Chapter Nine

He could see from the wary look in her eyes that she anticipated male disapproval. Most men likely would disapprove. Daniel, however, wasn’t most men. His own mother had helped manage Winterbourne’s accounts, and he’d known many a widow who’d lived independently after losing a husband, several even creating small businesses to support themselves and their children.

“You’d have made a fine general,” he teased in his best imitation of Devlin, watching the tension melt from her face. “If His Majesty but knew of your talents, he would immediately rescind the rule forbidding females commission.”

Somehow, the smile he was rewarded with managed to make her appear both shy and confident all at once. “I thank you for the compliment.” Her head tipped, and her eyes took on a mischievous gleam. “However, in keeping with my family’s tradition, I believe I would prefer to be an admiral.”

“Another respectable position requiring great strategic skill,” he conceded with aplomb.

“Precisely! And your problem happens to be one of strategy,” she said, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “You tried the direct approach with your sister. Now you must try something different. Tell her how her coldness weighs on your heart, how you long to reconcile.”

The overly dramatic flair with which she’d delivered this advice was clearly intended to tickle his sense of humor. He gave in and laughed, earning another sly grin. “And when she rejects my olive branch?”

“Let her know her refusal to mend fences only further fuels your desire to do so, and keep writing to her,” she supplied, all business now. “And while you’re wearing her down, you will cleanse your reputation enough that she—and possibly other important people that have previously spurned your company—can withstand an association.”

Shaking his head, he acted as if still reluctant and unsure. “Do you truly think that will be enough to persuade her to give me another chance?”

“I do,” she answered without hesitation. “Stop dirtying your own hands with questionable industry, such as interviewing prospective entertainment for employ,” she added with a brief but loaded glare. “Hire managers to instead act—quietly—on your behalf. At social events, don’t speak of matters related to those businesses, but instead discuss your more wholesome investments. Allow them to take center stage.”

“And you expect everyone to just conveniently ‘forget’ all the rest?” he asked, giving voice to his very real doubt.

“Oh, they won’t forget,” she replied drily. “They simply won’t speak of it.” Soft, pink lips tilted in a quick smirk. “People sweep dirt under a rug so they can live under the illusion that their house is clean. They’ll do the same with your past because they desire to benefit from proximity to your wealth and influence. You only have to provide plausible deniability. Give them the means to pretend ignorance and act shocked should anyone be gauche enough to bring it up, thereby washing their hands of any perceived complicity.” The smirk returned full force. “All Polite Society requires for acceptance is wealth and the appearance of moral rectitude. Most are guilty of the very same ‘sins’ as you, if not far worse.”

Nodding slowly, as if she’d finally managed to convince him, he replied, “They themselves want no scrutiny, so they’ll turn a blind eye, is that it?”

One brow arched high. “I believe you have the idea, Lord Devlin. You know a great deal about a lot of people who would, I’m sure, prefer that information remain private. They won’t speak against you at the risk of being exposed themselves. It’s just like chess. They know if they make a move against you, you’ll make a countermove and possibly take a valuable piece.”

His brother had grossly underestimated this woman. “And what of those I don’t already have in my pocket? What is to stop them from publicly denouncing my wickedness?”

The reply was quick and decisive. “For those beneath you, the hope of gaining entrée to your circle. I’m afraid you’ll have to win over those above you with good behavior. It can be done,” she said, the dimple flickering in her cheek. “If you don’t believe me, ask Papa. He’s walked this path. In fact, I adjure you to consult with him on the matter, as he is the template upon which I’ve devised this strategy.”

He would indeed, but not for the reasons she thought. “How long will it take, do you think, before I’m considered respectable?”

Another flash of dimple. “Not long, provided you move quickly. As I said, you’re already well on your way.”

Hopefully, it would take less time than he had left. Devlin was going to be furious when he learned of his “new investments,” but there was no help for it. “What industry would you suggest I try?”

Tapping a finger against her lips, she slowly looked him up and down, her manner contemplative, but with enough appreciation in her eyes to make his pulse leap and the temperature in the room seem to climb a degree or two.

“A proper club, to start,” she offered crisply, all business again. “One without scantily clad serving wenches or vulgar entertainments. Where you’d host literary and artistic performances and hold weekly balls. Entrée should be exclusive—like Almack’s but different.”

“How so?”

“No stuffy patronesses controlling everything, for one,” she said coolly. “Membership to your establishment would be offered on merit of wealth and deportment in addition to considering one’s rank and lineage.”

Oho! She must have been rejected. St. Peters’s blood was nowhere near blue enough for those esteemed ladies, and no amount of money could buy one entrée to Almack’s if they did not approve. The sting of their snobbery clearly hadn’t yet faded.

