Page 1 of A Marquess of No Importance (Inglorious Scoundrels #3)

M elissande Monroe sat on the throne of the new female wing of her gaming hell—Persephone’s Heaven.

She had worked for two years to open this wing, ever since taking over Hades’ Hell from her grandfather.

As the oldest grandchild and the one who spent the most time by his side—running around the hell, cheating at cards, dancing with harlots, and cooking with the cooks—she knew every nook and cranny of the place.

Even as a child, she had imagined transforming an empty part of the building, once used as a warehouse, into a ballroom to rival a grand palace.

Of course, her ideas had evolved since then.

Instead of a ballroom, she’d recreated what she imagined heaven would look like: a lush garden filled with tables of exotic, exciting foods and drinks, young, strapping lads serving women and eager to please, and small, beautiful rooms with beds and other furniture designed for receiving that pleasure.

It was her version of the Garden of Eden. Except anyone was free—nay, welcome—to partake in the forbidden fruit.

She had planned the opening of the women’s wing for over two years, patiently waiting to introduce it during the most notorious masquerade of the London Season.

This tradition of a biannual masquerade had been started nearly a century earlier by Melissande’s great-grandfather, the founder of Hades’ Hell.

Melissande wanted to make her great-grandfather proud and prove to everyone that she was deserving of the honor of running this hell.

At first, after taking over, many people came to gawk at the inept young woman they believed was destined to fail in running this masculine den.

When she refused to be offended by their insinuations, coming down to greet patrons, engage them in conversation, and fleece them at cards, she was seen as a novelty.

Every action she took was dramatized and scandalized, but that only drew more and more patrons. She quickly realized that the more scandalous her behavior, the better it was for her business.

Men didn’t come to see a business competently run by a woman; they came either to witness her fail or to tsk and laugh at her outrageous conduct.

Too bad for them; being scandalous was something she excelled at, but running a profitable establishment was her true talent.

So, she gave them what they wanted. She devised something ostentatious almost monthly to draw attention to herself and attract more patrons.

Opening a women’s wing was just the crowning touch.

The fact that it was forbidden to men, except for the male harlots, only piqued everyone’s curiosity further. Women used a separate exit, heavily guarded by the burliest of men, and they were allowed to wear masks in every room of the establishment.

There was a strict rule: whatever happened in Persephone’s Heaven was not to be discussed outside its doors.

If anyone was found sharing their information with outsiders—and the queen of the underworld had many spies—they would be swiftly denied entry to the establishment. Forever.

She wanted women to have privacy and secrecy, but she also wanted them to access everything they had previously been denied: gaming tables, private chambers, cigar rooms, and her most recent idea, the wager book, similar to those at White’s club for men.

She opened it now in front of her dozen patronesses, a smile on her face, and placed it on the marble table before the women gathered around it.

“What should our very first wager be?” she asked. “Let’s decide together.”

“Oh, it has to involve the proprietress of the hell, surely,” said a woman in an ornate ocean-blue mask. Melissande didn’t recognize everyone yet, but she would.

She’d memorized all her male patrons quickly and would do the same with the female guests with the help of Theo, Melissande’s friend, assistant, bookkeeper, strategist, and all-around right-hand woman.

Theo had an exceptional memory and took extensive notes about everything she deemed important wherever she went.

“Yes, absolutely!” another woman chimed in, tugging on her black domino mask. Others seemed to agree, nodding and making approving sounds.

Melissande didn’t refuse.

Of course, it had to be her. The most scandalous woman in London couldn’t possibly be excluded from the first wager in her own hell. Unthinkable .

“But it can’t be anything easy,” Melissande said. “Cheat at cards, race at the horse track… I’ve done it all.”

“What about seducing an aristocratic man?” someone suggested.

Melissande waved the idea away. “That is far too easy. I need only snap my fingers, and they come running.”

“You seem to have a rather disparaging opinion of our men,” another voice challenged.

“Am I wrong?”

“There are decent men who would not fall for your charms,” a woman in a pale mask replied.

Melissande recognized her as Lady Stanhope. An interesting statement from a woman who had been embroiled in a scandal involving someone other than her husband just a few years prior, while her husband was later rumored to have been chasing after an old flame.

“Very well.” Melissande decided not to argue. “If you think that’s an appropriate wager, then I am willing to oblige. Though I might get rather bored.” She fanned her face and feigned a yawn. “I can melt the coldest lord’s heart in an instant and seduce the stuffiest duke in a day.”

An older woman, Lady Harrington, had mischief sparkling in her eyes behind her fan. “I’ll wager on that.”

“So will I,” someone else added.

Theo rolled her eyes in a way that clearly said, Prepare to empty your pockets.

“Let’s hear the bet, then,” Melissande said, leaning forward slightly. “Who shall I ensnare?”

More people began to join the circle as whispers spread around the room.

Lady Stanhope tapped her chin. “Lord Bingham?”

The Duchess of Somerset, who had just joined the group, shook her head, her red curls bouncing. “That’s far too easy. She’d charm him with a single glance. We need a more challenging target.”

Good . Her wager was attracting an increasing number of women. That promised to be interesting.

“Mr. Lucien Drake?” Lady Stanhope tried again.

“No.” Theo grimaced. “Mr. Drake is easy to charm, but that charm often fades by morning. There would be no way to decide if the wager is won.”

A chuckle spread through the room. Several ladies present had already fallen victim to Drake’s fleeting affections.

“The Duke of Beauford, perhaps?” someone offered from the growing crowd.

Melissande glanced sideways at Theo. Her friend had gone very still. Her hand froze on her wine glass as their eyes met.

Melissande didn’t need to speak aloud. She arched one brow in silent question. Would that be a fitting punishment for the man who ruined your family?

