Page 95 of My Own True Duchess
Like a child ignored by both parents.
She dabbed at her eyes with Jonathan’s handkerchief and sniffed. “Davington’s not bad looking.”
“He’ll beggar you in a year flat if you can’t keep him away from the tables, Moira. Teach him to cheat and somebody will put a bullet through his handsome head. You’ll also have to put the fear of philandering in him, or he’ll meet the same end even sooner.”
Jonathan could hear Moira’s thoughts as if she were speaking them aloud: a titled, respectable widow… not an entirely objectionable outcome. A twinge of pity for Davington tried to nudge its way forward. Jonathan swatted it aside. Davington was a man grown and responsible for his actions.
Moira rose and tossed Jonathan’s handkerchief to the desk blotter. She took a look around the office, an elegant, comfortable space that she’d appropriated for her own ends.
“You even have to be a bloody gentleman about this. Very well, I’ll play the lady: The constables will be coming around early next week. They’ve been paid to ignore your bribes this time, to make an example of you, though I don’t know when, exactly, they’ll decide to pounce. Good luck with that.”
Jonathan let her have the last word, remaining silent as he escorted her to the bottom of the screened steps and through the door that led to the wine cellars.
When he and Moira had passed into the kitchen of the rooming house across the street, Jonathan held out his hand.
“The keys, please.” He’d change every lock, but that would take time, and Moira could not be trusted.
She passed over a key ring. “I only did what any other woman in my place would have done. Don’t judge me.”
“I don’t judge you. Best of luck. My coach awaits on the street. Take it to Dover, for all I care. Don’t come back.”
He bowed over her hand. She hesitated a moment, then tossed him a curtsey and a saucy smile, before flouncing through the doorway.
The only emotion that accompanied her retreating footsteps was relief. Jonathan allowed himself the length of the wine cellar to puzzle over that—was such a parting sad? Overdue? Neither?
When faced with life’s unfairness and low cards dealt by the hands of men, Theo had not taken to cheating or raging. She’d sold heirlooms, turned her dresses, and made economies without a word of complaint.
Theo, whom Jonathan missed terribly and hadn’t seen even when he’d lurked in the park by the hour with a drooling hound at his feet.
He ascended the steps and took the passage into The Coventry’s kitchen, which was the usual hot, busy pandemonium Armand preferred.
“Food’s going to waste,” Armand muttered as Jonathan paused to sniff a savory loaf of herbed bread. “This lot isn’t interested in cuisine and good vintages. My talents are wasted, because all they can see are the dice and the cards.”
“Then don’t put as much out on the buffet,” Jonathan said.
The authorities were planning a raid, the clientele was deteriorating, and the chef was preparing to defect to a competitor, but at least the tables were no longer crooked.
The Coventry might be doomed, but it would be doomed on Jonathan’s terms. He was intent on searching the office for further evidence of Moira’s mischief when Battaglia accosted him on the landing.
“Something’s afoot, sir. You’d best be down at the tables.”
“Now? I haven’t time to humor a tipsy baroness when, for all I know, my safe is empty and my dice weighted.”
Battaglia remained, blocking Jonathan’s ascent. “Sir, I know we’re in the middle of a rough patch, but I suspect it just got rougher. We’re being invaded, and these are not The Coventry’s typical patrons.”
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
The Coventry’s gambling floor looked to Theo like any titled lord’s Mayfair gaming room, albeit this one had pretty young women dealing the cards.
Pretty, properly dressed women. No foul language peppered the air. No air of dissipation wafted over the patrons. The laughter was simply laughter—no hint of salacious trysts in secluded alcoves.
“You look disappointed,” Bea said. “Expecting the debauchery of the Boxhaven masquerade ball, perhaps?”
“Lord Boxhaven’s balls are genteel enough.” Provided one left early and remained in the ballroom. “I am bewildered to admit The Coventry looks entirely proper.”
But then, this was Jonathan’s establishment. Of course it would be proper.