“We start by inviting desirables,” she went on. “We’ll entice them by offering the first year’s membership free of charge. Then, once we have our founding members, anyone seeking entrée thereafter would need to pay a fee and be approved by a majority vote of all present during membership meetings, which would occur twice a year, once prior to the start of the Season and another midway, to provide new blood as the pool shrinks. That will help maintain the value of membership for those seeking to shed their unwed state.”

“Being ousted should require a majority vote, as well,” he added.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “If only to give every member a sense of power.”

Daniel had hard work keeping his admiration—and his bewilderment—from showing. Why in Heaven’s name had his brother rejected this woman? She was so obviously his match: shrewd, cunning, and bold, just like Dev.

Who knows absolutely nothing of what she just revealed. His twin thought her a spoiled little princess with dandelion fluff between her ears rather than a sharp mind to be respected. In fact, Daniel was certain the only respect his brother had ever felt for this woman was the sort any determined bachelor felt for any marriage-minded miss—the sort that made him avoid her at all costs.

My brother is an idiot. In his unwavering resolve to avoid matrimony, he’d overlooked the perfect counterpart.

“Speak to Papa about it,” she continued. “I’m sure he would approve and perhaps even want to help. Then you’d have the advantage of being able to invite all of his best connections to become members. I doubt any would refuse such an offer.” A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. “In fact, I know one very influential gentleman who would likely jump at the chance to snub Almack’s. The Duke of Wellington was recently turned away at the door for appearing in trousers instead of knee-breeches. We should definitely invite him.”

His mind raced. “I can see the merit in this idea, but while I’m perfectly capable of setting up and running a gaming parlor or theater,” he lied assiduously, “I know nothing about running a club of this nature.”

“You may leave that to me,” she said, eyes agleam with a fierce hunger.

Suddenly, it registered that her manner of speech had gone from references of “you” and “your” to “we” and “our.” So that’s her game! He affected reluctance, though in truth she couldn’t have provided him a better opportunity to implement his plan. “I’m not certain your father would approve of you being involved in any sort of—”

“We’ll ask him together, shall we?” Before he could object, she’d hooked her arm beneath his elbow and was off, forcing him to come along quietly or risk being dragged and making a spectacle of them both.

People stared as they passed, their gazes speculative. Brows rose as they approached St. Peters, who greeted his daughter with a pleased smile before casting Daniel an askance look. All Daniel could do was signal him with a minute, helpless shrug and then listen with him as she proposed her plan with the conciseness of a reporting field officer.

An amused glint shone in St. Peters’s eyes as their gazes connected.

At last, her rapid-fire speech came to a halt. “What say you, Papa?” She bit her lower lip, betraying her eagerness. “It worked for you. Why not for Lord Devlin?” Lifting her chin, she favored her father with a gimlet stare and added coolly, “Besides which, it’s high time London had an alternative to Almack’s, don’t you think?”

The flinty look that suddenly entered St. Peters’s eyes said he’d not enjoyed being considered déclassé by those patronesses any more than his daughter had. “Indeed, it is,” he murmured. Looking to Daniel, he raised a brow in silent inquiry.

Devlin is going to murder me. Slowly. He nodded his head once.

“Very well,” said the other man. “There is a property I recently looked at off Bernard Street. It was not what I wanted for that particular venture, but I believe it would do well for this purpose. I’ll have my solicitor approach the seller tomorrow. If the offer is accepted, I’ll put up half the cost of the endeavor.” He stuck out his hand. “Are we in agreement?”

Stuffing down a sense of dread, he took St. Peters’s hand and forced the words out. “We are.”

…

Two days later…

Daniel sipped his morning tea and stared at the newspaper in his hands without really seeing it. His mind was currently preoccupied with trying to determine the best way to go about informing Dev of his new investment. He’d written a letter last night but had decided not to send it. Not yet.

Maybe not at all.

If his twin arrived to find himself half owner of an industry that allowed him to navigate the Ton’s social mores with greater ease, he might just be grateful. If not, well…he would just have to figure out what to do with it later. Considering how little time he had to spare, he’d rather ask forgiveness than wait for permission that might not be given.

At one o’clock, he received a note from St. Peters saying their offer had been accepted, details regarding which banking institution to remit payment for his half of the cost, and requesting that he call as soon as possible.

Sending a brief note with instructions to Devlin’s solicitor and praying it passed scrutiny, he departed. Upon arrival, he was ushered directly to the study.

“Lord Devlin!” called his jovial host, beckoning. “At last. Come and have a look at the floor plans for our new acquisition while I pour us a drink.”

Accepting the glass of brandy proffered him, Daniel tried to appear as if this were an everyday thing. In truth, he knew nothing of architecture and could only nod as the man expounded on the Palladian structure’s elegant appeal, noting the size of the rooms and how conducive they would be to hosting balls, and tutting over the apparently inadequate kitchen facilities.

