Page 7 of Fortune Favors the Viscount
He flipped over the packet and opened it. Forbes’s tight handwriting filled three pages, which surprised him. How much was there to report of a governess, even one that bold?
The first pagewassurprising. Miss Greene was actually Miss Greeneborough, niece of the Earl of Harlow. She was the daughter of the earl’s deceased younger brother, and around twenty-seven years of age. She’d been educated at a well-respected academy for young ladies, but through some circumstances Forbes did not illuminate, she’d left her family and become a governess. Because of her upbringing and education—and despite her attractiveness—she was apparently a smashing good one. She’d been with Lady Helen Fairchild, receiving some credit for that lady now being Countess Mulworth, and currently had charge of Miss Lucinda Sidney, aged nine or ten. More or less exactly as she had told him.
And yet there were two more pages. Nick flipped to the second with increased interest. What had Forbes’s running boys discovered that required two additional pages?
Forbes had sensed where the true intrigue lay. The second page was about the late Viscount Sydenham, Lucinda’s father, dead nearly eight months now. Arthur Sidney had been a recluse, surly and rude on the rare occasions he was seen in society. He had kept mostly to Beaufort Hall in Dorset, but on his few visits to London, he’d made quite an impression. He’d been blackballed from White’s and Boodle’s clubs. He’d been thrown out of the Royal Academy summer exhibition after getting into a fistfight with a curator. He’d shoved a bishop in church, caused a disturbance at the Theatre Royale, and was widely known to be a hot-tempered, malicious fellow.
In his long history of running card games, Nick had met every sort of scoundrel and rogue. Each of them, to a man, had left a trail of unmet promises: to family, to friends, to neighbors, to superior officers, to creditors. He knew what was on the third page before he read it.
Lord Sydenham hadn’t just been rude and unlikeable, he’d also been bankrupt. Forbes couldn’t learn how deeply in debt he was, but rumors ranged from “skint” to “up the River Tick.” His solicitor, Mr. Fitzhugh Bennet, had died suddenly several weeks after the viscount, allegedly leaving his client’s affairs in disarray. Servants who’d quit the household complained that they hadn’t been paid in two quarters or more. And of course, the man had no direct heir, leaving the estate—whatever there was of it—in limbo.
That explained Miss Greene’s desperation to find any cousin at all. Sydenham must have left his daughter in terrible circumstances. It certainly wasn’t a unique story, although generally lords were more determined to preserve their estate and fortune than ordinary men. Perhaps Lord Sydenham hadn’t cared as much, since he had no son to inherit, and no fortune to leave.
But still: a cracking good governess could find a new post, and the child must have some relations who would take her in. What had made Emilia Greene decide to invade his establishment at dawn and demand thatheassume the title? Why did she think he’d be any better than the last viscount?
Nick certainly didn’t.
With a muttered curse he swept the papers into the file and tossed it into the cabinet. He didn’t want to think about Emilia Greene. Not about the way she bobbed up on her toes when she called him an idiot. Not about the way her vivid blue eyes widened in astonishment when he said a rude word. Not about the way her pretty face went pink when he said he’d received many propositions, right before she cut him down to size. He didn’t want to think about disappointing her. He didn’t want to feel responsible for her.
And yet... He couldn’t stop thinking about her—and her damned proposal.
Nick didn’t like any of it.
He left his office and walked through the club. It was morning now, sunlight streaming through the open windows as the servants cleaned and tidied after another night of profitable gambling. Nick felt the familiar hum of satisfaction in his chest.Thiswas his estate, built from a single hazard table in a shabby cellar to the finest club in London. He was someone, a man of means and importance, even without a title.
The thought made him scowl. Never once in his life had he thought about having a title, nor wanted one. Most of the lords who came through his club did not serve to recommend the aristocracy, whether they were pompous winners or sulky losers. But Miss Greene had made him think about other sides of the matter, and he was not pleased by the way it taunted him.
At the back of the dining room he pushed open the baize door and went down to the kitchen. Like the salons upstairs, it was still alive with activity, but on a more relaxed pace than the frenetic rush that began in the afternoon.
The kitchens were one of the Vega Club’s prime attractions. While most clubs served dinner, none did it the way Vega’s did. Here they served every sort of meal a patron could want, from the time the doors opened until they closed around dawn, and every morsel of it was delicious. The scullery was filled with servants washing dishes, scrubbing pots, and polishing silver from last night’s service. The long trestle table in the main kitchen was covered with freshly plucked capons and geese, waiting to be dressed and roasted for hungry diners tonight. Baskets of vegetables and herbs sat on the table under the windows, just delivered. The scent of baking bread perfumed the air. All these signs of industry, prosperity, and luxury filled Nick with fierce pride.
Guillaume, the chef, had his hands in a large mound of dough, but he jerked his head toward a tray on the opposite end of his worktable. “Freshly baked, Monsieur.”
He leaned over the plate and inhaled deeply. Guillaume’s fresh pastries filled with gooseberry jam, topped with thick clotted cream, were sinfully delicious. Betsy, Guillaume’s wife, whisked across the room. “Just a moment, sir, you’re early today.”
Nick grinned as she laid the pastries in a basket and covered them with a clean cloth. “And hungry. These smell divine.”
“’Tis Betsy’s gooseberry preserves that make them so.” Guillaume winked at his wife.
“I thank you both for the compliments,” she said pertly, handing Nick the basket with a curtsy.
He bowed in reply, then went through the narrow corridor outside the kitchen, still cool and dim since the sun hadn’t risen high enough to reach the kitchens. He jogged up the stairs in the courtyard and let himself out into the mews, making sure the lock was securely fastened behind him. More than once patrons had tried to sneak into Vega’s through the service area, desperate to retrieve something they’d lost at the tables. Nick put a quick end to that, installing tall gates with sturdy locks at every entrance point, and sending imposing employees on frequent tours of the grounds. Gambling might not be an inherently honorable pastime, but when a man lost, he had to pay his debt.
At the end of the mews he turned away from the rumble of Piccadilly Street, toward the quiet, refined heart of Mayfair. He whistled tunelessly as he swung the basket in one hand. This was the best part of his day, every day. Even his headache receded as he walked.
In a quiet little street less than a mile from the club, he turned into a courtyard and let himself in through another gate. The scullery door stood open to admit the fresh morning air, and he walked right in.
The scene was far quieter than at Vega’s, although the cook was also kneading bread on the table. At Nick’s appearance, she smiled in greeting and curtsied.
“Has breakfast been served already?” he asked, one hand on the swinging door.
“Yes, sir. She’s just rung for tea and Nelly took it up,” replied Mrs. Barnes, the cook.
Without another word Nick pushed open the door and jogged up the steps, heading for the dining room.
“Nick!”
He laughed as Charlotte ran and flung her arms around his neck. “Good morning to you, too. Have I been neglectful? That was quite an enthusiastic greeting.”
