She nodded, pleased at the compliment. “If everyone is equal at Miss Ivy’s, then everyone should have equally excellent beverages.”
“I like the way you think, Miss Ivy,” he said, tipping his glass to her. He took another swallow, nodding in satisfaction. “So I am presuming you are responsible for choosing the paintings? The ones with the duplicitous dogs are particularly charming.”
She smothered a giggle. “Yes, I find it’s so much more fun to work in pleasant surroundings. And knowing that those dogs are up on the walls trying to hide their scandalous deeds makes me smile every time I think about them.” She leaned toward him to speak in a lower tone. “You’re the first customer to notice them. Bravo, Mr. de Silva.”
He shrugged in mock humility. “It’s only a matter of paying attention. Especially to something so intriguing.”
And then he looked at her, and she felt the force of his gaze. He certainly was a rakish sort. She’d seen the smile he’d aimed toward Caroline, who’d been immune. It seemed as though his charm was as natural to him as breathing; she wondered what it would be like to have that kind of innate charisma?
It would definitely serve her well in her role as gambling club proprietor. If she could lure customers in merely by charming them, she would make a lot of money far more swiftly than she currently was.
“Mr. de Silva, I believe you are flirting with me,” she replied, relieved to hear her voice sound strong and playful. She wouldn’t want him to know how he’d affected her breathing, for goodness’ sake.
“I did say I would bet on the dealer.”
She exhaled as she took another sip of her champagne. He was a charmer, this Mr. de Silva. It was a good thing she was a sensible woman and not a flighty girl, or she’d have her head turned.
A very good thing, a stern voice inside her brain reminded her.
Oh, do shut up, she replied. Hadn’t she just said she liked working in pleasant surroundings? And Mr. de Silva was very pleasant indeed.
“As I was saying,” she said, determined to prove to herself and her quarrelsome brain that she could continue a conversation with an attractive gentleman, “Miss Ivy’s is for everyone.” Everyone with money, that is.
“For everyone,” he echoed. He downed the glass as his sharp gaze glanced around the room. He gestured with the hand holding the glass so it looked as though he were about to offer a toast. “That table over there, they’re playing hearts?” He shook his head. “Terrible for the players, it’s just a way for the house to make money.”
Of course it’s just a way for the house to make money. This is my house, and I wish to make money. “Just don’t tell them that,” she replied.
“Hearts is a losing game,” he declared. She wished he would keep his tone down. “Everything is luck. You could have a king in your hand or a joker. Or you could think your joker was a king, and only find out you’re wrong when it’s too late.” Now he sounded contemplative. She began to relax; if he just declaimed about luck, he wouldn’t sound any different from any other of her customers, who were quick to blame anything when they lost.
Unfortunately, he quickly returned to the topic of games. “The players here would do better playing écarté or loo.”
“Could you lower your voice please?” she hissed.
“Or whist!” he exclaimed, sounding enthusiastic. “Even though whist is what your grandmother plays. Or is that faro?” he mused, tilting his head in question.
She appreciated that he seemed to be interested in the games she offered, but she did not want any of her customers to get scared off because he’d laid out the odds of their winning. And he would not lower his voice.
“If you would just step over he—” Ivy said, speaking in the low tone she wished he would mimic. She regretted that this wasn’t near one of the regular times the local police stopped in for a quick check of the premises. Not to arrest him, certainly not for talking, but it might shut him up better than she could.
“It’s faro,” he said in a decided, and decidedly not quiet, tone. “Hearts doesn’t require any skill.” Ah, insulting the customers’ ability as well as pointing out how difficult it would be to win. A winning hand for losing business.
Damn him for being as observant and analytical as it seemed he was.
“Mr. de Silva, if you would—?” Ivy tugged on his sleeve, but he shifted away from her grasp.
“I should go advise those people what to play,” he said in a determined tone. And then began to walk away.
She took a deep breath, then prepared to follow. To wrestle him to the ground, if necessary.
