by Eva Leigh
“One for me,” Greyland directed his servant, “one for the Duke of Northfield.”
Tom took an ebony-handled knife from the butler. “Plan on forcing me to fight you for my life?”
“All shall become comprehensible, if you can manage to endure a two-minute wait.” Greyland waved off his servant’s offer of assistance and slipped his arms into his coat. “There. We are fortified. Follow me.”
Moments later, Tom and his friend ambled the gravel paths that wove through Greyland’s substantial garden, the stones crunching beneath their boots. Tom struggled to keep his stride easy, though he wanted to run and run until his legs gave out beneath him. He made himself look around and study his surroundings. Trees planted alongside the paths reached bare arms up to the ash-colored sky, and the fountains were dry vessels holding crisp, brown leaves. The rose bushes had all been trimmed back, as well.
But not everything was asleep or dead in Greyland’s garden. An ambitious gardener had planted late-flowering shrubs, and more silvery frost-glazed leaves and grasses. It held a spare, stern beauty.
“Going for a ride or taking a walk in the park means we risk being set upon by importunate MPs,” Greyland said, his breath misting the air. “The garden gives us room to move without having to endure fulsome, ingratiating praise or heated jeremiads.”
“Surprised anyone would subject dukes to a lecture,” Tom said in disbelief. “And lecturing you, well, that takes bollocks of iron.”
A corner of Greyland’s mouth hitched. “A rare occurrence, but when one proposes levying higher taxes on this nation’s most affluent, one should expect a certain amount of protestations.” His friend bent down and picked up two slender branches which lay across the path. He handed one to Tom.
“We’re to practice our ripostes and feints?” Tom swung the branch like a fencing sabre through the air.
“Observe.” Greyland produced his knife and used the blade to scrape off bark. He leaned against a low wall. “Whittling isn’t just for sailors and farmers.”
Tom watched Greyland for several moments, learning the way of moving a knife over wood, and then his own hands quickly fell into the rhythm of whittling, and fragile calm settled over him. Which, he supposed, had been Greyland’s intention all along.
They worked silently for several moments, the only sounds coming from the rasp of metal against wood. Within the confines of Tom’s mind, however, all was noise and confusion as though a dozen carriages collided.
He careened off into the ether, nothing holding him down or keeping him steady. His father—the source of his gravity—had been proven to be full of duplicity and secrets, and with that gone, the world had no balance.
The blade of his knife skittered across the wood he held, and he narrowly missed cutting the hell out of his finger. He cursed softly.
“I’ve something to tell you,” he said abruptly. “Something that cannot be repeated. To anyone—that goes for the duchess, as well.”
“I’d trust Cass with everything, including my life.”
“I can take no chances.” Tom tried to shove away his need to speak to someone, anyone. “Never mind—I’ll not burden you with it.”
He moved to stride away, but Greyland’s hand on his arm stopped him. “I swear to you,” his friend said, his tone low and sincere, “I’ll tell no one of your confidence.”
Tom drew in a breath. “Have you heard of the Orchid Club?” It seemed unlikely, given his friend’s moral rectitude, and Tom never discussed his weekly visits to the establishment with anyone.
A stain of color appeared on Greyland’s cheeks, surprising Tom. “I am aware of it.”
Well . . . how unforeseen.
But he couldn’t be distracted by his astonishment. “It . . .” He struggled to speak, even as the demand to confess pushed him from the inside out. Finally, he blurted, “My father owned it. And now I do.”
To his credit, Greyland’s expression barely changed, save for his brows edging up slightly. “That is unexpected.”
“I only learned this afternoon. The manager delivered my share of the profits today.”
Better to leave out the fact that Tom and the manager had just spent a torrid night together—it would only complicate an already thorny situation.
“My father,” he growled. “My father. He’d deliberately positioned himself as a bastion of decency, while maintaining ownership of the Orchid Club.”
Tom threw his branch away, and it careened in a spinning arc over the hedges. He felt himself in a similar trajectory, flung into the air as he twisted in confusion.
“If anyone learned of this,” he said tightly, “the family name would be destroyed. My mother, Maeve—they’d have to retreat from Society entirely. How can Maeve marry with the disgrace poisoning her reputation? Fuck.” A crushing weight pressed down.
His father had willingly gambled with the welfare of his family, courted scandal. And Tom would never know why the late duke would take such a risk.
Greyland faced him. “The manager intends to blackmail you?”
“She’ll maintain her silence,” Tom said with certainty.
His friend began to walk again and Tom kept pace beside him. In a clipped voice, Greyland said, “You’ll need to decide your next course of action.”
“There’s the hell of it,” Tom snarled. “I don’t know what to do.”
“While Ellingsworth—I mean, Lord Blakemere—knows military strategy,” Greyland said, “I’m an expert when it comes to navigating the treacherous waters of Society. Every step must be considered, weighed, analyzed.”
“Not my usual modus operandi,” Tom said wryly. “This entire world of respectability is not on my map. Here be dragons.”
“The dragons will swallow you and your family whole if you’re not careful, and do it all with a haughty smirk.” His friend shot him a measuring look. “The safest course would be to shutter the club immediately.”
