But Ivy had fought against what seemed to be inevitable and won. She was now the proud owner—ironically, she had to admit—of a thriving gambling house in London. She would never get back what she had lost, but she could do better—she could control her own future.

The club was still empty, save for the staff, even though it had been open for at least an hour. Late nights were the norm, so Ivy wasn’t concerned about the lack of clientele. They would come. They always did.

The club was well-appointed, with comfortable chairs for long evenings of play set near the purposed tables—one for roulette, several for card games, and a few that were intended for customers who wished to drink instead of gamble. Red velvet wallpaper hung on the walls, and Ivy had hunted down a variety of paintings portraying people in various states of gaming, from ladies from the previous century playing faro, to lampoons of gentlemen losing much more than they ought, to even a few whimsical paintings depicting dogs playing cards.

The paintings made her laugh, as did anything she found the slightest bit amusing—it was important, when one’s survival depended on serious things like running a business, to keep a humorous perspective.

What was the point in living if you couldn’t also enjoy life?

That was Ivy’s philosophy, especially now that she was barred from all the traditional things a well-bred young lady should expect.

This was much more fun than being a well-bred young lady.

Miss Ivy’s was unusual in that it admitted both men and women of any status. She figured that was more fun for all her customers—who didn’t enjoy a spot of flirtation when one was betting on the future?

The only requirement for admittance was that each gambler, male and female, brought enough cash to settle their gambling debts that evening. If they couldn’t pay? They were blackballed from the club and were dunned every day until they fulfilled their obligations.

Her policies were at odds with other, older establishments such as White’s and Brooks’s. The gentlemen who habituated those establishments didn’t have to settle up right away, so some of the winners could wait forever. In years past, losing gentlemen would escape to the Continent to avoid payment. Ivy’s took the doubt that a winner would receive their money out of the equation.

“Psst! Ivy!” It was her younger sister, Octavia, a girl who could never hide who she was, making Ivy both proud and concerned. Octavia was brash, opinionated, and reckless—taking after her older sister, but Ivy knew how to hide it better.

“I thought we talked about how you are not to be here when the doors are open. What if you’re seen?”