He hadn’t gone more than a few steps when the duke walked up, thank God, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I think it’s time we go home, Seb.”
Mr. de Silva shrugged his friend’s hand off. “I haven’t finished, Nash.”
The duke crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I think you have. Remember you’re not—” And he frowned. What had he been about to say?
The duke glanced at Ivy, giving her a look that seemed to say, Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.
Do not dare chase my patrons away, Smarty de Silva, she thought.
“I just wanted to tell them, Nash, about luck. It’s entirely unpredictable.”
“The very definition of luck,” she muttered.
“I wanted to tell them that if you are going to play hearts,” he continued, still speaking to his friend, “just make sure you keep track of the cards. That means don’t drink too much. Don’t let yourself get distracted,” and at that he turned to grin wickedly at her.
His charming flirtation would not make her forget he had nearly cost her business.
“You want I should toss him out?” Henry asked, low at her side. Henry was a boxer, but was also uncannily savvy with money, and acted as Ivy’s security and accountant. She’d met him when she’d attended an illegal fight, wanting to see how those cash transactions were handled prior to opening Miss Ivy’s. Henry had gotten the worst of it when his opponent used an illegal weapon to stab Henry in the side. Ivy had taken him to a doctor, and he had refused to leave her side since.
She’d found it was awfully handy to employ a large financially literate man who could also toss disruptive patrons into the street.
“If he says another word,” Ivy replied. “Then yes.”
“Seb, time to go home,” the duke said, flinging one long arm over Mr. Business Ruiner de Silva. “Come on.”
Henry grunted in approval beside her.
“Not ready yet,” Mr. de Silva expostulated. “I haven’t said anything to them. Just to you, who isn’t interested in playing. And her, who knows already,” he added, glancing at Ivy.
I think you’ve said plenty, Ivy thought in exasperation.
“We’re done, Seb,” the duke declared. “You can come share your theories another time.”
“If he’s welcome,” Henry muttered.
“Ssh,” Ivy hissed back. Her desire to see him gone was equal to her wish to keep the duke as a returning patron.
Mr. de Silva twisted to look at Ivy. “You’ve got a good business here, I like the masks.” Speaking as though completely unaware he’d come close to wrecking things—if not forever, at least for this evening. As though he merely had to speak, no matter what he said, and he’d be applauded. The arrogance of it made her shake.
“Thank you, Mr. de Silva,” she managed to bite out. “Your Grace.”
She and Henry watched as the duke led Mr. de Silva from the premises as that gentleman kept trying to engage her customers. Thankfully, his large friend eventually resorted to yanking him by the coat collar, eventually bundling him into a carriage outside.
“Damn it, I was out of line, wasn’t I?”
An hour or so later, Sebastian cradled his snifter of brandy as he sat on Nash’s excellently designed couch. The couch—designed to fit Nash’s body if he chose to nap on it—was in Nash’s library, which was less a library and more of a place for Nash
to pace and drink.
Actually, any place would become that eventually. Sebastian knew it was because Nash would otherwise find himself in far more fistfights than he was normally in. Which were a lot. Nash had a temper.
Although Seb had opinions, so perhaps he shouldn’t judge.
Nash took a swig of his drink. “It depends on what you mean by out of line.” He was sprawled on a chair to the right of the sofa, one leg swung over the arm. “If you think wanting to tell people that a business is out to take their money is the definition of out of line.” Nash spoke in a dry tone and Sebastian winced as he thought about what he’d said.
That everything—one’s life, one’s self—is dependent on luck. That had been the real truth of it, not that she would know that. She would only see that he had been about to scare off her customers. Not that his recent loss of luck was an excuse, but it was an explanation. He wasn’t usually—which was to say never—so tactless.
Or had he been, and nobody had ever told him, because he was a duke? Privilege existed in places he’d never even contemplated before.
Nash continued. “You only spoke the truth. Businesses do want to take people’s money. Otherwise, why else would it be a business?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t my place to share that information.”
