Page 87 of Fortune Favors the Viscount
“Seven more member resignations, but also five more inquiries.”
Nick nodded in satisfaction. As he’d thought, the pace had slowed.
Forbes handed him a small sheaf of papers plus a letter. “From the lads. And this, from Stewart Darlington.”
Nick opened the letter and read it. “Excellent news.” He looked back up at Forbes. “I expect we’ll have a fireworks display in the near future.”
“Thought we might,” muttered the manager.
Nick tapped Darlington’s note on the desk. “It might cost us a few members, but I expect it will be much to our benefit.”
Forbes’s assessing gaze dipped from Nick’s face to the letter and back up again. “Which members?”
Nick just grinned. He sat down and took out a few pieces of paper. “Send the lads out to deliver these at once.” He wrote a few brief notes, all essentially the same, closed and sealed them, then wrote a direction on each. He handed them to his manager.
Forbes let out a low whistle as he read one name. “Are we risking Newgate?”
“Not us,” said Nick in mild surprise. “Someone may, though. But if it sets your mind at ease...” He dashed off another message and wrote Grantham’s name on it.
“What’s afoot?” asked Forbes curiously. He’d been gathering information for weeks now at Nick’s direction, but Nick had been deliberately vague about why.
Nick came around his desk and handed over Darlington’s message. “We are about to be rid of Lord Fitchley.”
Forbes’s brows climbed higher and higher as he read. “Bloody saints,” he muttered. “This is...”
Nick waited.
“Evil,” finished Forbes. He looked up. “Dash, he won’t make it to Newgate. Someone’ll stretch his neck at the nearest lamppost.”
Nick tugged his jacket into place. “I suppose some might feel inclined toward violence. I would, if it were my prize-winning colt he’d killed.”
Forbes’s jaw firmed. “It’ll be a pleasure to toss him out.”
Nick’s smile was vicious. “Indeed it will.”
He went out into the club and made his usual circuits. His appearance caused a small stir, people putting their heads together to whisper. Idly he wondered if it were his title petition, which had had its first hearing before the Committee for Privileges; his prolonged absence, which had been unusual; or some societal instinct that a storm of scandal was brewing.
Around ten o’clock, Forbes came to stand beside him. “Kinson and O’Malley are here,” he murmured. “In the blue room.”
“Very good. Send them dinner, would you?” A new arrival had caught his eye, and he headed to the front of the house.
Lord Westmorland appeared to be having an argument with his companion. Nick approached and bowed. “Good evening, my lords.”
The marquess returned his bow. “Good evening, Dashwood. As requested, I’ve brought my brother, Lord William Churchill-Gray.”
The other fellow nodded at Nick. He was as tall as the marquess, but much leaner, his brown hair bleached and his face tanned as if he spent all his days outdoors. “Mr. Dashwood. I understand you have some questions.”
“I do, sir. Would you join me upstairs?”
He led the way to a private room. The two men there were eating, but leapt to their feet at the sound of the door. “Lord William Churchill-Gray,” said Nick, “allow me to present to you Mr. Robert Kinson and Mr. Dickie O’Malley.”
Lord William paused in the middle of his polite nod. “Bobby Kinson?”
“Aye, m’lord,” said the man. He was young, slender, yet not very tall, and leaned on a crutch.
“You ride for Baron Fitchley,” said Lord William with a flicker of his eyes toward Nick. “Nearly won the Oaks on a very middling horse.”
“Ididride for Fitchley,” said the man bitterly. “Turned me out, on account of my broken leg.” He tapped his crutch on the floor next to his left foot, which was still splinted and wrapped. “The surgeon says it’ll heal right, if I stay off it for three months, but Fitchley said that was too long and gave me the sack.”
