Clara gave a watery smile. Then she stiffened her shoulders and turned to Peter. “Right then, my lad. Let’s go and clean you up first.
“But Mama!” Peter said, thrusting his closed hands in her direction. “I haven’t shown you my spider yet.”
“Oh no!” Clara exclaimed, horrified. “Is that what you’re got? A spider?”
Peter’s lip wobbled again. “Yes, only it’s stopped moving and it feels all squidgy—I think I might have squashed it.” When he went to open his hands, Clara yelped, leapt forward, and clapped her own around them.
“Not here, darling!” she cried, while Kit pressed his lips together to stifle his laughter.
Peter’s eyes welled with tears. “I wanted to show it to you and Uncle Kit,” he mourned. “I was going to have it as a pet.”
“Never mind,” Kit said gently, “spiders don’t really make very good pets anyway. But maybe we’ll get a little cat, like Gimlet, for our house. What do you think?”
Peter beamed, his tears magically disappearing. “I would love that, Uncle Kit! Can it be my cat?”
“Yes, but it will have to sleep in the kitchen, and it might not be for a few days. Now go with Mama and get cleaned up.”
Peter’s eyes shone. “Did you hear that, Mama? Uncle Kit’s going to get a cat and it’s going to be mine!”
Clara rolled her eyes. “Yes, I heard. Now, keep your hands closed while I fetch my things.”
She crossed to the hat stand in the corner, while keeping a sharp eye on Peter, and quickly tied on her bonnet and shawl before ushering Peter towards the door.
“Will you be home for dinner?” she asked as they left.
“Yes,” Kit said. “I’ll see you later.”
It was very quiet once they were gone. Kit and Clara didn’t talk much as they worked, but there was a very different quality to the silence in a room when you were alone.
Before Clara and Peter had come into his life, Kit supposed he had lived a rather solitary existence. He had friends—quite a number of them, actually—and he took pride in treating his staff at the club well. But after he had given up the game and opened Redford’s, he had always lived alone, perfectly content in his private rooms above the club.
And then, one day, Clara had walked into his life, begging for employment.
Kit had been making inquiries about taking on a clerk. He’d wanted someone bright, efficient, and discreet who would not be shocked by the nature of his business—not an easy combination to find, he’d discovered.
Somehow, Clara had learned of his search and, one freezing winter morning, she’d arrived at his door, practically blue with cold. He hadn’t known quite what to make of her, this genteel, highly educated young woman with a stubborn tilt to her jaw and a glint of desperation in her eyes. She had struck Kit as entirely unsuitable, and he had been in the middle of gently turning her away, when her eyelids had fluttered closed and she dropped to the ground in front of him.
When he had discovered her pregnant state, and seen too that she was clearly unwell, pale and underfed with a persistent cough, he’d found himself giving her the position on a temporary basis. And then, when he’d seen where she was living, he’d insisted she move into his apartments above the club.
A few months later, Peter had arrived, and Kit had been astonished by his own attachment to this tiny new scrap of humanity. Realising that a late-night club was no place to bring up a child, he’d purchased a new townhouse in Marylebone, and they'd moved there together, telling the neighbours that Clara was Kit's widowed sister, and Peter his nephew.
Odd, to find himself with a little family of his own to take care of. If anyone had asked him if he wanted such a thing, he’d have said no, of course not. But life surprised you sometimes.
Kit worked on for another two hours after Clara and Peter left, poring over ledgers, and sorting through the invoices. At last, though, deciding he’d had enough, he put everything away and locked the office up.
The club occupied two full townhouses, numbers fifteen and seventeen Palfrey Terrace—though there was only one official entrance at number fifteen. Kit’s office—and the private rooms above it where Kit used to live—were situated on the upper floors of number seventeen. The respectable rooms in the club—the reception and dining rooms, card rooms, kitchen and storage areas—were all confined to number fifteen. The notorious back area and private rooms, used for assignations, were situated on the lower floors of number seventeen. These could be accessed from number fifteen by a discreet corridor between the two houses that could be quickly hidden should the need arise.
