Page 92 of My Own True Duchess
A mere quirk of his lips met that retort. “I should clarify: What prompts your question now? I make it my business to remain abreast of financial gossip. When people cannot entice a bank to lend to them at the prescribed five percent interest, they often turn to riskier means of raising capital. The gambling hells can come into that picture, and I thus listen for mention of them.”
Mr. Wentworth referred to people like Archimedes, who’d been as bad a risk as a borrower as he’d been as a spouse. Theo had never realized how the two qualities had become enmeshed, or how few options a well-born gentleman had when it came to making money.
“You’ve apparently heard something of note regarding The Coventry.”
“For a time—for the past several years—The Coventry has been considered the best of the lot. Prior to that, it was just another mediocre venture. The management changed for the better, and now patrons are treated to free food and drink, and the house keeps a portion of all the winnings.”
“That’s unusual?”
“That was unusual. Other gaming hells are attempting to emulate The Coventry’s approach, but they lack its clientele and its reputation for honesty. Then too, the authorities seem to leave The Coventry alone, but that’s not unusual given the number of peers and courtesy lords who gather around its tables.”
Mr. Wentworth spoke approvingly, admiringly, even.
“You’re saying it’s well run.”
“Brilliantly run, Mrs. Haviland. What most people want in life is honest odds. We want to know the deck isn’t stacked against us, that our hard work or upright behavior will merit us a decent living and a measure of respect. That doesn’t change just because a man has money or a title. A game of chance can be a lively diversion, if the tables are honest. The Coventry offered that promise, and I didn’t begrudge the place its success.”
The Coventry killed my husband. The words stuck in Theo’s throat, because they were one version of the truth, but not a complete version. Archie had gambled at many establishments, including the homes of his so-called friends and at his gentlemen’s clubs.
He’d wagered on what color some woman’s gown would be at her engagement ball, bet on horse races, and become a sot, all without specific prompting from any one club.
“You spoke in the past tense,” Theo said. “You didn’t begrudge The Coventry its success. Has that changed?”
“The Coventry has lost its cachet in recent weeks. The play is deeper, the wine cheaper, as the saying goes. Its titled clientele is drifting away, which means a different element is likely to find its way through the doors. The authorities will notice. I have wondered if the management hasn’t changed hands again, because the rumors are so consistent. The previous owner would have known better than to let a goose laying golden eggs fly away.”
He’s been too busy courting me. The timing was likely not a coincidence. Jonathan had undertaken a bride hunt, and his club had become prey to a cheat.
“I’m glad to see your late husband’s family developing a sense of responsibility where you’re concerned,” Mr. Wentworth said. “I’ll see to your bank draft and send you a receipt.”
Theo rose, wanting the transaction complete, lest she change her mind.
“Send the receipt to Hampshire, please. I’m removing to the country for an indefinite stay.” Where I will doubtless write many letters to Jonathan that will all end up in the dustbin.
Mr. Wentworth was on his feet, but he made no move toward the door. “I have made inquiries, Mrs. Haviland.”
Between listening to gossip and making inquiries, it was a wonder Mr. Wentworth accomplished any banking.
“Regarding?”
“Do you recall my mentioning that a man’s charitable endeavors reveal much about his character?”
“Yes.”
“I took it upon myself to research the charitable undertakings of a certain gentleman who had earned your notice.”
Only Jonathan had earned Theo’s notice. “And?”
“He’s supporting two orphanages almost single-handedly, both of them sheltering the sons of enlisted men fallen on foreign soil. He contributes generously to a boy’s school in the Midlands that takes in charity scholars, and he’s on the board of a discreet establishment in Dorset for men seeking to overcome a propensity for intoxication. He apparently finds organizations in need of financial discipline and sets them to rights. The man clearly has a head for numbers.”
Based on the banker’s tone, no higher virtue could befall a mortal soul.
“He has other charities in France,” Mr. Wentworth went on, “including a hospital that cares for poor women during their lyings-in and one in London that sends physicians to foundling homes. He’s on the board of an organization that champions children injured in the mines, and he—Mrs. Haviland?”
Theo had sunk back into her chair. “He has a head for numbers.”
“Are you well?”
Theo’s thoughts were running riot, while an odd cool flush prickled over her arms and scalp. The same sensation plagued her when a summer storm was bearing down and had come upon her when she’d realized she was carrying Diana.
