Page 56 of My Own True Duchess
“I was new to my station. I’ve since married a very demanding woman, and I know better than to give anybody grounds to create a scandal lest Her Grace be wroth with me. My children would be disappointed in me, and that is a penance with which no man should acquaint himself.”
Slurp.
“A father who betrays his children’s trust is a disgrace to the male gender,” Jonathan said.
He got up to pace, because Anselm had put his blunt finger on an issue that Moira had tried to raise again last night. A gambling establishment was illegal, while a supper club where a man could have a game of friendly cards was entirely within the bounds of the law. The line was far from clear, but The Coventry operated on the wrong side of it.
“We won’t be raided, Anselm. I take precautions.”
“Well, then, what matters a little illegality in the hands of a peer’s heir if you’re taking illegal precautions to hide your illegal ventures? Hasn’t it occurred to you that your competitors could easily join together and take other precautions and raise your bribe—or your bet? That business of offering free food and drink after midnight cannot sit well with them.”
“Then they don’t deserve to stay in business. The free food and drink more than pays for itself by attracting a greater crowd. When the house takes a percentage of every bet, the customers are assured I have no incentive to cheat. Moreover, certain rules—such as the dealer winning all ties—ensure that by a margin which runs true over time, the games favor the house. Add in the membership fees and the paid fare before midnight, and only a fool could lose money at such a venture.”
Anselm finished his biscuit and dusted his hands. “You’re a commoner now, Tresham. What sort of fool risks arrest, scandal, and the enmity of his clientele when he’s trying to woo a prospective duchess?”
“One who has worked hard to earn his fortune and sees no reason to part with it. London is full of clubs doing exactly as The Coventry does, and that is no secret. Theo, by contrast, has not put all of her cards on the table.”
“She owes you the unblemished truth while you court scandal in the shadows?”
A duke in a contrary mood was tribulation incarnate. “Nobody save yourself knows of my ownership—yourself and Moira, and the senior staff. A few of the junior staff have likely caught a glimpse of me, and the bookkeeper is an acquaintance of long standing, but I’m careful, Anselm. My coach doesn’t await me in the alley. My comings and goings are discreet. My signature appears nowhere in public, and I own the property, so there’s no leasehold to give my ownership away.”
“Then there’s a deed, Tresham, and anybody could deduce who the ratepayer for your address is. Mrs. Haviland’s husband came to grief at establishments like The Coventry. She will likely take issue with your ownership.”
“When she is my duchess, if my ownership of the club should ever become an issue, then we’ll discuss it. I’ve sold all of my Paris holdings, but the day I bought The Coventry was the day I became truly free of my father, the succession, and anybody else’s opinion of me. I tested my theories there before going to Paris. I learned how the cards work and how a club works. You didn’t enclose the village at the ducal seat, and I’ll not sell The Coventry.”
Anselm dunked another biscuit. “Did you know that you can be recognized by your tread on a stair? You ascend three steps and pause to look behind you. Ascend three, another pause. A sort of waltz unique to you. Your pace is quick and steady, one might even say distinctive.”
Munch. Munch. Munch. Perhaps this was a taste of what having a sibling was like. Intrusive, well-intended, irksome as hell. If so, no wonder Lady Della was extraordinarily tenacious. She had to be, with a herd of older, larger siblings to harry and be harried by.
“What’s your point?”
“You are also, apparently, the only man in all of London to wear a scent that combines jasmine and tuberose, a Paris blend.”
“My scent also contains gardenia, and as far as I know, it’s blended solely for me. What of it?” Jonathan’s question was dispassionate, but the accuracy of these details was unnerving. A lover might note such information, or an astute competitor.
Or a sibling?
“Your anonymity is subject to attack,” Anselm said, rising. “So is your club. Nobody need cheat. The appearance of dishonesty will see you raided and ruined despite your precautions, and very likely jailed as well. The common man loves to see the aristocrat revealed for the parasite he can be.”
Parasite? “My father was such a man, Anselm, while The Coventry is an honest club. I insist on that. I also insist on paying excellent wages and doing my bit for the less fortunate, but mostly, I simply run The Coventry according to sound business principles. A deck holds only so many cards that can be played in only so many combinations. Over time, the winning and losing hands balance out. Once I realized that, making a profit was simple.”
“Profit is seldom simple, but far be it from a mere duke to instruct you on that point. I’m hearing rumors, Tresham. Rumors of crooked play, rumors regarding your ownership of the club. Have a care, or wooing Mrs. Haviland will be the least of your worries.”
Jonathan sank into the chair behind the desk, a lump of cushion prodding him in the backside. “You are hearing rumors?” His tired brain tried to list possible sources of such rumors, enemies made in Paris, employees let go for cause.
Lady Della had also mentioned rumors.
“Rumors couched as musings intended to be overheard by somebody who’s friendly with you. Warnings, I suppose you’d call them. I’ll wish you good day and good luck. Mrs. Haviland will not succumb to your paltry charms without significant inspiration. A penchant for maths is fine for ruling in a gaming hell, but I doubt it will stand you in good stead if you aspire to serve in her personal heaven.”
He swiped the last biscuit and sauntered toward the door. “I’ll see myself out. You should get some rest. Wooing is hard work, and a man wants to put his best foot forward.”
“Thank you for that stunning insight, Your Grace.”
Anselm went on his way, closing the door softly in his wake.
Jonathan surveyed the estate office, which was not so much in chaos as in the midst of a reorganization. The Coventry’s books were among the detritus, as were the ledgers from Quimbey Hall, the London house, and several other organizations with whom Jonathan had a business connection.
The lot of it—a great pile of numbers and patterns and calculations—should have called to him as seductively as a troupe of sirens sitting amid a heap of trigonometric formulae.
