He could return to pleasure now. But he didn’t want to. Nor would he have the privilege of doing so—he’d have to . . . work for his living now?
He’d never considered that possibility when he’d contemplated his future.
The enormity of the change hit him all over again. Nothing was his. Not his clothing, not this house, not anything. Not even the name he’d grown up with. He was Mr. Sebastian de Silva now. Nothing more.
He really needed whiskey, even though that wasn’t his either. He knew, however, that Thaddeus wouldn’t begrudge him a stiff drink.
He held the glass up to his mouth, then frowned as he spotted the signet ring on his right pinkie.
The signet ring that had belonged to his father, the Duke of Hasford. That was passed on to all the dukes in succession.
He put the glass back down on the table, yanked the ring from his finger, and flung it into the corner of the room.
“Your aim is improving.”
Sebastian heard Nash’s voice before he saw him. His friend was standing in the shadows, as usual, but emerged into the light, holding the ring, his usual grim smile on his lips.
Nash stood as tall as Sebastian, but where Sebastian was lean and elegant, Nash, the Duke of Malvern, was pure force. He looked more like a stevedore than a duke, and he behaved more like one as well, preferring the company of common men to his literal peers.
He’d grown up with Sebastian and Thaddeus, and the three had maintained their close friendship through inheritance, the army, romantic heartbreak, and feckless parents.
“You’ve heard.” Sebastian picked his glass up and drained it as Nash approached.
He poured a glass and handed it to Nash, who took it and drank it all down, barely wincing at the burn of the whiskey.
“I did.” Nash held his glass out for more. “I thought that between you and Thad, you might need me more.”
Sebastian snorted as he poured more liquid into Nash’s glass. “I’m not certain about that. Thaddeus looked as though someone had deliberately disorganized his papers when we heard the news.” He glanced reflexively at the surface of his desk, which was neatly arranged. He hoped his secretary would meet Thad’s exacting standards.
Nash chuckled. “What are you going to do?”
That was the question of the day, wasn’t it? “I don’t know.” Sebastian sat down on the sofa, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I need to tell Ana Maria. I need to let the staff know, although I suspect the news has already reached them. But first I need to—”
“Get drunk,” Nash supplied. “With me at a place where you won’t run into as many of those condescending pricks.”
“Which condescending pricks?” He waved a hand as Nash opened his mouth. “Never mind, I know you mean all of them. Tell me how you really feel,” Sebastian replied dryly. He sat up, slapping his hands on his thighs. “Your idea is a good one, but I can’t get too drunk because I need to speak with my sister tomorrow.”
Thank goodness Ana Maria was out this evening. He didn’t remember where she had gone, but there was no danger Ana Maria would get in any kind of trouble—his half sister was remarkably staid in her behavior, given how wild her younger half brother was. Or had been, until he’d inherited six months ago.
“Drunk enough to take the edge off, then,” Nash said. “Miss Ivy’s, I think. It’s new.”
“As long as there is an abundance of whiskey and a paucity of condescending pricks,” Seb replied.
Chapter Two
“My luck has changed,” Ivy murmured as she surveyed the room with pride.
Two years ago, she had lost everything: her reputation, her way of life, and a respectable future. Lost on the turn of a card.
But Ivy had fought against what seemed to be inevitable and won. She was now the proud owner—ironically, she had to admit—of a thriving gambling house in London. She would never get back what she had lost, but she could do better—she could control her own future.
The club was still empty, save for the staff, even though it had been open for at least an hour. Late nights were the norm, so Ivy wasn’t concerned about the lack of clientele. They would come. They always did.
The club was well-appointed, with comfortable chairs for long evenings of play set near the purposed tables—one for roulette, several for card games, and a few that were intended for customers who wished to drink instead of gamble. Red velvet wallpaper hung on the walls, and Ivy had hunted down a variety of paintings portraying people in various states of gaming, from ladies from the previous century playing faro, to lampoons of gentlemen losing much more than they ought, to even a few whimsical paintings depicting dogs playing cards.
The paintings made her laugh, as did anything she found the slightest bit amusing—it was important, when one’s survival depended on serious things like running a business, to keep a humorous perspective.
What was the point in living if you couldn’t also enjoy life?
That was Ivy’s philosophy, especially now that she was barred from all the traditional things a well-bred young lady should expect.
This was much more fun than being a well-bred young lady.
Miss Ivy’s was unusual in that it admitted both men and women of any status. She figured that was more fun for all her customers—who didn’t enjoy a spot of flirtation when one was betting on the future?
The only requirement for admittance was that each gambler, male and female, brought enough cash to settle their gambling debts that evening. If they couldn’t pay? They were blackballed from the club and were dunned every day until they fulfilled their obligations.
Her policies were at odds with other, older establishments such as White’s and Brooks’s. The gentlemen who habituated those establishments didn’t have to settle up right away, so some of the winners could wait forever. In years past, losing gentlemen would escape to the Continent to avoid payment. Ivy’s took the doubt that a winner would receive their money out of the equation.
“Psst! Ivy!” It was her younger sister, Octavia, a girl who could never hide who she was, making Ivy both proud and concerned. Octavia was brash, opinionated, and reckless—taking after her older sister, but Ivy knew how to hide it better.
