The Vega Club was very nearly Sophie Campbell’s second home.

In fanciful moments she imagined Vega’s had once been the home of a gentleman, perhaps even an earl or a marquess. It wore its dark wood paneling like a comfortable suit of clothing, inured to the elegance of its crystal chandeliers and plush carpets. Other gaming hells had a closed-­up feel, as if sunlight were some sort of plague to be avoided, but not Vega’s. Draperies were only closed at night, and there were windows built high into the walls to allow fresh air on warm evenings. Smoking was confined to a room at the back, and the dining room rivaled the one at Mivart’s Hotel, presumably so the female members were more at ease.

That was the most important feature of Vega’s: women were allowed. Not merely as guests of a man, but as full members in their own right. It was not easy to gain membership, but Sophie had recognized early on that it was the ideal place for her purposes. The Vega Club attracted all sorts of men, and they were all willing to lose to a woman. That was vital to her, for that was how she earned her living.

From the moment she arrived at Mrs. Upton’s Academy, Sophie had known that she would be entirely on her own when she was grown. The morning of her eighteenth birthday, Mrs. Upton had summoned her to gently break the news that Lord Makepeace would no longer pay her tuition. Since the viscount’s letter had arrived the morning of her birthday, Sophie could only imagine how long the bitter old man had been looking forward to sending it. The headmistress offered her a position teaching mathematics, but Sophie declined. At Mrs. Upton’s, her chances of making a good life were small; in the great world, who knew? She’d always been one to play the odds.

It certainly hadn’t been easy. Without funds, she’d taken employment as companion to a widowed viscountess. Anna, Lady Fox, had been a revelation. She was unconventional and bold, generous and witty, and she planted the seeds of an idea in Sophie’s mind. Every woman needs a fortune of her own, she often said—­making Sophie smile in wry agreement, wishing it were that easy. But Lady Fox meant what she said. When she died, she left Sophie three hundred pounds. A good beginning, she wrote in her will; a rare stroke of fortune, to Sophie’s mind, and not one to waste. With that three hundred pounds, plus her own small savings, she invented a dead husband, changed her name, and went to London at the age of twenty-­one to put her Grand Plan into effect.

It was a simple plan, really. Once she had secured her independence, she would be mistress of her own fate and able to chart her own course. If independence—­which meant money—­weren’t the key to happiness, it was at least a very great factor in it, and accordingly Sophie set about gaining it with her one profitable skill: gambling.

At times she felt a pang of remorse for living off others’ losses. She remembered well Mrs. Upton’s lectures against gaming, and she knew that the headmistress had been correct about it being dangerous and ruinous. Even though she had developed iron-­clad rules to prevent herself losing too much, there was always the matter of her reputation . . . such as it was.

Her friends worried about that, too. Ever since that first day at Mrs. Upton’s over a decade ago, she, Georgiana, and Eliza had been inseparable. During the years when Sophie was with Lady Fox and her friends were still at school, their letters had flown back and forth weekly. Now that they were all in London—­Eliza at her father’s home in Greenwich and Georgiana with her chaperone the Countess of Sidlow—­they made sure to have tea every fortnight, usually at Sophie’s snug little house in Alfred Street.

“Surely you could invest some money, as well?” Eliza often asked. “It must be safer.”

“Never,” was Sophie’s firm answer. “Playing the ‘Change is the riskiest gambling there is.”

“Papa does quite well, and he’s offered many times to advise you,” Eliza reminded her. Which was no solace at all to Sophie; Mr. Cross could afford to lose a thousand pounds on a bad stock, while she could not.

Georgiana thought she should make a different sort of investment. “What you really ought to do is make one of the gentlemen at Vega’s fall in love with you. Sterling says Sir Thomas Mayfield would be a brilliant match for you.” Viscount Sterling was Georgiana’s intended husband, and her most frequently cited authority on everything.

That made Sophie laugh. “Thomas Mayfield! A baronet? You must be mad.”

