Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley

Chapter 3

Unity strolled along the pavement down a busy cobblestone street in a so-called undesirable section of London and dreamed of opening her own enterprise right here in her neighborhood.

She didn’t mind hard work. It wouldn’t even feel like work, if it were hers. Oh, there would be tough times and bad days, like with anything else, but no matter what challenges befell her business, it would still be hers.

Unfortunately, one couldn’t wish such a thing into existence. Businesses required capital. If you didn’t have any funds of your own—and, let’s face it, she could save her meager theatre wages for the next two centuries and still not accumulate anything resembling “funds”—then what you needed were investors.

Such creatures were almost as impossible to obtain as funds.

Almost.

Unity personally knew two gentlemen with wildly successful businesses. Their businesses were wildly successful because Unity had made them that way. One might think this proven ability would give her cachet and leverage. One would be extremely naïve.

Unity could sneeze out the holy grail itself and she would still be an unmarried, twenty-four-year-old woman with light-brown skin and life savings totaling one hundred and thirty-five guineas, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in a rented apartment. But once upon a time…

The first fool she’d turned into a rich man was her cousin Roger.

Despite being paternal first cousins, Roger had treated his young ward like a maid-of-all-work. As she grew into adolescence, even he could see she possessed something special. Eventually, he’d let her take over the management of his gentlemen’s club—as a favor to her, mind you. Don’t come asking for extra coins.

Just do what she could to outpace the unfair success of that upstart gaming den in unfashionable Cheapside her cousin despised so much. A lower class establishment with higher popularity simply could not be borne.

Soon, Roger’s pitiful club was profitable, and all because of Unity. She reached her majority—and a decision. She would ask her cousin not just for fair wages, but for a commission. After all, the club wouldn’t be turning any profit if it weren’t for Unity.

Roger answered by kicking her out of his club and out of his home. She had her freedom. She wasn’t his ward anymore. If she thought she was such an important kingmaker, well, off she went then to make her own fortune. Roger didn’t need a slip of a girl under his expensive heels.

With no money and no references in the middle of winter, some might think her cousin had left Unity with no choice but to take shelter in a brothel, just to have a roof over her head.

But there were sometimes choices, if one knew where to look.

She pulled open the front door of Eshu’s Altar and stepped into the smoky, noisy gambling den.

Shouts of “Miss Unity!” rang from all corners, followed immediately by good-natured groans, begging her not to join this table or that, lest she swindle them out of the pot they were surely going to win.

She ignored the whist and faro tables for now, and made her way to the bar instead.

Sampson had a glass of her favorite brandy ready before she reached him. His black hair was cropped short and the deep brown of his jaw freshly shaved. He looked as though he might be off to church—not off to reap a small fortune from the luckless gamblers wagering at the gaming tables.

“Looking lovely today, Miss Unity,” Sampson murmured politely.

Unity arched a brow.

“Some men find your general air of fire and brimstone to be lovely,” he protested. “It may not be for everyone, but that’s why God invented individual taste. What are you furiously thinking about today?”

“My cousin Roger,” she admitted.

Sampson grinned and poured himself a matching glass of brandy. “Please tell me he still wakes up every morning despising me.”

“He does,” Unity promised.

Sampson clinked his glass against hers. “To making our betters jealous.”

When Unity had darkened his doorstep for the first time, Sampson Oakes hadn’t had the least inkling who her fashionable, self-important cousin was. But he had been passingly familiar with Unity’s mother, who had grown up not far from Sampson’s relatives.

Mother’s family had money. Unity’s maternal grandfather had built a large church in the neighborhood, and provided affordable loans to enterprising residents who were turned away by the big banks that serviced the ton and the landed gentry.

Mother had said the family money was enough to last for generations. That Unity would live well, and so would her children.

But Grandfather must have given every penny out as loans. Roger said there was no information on how to collect it in the will—or any mention of Unity. He took in his grieving cousin due to familial responsibility but not by choice. He said more than once he wished there was some other cousin she could leech upon. A Black cousin, preferably, to keep her far from Roger’s exalted circles.

Unity wished the same thing. She’d felt far more at home in her old neighborhood than she ever did at her cousin’s stale residence. If only her church aunts had been related by blood, her life would have turned out differently. Perhaps she would have met Sampson sooner—and not as a homeless beggar.

By some counts, there were ten thousand free Blacks in London, and by other counts twenty thousand. A big number, scattered throughout a big city, and yet oftentimes, it still managed to feel like a small community, where everyone knew everyone else—or knew someone who did.

Sampson hadn’t been looking to hire a new maid. Unity hadn’t wanted to be a maid. She wanted to help him attract more clients than his gambling den could handle. Sampson didn’t have a man of business. Unity didn’t have a home. In exchange for room and board, she’d prove her worth, if he’d just give her a month’s grace to try.

He gave her three months. Then six. Then a year. By then, his gaming establishment was the most frequented in Cheapside and he didn’t need Unity’s help anymore.

She’d hoped he’d offer her a job.

Instead, he’d offered her marriage.

Sampson was kind and clever and handsome, but Unity was not in the market for a man. If a woman married, the husband would own her. No matter how much Unity helped in the gaming hell, it would never be hers. She would always be the assistant, not the one in charge.