“I thought we talked about how you are not to be here when the doors are open. What if you’re seen?”
Octavia rolled her eyes. “You talked about it. I listened. Nobody is here yet, sister. And besides, it is far more fun to be in your den of dubious activities than upstairs working on my embroidery or planning my next good deed.”
Ivy laughed at her sister’s scornful tone. “You do not embroider, and I believe your last good deed was rescuing those kittens from the cellar. I highly doubt you planned that.” She paused. “And you have gotten as much goodness out of the kitten rescue as the animals themselves.”
“True,” Octavia agreed. “Oh, Carter says she has homes for them, she’ll take them there tomorrow.”
A relief, since kittens were a cute distraction they did not need.
“I could embroider, at some point in the future,” Octavia added.
“Or teach the kittens how to embroider before they leave. They might be in need of some useful skills,” Ivy replied with a smirk.
“Or . . .” Octavia said, wrapping her arm around Ivy, “I could come down here and work as a dealer.”
“Absolutely not!” Ivy said, shaking Octavia’s arm off her shoulder and trying to look like a disapproving older sister. “You are a lady, you have a chance for a respectable future. As long as we keep our relationship a secret. And, though this should go without saying, that you not work in a gambling house. Or, as you put it, my ‘den of dubious activities.’”
Octavia was not to be dissuaded from her thoughts, however. “And you? You are a lady also, and you own a gambling house.”
“I’m not a lady any longer,” Ivy retorted. She’d mourn that loss of status if it didn’t also give her the freedom to choose what to do next.
Th
eir father had seen to that—a gamester himself, he had ruined the family by gambling away everything he owned, and several things he did not. Such as his daughter Ivy, who discovered she had been won as a bride by an older man, a gentleman farmer, who wanted a wife to take charge of his adult children and work on his farm from dawn until dusk. Ivy was even more appalled at discovering the man’s oldest son was her age.
Ivy had challenged the man to a game herself after discovering her father’s loss, and had won, but the damage had been done—her father’s wager, her own daring to take back her freedom, had ruined her in the eyes of Society.
But, Ivy had reasoned, she would have been miserable if she had followed what her class dictated, marrying some squire’s son and trying to pretend she wasn’t as intelligent as she was. The wager and her winning of it merely meant she could chart the course of her own future.
Far better to be a ruined gamester in charge of one’s fate than a woeful wife at the mercy of a husband.
Some ladies might have taken that experience to mean that gambling was abhorrent, and something she would never wish to do, or to associate with those who did. But Ivy took it as a sign that risking everything was the only way she would ever be happy.
“Someday, sister,” Octavia said in that “far too old for her seventeen years” voice, “you will find your own respectable future.” She tugged on Ivy’s sleeve. “I could wear a mask, you know. Nobody would know it was me. I know you’re short on staff. I could help.”
“Absolutely not.” Ivy struggled to maintain her stern tone. It would be fun to have Octavia here, she had to admit, but she wanted her sister to wait a bit before shutting the door that led to a respectable future. The gentlemen who gambled here would never choose a gambling house employee or even an owner as a wife.
That was a relief for Ivy, who wanted to be firmly among the regular people. But she wanted Octavia to have a choice, a wider choice than Ivy herself had had. One that didn’t depend—literally—on the turn of a card.
Ensuring Octavia’s security was the biggest motivation for working so hard to make the club a success—eventually, Ivy thought, she’d make enough money so she could buy a cottage by the sea for her and her sister, hopefully in an area where there were young eligible gentlemen. Gentlemen who wouldn’t know of their past life in London. Not for herself, of course, but for her sister—Octavia deserved to fall in love and get married. Ivy just wanted books, tea, and an excellent view.
Ivy heard voices and nudged her sister toward the door that led upstairs to their lodgings. “People are coming, you have to go.”
Octavia rolled her eyes again, accompanying the gesture with an exaggerated exhale, but she moved quickly, and was out of sight before the guests arrived. There would come a time, Ivy knew, when her younger sister would no longer follow Ivy’s commands, but at least that day was not today. Hopefully she could stave off her sister’s rebelliousness until after they’d moved to that quiet cottage.
Ivy approached the door as the two gentlemen arrived—and they were most certainly gentlemen. Men who worked for their livings, even ones who’d made fortunes, didn’t have the air of total entitlement these two had.
She recognized one of the men as having been in the club before, although she recalled all he had done the previous time was drink and grunt in response to any of the other guests’ polite overtures.
The other one, the stranger, looked like the manifestation of every man she’d ever dared to dream about: tall and lean, with a sly grin on a classically sculpted face. Although, truth be told, she’d thought the same thing when she had seen the statues of the Greek and Roman gods in the British Museum.
This gentleman was not made of stone, however. That was a good thing. But he wore much more clothing. Unfortunately.
She bit her tongue before she asked him if his name was Adonis. Although she couldn’t suppress her giggle.
He surveyed the room with a discerning look, as though he were appraising everything. He would not find it wanting, she was certain of that.
