by Alyson Chase
Lady Mary shook her head. “This is what happens when you succumb to the compliments of an Italian glass maker. At least his skills in other areas surpassed his workmanship with mirrors. They will have to be replaced, of course.”
“Of course.” Netta rubbed her forehead, an ache forming.
“Look out!”
Netta ducked, dragging Lady Mary down to the floor with her as a pall-mall ball flew overhead and crashed into one of the mirrors. A shower of broken glass exploded from the impact, sending the women standing near it fleeing.
“Hmm.” Lady Mary cocked her head. “Perhaps I should have all the women take aim. It will be much easier to sweep out the mistake than have the heavy panes removed.”
Netta pressed her palms to the dark stone floor and dropped her head. She thought she pushed boundaries, but ever since stepping inside The Minerva Club, she realized she was but an amateur. These women were experts.
At least she now knew which direction was down. She patted the nice, solid floor before standing. “Shall we continue the tour?”
“Of course.” Lady Mary flicked her skirts and marched ahead. “This, as I said, was to be our hall of mirrors. An homage to Versailles. You must come back and see it when I’ve remodeled.”
Netta nodded and skirted around a tumble of fencing swords on the floor, one of the uncapped points tugging at her gown. If she survived this visit.
“And this is our tavern.” Lady Mary swept her hand to indicate the room decorated in pearl grey and lavender. A long oak bar ran the length of the far wall, and a man in a powdered wig and cheeks stood behind it serving drinks. “We had to hire a new bartender. The last one never refused service and some of these women”—she leaned towards Netta and cupped her mouth with her hand—“don’t know when to say no. It’s almost as though they never snuck their husbands’ whisky before.”
Netta bit back her smile. “How positively unimaginative of them.”
“Exactly.”
A cheer rose from the corner where a table had been set up with a chess board. A woman in a jade-green caftan held up her black queen in victory.
“Your club is an amusement parlor then?” She trailed after Lady Mary through a room with a thick carpet and a game of lawn darts in play.
“In large part.” She finger-waved a man in full livery over and whispered something into his ear. He nodded and glided away. Lady Mary resumed her march. “Women need to learn how to have fun. Life can be deadly serious at times; we women need a place to relieve the pressure. But we also have a library and a conversation parlor where many a debate have been held.”
She threw open a wide set of double doors and circled the new room to raise the flames of the gas lamps. “We also have this stage where we hope to invite lecturers to come speak.”
Netta stepped inside, and her heart leapt. She clapped her hands together. It was small, a mere eight by ten feet, but there along the back wall was the most darling stage she had yet seen. She wanted to fold it up, put it in her pocket, and take it about with her everywhere.
Lady Mary’s eyes crinkled. “And of course, the odd performance would be lovely, as well.”
Netta had told the woman she was an actress. After John discovered it, Netta hadn’t wanted to keep that truth from Lady Mary. And now she was pleased she hadn’t.
She skipped to the raised platform. It was made of solid teak, the edges carved with elaborate scroll-work. Cherubs peeked out at each corner. She hurried to the stairs and hopped up the three steps to stand upon it. The stage was sturdy beneath her feet, the grain of the wood giving its surface a sultry luster. She pushed open the hunter green curtains behind it.
“There’s another room!” Netta hooked the rope on the wall around the curtain, holding it open. “With enough space for small sets.”
Lady Mary joined her. “And that hallway there not only leads to the kitchens and an outdoor exit, it also contains several chambers that could be used as dressing rooms. Now if only I knew any actresses who’d care to put on a small performance for our motley group.”
“It’s absolutely charming.” Netta stepped to center-stage and twirled. “I’d be honored to perform here any time. And I’m certain my friend, Cerise, would too.”
“Good.” Lady Mary pushed her spectacles up her nose and turned for the steps, Netta trailing slowly behind. “And now that you’ve seen the place, what say you to becoming a member?”
Netta gave one last look at the small stage before following her out the door. “I would love to but I’m afraid it’s not within my resources to join a club.”
“I think we can come to some arrangement. Not everything is about money.”
No. Netta’s throat tightened. But for the past six years her life had revolved around it. How much she could earn, how much she could save, all for the end game of taking her sister to America.
That country had once seemed her savior. Now it just seemed lonely. She would know no one but her sister. There would be no one there to make her laugh. No one to tease and inflame.
There would be no John Chaucer.
“Would you like a drink, my dear?” Lady Mary asked when they reached the tavern.
“Yes.” Netta swallowed, her mouth gone dry. “Yes, I quite think I would.”
Lady Mary waggled another finger, and the barkeep put two drinks on a tray and headed their way. She picked up a cut-crystal tumbler and took a sip. “Ah. The Marie Antoinette. It must be Thursday.”
Netta took her own glass and lifted it to her mouth. The alcohol fumes wafting off of it made her eyes burn, but she took a small sip. And coughed. “Lovely.”
“I think so.” Lady Mary raised her glass. “Catherine! I didn’t expect to see you today. Come join us.”