“Mad!” Georgiana widened her expressive green eyes. She turned to Eliza. “Am I mad to suggest she set her cap for a tall, handsome gentleman? The sort of gentleman who could make most ladies in London swoon with just one devilish smile?”

Sophie rolled her eyes as Eliza laughed. “You sound quite smitten with him yourself. Should we warn Lord Sterling?”

“Of course not. Sterling’s got nothing to fear. I’ve been in love with him for ages,” said Georgiana with a flip of one hand. Viscount Sterling, whose property neighbored that of the Earl of Wakefield, had proposed to Georgiana as soon as she turned eighteen, and been happily accepted. Lord Wakefield had dithered and delayed the match, but everyone knew he was an eccentric fellow, and her engagement left Georgiana free to enjoy two Seasons in London, buying an endless wedding trousseau while Wakefield and Sterling argued about the settlements.

“Perhaps that’s why you should leave Sophie in peace about him,” said Eliza gently. “You’ve found your hero so easily. Not all of us are as fortunate.”

“Oh, but I want you to be!” cried Georgiana, contrite. She turned to Sophie. “Is Sir Thomas really that bad?”

“No,” she lied with a smile. “He’s just not for me.” She hadn’t missed how Sterling thought the baronet would be a brilliant match for her. Sir Thomas, with his wandering hands and flexible sense of honor, would be utterly unacceptable as a husband for Lady Georgiana Lucas, even for the heiress Eliza Cross. But for Mrs. Sophie Campbell, a supposed widow of modest means who spent her evenings at a gaming club, he’d be a marvelous catch. Sophie was not unaware of her standing in society.

“A younger son, then,” said Georgiana, undeterred. “Lord Philip Lindeville.”

“Who? No!”

“You must remember him, Sophie. You’ve been seen with him several times in the last month,” said Georgiana somberly. “Sterling says he’s a great fellow, and he’s devilishly handsome.”

“Papa says he’s a rake,” reported Eliza.

“In need of reform through true love.” Georgiana winked at her.

Sophie laughed. “Far too much trouble for me, I’m sure.”

Eliza looked shocked, and Georgiana snorted in amusement. “Only you would view a suitor as trouble, Sophie!”

“Lord Philip,” she had replied, “is not a suitor.”

For some reason that conversation stuck in her mind as she reached Vega’s that night. It was a cool and cloudy evening, with passing sprinkles of rain, and she wore her crimson gown, not for luck but for cheer; the bright cotton was her favorite. When Mr. Forbes, the club manager, carried away her cloak, she caught sight of herself in the mirror above the fireplace. She didn’t feel old, but at twenty-­four, neither was she young. She didn’t want to turn up her nose at mention of a suitor. Sophie wouldn’t mind at all finding a gentleman who would fall in love with her and win her love in turn. If only the men she met were interested in the same thing.

Assuming she kept winning at about the same rate, it would take her another six years to reach ten thousand pounds, the amount she’d decided meant financial security. Six years plus ten thousand pounds equaled independence. That was the equation she should keep in mind, or she’d find herself at the mercy of lecherous baronets who weren’t even as handsome as Sir Thomas Mayfield. She squared her shoulders and strolled into the salon. It didn’t take long to find a table of partners, and she took a seat with a confident smile.

At least an hour passed. She lost a little at first but then made up for it. She was ahead sixty pounds when someone exclaimed behind her, “Mrs. Campbell!”

Sophie started. She and her partner, Giles Carter, were happily trouncing Mr. Whitley and Mr. Fraser in a game of whist. Whist was not only perfectly acceptable for a lady to play, it was an easy game to win when one paid attention and didn’t drink too much. Mr. Whitley wasn’t paying enough attention, and Mr. Fraser was on his third glass of madeira. Lord Philip Lindeville’s delighted greeting interrupted a winning streak of six tricks.

“What a pleasure to encounter you here.” He gave her a neat little bow.