Most of Kit’s patrons spent a little time in number fifteen when they first arrived, enjoying a drink or two, perhaps some dinner, or a few rubbers of whist, before they headed through to the private areas. There was a large back room there where thirty men could comfortably gather, and nearer fifty could be accommodated at a squeeze. And there were a number of small, private chambers for more intimate encounters. Many of the patrons chose to associate only with other patrons, but Kit allowed a small number of carefully selected prostitutes to ply their trade at the club, catering for those patrons who did not wish to meet their needs with their peers.
Kit was extremely selective about the men he would allow to sell their services at Redford’s. Above all else, they needed to be trustworthy. In return for their discretion, Kit’s doormen provided security, and Kit took only a modest ten percent of their earnings, a fraction of what most brothels would take. The men could choose their own clients and work as little or as much as they chose. All in all, it was a far better arrangement than most prostitutes could hope to get, whether in a brothel or working the streets, and Kit never had any shortage of men asking to join the select group who worked at the club.
He made it a rule, though, never to be intimate with any of them himself. It wasn't that he looked down on them—on the contrary, he was friendly with them all and had helped a couple of them to find other employment, most recently Tom Atkins, who was training to be a footman in Kit’s own house.
The reason he avoided any liaisons with the whores himself, was that he’d vowed when he left the game not to allow money any influence in his bedchamber again, directly or indirectly. Which ruled out anyone he came into contact with at the club.
For the last few years, he had found whatever companionship he needed at the house of an acquaintance in Clapham who hosted monthly supper parties for men like him. Men seeking someone to fuck for the night—and only for that night.
After locking up the office, Kit made his way downstairs to carry out a quick check of the back room and private chambers. He made sure that all the rooms were tidy, with fresh sheets on the beds and clean towels and ewers of fresh water in place. He checked that the floors had been swept and that the airing cupboard was piled high with clean linens for the swift room-turns needed after each assignation. Satisfied, he made his way through to number fifteen, where he spoke to the kitchen and serving staff and did a last walk around of the public rooms. Finally, he let himself out of the back door into the alley behind the club… only to nearly jump out of his skin when a figure peeled away from the wall to his left and moved towards him.
“Bloody hell!” Kit gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. Then he saw who it was, and his jangled nerves calmed. “Mr. Sharp? What are you doing loitering here?”
Jake Sharp’s smile was sharp-toothed. “Waiting for you, of course, Kitten.”
Kit grimaced. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Why? Don’t you like it?” Sharp asked, all innocence. “It suits you.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “I can see you’re in one of your absurd moods,” he said and began to walk away.
Behind him, Sharp chuckled and began to follow him. “Maybe it’s because you remind me of the tabby kitten I had when I was a boy. He was a lovely thing. Big innocent green eyes, just like you—though, I must say, he was a sneaky little devil.”
Despite his intention of i
gnoring Sharp, Kit glanced over his shoulder at this, arching a brow. “I hope you’re not suggesting I’m a sneaky little devil?”
Sharp laughed, and Kit couldn’t help his own lips twitching in response. Sharp wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but he had something, that was undeniable. Something that made him seem somehow twice as alive as other men, and far bigger than he really was. In truth he was only a couple of inches taller than Kit and not much broader through the shoulders, but the way he carried himself… he seemed to loom over Kit. And then there was that unsettling spark in his amber gaze that spoke sometimes of merriment and other times of chilling menace.
Kit shivered, and hoped Sharp didn’t notice. He wasn’t entirely sure whether his awareness of Jake Sharp was rooted in attraction or fear, but one thing he knew: he had no intention of investigating further. After all, there was every reason to plump for fear. That would certainly be the rational conclusion.
