Page 97 of My Own True Duchess
“I could not save my husband. Nobody could.” That painful admission bore the seeds of self-forgiveness and maybe absolution for Archimedes too. “I don’t flatter myself that I’m saving your blasted gaming hell, but you do not deserve to be alone in this, Jonathan. You would never fleece a patron, never break the unwritten rules by which such business is conducted. You use the proceeds for the best possible purposes. I’m here because I need to be.”
He sank into the opposite chair. “You are gambling on my behalf?”
“My banker explained how to minimize the risks. I’ve divided my funds among my friends, and one or the other of us is bound to win occasionally if we mostly play against one another. This time next week, I will be on my way to Hampshire with the girls. Lord Tyne’s ball was the last invitation I’ve accepted, so tonight is my only opportunity to see this place.”
Say something. Stop me. Go down on your lordly bended knee.
Jonathan inched his hand across the table, just as a dapper fellow who looked to be a majordomo approached the table.
“Sir? The chef is demanding to speak with you.”
A gaggle of couples came through the door, the ladies in their gowns and jewels, the gentlemen in evening finery.
“We will speak further, madam.” Jonathan rose and bowed, then kissed Theo’s cheek and strode away.
“You’re welcome,” Theo said to the seat he’d vacated.
The club was soon packed and noisy, preserving Theo from the need to join the play. Sycamore Dorning attached himself to her side, explaining each game to her, though many of them she’d learned prior to marrying Archie.
Mrs. Compton won a sizable pot. Bea’s winnings were more modest. Her Grace of Anselm was a gracious loser, while Lady Bellefonte’s luck changed constantly. Lady Della had disappeared into the kitchen more than once, the majordomo on her heels.
As Theo was preparing to leave, Lords Lipscomb and Henries arrived arm in arm, several friends on their coattails. The entire room gave a shout as Mrs. Compton won another substantial sum.
“Can you see me home?” Theo asked Mr. Dorning.
“You’re leaving? The place hasn’t been this lively in weeks, and you’re leaving?”
Across the room, Jonathan was chatting with Anselm, the same as they might have at any ball or Venetian breakfast.
“I’m not sorry I came,” Theo said, “but I still have packing to do.” Jonathan would be here until dawn and be here again tomorrow night.
That hadn’t changed.
Dorning offered his arm. “He can’t leave the game just when his luck is changing, Mrs. Haviland. He gave his manager the sack, the chef is in a pet, and the club has been the butt of unkind rumors. You can’t expect him to abandon his post now.”
“This outing was a lark, Mr. Dorning, as all visits to a gaming hell should be. I’ve satisfied my curiosity. Mr. Tresham doesn’t expect me to stay, and I’ll not visit again. Let’s be off, shall we?”
* * *
The Coventry had had its best night ever, the play continuing until dawn. Lipscomb had won a nice sum, as had many of Theo’s friends. Jonathan’s search of the office had revealed Moira’s private set of books and a wad of banknotes sufficient to cover the club’s expenses for months—or to convince the authorities that they need not trouble themselves to raid the club for the nonce.
He had no doubt more money had been secreted on the premises, but he’d fallen asleep before completing his investigations. He awoke to a jab in the ribs and a brisk female voice in his ear. Before the words made sense, his mind had sorted out the important message: This lady was not Theo.
“If this is your idea of how to organize a business, then it’s no wonder you nearly lost everything.”
Lady Della Haddonfield stood at the end of the office sofa. She wore a thunderous frown and a smart blue walking dress with a white lace underskirt.
“My lady, you should not be here.”
“Neither should you. Their Graces of Quimbey arrived home from their journey late last night, and I understand they are expecting you to be engaged. You are very lucky your auntie was not among Mrs. Haviland’s lady gamblers.”
Jonathan’s head hurt, his eyes were scratchy, he was famished, and he needed privacy. More important than all of that, he needed to see Theo.
“What time is it?”
“Time to get up. Well past noon.”
He shot off the sofa and tripped over his own boots. “Bloody damnation.”
