Page 9 of Would I Lie to the Duke
There was still time. Today had been a wash—with the exception of her quick interlude with the duke—but she could take advantage of her brief reprieve and come up with some way to secure McGale & McGale’s future.
Her gaze fell on the newspaper that she’d left on her bedside table. She’d read it this morning, and a single line from theMoney Marketcolumn had stood out to her.
In two days’ time, the annual convocation of investors known to its intimates as the Bazaar will commence at the Marquess of Trask’s London residence.
Picking up the paper, she ran her finger back and forth across the line of print announcing the Bazaar, until the ink smudged on her skin and the sentence turned illegible.
She was here in London at the same time as the Bazaar. If she could find some way to get inside, and pitch her family’s business as a possible investment opportunity for England’s most wealthy and influential, she might be able to save McGale & McGale. All it would take was one investor, one person to believe.
But it was notoriously difficult to exhibit one’s business at the Bazaar. The process of applying could take years. She didn’t have years—she had days.
In forty-eight hours, she’d go to the Bazaar and finesse her way inside. It would be challenging, but she would use every bit of her persuasive abilities to gain entry. Once inside, she could give a presentation about her business to people predisposed to look for investment prospects.
She glanced down at her dress—it was clean andneat, but surely everyone expected someone to wear their finest garments at the Bazaar as a sign of prosperity, and respect. Unfortunately, thesewereJess’s finest garments.
Perhaps she could borrow one of Lady Catherton’s gowns. Just for a few hours.
What was it the duke had called her? A hawk. He wasn’t wrong, and she would use every ounce of her hunting ability at the Bazaar.
“Step lively, gents,” Noel said over his shoulder. He crossed the threshold of the foyer to the gaming hell, already smiling. “If you dally, they might change their minds and turn you away.”
“Might throw you out on your arse, too,” Curtis noted as he kept pace.
Striding onward, Noel shot his friend a look of patent disbelief. “This ismewe’re discussing.”
“Right,” McCameron said drily. “Your Sodding Grace.”
“That’sYour Sodding Grace Who Got Me Into the Most Exclusive Gaming Hell in London, thank you very much.” He paused on the threshold to the main chamber of the gaming hell. The establishment was so de rigueur it didn’t have a name. Even so, there had been a long queue outside its door.
He never had to wait in the queue, and made certain that he brought his friends in with him. Pleasure was always best shared.
The Bazaar began tomorrow, and though he looked forward to discovering new opportunities for ethicalinvestments, he would have to abstain from his more riotous evening revels in order to stay alert during the day. Thus, here he was with his friends, gleaning pleasure from the night while he could.
The clock crept toward one o’clock in the morning, and yet, judging by the throngs within the main chamber, the sun could have been at its zenith. Men in their evening finery and women adorned in jewels stood cheek by jowl at the tables offering hazard, vingt-et-un, and faro.
He nodded at the ethereal blonde woman who managed the club, and she snapped her fingers to summon a server carrying a tray of flutes of sparkling wine. She took the tray from the staff member’s hands and walked toward him.
“Cassandra,” he said warmly as she approached. “My dear, how can you be more lovely than all the ladies’ diamonds? You outshine them tenfold.”
“Your Grace is always so complimentary.” She handed him a glass before doing the same for Curtis, McCameron, and Rowe. “Planning on winning big tonight?”
“Haven’t decided, but I know of a certain that I will show my friends a splendid time.” He smirked at the trio drinking their phenomenally expensive wine. “Do try not to embarrass me, chaps.”
“We’d never dream of it,” Rowe answered.
“Not when you do such a marvelous job of it on your own,” McCameron added.
Cassandra’s eyebrows rose, no doubt shocked that a duke would permit anyone such liberties.
Noel only grinned. “Ingrates, the lot of you. I’m staking them tonight. There’s no limit to the amount. No arguments,” he added when all three of his friends made noises of objection. “It was my idea to come here, and it’s my responsibility to ensure you enjoy yourselves. So button it.”
“I’ll bring the chips, Your Grace.” Cassandra dipped into a curtsy before striding away.
“Staking us isn’t necessary,” McCameron said.
“We’ve been friends for two decades, you oaf,” Noel replied genially. “If I can’t guarantee my closest comrades a good time, then I consider myself utterly useless. Curtis, Rowe,” he said to the others. “Wend your way to the hazard table and stake unreasonable amounts. I need a few more of these”—he hefted his flute—“and then I’ll join you.”
Rowe and Curtis nodded, then moved toward the hazard table, where shouts of exultation mingled with groans of despair.