As the second oldest son of Lenny Sharp, Jake Sharp was part of the city’s criminal aristocracy. His father had reigned over a sizeable empire of thieves, whores, and thugs in the heart of the Rookeries. Sharp’s older brother had taken over that empire when Lenny died, while Jake—more clever and far more adaptable—had spread his wings. Using money borrowed from his brother, he’d opened his first gambling club, not in the Rookeries, but in a respectable part of town, a fancy gilt-trimmed place with an expensive French chef and an impressive wine cellar. A place where serious gamblers played deep.
Very deep.
Since then, Sharp had opened two more places. One, located in Knightsbridge, was patronised by men of the Ton, men who would lose ten thousand in a night without blinking—whether they had the money to meet the debt or not—and who expected to be served the finest French brandy while they did so. The other was just a few minutes’ walk from Redford’s. It wasn’t quite as fancy inside as the one in Knightsbridge, but then, it was a slightly less rarified location, and the patrons there were more concerned with how appealing the whores were than the quality of the brandy.
Sharp moved closer to Kit. “I don’t know whether you’re a sneaky little devil,” he said, his smile growing sly and secret. His slow, careful movements made Kit simultaneously feel that he couldn’t step back and that he desperately wanted to, like he was being stalked by a tiger. “But,” Sharp went on, “you’re certainly a pretty one, I’ll give you that.”
Kit eyed the man curiously. Jake Sharp had been singling him out for attention for some weeks now. Powerful and feared as he was, he didn’t even bother to hide his preference for men. Sharp knew one of the prostitutes who worked in Redford’s and had told him that he very much fancied a tumble with Kit—much to the amusement of Kit’s employees at the club, who teased him relentlessly about it. But though Kit laughed easily whenever the subject was raised, he suspected Sharp's supposed interest was not really in Kit himself—or at least, not only in him.
Kit tilted his head to the side, considering Sharp. “Tell me this, Mr. Sharp. Why were you waiting for me out here?” he said. “I’ll wager it wasn’t to pay me compliments about my eyes.”
Sharp chuckled at that. “Why not? They’re lovely.”
Kit shook his head. “Shall I tell you what you I think?”
“By all means,” Sharp invited, smiling delightedly.
“I think you’d like to acquire Redford’s. Is that a fair guess?”
Sharp’s expression was unreadable. After a moment, he said, “Well… if you were minded to sell, I would certainly be interested in discussing the matter.”
Kit nodded. “Thank you for telling me. However, I have to advise you that I have no wish to sell.”
That wasn’t quite true. Kit was not, in fact, entirely averse to the idea of selling Redford’s at some point. However, the timing had to be right, as did the purchaser. Kit had attracted an enviable list of members over the years, all of whom paid considerable annual fees, thanks to his reputation for complete discretion and trustworthiness.
The list was worth a fortune. All those names. All those secrets.
Kit could not hand that list over to just anyone. He may have opened the club with a view to making money, but that didn’t mean he had no scruples—he would not betray the trust that had been placed in him by his patrons.
Until he found an equally discreet and trustworthy successor, he would not be selling Redford’s. And based on what he knew of Jake Sharp—admittedly not a great deal—he did not think Sharp was that person.
Kit turned to go, but Sharp reached out, detaining him with a hand on his arm. His gaze was reproachful. “It’s not very polite to be deliberately misleading, Kitten.”
Despite Sharp’s mild tone, a shiver went up Kit’s spine. He hid his unease behind a tight smile. “As flattering as it is to be compared to a kitten,” he said sweetly, “I feel bound to point out that I am one-and-forty—far too old to be compared to an infant cat.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Then we shall have to agree to disagree, Mr. Sharp.”
Sharp sighed. “I wish you’d call me Jake.”
“And I wish you’d call me Mr. Redford,” Kit replied, “but we can’t always get what we want, can we?”
Sharp laughed then, and for a moment he really was handsome, his teeth seeming very white against his olive skin, and his light-brown eyes sparkling with humour.
