Page 56 of Once More, My Darling Rogue
Drake wasn’t about to take the chair in front of the desk, to place himself in a subservient role. He was the overseer here, and while Jack might be the majority partner, the public face behind Dodger’s, Drake was now responsible for its management. Taking the offered glass, he walked over to the window and gazed out. Jack intimidated many, but not him. Like the man at the desk, Drake was a product of the streets. He was not one to be frightened, cowed, or bullied.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Drake said.
“That’s the whole point, to see how things are managed when one doesn’t know that I plan to stop by.”
Drake glanced over his shoulder and held Jack’s gaze. “And how do you find it managed?”
“Quite well. No complaints.” Shrugging, he leaned back in his chair. “Well, one perhaps. Membership to an American? The purpose here has always been to fleece the nobility—as legally as possible.”
Turning, facing the man fully, Drake pressed his shoulder to the hard edge of the window casing. “The nobility is not what it once was. Many are impoverished. Lord Randolph Churchill’s marriage to Jennie Jerome is going to change everything. Others will turn to the Americans to replenish their coffers. It seemed a sound business decision to get a jump on allowing them to replenish ours as well.”
Jack grinned. “So you’re going to allow more in?”
“As many as I can entice. Presently they are an untapped source of revenue.”
“More money in our pockets. I can’t complain.” Jack downed his whiskey.
Drake had yet to touch his. “Then why are you here?”
Jack set his empty glass down deliberately, yet slowly, so it didn’t make a sound. “When I ran the place, I spent a good deal of my time in the balcony, looking out over my fiefdom, feeling like a king. I don’t feel like a king so much anymore.”
“You will when you see the increase in profits. I have other plans I intend to implement. Your coffers will be overflowing.”
Jack narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps, but I’ve been thinking of late that Dodger’s has had a good run, but all runs must come to an end.”
Everything within Drake tightened, stilled. “You’re closing it?”
“You said it yourself: Times are changing.”
Drake took a step away from the window. “Yes, but we can adjust, adapt.”
Jack stood, tugged on his red brocade waistcoat. “I believe a meeting with the partners is in order. My residence. Friday next. Half past two. Bring your ideas. We’ll go from there.”
Drake stood in the balcony and gazed out over his fiefdom. He understood Jack’s sentiments because they so mirrored his. Only he couldn’t imagine any of this going away. He’d given years of his life to it. The majority of the hours of his days. Even after he’d purchased his residence, he usually slept here, ate here—until Phee. He’d been caught up in her and not devoting himself to the management of the club as he had before. Had Jack sensed his loyalty waning? It was only a temporary disruption. He could assure the partners of that without providing details regarding his distraction.
A distraction that even now called to him more than the sound of ivory and cards. He thought about returning to his residence to watch her sleep, but what sort of madness was it that he couldn’t go an hour without seeing her? He would return to his residence when his obligations here were finished. That he managed to get everything taken care of two hours sooner than usual was mere coincidence.
As he walked up the path to the door, he refused to acknowledge the disappointment he felt that his arrival hadn’t heralded Phee’s. She was no doubt still abed. He had not been anticipating her greeting him at the door, smiling at him. Damnation. Of course he had. He might not be completely honest with her, but it was imperative that he remain honest with himself. He could make up all the excuses he wanted for why he hadn’t sat her down and explained everything to her last night, but the truth was that he wasn’t quite ready to have her dislike him once again.
As he inserted his key, he noticed the sheen of the door. When had she polished it? Had the task contributed to the damage to her hands? He hadn’t expected her to embrace her duties.
Stepping over the threshold, he went in search of her. His bed was made, no evidence at all that she’d slept there. Except for her lingering fragrance, the true essence of her. He should purchase her some orchid-scented perfume. He went into the bathing chamber, halfway hoping he’d find her in the tub. He found only her brush, mirror, and comb set out neatly beside his. He realized her bedchamber contained no mirror. He should remedy that.
Why, he chastised himself, when he would be returning her home any day now?
But somehow her brush resting beside his looked ... right. An odd thought. It didn’t look right at all. Because it was completely and unmistakably wrong. It didn’t belong there. She didn’t belong here. He would tell her all as soon as he located her. Perhaps the truth would return her memory, and he could determine if Somerdale was indeed speaking true about the blasted uncle and the ill aunt.
Phee wasn’t in her bedchamber. She couldn’t possibly be preparing him breakfast, as he’d arrived earlier than expected. Still he headed down to the kitchen and staggered to a stop in the doorway at the sight that greeted him.
Had Drake ever conjured up images of Ophelia on her knees, he’d have never pictured her as she was at that precise moment with her bottom tilted up in the air, moving forward and back, side to side as she scrubbed the stone floor of the kitchen. He imagined lying beneath her, having her engaged in those same motions above him, her clothing discarded, her breasts filling his hands.
Whatever was wrong with him? When had he ever considered bedding Lady O? The answer was simple. Never. She had never appealed to him—
Yet he had kissed her at the ball and been shaken to his core.
And now he couldn’t deny the enticing picture she made, so hard at work. He had to give her credit: when she set her mind to something, she gave it her all.
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he barked, more to bring himself back from his fantasy than to chastise her. “You’ll damage your hands further.”
