her chest ache. “I hadn’t realized, but now I see you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I enjoy your company very much,” she told him, “but you must understand my position. Even I have to mind my reputation.”

He laughed. “Must you? Reputations are such tiresome things . . .” She lifted one shoulder as if in resignation, and he ran a hand over his head, ruffling the dark waves. “It’s a good thing my brother is such a dry stick. If it were anyone else, I’d never believe him indifferent to you.”

She never knew if he meant it to be a trap, but if so, it was an effective one. At this unexpected mention of Jack, her mask slipped; something must have shown on her face, for Philip—­who was watching her closely—­grew suddenly grim. “What did he do?”

Sophie’s temper was fraying with every word. She had enjoyed Philip’s company, laughed at his wit, been flattered by his attention. But she had never encouraged him to think she wanted more. She was too mindful of what it would cost her to step over the line. Everyone believed her a respectable if somewhat high-­spirited widow, which gave her some license to have companions like Philip and Mr. Carter, but she did not want society to believe her a very different sort of widow.

And Philip, who had appeared to respect the boundaries earlier in their friendship, was all but proclaiming her his, which was not and would never be true. In truth, Sophie thought his behavior was really more about his brother than about her, but it was incontrovertible that her reputation was the one that would suffer if he persisted in this.

She looked him squarely in the face. “What I do is not your concern, my lord.”

He blinked. “I only want to know about my brother’s treatment—­”

“No! I am not answering. You have no right to question what I do.” She drew a deep breath. “If you wish to know about your brother’s actions, you should speak to him. Perhaps he will feel obliged to answer. I do not.”

For a moment there was silence. Philip was clearly struggling to master his own temper; suspicion and uncertainty flashed across his face in rapid succession. “I beg your pardon,” he said at last. “I was concerned for you.”

“Thank you, but I am fine.” She got to her feet. “I am tired, I have a headache, and now I am going home. Good night.”

He followed her out, an uneasy frown on his brow. Sophie tried to ignore him. Now she did feel unwell, cold and clammy and her heart racing. She squeezed her bloodless hands together as Mr. Forbes sent someone to fetch her a hackney. Mr. Carter had disappeared, and she couldn’t even regret it. She only wanted to go home, get into bed and pull the covers over her head.

Frank, the servant who monitored the cloak room, brought her cloak, and Philip waved him off, taking the cloak and draping it around her shoulders himself. “Let me take you home,” he said. “To be sure you’re well.”

If she left with him tonight, after the way she’d left with Jack a week ago, she would never recover. “Thank you, no,” she told Philip coolly. “I can manage on my own.” She faced away from him, all but giving him the cut direct.

“Very well.” His voice was also chilled. “I shall see you another evening, madam.”

She nodded once. “Good night, sir.”

It was almost four minutes later when the hackney arrived. Sophie knew because she could see the clock on the mantel of the small fireplace at the side of the reception hall. It seemed an eternity because she could also tell Philip hadn’t budged. He stood behind her, silent but looming, and it made her want to spin around and tell him off properly.

Instead she clenched her teeth shut and watched the mechanism on the clock tick away the seconds. When Forbes finally came to say her hackney was waiting, she all but ran out the door. She didn’t mean to look back, but as she stepped into the carriage and gave the driver the direction, she caught sight of Philip, on the steps of Vega’s, watching her moodily.

Oh dear.