And Nash—Nash much preferred the society of ex-soldiers, sailors, merchants, and anybody who wasn’t an aristocrat to anybody in Society. When he wasn’t roaming the streets of London in search of a fight.
Oh. She was still waiting for his reply, not pondering his change of circumstances. Or his friend’s lowly predilections.
Given that she didn’t know about either of them. “I suppose because I’d never thought of it, not until now.” Because I was too occupied with being ducal and whatnot.
“Not that I want you to open your own establishment,” she said quickly. “Would you mind if I used some of your ideas?” She wrinkled her brow. “What is it you do, anyway? I hadn’t asked yet, that was very rude of me.”
He waved his hand. “This and that.”
“Oh,” she replied, a slight frown on her face. “I would be happy to offer you payment for what we’ve discussed.”
Well. Payment. He’d never had to think along those lines before. “Thank you. For now, if you wouldn’t mind pouring me some more whiskey, that would do.” He pushed his glass across the desk. She poured a generous amount and pushed it back, then poured more in her own glass. Less than his, but still enough.
“To new ideas,” she said, raising her glass.
“To new ideas,” he echoed.
His new idea? That he wished he could find a way to drink whiskey during the day while still making a living.
But that wasn’t possible. Or if it was, it meant being a duke, and he’d already tried that and been rejected. Unfortunately, he had no excuse anymore. He needed to return to Nash’s and ponder his future. He finished his drink, then rose and bowed.
“Thank you for an engaging afternoon.” And he meant it—he hadn’t been so mentally engaged in years, if ever. Mostly he said things and people agreed: “Should we take to your bed for a night of pleasure?” “Could I have that waistcoat in four different shades of red?” “I would like to purchase that horse.” Things like that.
“Thank you, Mr. de Silva,” she replied, rising from her chair.
He nodded again, then turned and walked out of the room, conscious that he’d just spent time with an adult woman to whom he wasn’t related that hadn’t involved parts of their anatomy.
He’d have to get used to new things every day from now on.
It was far later than she’d thought when she finally glanced at the clock. She’d had to rush to get dressed for the evening after his departure, and she’d barely had time to down a cup of tea with Octavia, their daily ritual, before starting work.
The club had been exceedingly busy all evening, which was gratifying, but exhausting.
But it was now just after two o’clock in the morning, several hours since she’d returned home, and the last player had gone, and she could finally relax.
“That will be all, Henry.” Ivy turned to address the rest of the staff. “Everyone, we’re finished for the night. Good work.”
The staff nodded, filing out as they placed the various tools of their profession on the shelves close to the door. Henry was the last to go, giving Ivy one last searching look. She gave him a reassuring smile. He was always concerned when there was a lot of cash on the premises, and there was a lot of cash this evening.
Octavia had snuck down again wearing her mask, taking a place behind the same table as the evening before. But Lady Massingley had returned as well, and had continued to lose, so Ivy had suppressed her wish to march her sister back upstairs.
It had been an excellent night overall for Miss Ivy’s following the excellent afternoon for personal Ivy; Mr. de Silva had spent a long time in her office, both of them discussing various ideas for the club. Some of them were ridiculous, of course, but there were many that would distinguish Miss Ivy’s from the other gambling houses, especially Crockford’s, which was by far the biggest establishment in London.
Ivy could only hope for a fraction of Crockford’s success, but that fraction might be larger if she implemented these innovations. Perhaps more importantly, Mr. de Silva had talked to her as an equal—not as a foolish woman who was trying to make a go of a business.
“Why are you all flushed?” Octavia narrowed her eyes as she stood in front of her sister. “What have you been doing?”
Ivy planted her hands on her hips, relieved to have a distraction from her . . . distracting thoughts.
“What have I been doing?” she retorted in a self-righteous tone. “I have not been acting as a dealer against my older sister and guardian’s express wishes.”
Octavia rolled her eyes. So much for an older sister’s authority.
“I was helping. Lady Massingley lost everything she brought with her, which means the club gained. That would not have been possible without my assistance.”
“Oh, believe me, Lady Massingley would have found a way to lose without you,” Ivy said in a dry tone of voice.
“It was so much fun, Ivy,” Octavia said, sounding far too enthusiastic. “You have to let me work down here. You don’t know how boring it is up above stairs in the evening, knowing there is all this happening while I am stuck up there. And with the kittens gone, there isn’t even any company.”
“Poor you. Having to relax in the evening, perhaps reading a salacious novel, while your sister works to keep a roof over your head.”
“That’s just it,” Octavia said triumphantly. “If we both work here, we are both keeping a roof over our heads. Why should you bear all of this alone?”
“Because,” Ivy replied, taking her sister’s arm and walking with her toward the door leading to upstairs, “you deserve to have whatever future you want. And that would not be possible if you work here.” You are my responsibility. I won’t have you getting entangled in this, not when it means no respectable gentleman will have you.
She had given up her own hopes and dreams the evening her father had wagered her. But she wouldn’t give up on Octavia’s.
Although her sister was proving to be an asset.
Stop thinking that, she reminded herself sternly.
