Beside Amanda, Reggie Carmarthen, childhood friend and exceedingly reluctant escort, surreptitiously tweaked her sleeve. "Nothing here, really. If we leave now, we can make it to the Henrys' before supper's over."

Completing her survey, Amanda met Reggie's gaze. "How can you tell there's nothing here? We've barely arrived and the corners are dark."

The owners had decorated the rooms off Duke Street with dark brown flocked wallpaper, matching leather chairs and wooden tables. Lit only by well-spaced wall sconces, the result was a shadowy, distinctly masculine den. Amanda glanced around. A sense of danger swept her, a skittery sensation washing over her skin. She lifted her chin. "Let me do the rounds. If there's truly nothing of interest, then we can leave." Reggie knew what particular thing she was searching for, even if he definitely didn't approve. Linking her arm in his, she smiled. "You can't sound the retreat quite so soon."

"Meaning you won't listen even if I do."

They were conversing in muted tones in deference to the concentration of those playing. Amanda steered Reggie toward the tables, doing nothing to shatter the assumption anyone seeing them would make-that Reggie was her cavalier and she'd talked him into bringing her here for a dare. She had talked him into it, but her purpose was a great deal more scandalous than a dare.

Being new, the hell had attracted the most dangerous bucks and blades searching for the latest in dissipation. If she'd found any thing to her taste in the more established venues, she would never have considered coming here. But she'd been doing the rounds of the established hells and salons for the past fortnight; her presence here tonight, in a room where the only familiar faces besides Reggie's were ones she would prefer not to acknowledge, was a measure of her desperation.