Theodosia wrinkled her nose. “Too easy.”

“No,” Melissande agreed loudly. “He’s a rake. He’d enjoy it.”

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Miss Vanderburt, a famous courtesan, said, sitting up straighter. Unlike most of the guests, she wasn’t wearing a mask, and as a courtesan, she didn’t need to. “What about the Marquess of Rivendale?”

Lady Gage, a scandalous figure herself, gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “That will be a challenge, for sure!”

The Marquess of Rivendale? Melissande frowned. “I don’t believe I know him.”

That was unusual. She made it her business to know every titled man in London, cataloging their debts, vices, and secrets.

Lady Harrington gave her a teasing smile. “I thought you knew everyone.”

So did I. “I know everyone who’s ever stepped foot inside my establishment,” Melissande replied with a flick of her wrist.

“He doesn’t come here,” the Duchess of Somerset said, raising an eyebrow. Was there a challenge or mirth hiding behind her strange expression? “Rivendale is notoriously selective about where he appears.”

Selective. That word made Melissande’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. No doubt he thought himself too good for establishments like hers, too refined to mingle with the likes of gambling house proprietresses. In his mind, she was probably beneath him. Thus, it made him a perfect target.

Theo leaned in and murmured close to Melissande’s ear, “How can you ensnare a man you’ve never seen?”

She casually tossed her hair over one shoulder. “I don’t need to see him. I don’t need to know him. All I need is to know that he exists.” Her voice dropped to a soft, confident purr. “The rest is easy.”

The other women exchanged glances, a mix of admiration and skepticism.

“Very well then,” Lady Stanhope said, reaching for the leather-bound betting book resting on the marble table. “Who will be the first to write in Persephone’s betting book?”

Lady Harrington dipped the quill in ink and, without hesitation, wrote, One hundred pounds says Miss Melissande Monroe won’t be able to ensnare the Marquess of Rivendale.

One hundred pounds. For most people, this was a yearly wage, yet these women easily gambled it away on a whim. Not that Melissande would complain. She watched with a smile as more and more women signed their names under the bet.

“Wait,” Miss Vanderburt said, raising a hand. “How will we know he’s really ensnared?”

Lady Harrington tapped the quill against her lips thoughtfully. “To win, she should get him to come to the hell’s private quarters for a… special session.” She paused, her cheeks flushing. “Three months after the masquerade.”

“Three months?” Melissande couldn’t suppress a grimace of contempt. “I could do that in three days.”

“Yes, three months to the day.”

A few women chuckled, while others began asking their neighbors who the Marquess of Rivendale was.

Interesting. So he wasn’t unknown just to her.

“Trust me, dear,” Lady Harrington said, glancing around for confirmation in her companions’ eyes. “You’ll need all three months to get to this one.”

“And?” Miss Vanderburt prompted, clearly expecting more. “He comes to the private chambers, and then what?”

“And,” Lady Harrington added, “he needs to profess his love to her while we watch from the observation chambers.”

Love? That was a bit more challenging, she supposed, but not impossible. Especially since most aristocratic men she knew shared their affections easily.

“That is too much,” someone whispered loudly in the crowd.

“No, that’s humiliating…” Some women began murmuring among themselves, and a few even left the circle.

A smile tugged wider at Melissande’s lips.

Not only was the wager scandalous enough to make people walk out of the circle, but it would also spread far and wide once accomplished, cementing her popularity as the Queen of Scandals. What thrilled her more, however, was that it felt like poetic justice.

Her mother had been tricked by an aristocratic man in a similar fashion, though there was no wager involved. He preyed on her naiveté, convinced her he loved her, and the moment she fell pregnant, he abandoned her.

She wasn’t the only woman to whom this had happened, and she wouldn’t be the last.

Melissande relished the idea of reversing the narrative, making the man fall to his knees before her and leaving him a broken shell.

It wasn’t quite the same, though. She would target a wealthy, respectable man with a title, not some young, inexperienced boy. And she would not leave him with a child to care for. She only hoped that the wager would be humiliation enough.

“Excellent!” Melissande said, her voice bright with enthusiasm.

“Agreed!” the others chimed in.

Melissande took the quill, dipped it in ink, and signed her name beneath the wager with a steady hand.

“I do hope you ladies are prepared to part with your money,” she said, her tone playful yet confident.

And I hope the marquess is prepared to part with his pride, she thought grimly.

Ninety-two days, she counted silently. She had ninety-two days to win the marquess’s heart.

Easy.

Merriment continued as women set up more wagers, involving less scandalous topics and lower stakes.

Melissande glanced discreetly at the timepiece pinned to her gown—nearly midnight. Her pulse quickened. She scanned the room but could not spot the woman she was searching for.

Miss Lydia Lawless—the infamous thief who called herself The Mist —was supposed to produce a ring for her before midnight.

A ruby ring woven into a Celtic knot. It was a family heirloom…

on her father’s side. Melissande had arranged for Lydia to steal it for her, and from all appearances, she had failed spectacularly.

Melissande shrugged. Oh, well. Another opportunity for scandal.

Inside her chest, glee bubbled like champagne. She imagined the faces of her guests when the pamphlets rained down on them, identifying The Mist as a woman who had infiltrated their circle under a false identity, and couldn’t help but feel giddy.

But outwardly, she maintained her mask of serene composure.

She caught Theodosia’s eye across the room and nodded almost imperceptibly. Theo glanced at her timepiece and then surveyed the crowd, seemingly searching for Lydia as well.

She was nowhere to be seen.

It is time to unleash the pamphlets, Melissande communicated with her gaze.

“It’s time to enjoy the fireworks,” she said aloud.