So she’d left. Despite there being no contract requiring him to do so, Sampson had settled a tidy sum on her nonetheless, in appreciation of her work.

What coin was left was hidden beneath a floorboard. Unity sipped her brandy. She needed to stop thinking and start doing before all she had left to show for her dreams was a blank space in the dust under her rented floor.

“Thank you.” Brandy in hand, she strolled through the gaming hell just like she used to do. Besides her, the only other women were serving maids.

“It’s Miss Unity!”

“Don’t let her sit with us. She’ll take our money... again.”

“I fold, I fold!”

Despite their teasing protests, gentlemen made room for her at each table she passed. Her face was as familiar as the Queen of Diamonds’. More importantly, Sampson had declared Miss Unity to have a lifetime seat at the table of her choice, and she had taken him up on this promise on several memorable occasions.

Sometimes the hole beneath her floor held far more than one hundred and thirty-five guineas.

But gambling was for pigeons. No matter how talented you were, luck ruled the table at the end. Unity preferred to rely on skill.

One of the gamblers gave her a gap-toothed smile. “What’s a hoyden like you doing in a hell like this?”

She rolled her eyes and kept walking. She wasn’t a hoyden or a spinster or any other such label. Those were names given to people who had expectations. The only person who expected anything from Unity was herself.

And she was the only person she could rely on to achieve it.

She would make her own way and become financially independent at any cost, come what may. Unity had sworn to never again rely on any man for anything but company. There was nothing she cherished more than her freedom.

“Well?” Sampson appeared at her side, a towel folded over one arm. “Are we falling apart without you?”

“You’re doing fine,” she assured him.

Eshu’s Altar was flourishing. Unlike her cousin Roger, Sampson had paid close attention to everything Unity did or suggested. They had learned from each other.

Cousin Roger’s club, the Wit & Whistle, on the other hand... Well. Within a year after Unity’s departure, its popularity was already waning. Last she heard, he’d gone through three men of business last season alone and was barely staying afloat.

Unity might have whispered a few choice tidbits into gossips’ ears to help the process along.

She would not be sorry.

“What do you know about the Duke of Lambley?” she asked Sampson.

His coffee-brown eyes widened. “This isn’t his haunt.”

She wrinkled her nose. “White’s? Boodle’s?”

“The Cloven Hoof.”

Now that was interesting. The Cloven Hoof was a larger, more infamous gambling den. It was located on the literal edge of the fashionable district, and its clientele spanned the divide between the classes. No truly fashionable lords frequented the establishment, but she was unsurprised to hear someone as unconventional as Lambley would rub elbows with the lower classes. From all accounts, his parties were just as eclectic.

“What do you know about his masquerades?” she asked.

“Is that your next venture?” Sampson’s brows lifted. “You’re going to compete with the Duke of Lambley?”

“It’s not competing if we cater to separate audiences,” she replied. “I’ll be competing against you.”

Sampson grinned. “I’m not certain this is a masquerade crowd.”

“And I am certain there are men and women in Cheapside who would love to attend such an event,” Unity answered. “When Vauxhall hosts a masquerade, one can hardly wade through all the people in attendance. Many of whom are thieves and footpads. A masquerade club for the common folk could offer a secure environment at a comfortable price.”

“It does sound like it would do well,” Sampson admitted. “Knowing you, you’ve already fathomed out every aspect.”

She shook her head. “I’m still gathering information. I know what Vauxhall’s parties are like firsthand, but I’ve never attended a private masquerade.”

“Well... there are private masquerades, and then there are private masquerades.” Sampson gave her a sidelong glance. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of the goings-on at the duke’s residence?”

Her cheeks heated. “I wouldn’t copy that part.”

“Yes, you would,” Sampson said. “If it was the most profitable, most efficient, or most likely to be what the people want. You’ll do whatever makes you the most successful. You can’t help it. You give your all.”

Yes. Well. This time, she’d be giving her all for herself for a change. Creating her own legacy. Controlling her own future.

“How would you like to be the first investor in a new business opportunity?” she asked.

Sampson made a face. “We’re widening Eshu’s Altar. I won’t have a spare penny for at least six months. By then, your public masquerade hall will be the only reason anyone comes to London.”

Damnit. Unity forced a smile. She wished his words were true. It could have come true. But Sampson was the only wealthy person she knew—and trusted. She wanted to partner with someone from this neighborhood.

Unity had stumbled in here all those years ago out of necessity and out of revenge. Cousin Roger had turned her out into the street without a care. She had wanted to make him pay. This venue was the one he despised above all others. The one he had resented being better than his.

Helping Sampson had been a wonderful start. Helping herself... ahh. Her future success as an independent club owner would be the sweetest revenge.

But first, she had to learn everything there was to know about operating a successful masquerade. The sort people would do anything to attend. She knew from experience that the best way to learn was from the thick of things. If she wanted to start a club that rivaled Lambley’s balls in popularity... then she needed to become very familiar with Lambley’s balls.

“You’re making the face,” Sampson said. “The I-will-destroy-all-competition face.”

“You said it wasn’t competing,” she reminded him. “The duke and I shall be... colleagues.”

“Does he know that?” Sampson said doubtfully.

Unity handed him her empty glass and straightened her bonnet. “He’s about to.”