Netta glanced over her shoulder, and everything in her stilled. The Dowager Marchioness of Mallen, otherwise known as John’s grandmother, toddled towards them. She leaned heavily on a cane, her pale peach lace train dragging slowly behind her gown. Her chin was tipped up, the feather in her turban dipping backwards, making the slow march seem regal.
Now Netta knew where John had inherited his sense of style.
Fortunately, he hadn’t inherited the woman’s stone-cold heart.
The woman inclined her head when she reached them. “Lady Mary. I am all amazement each time I visit. Your eccentricities have finally found a home.”
Netta narrowed her eyes. “I think The Minerva Club is lovely. Just like Lady Mary.”
The dowager turned faded blue eyes her way. “Isn’t that what I said?”
“Now no more of that ‘lady’ business.” Lady Mary waggled that powerful finger again, and another drink appeared for John’s grandmother. “In this club we don’t tolerate all those titles. I’m just Mary. Or May, if the spirit takes you.” One edge of her lips lifted. “And I always take ‘eccentric’ as a compliment, dear. No need to defend me.”
Netta inclined her head. Of course, Lady Mary would be welcoming of all. It did her credit.
But that didn’t mean Netta had to be gracious. “I am surprised to learn you are a member of The Minerva, Catherine. From what I’ve heard of you, I would have thought the barest whisper of impropriety would have kept you far away.”
The dowager raised an eyebrow, her haughtiness so reminiscent of John’s it stole Netta’s breath. “And you are?”
“This is Miss Netta Courtney,” Mary said. “She is also a particular friend of your grandson’s. The earl,” she clarified.
“Were you the woman with him at the theatre?” Catherine lifted a quizzing glass that hung on a gold chain around her neck and peered through it. “I would blame my failing eyesight, but you did quite a good job of hiding your face on your own.”
“Thank you.” Mary wasn’t the only one who could take odd compliments.
They all studied their drinks for an awkward moment.
Catherine finally cleared her throat. “And how is my grandson? In good
health, I hope.”
“I would say as fine as ever, but we only recently became acquainted.” Netta drummed her fingers on her glass. “And as you haven’t seen him since he was a boy, you won’t be able to give me any frame of reference. It seems there was a large portion of his early life where Summerset’s health and welfare were sorely neglected.”
The dowager flushed and looked to Mary, who shrugged. “You’ve started this path of redemption, Catherine, and I’m afraid it is one you must walk alone. But as much as my curiosity matches Netta’s, there are only three people you need answer to, and none of them are Netta or myself.”
“Redemption?” Netta huffed. She didn’t think she believed in it, at least not for someone who could turn her back on three hungry children.
The woman’s eyes went watery.
Netta squeezed her glass, the crystal digging into her palm. She would not feel badly for the woman. She would not.
Besides, it must be a ploy. A woman who could deny her grandchildren didn’t have the capacity to cry. It was all a trick to engage her sympathies.
Catherine sniffed and turned her face, but not before a single tear coursed down her wrinkled cheek.
“I’m so sorry! I take it all back.” Netta’s words tripped over each other. Confound it, she’d made an old woman cry. “From what John said, I didn’t think my words could upset you. Please pay me no mind,” she implored. If the dowager started crying then Netta would start, and she didn’t cry pretty.
“Whatever my grandson has said about me I deserve.” Catherine dabbed at her eyes with a lavender-scented handkerchief. “It’s no excuse, but you can’t know how much I hated their father. And how much I missed my daughter. Looking at those boys was like a knife to the heart.”
“Now, now.” Mary patted the woman’s hand. “There’s no blubbering in my club. It does no good, and I won’t have it.”
Netta stepped forwards. “Yes, please do stop. It was horrible of me to bring the subject up. I promise not to do so again. Except—” She bit her lip.
Catherine took a deep breath. “Except what?”
“Well…” She rubbed her thumb along the rim of her glass. “It does seem a shame that you and Summerset live in the same city but never see one another. If your attitude has changed and you wish to reconcile—”
“It has and I do.” Catherine tapped the end of her walking stick onto the floor for emphasis.
“Then perhaps there is something we should do about it.” John would be changing her life for the better, transforming it with the money he would give her. He would never know how much he’d saved her.
And she wanted to leave him better off, too. Yes, getting his ore mine back would help him financially, but it wouldn’t transform his life.
Forgiving his grandmother, reestablishing a relationship, however, could be life-altering.
Damned if she knew how to accomplish it though.
She sipped her drink.
“What were you thinking?” Mary asked.
“Nothing yet.” The task would require plotting. Cunning. Luckily, she had that in spades. “But give me a minute and I’ll come up with something good.”
Chapter Eighteen
John stared at the ceiling of his library, one foot propped on the armrest of the settee he lay upon, the other dangling off the seat, swinging in a gentle circle. “I don’t want to do it so I’m not going to do it. You can harass me until the stars go dark, and I won’t change my mind.”
“Lovely,” Montague said. “We’ve come to the point of the conversation where Summerset acts the child. He even lounges about on the furniture, just as my son would. My three-year-old son,” he added pointedly.
Well, that was rich coming from the man sitting in John’s chair with his own feet propped up on his desk.
