Page 90 of My Own True Duchess
“Now that I think on it,” Dorning went on, turning more cards, “I haven’t seen Lipscomb here this week, nor Henries. Hard to ruin men who have sense enough to keep their distance.”
“Easy to ruin the ones who don’t.” Like Archimedes Haviland. Theo had not labeled Jonathan’s ownership of the club a betrayal—she was fair, was Theo—but she’d clearly felt it as such.
Sycamore studied his cards while a waiter wafted by, a silver platter carried at shoulder height.
“Some men will find ruin if you hide it at the bottom of the deepest well,” Dorning muttered when the waiter had collected a discarded wineglass. “You, for example.”
“I am far from ruined, Dorning.”
“You are one raid away from ruined, which is no different from any other club owner. I’m referring to your lack of marital prospects. Lady Della tells me you and Mrs. Haviland are no longer keeping company. She’s concerned for you.”
Hope leaped, a stupid reflex. “Mrs. Haviland is concerned for me?”
“Lady Della is concerned for you. She has threatened to look in on you here again.”
God spare me from meddling sisters and resolute widows.
Moira appeared at the foot of the screened stairway. She was resplendent in a bronze silk gown that hugged her figure as closely as respectability allowed and showed off enough bosom to distract even a man holding a winning hand. A subtle reaction went through the room, the men standing a little taller, the women standing a little closer to their escorts.
While the dealers all smiled more broadly at the patrons.
“I do fancy a woman who knows how to carry herself,” Dorning said. “But then, I fancy most women.”
“Have you nowhere else to be, Dorning? Nothing else to do? Moira is even now scheming to bring ruin to this establishment, and yet, you long for her company.”
And spare me from conniving employees too, please.
Dorning scooped up his cards and shuffled, though he was doing a false shuffle. The cards riffled audibly, but Dorning’s maneuver hadn’t disturbed the order of the deck.
“I do not long for the company of any who’d bite the hand that feeds them, Tresham. Like you, I’m trying to deduce her game. Your problem is you lack brothers. Never thought I’d say it, but a man without brothers is to be pitied. I could station Ash, Oak, and Valerian at the compass points, and we’d soon catch one of the dealers stumbling or fumbling.”
Brothers might be useful, if they were less talkative than Dorning. “It’s not brothers I miss.”
“Hence my earlier comment about your ruin.”
Jonathan was not ruined, but despair had taken up residence in his gut. He missed Theo waking and sleeping. He’d mentally posed all manner of arguments to her, though none would be availing.
The Coventry did not ruin lives. The Coventry provided honest employment and honest play to many. A lack of self-restraint ruined lives, and The Coventry—since Jonathan had become its owner—was more scrupulous than most venues at ensuring that patrons were protected from their own weak natures.
But The Coventry that Jonathan had built was dying, and he was tempted to let it expire. The tables gleamed with more silver and gilt than ever. The scent of beeswax hung over the lot, like some fancy undertaker’s establishment. The stink had permeated his clothing, as Theo had said, and yet, he could not stay away.
“If a certain widow has seen reason and tossed you over,” Dorning said, “you should resume your bride hunt. The hostesses are pining for your company, and the debutantes are said to be in a collective decline.”
“Shuffle the damned deck properly, Dorning. The habits of a cheat have no place here.”
Dorning effected another fake shuffle. “She’s leaving Town, you know. Closing up the house to enjoy the bucolic splendor of Hampshire, though bucolic splendor has ever struck me as a contradiction in terms.”
“Why don’t you return to Dorset and study on the matter?” Dorning would actually do quite well in Paris. He had a backward charm, the ability to idle away hours at a time, and he did justice to his tailor’s efforts.
“Casriel says it’s a sorry man who can’t enjoy a night of cards, and yet, you hardly ever sit for a hand. I suggested it’s the drink and gossip you enjoy, but you drink about as much as a preacher’s spinster sister. Anselm opines that lurking here night after night is no way to win back your future duchess.”
The same waiter went past with the same silver tankard on his platter. The poor man never seemed to stop moving, but then, the patrons never stopped leaving their plates and glasses about.
“Anselm can take his opining straight to perdition,” Jonathan said. “He quotes his duchess, and that makes him sound intelligent.”
Dorning set the cards in a neat stack in the middle of the table. “You’re not usually mean, Tresham. Perhaps you’re short of sleep.”’
Jonathan cut the deck without being asked. He was short of sleep, but more significantly, he was short of dreams, the silver lining in a life of duty and decorum. He’d dreamed of owning the premier gaming club in London, but that dream was growing tattered before his eyes.