He caught her eye and his lips curled up into a rakish half smile, as though he was aware of what she had been thinking. Perhaps she would be called upon to explain why she was picturing him on a marble pedestal wearing a fig leaf.
Ivy could keep her expression serene, it was part and parcel of being a good card player, but she was feeling an unduly interested reaction bubbling inside her as he approached. She hoped he had a squeaky voice, or a dislike of ladies with younger sisters, or anything to jar her out of her current fascination.
“Good evening.” Damn it. His voice was low and rumbly, making her insides tremble even more. “My hat and coat,” he said, removing the items to hand them over to her.
Oh. Well, that was lowering. But it did have the desired effect—he didn’t seem nearly as intriguing. Just another example of the aristocratic species, albeit easier on the eyes.
“I’m not—” she began.
“She’s the proprietor,” the other gentleman said flatly.
The half smile froze on the Assumptive Aristocrat’s face. She would have laughed if he wasn’t so clearly appalled.
“I of all people should know not to judge anyone by how they look,” he said, his tone contrite. “I apologize, I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” Ivy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand, wishing his assumption didn’t sting. “It’s fine. It happens all the time.”
Because nobody could imagine a woman who wasn’t a maid or a loose woman being at a gambling house. That she was neither, that she didn’t fit into expectations, was one of the things that set her, and her establishment, apart.
Now that her insides had been given a good talking-to by his presumption, she could concentrate on what really mattered—making money. The two arrivals were handsome, to be sure, but what mattered more than their looks was the size of their wallets. And how much they were going to lose. They were marks, nothing more or less.
Judging by the fine quality of their clothing, they had plenty of money to lose, and she hoped she could lure them into deeper and deeper play—but not enough to ruin them. She monitored all her guests to make sure there wasn’t irrevocable damage. Just enough to smart, and to line her pockets with more coin.
“Welcome to Miss Ivy’s,” she said, gesturing to one of her staff to take the gentlemen’s outerwear. “I am Miss Ivy, and I am here to ensure your pleasure.”
Adonis gave her a knowing look. Apparently, he recovered quickly from mortification. Or rakishness was so ingrained he could be mortified and flirtatious.
“What game are you interested in playing, my lords?” she continued hurriedly. She would have to watch her words.
The handsome stranger frowned, nearly as deeply as Ivy had just a few moments earlier. “Mr. de Silva,” he said shortly. Had she accidentally offended him? By presuming he was an aristocrat rather than a mister?
She didn’t think she would point out the irony of his having just presumed information about her that was incorrect.
“Mr. de Silva,” Ivy corrected. She hadn’t ever heard of him, but then again, she didn’t travel in Society circles any longer. She hadn’t done so since she’d won the last hand of hazard against her would-be bridegroom.
“And I’m Nash,” the other man said.
Mr. de Silva punched his friend on the arm. “The Duke of Malvern. Not everyone has a title they can toss around, you know.” He gave his friend a pointed look.
The duke shrugged. Ivy had the feeling he didn’t care much one way or the other about his title.
But if he didn’t, she certainly did—a duke patronizing Miss Ivy’s! Even a taciturn stone-like duke was better than no duke at all.
“We might as well play something while we drink,” the duke said to Adonis de Silva. He glanced at Ivy. “A game of roulette to start.” He looked back at his friend, and his lips nearly curled into a smile. “Who knows, maybe your luck will change?”
As he spoke,
Ivy beckoned to Samuel, who stood against the wall wearing the club uniform. Samuel was one of the completely loyal employees who made it possible for a female to own a gambling house. None of her employees argued with her decisions, they didn’t think they would be better suited for the position, and they were hard workers who helped make Miss Ivy’s the success it had been thus far.
“Samuel is my best roulette spinner.” Samuel grinned at her, acknowledging the compliment. She waited for the men to register that a Black man would be manning their table, relieved when they didn’t voice any objection, as some of her customers had. Regretfully, those customers were ex-customers, but her staff’s loyalty to her was equal to her loyalty to them.
“One more thing, gentlemen.”
It was always awkward to remind her customers about the house rule, but if she didn’t, there would invariably be someone who claimed ignorance.
“At Miss Ivy’s, we pay to play.”
Mr. de Silva looked puzzled, as did the duke, but after a moment, the duke’s face cleared.
“I’ll take care of all of that tonight,” he said, shooting a look that Ivy couldn’t describe toward his friend.
“Take care of—?” Mr. de Silva asked.
Ivy explained. “Miss Ivy’s requires that anyone who gambles must settle their debts at the end of the evening. Pay to play, so to speak.”
Mr. de Silva’s expression froze. “Because I—Goddamn it.”
Ivy started at the intensity of his voice, but reminded herself it wasn’t her business. The only thing that was her business was . . . her business.
“If you’ll step over to my table?” Samuel said, gesturing toward the far corner. The two men nodded, then followed Samuel, sitting down at the roulette table.
Ivy watched them settle themselves, then turned around, relieved she was able to keep herself focused on what was most important. He was just unduly handsome, that was all. She’d had handsome marks in the club before, and she would again—she would just have to figure out how to contain her reaction.
Never Kiss a Duke Page 2