Octavia dragged her feet, wriggling her arm to try to get Ivy to let go. She might be close to an adult, but she still behaved like a child sometimes. “When are you going to let me choose the future I want, Ivy?”
She didn’t sound childish, however. She sounded determined.
“You don’t want this.” Even to her own ears, Ivy’s words sounded hesitant.
“Isn’t that up to—?”
But the rest of Octavia’s words were lost as both women heard a crash from the front door and turned toward the noise. A figure burst in, falling onto the nearest table. Another figure followed, brandishing what appeared to be—a cribbage board?—over his head.
Ivy wished Henry hadn’t left, after all.
Her eyes darted around for any kind of weapon. A deck of cards wasn’t going to do anything. Nor were the various pairs of dice left on the table. And the roulette wheel was fastened securely.
Finally, she saw a broom in the corner, left after the staff had swept up, and seized it, hoisting it over her head with the brush part at the very top. No doubt she looked ridiculous, but she didn’t think the intruders would offer a critique of her defensive stance.
And if they did, she would brain them with her broom.
Which, to be honest, she was planning on doing anyway. She raised the broom, whirling it in the air as she tried to figure out which miscreant she should hit first.
“Ivy!”
Octavia’s shout made her pause, the broom frozen in the air.
“Look!”
Ivy followed where Octavia was pointing, recognizing Mr. de Silva as the second of the intruders. He met her gaze, nodding briefly before launching himself onto the other man’s back. “Caught him trying to break in,” Mr. de Silva called. The man twisted, but was unable to dislodge Mr. de Silva, whose delighted expression would have made Ivy laugh, if the situation wasn’t so dire.
He lifted the cribbage board into the air and struc
k it down with a satisfying thwack onto the other man’s head, making the man stumble onto the table, sending Mr. de Silva flying over the man’s head and the table, landing on the floor on the other side.
The man he’d struck slumped onto the table, suddenly still. Ivy held her broom up high as she cautiously approached him.
“Octavia, see to Mr. de Silva, please,” she ordered.
Ivy peered at the would-be burglar, whose face was on the green felt of the table. Blood leaked from his nose, a dark stain spreading rapidly on the table. Damn it. She had just gotten this table recovered. She could see the man’s body rising with his breath, so she knew he hadn’t been irreparably damaged by the cribbage board.
Death by cribbage board would be very difficult to explain to the authorities.
Now she had to figure out what to do with him. What to do with both of them.
“He’s unconscious, but otherwise fine,” Octavia said, returning to stand beside Ivy. “Is that one dead?” Her tone wasn’t appalled, and Ivy wondered if she had done irreparable damage to her sister’s character by exposing her to this world.
Then again, this was the first such incident they’d ever had. So perhaps it had been part of Octavia’s makeup all along.
So maybe she did belong on the gambling floor?
That was a question for another time, however. Now she had a fallen criminal and a fallen hero to worry about.
“Can you go out and find a policeman? Just wait at the entrance if there isn’t one right away.” The last thing she needed was for her daring sister to go venturing into London in the middle of the night.
When she’d first opened, Ivy had spoken with the chief constable in the area, discovering he had a penchant for excellent food, and therefore making sure she always brought out a plate of Mac’s best dishes when he was around. In exchange, Chief Constable Tildon had promised regular police visits.
“Can’t we just punish him ourselves?” Octavia leaned in to peer at the thief’s face. “Although his nose appears to be broken, so perhaps that is punishment enough. You just had that table re-covered, didn’t you?” She made a tsking noise. “Remarkable they both managed to knock themselves out.”
“Go fetch the policeman,” Ivy ordered, nudging her sister near the door.
“I’ll deal with you in a moment,” she said to the still-unconscious thief, stepping to the other side of the table and bending down to look at Mr. de Silva.
Thankfully, his nose wasn’t broken. Given that it was such a nice nose. He stirred as she looked at him, and she exhaled in relief. She wouldn’t want him to have to go to hospital because he was defending her club.
With a cribbage board.
Which was odd, to say the least.
She shrugged, then placed her palm on his forehead, smoothing a few strands of hair away from his face. He moaned, and she murmured some soothing noises in his general direction.
“Constable Duxworth is here, Ivy,” Octavia said. Ivy rose and turned, recognizing the policeman as a regular patroller.
“This is the man who tried to rob us,” Octavia continued, pointing at the man on the table. Constable Duxworth, a middle-aged man with an impressive mustache, leaned around the table to take a look at Mr. de Silva.
“And this one, too?”
“No, no, not at all,” Ivy replied hurriedly. “He saved us. We’ll be responsible for him, if you can just take this one away.”
Constable Duxworth gave her a skeptical look, but because she’d been on the receiving end of several such looks since she’d opened, she didn’t let it bother her.
“I’ll take him down to the station. He won’t be bothering you young ladies any longer.” He spoke in a patronizing tone.
Ivy placed her hand on Octavia’s arm as she felt her sister start to bristle.
“Thank you, Constable.”
