Page 3 of A Duke Changes Everything
Iverson was right. He usually was. Like Nick, he’d turned the miserable hand he’d been dealt into unimaginable success. After a childhood scrabbling for every farthing, the man had earned a reputation as one of London’s cleverest investors.
“Neither of you need fret.” Rhys Forester, Marquess of Huntley, bounded up the stairs and beelined for the drinks cart, completing the trio of Lyon’s Club owners. “Our books are flush. As Nick well knows, since his nose is never out of them.” He gestured with a dismissive wave toward the pile of ledgers Nick had been working on earlier. “Good God, man, do you never cease working?”
“I discovered a miscalculation and needed to track down the error.” Nick loathed grit in the seamless workings of the life he’d constructed. His business matters were carefully regimented. Pleasures, when he sought them, were discreetly arranged. The club ran like clockwork because he took care with every decision and detail.
“Hire someone to keep the books.” Huntley frowned and shoved a hand through his already hopelessly mussed blond hair. “Save your energies for other pursuits,” he insisted with a suggestive smirk.
“And let someone else have all the fun?” Nick wouldn’t forfeit control of the club’s finances. He didn’t dole out faith in others freely. “Besides, I like numbers. I trust them. They’re uncomplicated and reliable.” And they never gave a damn if he looked or behaved like a beast.
“Suit yourself.” Huntley’s carefree expression turned mischievous. “I prefer music hall dancers and midnight soirees. And you’re in luck, gentlemen, because this evening I’ve arranged for us to partake of both.” He scooped up a glass of champagne, downed a bit, and raised the half-empty glass. “First a toast. Take some champagne.”
Iverson crooked one auburn brow and claimed a glass of sparkling wine. “I’ve never liked this stuff. It’s too bubbly.”
Huntley scoffed. “You could use a bit of effervescence in your life. You too, Lyon. You’ve both grown insufferably stodgy over the years.”
“Because we don’t dangle from chandeliers like madmen?”
“Ifellfrom the chandelier, as you both well know. Personally, I blame the absinthe.” Huntley tipped back his glass and drained its fizzy contents. “Besides, I paid my price. I was abed for weeks nursing my injuries.”
“Doesn’t seem to have slowed you down.” Nick spent more time scanningThe Timesfor news about commerce than attending to London’s gossip mill, but Huntley was on the tongue of every scandalmonger in town. Every story confirmed what Nick knew of Huntley’s recklessness.
“Where a man has a sturdy will, there’s always a way.” Huntley lifted a fresh glass of champagne. “Now a toast, to two of the most willful bastards I’ve ever known.”
Nick grinned at the men who, despite his vow never to trust anyone, had managed to become his friends.
He didn’t like to think on his days of picking pockets and scrounging for coin to provide shelter each night. Somehow, he’d managed to befriend the two men in London who didn’t care. Iverson understood deprivation, and Huntley judged others by their character, rather than the color of their blood.
“To many more years of success.” He raised his glass high and Iverson and Huntley followed suit.
“What shall we do next?” Huntley’s question was precisely the one Nick wished to address.
“More,” he said with a grin. “A larger club. Perhaps a new enterprise. What do you think of a luxury hotel in the heart of London?”
“You’re thinking too small.” Iverson leaned in, a glint in his eye. “You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger.”
“Bridges? Steamships?” With great effort, Nick managed not to roll his eyes. “You’re going to try to lure me into backing one of your industrial projects.”
“The future belongs to creators, my friend.” Iverson’s voice deepened an octave and he began gesticulating as he warmed to the topic. “Not just any bridge. The longest bridge ever built in England. Not another steamship. The fastest to ever cross the Atlantic.”
“How does one earn a profit from a bridge?” Unlike Nick, Huntley fully claimed his aristocratic heritage, but his father’s dukedom was land rich and cash poor. He’d acquired his wealth through clever investment, much of it guided by Iverson.
“Trust me. There’s money to be made.” Iverson tipped back the remaining champagne in his glass and winced. “Though one could also argue for the legacy a man wishes to leave behind over a profit he can’t enjoy in a single lifetime.”
“You mean they’d name a steamship after me?” Huntley’s dark eyes lit with interest. “I rather like that notion.”
Iverson chuckled. Nick laughed too, amusement and pride fizzing inside him like the bubbling wine he’d just downed. He’d achieved a milestone that had nothing to do with his name or his father’s legacy.
He pushed away the gnawing hunger that persisted underneath the joy. The constant craving for more. More wealth. More power.
A shout echoed up from the gaming floor below. Not the usual exclamation after a win or defeat. A man’s voice, high-pitched and angry. A moment later footfalls thundered up the stairs.
“We have a problem, boss,” Spencer, the club’s factotum, called to Nick as he reached the upper balcony. His bulk caused his every step to reverberate with a resounding thud.
“Who?” Nick shed his tailcoat, approached the balcony’s edge, and folded the garment over the balustrade.
Between them, he and Spencer had developed code words, euphemisms for those vexations that arose now and then in the running of a gentlemen’s club. Aproblemmeant a member had lost control, whether from drunken excess or the madness that came on when luck frowned again.
Together they’d always dealt with dilemmas quietly, with delicacy. Men might admit to ruination in Nick’s private den, but aristocrats guarded their reputation among other members. A nobleman’s good name was every bit as valuable a currency as coin.