“So you were an ass,” Nash said with a shrug. “It’s not like you haven’t been one before.” A pause. “For that matter, it isn’t as though I haven’t been an ass before.” As though that was news to anyone.
“It’s unusual for me to be an ass,” Sebastian said in a pointed tone. He got up and drank the rest of the brandy, beginning to pace.
He snorted as he realized what he was doing: drinking and pacing. Just like Nash.
“It’s probably the shock of hearing the news,” Nash commented. “What with being disinherited and all. And because of your position, it’s unlikely anyone ever allowed themselves to visibly express if you were an ass. Take comfort in that.” He spoke ruefully; it was likely Nash wished more people would tell him the truth. Nash hated lying nearly as much as he hated the trappings of his title.
Nash got up as he spoke, walking to the table where he’d placed the brandy, pouring himself another draught, then raising it in question to Sebastian.
“No, thank you. Not after nearly ruining that poor woman’s livelihood just because mine is gone. I feel like a churl.”
“Better a churl than a useless bastard.” Nash spoke in a flat tone. “Though you’re that now, too,” he said, sounding as though he were remarking on the weather and not on Sebastian’s complete change of status. Sometimes Sebastian wished Nash were a little less truthful.
Sebastian raised his brow. “A useless bastard? Too on the nose, unless I can find something to do with myself. Then that would make me a useful bastard. I don’t suppose you have an opening for a former duke, do you?”
Nash snorted. “I barely want to have a current duke.” Nash’s antipathy toward his title was a well-trod subject. Literally as well as figuratively, since he tended to pace as he voiced his aggravation.
“Look,” Nash said, his tone softening, “you’re arrogant, it’s in your nature as well as your nurture. That’s one of the reasons I tolerate you.” He returned to his seat on the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees.
Sebastian laughed in reply as Nash continued. “But you’re not unkind.” Nash spoke gruffly, unaccustomed as he was to sharing his thoughts. “You didn’t want to damage Miss Ivy’s business by scaring off her customers.” He shrugged, returning to his natural mien. “If anything, you believed that a well-informed customer would be likely to take more risks, since they’d have more confidence.”
Sebastian acknowledged Nash’s rare words with a nod of agreement. Even though the result had not been what he’d intended. And definitely not what she wanted. “If I were still a duke,” he began ruefully, sitting down on the sofa, “I could just glide with my entourage, drop a tremendous amount of money at the club, and discuss the high quality of play. That would secure Miss Ivy’s position in Society.”
But I’m not.
He rose, unable to keep himself still. “I’ll need to go apologize. I’ll also need to learn how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Along with how to not be a duke.”
Ouch.
Nash leaned against the back of the chair, looking like a king on a throne. “You can’t go tonight, it’s too late. You’d better go see Miss Ivy tomorrow, before the club opens. You can stay here if you want.”
“Since I have no better place to go,” Sebastian replied. And then he winced. “That sounds as though your house is a last resort, that’s not what I meant at all.”
“Shut up, I know what you meant.” Nash rose, striding over to the door and opening it wide. “Finan! Get your Irish arse in here!”
Nash’s butler, formerly his batman, walked into the room, a tolerant expression on his face. “Your Grace has requested my Irish arse?” he said. He nodded toward Sebastian. “Your Grace.”
“Not anymore,” Sebastian murmured.
“Seb is staying here tonight, make up his usual room.”
Finan nodded. “Do you need more brandy?” he asked, glancing over at the near-empty bottle.
“Not any for me tonight,” Sebastian replied. He already knew waking up tomorrow was going to be painful, given everything that had happened today. He didn’t want to add a hangover on top of it.
“Nor for me,” Nash added.
“Well, that’s a first,” Finan said.
Nash growled.
“Come up in a few minutes, Your Grace, the room should be ready for you.” Finan directed his words to Sebastian.
“Thank you, Finan.”