“I didn’t realize one of the misfortunes of age was the inability to sit comfortably.” He already suffered from a knee that was wont to crackle as he climbed stairs and a decreased tolerance for spirits. Now he couldn’t lounge? John scowled. He hated growing older. But he rolled into a seated position.
Rothchild ran a hand through his hair. “You must see reason. This is a matter of state security. Liverpool will provide assistance, and he has a right to know about any plot against England. I realize you’re sulky since he released you from service, but that doesn’t excuse playing light with our national security.”
Fire churned in John’s gut. “I’m not playing light. I’m playing to win.”
Sutton straightened from the wall. “As do we all. But Liverpool has contacts we do not. He can provide information we don’t have access to. Why do you resist seeing him?”
“His priorities do not mirror my own.” John leaned forwards and braced his forearms on his thighs. “In addition to discovering Sudworth’s plot, I must have the deed back to my brother’s home. Without those ore deposits, my holdings will take a hit. One from which they cannot recover.”
He tapped his heel against the floor. His houses in Bath and Ramsgate would have to be sold. Not to mention his villas in Tuscany and Barbados.
The amounts he paid monthly for his wardrobe alone supported four entire families of tailors. Without that steel operation, he would be forced to wear simple clothes. Sell off his jewels one by one. He would be plain. Diminished. He would be…nothing.
The disgust in his grandmother’s eyes haunted him. Hunted him. Swamping his memories.
His heartbeat thrashed in his ears. He jerked on the knot of his cravat, needing more air. No, he wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t let an arsewipe like Sudworth reduce him to insignificance. He’d worked too damn hard. He would never be poor again.
“Is that one smelt so important?” Montague dropped a boot to the floor with a thud. “You still have various other enterprises. Your gunpowder mill for example.”
“Due to our government’s appalling dearth of wars currently, it has come to a near standstill.” A circumstance he could never complain about. He’d seen too many good men die on the battlefields to want his profit to come at peace’s expense.
Rothchild pulled a cheroot from his pocket and lit it from a lump of coal from the fireplace. He inhaled deeply, staring at John through the smoke. “You could always go back into your laboratory,” he said quietly. “You created one new alloy; you could create another. One using a different source of ore.”
John’s chest tightened. “That isn’t an option.” Wil harangued him about it, then Netta, and now Rothchild took up the task. It was a damned conspiracy.
His friends all gave each other looks. One that John didn’t appreciate.
“You know why,” he ground out.
“It was an accident.” Montague ran his hand through his hair. “How long will you punish yourself?”
“I’m not the one who was punished.” John stood and stalked across the room. He’d entertained this conversation long enough.
Sutton took his arm as he passed. “This woman of yours—”
“Yes?” John didn’t want to hear talk of Netta. His mind was already a confused morass with thoughts of her; he didn’t need his friends complicating the issue with their insinuations and veiled remarks.
He should distance himself from her, stay out of her bed. That would be the smart thing to do to keep his head clear and succeed with his mission.
He didn’t want to.
“She may be smart and capable, but the plan you propose is not without danger.” Sutton scrubbed his face with his large paw. “If you do lose and don’t turn her over to Sudworth, he may take that very poorly. Is she truly prepared? Are you?”
“I won’t lose.” He’d already ordered something that would ensure his victory. “And I’ll make damned certain nothing untoward happens to her.”
“No matter how good a plan, there are always unforeseen circumstances.” Rothchild tossed the cheroot in the fireplace. “Our past histories are proof enough of that.”
“Are you volunteering to assist?” John asked.
Rothchild dipped his chin and gave him a reproachful look. “I’ll be there. We’ll all be there. You know we will. But it would be better, safer, if Liverpool’s men were in on it, too.”
John’s shoulders sagged. Rothchild was right. John should have known his friends would have his back. But a small part of him had worried they’d become too content in their retirement to pick up arms again. That they would consider his problem of a lost ore mine unworthy of their time.
Not that he needed their help.
But it wouldn’t hurt.
He blew out his cheeks. He’d been an idiot. Of course his friends would volunteer. If the issue was important to John, it was important to all of them. That’s how their friendship worked.
It also wouldn’t hurt to speak with Liverpool. The prime minister’s priorities might be different but that didn’t mean they weren’t compatible.
And if their priorities diverged, well, John wasn’t one of the prime minister’s spies. He didn’t have to do as the man wanted.
“All right.” He nodded to Sutton. “Let’s go pay a visit to our former employer.”
The ride to Liverpool’s residence was tense, not least because they’d insisted on all jamming into Rothchild’s carriage. Almost as if his friends were afraid he’d change his mind if they let him out of their sight.
“Will you move your fat arse?” John pressed his elbow into Dunkeld’s side and levered out from between the Scotsman and Sutton. “I feel like the meat in a bloody ruffian sandwich.”
Dunkeld sniffed. “My arse is in perfect proportion to the rest of my body. It’s hardly my fault you’re slender enough to snap like a twig.” But he shifted, giving John an inch more breathing space.
“Gentlemen, can we stop with the gratuitous insults?” Montague asked. He leaned into the corner of the carriage and stretched his arm along the back rest. With just him and Rothchild on the seat opposite, he could spread his body and take up as much room as he liked.