“The safest course,” Tom said grimly, “isn’t necessarily the kindest action.”
“You have your family’s reputation at stake.” Greyland frowned. “What other factors need to be considered?”
Lucia’s plea spun around Tom’s head in dizzying circles. Her dark eyes haunted him—as did the feel of her skin.
Grant me one favor. Come to the club tomorrow night.
“For the first thirty-two years of my life,” he said, stopping beside the dry fountain, “I’d done everything I could to ensure my life was as uncomplicated as possible. Now I’m trapped in a maze. In the dark.”
“Whatever your choice,” Greyland said with surprising kindness, “I know you’ll act with the best of intentions.”
“And pave the road to Hell with them.” Bitterness coated Tom’s words.
“You need not be perfect, Northfield,” Greyland said. “What matters is here.” He knocked the side of his fist into Tom’s chest, and Tom rocked back slightly from his friend’s strength.
“Mayhap you won’t be the best,” Greyland said sagely, “but you’ll do your best.”
Sudden emotion thickened in Tom’s throat. “So it’s true, then.”
“What’s true?” His friend looked puzzled.
“That Her Grace performed the same magic as Aphrodite did for Pygmalion. Turned cold ivory into flesh.”
Greyland’s frown deepened, yet amusement in his gaze softened its severity. “I wasn’t made of ivory, goddamn it.” His lips quirked. “I was granite.” His expression sobered. “I don’t know if I provided you any solace.”
“An opportunity to vent is always welcome.” In truth, though nothing had been resolved, Tom noted how the punishing weight of secrets felt a little lighter, his breath coming easier.
His friend’s low, quick laugh turned to vapor in the chill air. “Let’s repair inside for some excellent brandy before our nethers become frostbitten. You’ll stay for supper, of course.”
A night watching Greyland and his duchess trading secret, loving smiles? Tom would mu
ch rather be in bed with Amina—Lucia—disporting themselves until sunrise.
Good Christ, she was in his employ.
Yet for all the complications between them, he needed to decide what to do about the club. It would be so much easier to simply pretend there was only one risk associated with it—the threat to his family—but Lucia had been adamant that he consider the livelihoods of the establishment’s staff.
Though he’d seen the masked men and women who provided refreshments and kept the place orderly, he knew nothing about them. And he would never know, unless he took Lucia up on her offer and observed how the club truly functioned. To see it as a business.
He’d often accused his father of not seeing the other side of an argument, and willfully sticking to one version of the truth. If Tom didn’t go to the Orchid Club to see it behind the scenes, he’d be guilty of the same determined ignorance—and that, he couldn’t tolerate.
His resolve firmed. On the morrow, he’d return to the club, not as a guest, but as the owner.
“My thanks,” he said, trailing after Greyland as they climbed the steps to the terrace. “We will have that supper together some other time. I’ll make for poor company tonight.”
“As you wish.” Greyland held the French door that opened into a rear-facing parlor. “It’s probably for the best. Cassandra would challenge you to a game of cards, and I have it on excellent authority that she cheats.”
Chapter 10
“A profitable Friday night,” Elspeth said as she and Lucia awaited guests in the foyer.
“It’s not yet eleven,” Lucia felt obliged to point out. Like bees buzzing in her belly, nerves made themselves known. “The crowd might thin.”
“Or, there might be a rush at midnight and we’ll have our best evening yet. The prince himself might come a-calling.” Elspeth wrapped an arm around Lucia’s shoulders. “Anything might happen.”
“That’s the beauty of chance,” Lucia said. “It can’t be predicted.”
There were two risks tonight—adding a second night to the Orchid Club’s hours of operation, and the possibility of Tom coming.
The evening’s take might not be enough to compensate for the staff’s extra hours of employment. She would feel the loss more keenly than anyone. She refused to deprive her workers, so she’d set aside her own money, just to be certain that her poor business decision didn’t cost anyone but herself.
And if Tom didn’t show . . . if he decided to simply close the club . . .
Risks were familiar territory. She knew them as well as others knew with certainty the rising of the tides. In Napoli, her mother played the lotteria every Saturday, and though Antonia couldn’t read, she knew La Smorfia by heart. Whatever appeared to her in dreams found its corresponding number in the pages of that book, and both she and her daughter eagerly awaited the lotteria’s drawing, hoping against hope for a way out of poverty. They would dream of leaving the overcrowded, shabby Quartieri Spagnoli, retiring to a villa in Posillipo to live out the rest of their days in abundance and peace.
Every week, Lucia and her mother would be disappointed. But that never stopped Antonia from playing again the following Saturday.
When Lucia would ask her mother why she threw away good money on the slim chance that they might win, Antonia always said, If you take no risks, nothing changes.
Lucia would not be mired in a present where the world did not alter. There was always more and better—for herself, and the people she cared for.
But for once in her life, she wanted things to stay exactly as they were, with the club open and Kitty, Elspeth, and the staff all gainfully employed. It all rested on Tom.
“What will you do if he doesn’t show?” Elspeth asked, as if reading Lucia’s thoughts.
“We’ll go on as we have,” Lucia said with more conviction than she felt.