“Have supper with me tonight,” he demanded, his gaze fixed on Kit.
Kit shook his head. “I’m afraid I will be dining early at home this evening, then returning to the club till the early hours.”
“I’ll come here then,” Sharp replied, undeterred.
“Regrettably,” Kit said smoothly, “you are not a member of Redford’s. So I will be unable to admit you.”
Sharp chuckled. “Oh, come on, Kitten. You could give me a membership right now.”
“I’m afraid not,” Kit replied. “The rules of the club require at least two references from existing members—”
“But you own it,” Sharp interrupted, though thankfully he seemed amused rather than offended. “You can do as you please, surely.”
“Not so,” Kit said implacably. “If I do not obey the rules, how can I ask others to do so?”
Sharp eyed him for a moment. Then he gave a rueful shrug. “Very well. I will just have to obtain the references, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so,” Kit said smoothly, even as he wondered how many of his own patrons would be prepared to give the man a reference in return for writing off some gaming debts.
“Until then,” Sharp went on. “How about you join me for supper another evening. Tomorrow? Friday?”
“Mr. Sharp—”
“I know what you’re going to say,” Sharp interrupted. “But I don’t believe for one moment that you have to spend every evening at Redford’s—and even if you do, there is nothing to stop you taking an early supper with me one evening before you go to the club, is there?”
Kit sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
“Friday then.”
“I only said I’ll think about it.”
“All right,” Sharp agreed easily. They had reached the end of the alleyway now, and emerged together onto the main street. “Let’s speak again in a few days.”
Kit sighed. “Very well, but I warn you: you should not expect to receive a different answer.”
Sharp only grinned that sharp-toothed grin again. “I’ll call on you,” he promised, and then he was walking away, swinging his cane and whistling as he went.
And since Kit was only human, he could not help but notice how very fine the man's arse was.
As Kit made his way home, he found himself mulling over Sharp’s words.
I don’t believe for one moment that you have to spend every evening at Redford’s.
Whatever the man’s real reason might be for pursuing Kit, he was right about that much.
When Kit had first opened Redford’s, he’d relished spending his
evenings there. Of course, he’d only lived upstairs at the time, but it wasn’t just for convenience. He’d been making the place his own, stamping it with his character, as surely as he’d covered the walls of the card rooms in that damned expensive Chinese dragon wallpaper he’d liked so much.
The truth was, he’d loved finally having something all his own. Until he’d opened Redford’s, Kit’s existence had centred solely around satisfying the whims of others, with all the unsettling potential for sudden change such an existence entailed. It was a life that had left him with an insatiable hunger for some solid, unchanging foundation in his life.
Redford’s had provided that foundation.
Lately, though, his single-minded devotion to the place had begun to wane. Perhaps it was partly because, over the last several years, he had become much more financially comfortable. He’d finally paid off a sizeable loan he’d taken on when he’d opened the club, and several investments he’d made had done very well indeed. He now had a nice cushion of capital that was enough to provide a comfortable income on its own, quite aside from Redford’s.
Moreover, since taking Clara on, he didn’t have to be such a constant presence at the club. It had taken him some time to let go his iron grip on every detail of the business, but slowly, gradually, he was getting there. In the last year, as he had begun to lean more heavily on Clara, he had discovered he had time again. Time to visit old friends. Time to go walking in his favourite spots—down by the Serpentine and around Green Park, even all the way up to Hampstead Heath a time or two.
He’d begun to secretly draw a little, carrying little notebooks and pencils with him that he’d pull out when he sat down by the river or under a tree to idly sketch whatever little things he might spot: a simple flower, a horse chestnut bristling out of its prickly coat, a waterfowl floating docilely down the river.
The annoying thing was that, the more time he had to himself, the more time he wanted. He’d even found himself wondering whether he needed to attend Redford’s as often as he did in the evenings—something he’d once considered vital, reasoning that his members needed to see him to trust him.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 3