“And you, sir.” She smiled and inclined her head. Her friends’ teasing about Lord Philip wasn’t all wrong; he was one of her frequent companions. He was charming and amusing even though he was a little too sure of his own charm. Sophie had meant what she said when she called him trouble—­as a suitor.

“Won’t you play a turn with me?” He grinned and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I vowed not to come tonight, but the chance of seeing you again was too tempting.”

“I wouldn’t want to tempt any man to break his vows,” she said with a teasing smile.

He laughed. “It was a foolish vow! Come, you shall probably beat me, and that will be my penance.”

“Oh, but we’re playing here,” she tried to point out, but Lord Philip had already exchanged a glance with his friend Mr. Whitley.

That gentleman promptly pushed back his chair. “Time for me to retire. You’ve routed me thoroughly, ma’am.” He bowed, and Mr. Fraser followed suit. Mr. Carter, her partner, hesitated, but Sophie knew when Philip was determined and would not be thwarted.

She tamped down her irritation and laid down her cards. “Mr. Carter, I hope you will play with me again. I do believe we are an indomitable team at whist.” As hoped, his face eased and he even wished her luck as Lord Philip tugged her away.

“I was engaged in a game,” she reproached him as he tucked her hand around his arm. “Patience is a virtue, my lord.”

Philip grinned. “No wonder I haven’t any! I only came to speak to Dashwood, but then caught sight of you and utterly forgot my mission there.”

“Should I be flattered?” The only reason to see Mr. Dashwood, the Vega Club owner, was to vouch for a new member or to see to a gambling debt—­a large one. Twice Sophie had had the good fortune to be on the winning end of a wager significant enough that Mr. Dashwood had stepped in to oversee payment. Somehow she doubted Philip would have been so easily distracted if he’d come to collect winnings.

He looked down at her. His dark hair fell in romantic waves over his forehead, and a rakish smile tilted his mouth. “Yes. You should be very flattered. Tell me you are, and I shall be flattered as well.”

He was so handsome and charming, it was a pity she would have to discourage his increasingly obvious interest. She pressed his arm. “Flattery is lightly given and so easily repaid.”

“Not lightly given,” he returned. “And please do repay it.”

She laughed. “I see you’re feeling lucky tonight. Shall it be hazard, then?” Hazard was quick. A few games and she would shed him, no matter what he said or did. Lord Philip had been growing too attentive of late.

It was unfortunate, that; unknown to almost everyone in the world, she was keeping an eye out for a husband, and it would have been very convenient if he’d been acceptable. Georgiana, for one, would have been so proud of her for snaring a duke’s brother.

But as much as she liked him, Lord Philip Lindeville was most assuredly not cut out to be a husband—­at least not hers. During her three years in London, Sophie had honed some very specific matrimonial requirements, and Philip barely met any. He was charming, but reckless; he was good-­natured, but cocksure; he was almost sinfully attractive, from his wavy dark hair to his tall, lean form, but he was far too aware of that fact, as was every other woman in town. And even worse, what made him so appealing as a partner at Vega’s—­his utter indifference to losing money—­was the very thing that made him utterly unacceptable as a husband. Sophie had no desire to marry a man who would gamble away their future. So despite his impeccable connections and unmistakable interest in her, she would have to turn him off.

Giles Carter followed them to the hazard table. She gave him a rueful glance as Philip called for dice. Mr. Carter was much more in line with her object. He was at least a dozen years older than she, but possessed of his own independent income. Philip, she knew, was largely dependent on an allowance from his brother, an income he thought insufficient for a bachelor, let alone a married man. Mr. Carter knew when to quit the tables, although of late he had played longer than was prudent . . . at least with her. Sophie hoped that was a good sign. He always lost with excellent grace, and seemed almost chagrined when he won. Mr. Carter would make an excellent husband, being neither cruel nor miserly nor ugly.

However, any hope of that would be irreparably scotched if she allowed Philip to tempt her across the line of respectability. Sophie knew she was clinging to the edge of it now, and she was determined not to slip off. She wasn’t above flirting with gentlemen while she won their money, but never to the point of letting them think she wanted an affair.