Finan raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “At least one of these dukes has a polite bone in his body. Unlike some I could mention.”
Sebastian snorted in laughter, making Nash glare at him.
“Just go take care of it,” Nash replied.
“Right away, Your Grace. Absolutely, Your Grace.” Finan walked briskly out of the room as Nash shook his head.
“Insolent bastard,” Nash muttered.
As though it bothered Nash at all—if anything, he’d probably see Finan’s impudence as a tribute.
“You know,” Nash said, “you can stay here for as long as you want.”
Sebastian took a deep breath at the reminder. “I could go home, Thad would be fine with it—”
“But you wouldn’t.” Nash knew him well.
“No. No, I wouldn’t. What my mother did, she did for her own security. Just so she wouldn’t have to survive on her own. I can’t do the same thing.”
Nash nodded. “I understand why, but don’t be an idiot. Stay here if you have nowhere else to go.” It was the closest Nash had ever come to admitting he cared.
“I won’t be an idiot, I promise.” At least not more than he already was. “Thank you. At least I have a few things to do tomorrow,” he continued, a hint of humor in his tone. “I’ll apologize to the lady, give Ana Maria the news, and then figure out what to do with the rest of my life. As well as where to live.”
“It’s a plan. I wish I could have that schedule,” Nash said, glancing around his comfortable room as though it were a prison.
Odd that Sebastian was the only one of the three of them who actually wanted a title—and was the only one who had no right to one.
“It’s too early for His Grace,” Finan said as Sebastian emerged from the guest bedroom. “Do you want I should wake him?” he added in a hopeful voice.
“No, don’t bother him.”
Sebastian had woken with his agenda fully on his mind, but with the added realization that he needed to get some things from his house before continuing.
And he did not want to see anyone, so he’d have to be swift and stealthy about it.
Which meant getting up earlier than he had ever gotten up before. Even earlier than the day before, when he’d had to go to the solicitor’s
office.
“I will bother him for his carriage, though,” Sebastian continued. “It can take me home, and then can wait for my bag. I believe I’ll be staying here for a few more nights.”
Finan didn’t say anything, just lifted his brows in surprise. Seb knew he’d get the truth of it all from Nash later anyway.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“Not that,” Sebastian replied, but Finan was already halfway down the stairs. “Not Your Grace anymore,” he murmured as he walked out the door into Nash’s carriage. Heading back to the home that was no longer his to retrieve the few items he would feel comfortable taking so he wouldn’t be venturing into his new life with only what he’d worn the night before.
“Fletchfield, I’ve just come to collect a few things.” Sebastian nodded to the butler, whose expression was a mix of sympathy and surprise. An expression he’d likely be seeing a lot in the future. If his former peers didn’t ignore him entirely.
He strode up the stairs to the landing, turning right to head to his room. To the duke’s room, that is.
“Your Grace!” Sebastian’s valet, Hodgkins, scurried into the room behind him. Sebastian took a deep breath to compose himself, then turned around. His valet’s expression was the same as usual, so the news still hadn’t broken. Sebastian would have to tell him himself.
Hodgkins had been one of the footmen prior to Sebastian’s father’s death, and Sebastian had always noted Hodgkins’s impeccable grooming and elegant style, even in the wardrobe his mother had deemed appropriate for a duke’s footman.
The late duke’s valet had wished to retire, and Sebastian hadn’t hesitated a moment before promoting Hodgkins to work as his own valet after his mother had died—the one his mother had insisted on was condescending and had only been given the position so he could report Sebastian’s goings-on to his mother.
Sebastian had kept the man quite busy, indulging in many goings-on prior to his parents’ deaths.
“Hodgkins, can you find my thickest boots?” They were likely downstairs, leaving Sebastian time to assess what he would need and start to pack.
Not that he had ever packed before. But apparently the rest of his life would be marked by things he had never done previously but would have to do now.
Never Kiss a Duke Page 4
