Page 42 of Dare to Love a Duke
“Sue’s got three young brothers she’s trying to keep from the workhouse, and her regular wages from the pastry shop barely feed them. I sack her, that’s a week of rent she can’t make.”
“Not many would take that into consideration,” he murmured.
“The club is my business,” she said softly, “but the staff’s my family.”
“They are not your blood.”
Her chest ached with a swell of affection. “They mean so much more to me—if they’re loyal and work hard. But I don’t tolerate anyone who won’t give it their best. Likewise if they betray our guests’ trust.”
There had been a bloke last year who’d spoken to a vicar about one of the guests, and she’d sacked him without remorse.
She leveled her gaze with Tom’s, and she didn’t try to hide the emotion throbbing in her voice. “This establishment employs a staff of twenty, not including the musicians. They all have additional employment, but I pay generously for their discretion and industry. Perhaps they’d survive without their wages from the club, but London’s costly, and a supplement from me means they can raise their families away from the filth and crime of Whitechapel.”
She shuddered as she remembered the cold, artificial dusk that darkened Berner Street and Gravel Lane.
Escape had only come when Mrs. Chalke had brought her to the bawdy house near Covent Garden, where there was enough to eat and a warm bed free from vermin.
“Think on that,” she said urgently, “before you decide whether or not to close the club.”
His brow lowered, and his jaw firmed, but he didn’t speak.
There was one final card to play in this game. Pray God it was the right one. “I’ve a final request to make of you before you make your decision.” She held his gaze. “Tomorrow, at three in the afternoon, meet me in the rooms above The Green Oak gin house.”
“No idea where that is,” he admitted.
A wry smile curved her lips. “Why would you? It’s in Bethnal Green.”
“Not a part of town I know well. But is it safe for you to go there?”
She warmed from his concern, however misplaced. “I’ll be fine. But,” she went on in a warning tone, “I advise you to leave your ducal carriage at home and use a more unremarkable vehicle. And perhaps bribe your groom for his clothes.”
“Noted.” His voice was businesslike, but his eyes filled with heat. “Tomorrow, then.”
Their gazes held. Desire rose up between them, crackling and alive. She could lose herself in it, let herself be burned alive by the passion that was never more than a moment away. It held a seductive allure, to forget everything and dwell only in the realm of the senses.
She had to deny herself this. She’d had her heart broken three times, as she’d said to him. Each time, she’d picked up the pieces and put it back together again.
Yet she knew that if he shattered her heart, the damage would be too great, and it would never be whole again.
Chapter 11
“You sure you want to stop here, gov?”
From his seat atop the two-wheeled hackney cab, the driver eyed the exterior of The Green Oak gin house with distinct disfavor.
“This is my destination.” Tom climbed down from the vehicle and gave the driver his fare.
The cabman quickly pocketed the coin, though his gaze was fixed on the cluster of threadbare men gathered outside the gin house. “I ain’t waiting for you here.”
“You needn’t.” Tom wasn’t afraid, but he remained vigilant. Even in his groom’s clothes, with the ducal signet ring left at home, he stood out here.
Some members of Tom’s class enjoyed touring the city’s rougher areas. From their perches of privilege, they observed the people living in direst need, as though gawking at animals in a zoological garden. Acquaintances confessed to Tom that it gave them a thrill to court danger, such as the possibility of robbery or assault committed by a desperate resident of East London. Then, at the end of the night, the wealthy elite could return to Mayfair, secure in their comforts.
Tom never joined their number. He’d no interest in gleefully studying the impoverished for his own entertainment. Other thrills had appealed to him more—opera dancers, pugilism matches, knife-throwing competitions—and so the ramshackle street on which he now stood was largely unknown to him.
“If you’re still breathing,” the driver said, “you’ll find me at the well near Fenchurch and Leadenhall Streets.”
“My aim is to remain alive,” Tom answered drily, “so I’ll keep that in mind.”