“What shall we play for?” Philip held out the dice, his dark eyes gleaming at her.

“A guinea per round?”

He pulled a disappointed face as he dropped a handful of markers on the table, belying his claim that he’d only come to speak to Dashwood. “Oh. Money.”

She made herself laugh lightly, aware of Mr. Carter at her other side. “What else?” Before he could answer, she turned to the table. “Seven,” she announced, tossing the dice.

Hazard was a game of chance. A player called his main, from five to nine, and then rolled the dice. If the sum of his roll equaled his main, he had nicked it, and won the pot. If he rolled a two or three, he had thrown out, and lost. The rules got complicated beyond that, with rolls of eleven or twelve being generally losing turns, but often a player had an opportunity to roll again and again, until he lost three in succession and was forced to yield the dice.

It took her three throws to win. Lord Philip applauded. “A fine start!” He always lost so easily, as if he didn’t care about the money, and he quickly racked up two losses in two rolls. A flash of pique crossed his face but only for a moment. He took up the dice and rattled them for several seconds in his palm.

Years ago at Mrs. Upton’s, Sophie had figured the odds in hazard, burning her candle to a stub as she filled the back of her mathematics primer with calculations. After the headmistress’s stern words, she never dared gamble with other girls at the academy, but the boys in the stables were another matter. She’d learned many card games from her father, but in the stables she learned dicing as well. She knew the odds of every play and throw. She learned when to be cautious and when to risk it all, and thus far she had employed these tactics splendidly—­to whit, a saved sum of four thousand pounds, amassed slowly and painstakingly over three years in London, thanks mainly to the Vega Club.

Still, hazard was a fool’s game . . . except against Lord Philip.

He never calculated anything. If he rolled too high in one turn, he called a higher main; if he rolled too low, he called a lower one. He would improve his lot considerably if he simply played the odds, as Sophie always did. She didn’t like taking advantage of him, but tonight she was a little annoyed he had broken up her game with Mr. Carter. If she won a good sum, he’d leave her be. Some nights people practically insisted she take their money.

Giving her a sly smile, Philip rolled again and didn’t lose. His eyes grew bright with triumph, even though he hadn’t won yet. He dropped another marker onto his stake and played again.

A small crowd gathered around them, with whispered side bets flying around behind her. Sophie kept her demeanor poised and easy, watching her opponent’s play. He was on the road to ruin, she thought. It was unfortunate but undeniable. Every toss of the dice exhilarated him too much. He raised his stake every time he didn’t throw out.

In the end, it was a rather impressive eight throws before the fatal nine came. A little cheer went up as Lord Philip put back his head and groaned. He scooped up the markers and presented them to her. “Play another with me.”

“You shouldn’t,” she tried to say, feeling a twinge of conscience, but he leaned closer and winked.

“One more? Be sporting.”

She hesitated. Philip would probably remain here all night, from the looks of things. If she didn’t win his money, someone else would. Perhaps after another round she could persuade him to try something less ruinous. “I’ll play one more—­but only one more . . .”

“She’ll win one more, she means,” said someone nearby, to laughter.

Lord Philip shot the fellow a peeved look as he collected the dice. “If I must lose, at least I’m losing to the most beautiful woman in London.” He offered her the dice with an extravagant bow, ever the flirt.

Sophie also knew how to play to the crowd. This time she kissed the dice before she rolled them, and this time she nicked it—­winning on the first roll, earning a huzzah from the crowd. She offered the dice to Philip. “Your cast, my lord.”

His eyes were fixed on her in unblinking fascination, his lips slightly parted in awe. “Kiss them for me,” he said, his voice dropping a register. “For luck.”

From the corner of her eye, Sophie could see Giles Carter watching, expressionless. Drat. Philip was becoming a problem; she would have to start actively avoiding him. “Since you are in dire need of it . . .” She blew a kiss toward the dice. “Bonne chance, my lord.”

“Stop this instant!”