He grabbed the man by the back of his collar, lifting his head off the table, then turned to place the man’s weight on his back, beginning to drag him out of the club. Ivy and Octavia followed, Ivy wincing at how roughly Constable Duxworth was treating his prisoner.
Not that she felt sorry for the man, but all the jouncing he was undergoing was going to hurt when he eventually woke up.
“Thank you, Constable,” Ivy said again before shutting the door. She leaned against it, taking a few deep breaths. She hadn’t allowed it to register during the fracas, but her heart was racing, and she was in a heightened state of panic. And that was even before she dealt with Mr. de Silva, who had already made her heart race.
“What do we do about him?” Octavia said, nodding toward the man in question.
Both sisters looked at him, still slumped on the floor. Ivy supposed she could have tried to make him more comfortable, but he was mostly unconscious.
“Uh—do you think we can bring him to our apartments? He can sleep in the spare room.”
Octavia gave Ivy a skeptical glance. “You mean where we put our things when we don’t know where to put them?” She looked back at Mr. de Silva. “I don’t know this gentleman, but he is clearly a gentleman. He’s not going to want to be stuffed among our old dolls, your abandoned knitting projects, and all our books.”
“He doesn’t have a choice, does he?” Ivy retorted. “Either he stays on our floor here, or he goes to sleep with Mrs. Buttercup.”
Octavia snorted. “Mrs. Buttercup is not that kind of doll!” She regarded Mr. de Silva as though calculating. “We can probably bring him through to our apartments between the two of us. You’re short, but you’re strong.”
“Thank you for the praise,” Ivy said dryly. “You take his legs, I’ll take his shoulders.”
By the time they’d gotten Mr. de Silva to the spare room, Ivy had soaked through her clothing and Octavia had cursed her no fewer than five times.
Mr. de Silva mumbled occasionally, but offered no assistance otherwise.
“He’s very handsome,” Octavia remarked as Ivy drew up the covers under his chin.
“Oh, is he? I hadn’t noticed,” Ivy replied. There was never an inopportune time to practice her bluffing.
“He is! Just look at him.”
Ivy smothered a grin, delighted at her success. I have looked at him, sister. I have.
Chapter Five
Sebastian cautiously opened one eye, then the other, uttering an audible groan at the light flooding the room. Why did his head hurt so much? Was it possible he had drunk that much?
And why hadn’t Hodgkins closed the drapes? He knew Sebastian didn’t like to wake until well past noon. Keeping the room dark was essential for an uninterrupted sleep.
Not to mention, why was his ceiling so close to his face? Had it been moved in the night?
Although that was ridiculous. Clearly he was not in his own bedroom. But where the hell was he?
“You’re awake,” a voice said. A female voice. One he thought he recognized, but everything felt and sounded fuzzy. Seb turned his head to where the voice came from, wincing at the pain.
“Don’t move too quickly, you’ll just get a headache.”
“I already have one,” Seb growled in reply.
A cool hand was placed on his forehead, and Seb closed his eyes, nearly drifting off to sleep again. This bed was more comfortable than his own. He congratulated himself on his choice of bed partners last night—a comfortable bed was a welcome bonus to whatever sport he’d engaged in.
“Who are you?” he muttered. Rude not to remember who he’d spent the night with, but it was ruder to pretend to remember and then get caught out in a lie.
“Miss Ivy,” the voice said in an amused tone.
“Ah, Miss Ivy,” Seb repeated, his brain sifting through his memory. And then his eyes shot open, and he stared at her standing above him. She wore a plain blue gown, her hair scraped back from her face. Her expression was concerned, and he wondered just what he’d done to elicit that reaction.
He hadn’t been disappointing, had he? He’d never disappointed a woman i
n his life. At least not in that way.
“Did we . . . ?” he began.
Because if they had, and he couldn’t remember, he was going to be furious with himself.
“Certainly not!” Miss Ivy snatched her hand away, folding her arms over her chest. She had a lovely bosom. “You don’t remember?”
“Enlighten me,” he said, stretching his fingers out to touch her gown. It was worn, and soft to the touch.
She snatched it away, looking ruffled. “I don’t know why you had returned, but you did a great deed last night.”
He smirked.
“Not that kind of deed,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “Goodness, you’d think after being knocked unconscious you wouldn’t be quite so determined in your rakish pursuits.”
“Knocked unconscious?” No wonder he felt as though he’d been . . . knocked unconscious. “Rakish pursuits?” he added, his tone humorous.
“Yes, as I said, you returned as there was a man trying to rob the club. My sister and I were alone. I don’t know what would have happened if you—”
“So I was a hero,” he pronounced with satisfaction.
He didn’t have to look at her to know she had an aggravated expression on her face.
He shouldn’t tease her, but it was just so much fun.
“Of sorts. You hit the man on the head with a cribbage board.”
That sounded odd. And not at all like him. If he were going to hit someone, he’d use his fists.
“And then you tripped on one of the tables and fell on your head.” Her tone, and her description of the event, did not seem heroic. In the least.
He frowned. “Ah. So I am in your home?”
“Yes. We do have to thank you, Mr. de Silva. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t returned—”
“Mr. de Silva?” he repeated, entirely confused.
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