Elspeth dropped her arm. “Until he decides to shut us down.”
“If he decides.” She said this as much to remind herself as Elspeth. It was a foolish belief to think that if she spoke with enough conviction, it might make something come to pass. “Perhaps he’ll permit us to keep our doors open.”
The knock sounded, with a corresponding leap in Lucia’s chest. Elspeth strode to the door and opened it. She walked slowly backward into the foyer as a man stepped inside.
His gaze went immediately to Lucia, and her breath caught in her chest.
“These are your lesser-quality clothes?” she demanded.
She eyed Tom from the black satin mask on his face to the tips of his barely scuffed boots. Everything in between—coat, waistcoat, breeches—would easily suffice as a banker’s Sunday finest. As it was, every inch of Tom looked elegant, though slightly raffish from his incipient beard, and utterly delicious.
He held out his arms, and the fabric of his coat clung adoringly to the breadth of his shoulders.
“It was either this,” he said drily, “or pay my groom for the loan of his clothing.”
“Nothing to be done for it. You’re here now.” Lucia stepped closer, and his eyes flashed hotly as she neared, while her body hummed from his presence. Oh, she hadn’t forgotten their night together, either. She glanced at Elspeth. “No introductions tonight, but you’re no strangers to each other.”
Elspeth and Tom exchanged wary nods.
At that moment, Will lumbered into the foyer. “No problems up front, Amina?”
“None,” Lucia answered. She waved to Tom. “Thinking about hiring this bloke, so I’m giving him a tour of the place.”
“Best of luck, mate,” Will said affably, giving Tom a wink. “Hope you don’t got a maidenly disposition.”
“Far from it,” Tom said.
“Then you’ll fit right in.” With that, Will ambled back to his post.
“I’ve got the door,” Elspeth said in the silence. “Go ahead with our, ah, prospective hire.”
Fighting off a fresh wave of anxiety, Lucia straightened. She had precisely what she wanted—Tom was here, and willing to at the least hear her out—but now the true work of the night was to begin. Saints preserve her, hopefully she did right by her staff.
“Other than myself and the staff, you know this place best.” She used her most efficient and competent tone as she led him from the entryway down the corridor to the drawing room. “Doubtless, you could draw a map if tasked to do so. But there’s more to the club than its geography.”
They entered the drawing room. People lost themselves in revelry and the pursuit of pleasure, the air was saturated with the thick scent of sex, and everywhere was bared flesh slick with sweat. But her gaze wasn’t on the guests. Her attention rested solely on him.
Despite her worry, she lost herself for a moment in the impeccable lines of his profile, her attention fixing on the shape of his mouth.
She shook her head, struggling to regain focus. Crisply, she said, “Tell me what you see.”
His alert, perceptive gaze scanned the room. “Servants circulating with trays. Some carry glasses and wine, others bear platters of sweetmeats and small plates.”
“A guest should never have to ask for anything. Whatever they desire should just appear, as if by magic. But there’s no enchantment here.”
“Only tireless work,” he said thoughtfully.
Her heart kicked with gratification that he noticed what she wanted him to see. “Two things are imperative when running an establishment such as this. You might be able to guess them.”
“Service,” he said after a pause.
“Precisely. And cleanliness.” She nodded as two of the staff swept through the room, collecting empty glasses and plates and rearranging furniture as they went. “They ensure that guests can lose themselves for a few hours, the real world kept at bay.”
Tom tilted his head toward Arthur standing discreetly in a shadowy corner of the room. “The hired muscle.”
“You’ve met him. He and our other gent make frequent passes through the club’s rooms to ensure everyone’s safety
. Staff go to them if they spot potentially troublesome behavior.” She made a wry face. “They also keep the water closets clean.”
Tom gave a soft snort. “Never considered the privy.”
“We have to,” she said with a nod. “We have to consider everything. The value of my staff cannot be calculated. They’re as essential to the running of the club as blood is to the body.”
Thinking of her dutiful, diligent workers, her chest swelled with mingled pleasure and care.
Tom observed the staff discreetly keeping the machine of the club running. His lips compressed and, even with the mask, his expressive face showed that he carefully considered each new piece of information.
“What I know of your life could fill a teacup,” she said lowly. “Doubtless you own many properties, have shares in countless businesses. Hundreds of people depend on you for their livelihoods.”
“Intermediaries manage a portion of my holdings,” he said as if by habit.
“But the massive responsibility of . . . your position . . . that falls to you.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “My responsibility is the Orchid Club. The scale’s smaller, but the weight of responsibility is just as great.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Funny.”
“How so?” she pressed.
“We don’t just share attraction.” His gaze sizzled as he looked at her, and her body softened and heated in response. “We also share the burdens of duty.”
“So we do.” It was admirable, really, that she could keep her voice level when he spoke to her like this.
Stay on task.
With a nod for him to follow her, she strode from the drawing room into the ballroom. She noted with approval how he gazed not at the guests disporting themselves on the dance floor, but at the subtle, constant movement of the staff.
“They’re never still,” he said quietly. “And yet I barely noticed them until tonight.”
“We learn how not to be seen.”
His piercing gaze shifted to her. “I always saw you.”