Page 65 of My Own True Duchess
Ye hopping devils, she had passion to burn.
Which only made the tasks ahead less appealing. Instead of verifying Frannie’s bookkeeping entries, Jonathan might have been partnering Theo at a hand of whist. Instead of fencing with Moira’s moods—would she be relieved or upset that Jonathan had chosen a bride?—he could have been sharing a dessert plate with his intended.
Floating amid these thoughts was the realization that Jonathan resented not being able to walk through the front door of his own… but then, why not? Why not walk through the door of his own establishment and see the place from the perspective of a patron?
His ownership was a closely guarded secret, and most of his acquaintances patronized the club. Anselm occasionally played a hand. Casriel’s brothers came by for the food. Lady Canmore had taken a genteel turn at vingt-et-un in the company of some baron or viscount.
Jonathan entered through the front door, his first impressions being luxury and warmth. The candles were beeswax, the sconces burnished to a high shine. Battaglia, the club’s majordomo and an employee who well knew that Jonathan paid his wages, greeted him with a professional smile that contained only a hint of surprise.
“Good evening, sir. Are we interested in a late supper tonight or a friendly hand of cards?” Battaglia was a dapper, dark-haired man whose Mediterranean appearance belied an upbringing in Chelsea. His French was flawless, and Jonathan had heard him conversing in excellent Italian and passable German as well.
“Both sustenance and entertainment appeal.” Jonathan passed him his cloak, hat, and walking stick. The foyer was empty, and a hum of conversation came from the dining room and cardrooms. “I’m here as a casual guest. Nobody need be alerted that I’m on the premises.”
Nobody meaning Moira. Jonathan would deal with her soon enough.
“Very good, sir. Would you like to start with the buffet?”
Theo might have some ideas for the buffet. “That would suit.”
Battaglia gestured with a white-gloved hand in the direction of the main dining room. The guests were not to be harried by the staff or escorted from room to room like unruly toddlers. An evening at The Coventry should be like visiting a favorite wealthy uncle’s card party, all gracious welcome and good cheer, save for the part about leaving substantially poorer—or richer—than one arrived.
Though this crowd could well afford to lose some blunt. Younger sons were much in evidence, as was the occasional title, the stray or straying widow. They could afford to play, and Jonathan saw to it that the proceeds of their frolics were put to good use.
Moira glided up to him and wrapped her hand around his arm. “Good evening. This is a lovely surprise. Spying on me?” She asked that question while bussing his cheek. Her smile was brilliant, though edged with uncertainty.
Good. She needed to recall who paid her salary and who owned the premises where she was employed.
“I’m enjoying one of the premier clubs in London,” he said. “A ducal heir should be permitted that pleasure. Lipscomb must be winning.”
The viscount was visible through a doorway that led to one of the private parlors. Should the authorities decide to drop by unannounced, the door locked from the inside, and the patrons could access the cellars by a servants’ stair. From there, they could leave the building undetected.
Lipscomb was laughing, a stack of chips piled before him.
“He’s winning for now,” Moira said. “Shall I join you for a meal?”
“Isn’t that the Marquess of Tyne and his new marchioness at the corner table? I don’t believe I’ve seen him here before.”
“Her ladyship is apparently being a corrupting influence, though his lordship’s bets wouldn’t feed a dormouse. I’ve sent them the requisite bottle of champagne all newlyweds are entitled to. Speaking of which, how is your bride hunt going?”
Moira asked him this at least weekly, though Jonathan did not want to air those developments amid his patrons.
“For thirty minutes, might I not simply enjoy the club’s amenities, madam?” He was hungry, and Moira knew better than to cling to any guest.
A waiter glided by, an empty silver tray at his shoulder. Somebody at a hazard table must have had a lucky throw, for a cheer went up across the room. The house had an air of happy possibilities, a private world where chance was a friend and risk a diversion.
Jonathan did love this place. He did not love having Moira nanny him under his own roof.
“I can enjoy the club with you,” she said. “Frannie will be leaving us.”
No wonder Moira was unsettled. “We can discuss that when I join you upstairs, though Frannie has taken a leave of absence before. I truly do need to eat, Moira, and I am overdue for the pleasure of roaming the tables.”
In Paris, he’d spent almost every evening visible to his guests and his staff. He missed that, though he did not miss being tethered to a commercial enterprise the way Frannie was tied to her infants.
“You needn’t ambush me like this, Jonathan. I can have a tray sent up to you.”
Moira was beautiful, and thus when she wound herself around a man’s arm, other people took notice, particularly when that man was not a regular patron.
“I’m inclined to try the tables,” Jonathan said, patting her hand. Though most of the guests would recognize one another at sight, she knew better than to use anybody’s name, much less his. A gambling club was an illegal establishment, and protecting a guest’s privacy was paramount.