“That must be amended at once,” said his daughter, poking her head in the doorway. “Good evening, Lord Devlin.” Entering, she dipped the shallowest of curtseys before coming beside him to pore over the drawings. “Almack’s has a poor reputation regarding their refreshments.” She leaned a little closer and favored him with a quick smile. “I want our club to offer its members only the finest.”

Again with the “our.” Coming from her, especially when they were standing this close, the word made his gut tighten and the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was an unnerving word, one that implied a bond of joint possession. Now that she’d dropped the term so casually while addressing him, he could hear her voice in his head saying “our home” and “our children.”

Panic formed a knot in his throat, and he coughed a little to ease the sudden tightness, inwardly scolding himself. Stop it! The club is, in a way, hers, too. Her father’s investments are her inheritance, after all. Maintaining a neutral expression, he let it pass.

“I agree,” said St. Peters absently, eyes still fixed on the floor plan. “It should be better fare, but not too lavish,” he amended, pointing at it again. “We’ll want to remove part of this wall to make for a larger entrance to the main ballroom.”

“It’s a load-bearing wall, Papa,” she murmured, pointing to a notation on the drawing. “It cannot be compromised without creating structural instability…but we could replace it with supporting pillars here and here, opening up that whole side. It would enlarge the space, reduce crowding at the other entryways, and help with circulation.”

He listened to the pair of them conversing in what almost seemed a foreign tongue, going back and forth about whether it would be better to use timber or stone before moving on to the subject of color schemes. St. Peters suggested a regal atmosphere boasting deep reds and dark blues. She petitioned for pastels and gilt. It was a solid quarter hour before they noticed his silence.

“Lord Devlin, what think you?” asked St. Peters. “Half of it’s yours, you know. You have a right to give your opinion.”

Laughing a little, he declined with a shake of his head. “I fear my knowledge is limited in this area.” The other man’s brows began to pinch in consternation, setting off internal alarm bells. Quickly, he amended with: “I know what sort of thing pleases a man, but I’ve never decorated so much as a single chamber with a lady’s tastes in mind. I would not know where to begin.” He looked right at her. “As such, I defer to your wisdom and leave such decisions in your capable hands.”

…

Olivia flushed with pleasure. “You won’t be disappointed, I assure you. And it will be done economically. In addition to builders and craftsmen, Papa knows the suppliers for nearly every shop on Bond Street. Our establishment will be fit to host the Regent himself, and at less than half the cost to anyone else.”

Her father’s smile turned downright indulgent as he gazed at her, pride shining in his eyes. “I’ll call in a few markers,” he promised. “The building is in good repair. All it needs are a few minor renovations. I expect it can be made ship-shape within a fortnight.”

Damn. She’d rather hoped it would take a bit longer than that! “There is much that will need doing in order to make it ready in time,” she told Devlin. “As soon as Papa confirmed the purchase, I sent a footman with an order for the invitations. I’ve already begun making a list and will write them out this week.”

And she knew just who to invite, too. Every member of the Ton who’d been rejected by those snobby, prune-lipped patronesses was on her list, as well as anyone possessing appropriate wealth. Almack’s might guarantee blueness of blood at its marriage mart, but this club would guarantee depth of purse. The nouveau riche, looking to emulate the upper crust, would flock to the lure of its gilded halls, drawing the titled-but-poor who sought to avoid decline into genteel poverty.

Keeping her tone firm, she went on. “Until those are sent, we must ensure absolute secrecy surrounding this endeavor.” It drew surprised looks from both men. “The last thing we want is for anyone to degrade this establishment before it even opens.”

Devlin frowned. “But we’ll need to hire staff. We can hardly expect anyone to answer an advertisement for employment without providing a location.”

She had a ready answer for that, too. “We’ll simply say it’s to be in Bloomsbury. Papa and I will conduct interviews here and reveal the actual address only upon hiring. Now, I’ll send out the invitations a week before opening—”

“Only a week?” The poor dear looked as if on the verge of panic. “That’s not nearly enough time! Even if we manage to hire enough people on such short notice, what of training them?”

With an easy wave, she dismissed his worry. “We’ll accept only those with prior experience. And a small incentive—say a crown?—to be paid out with the first month’s wages should be more than enough to make up for any income they’ll lose by giving short notice.” Without giving him a chance to object, she forged ahead. “We’ll offer the sous chefs from your other clubs the chance to take the lead chef position at this one. Same with the under-butlers. Perhaps one of you can recommend a worthy candidate for manager from your existing pool, as well.”

“What of uniforms?” their guest managed to inject. “Employees must be outfitted properly. That cannot be accomplished within a mere week.”

Turning, she addressed her father. “If we use Mr. Young’s shop, it should take only a few days to have all new employees—say, three dozen or so, to start?—properly fitted. And in return for prioritizing our needs, we’ll offer club membership for him, his wife, and their daughter who has just come out,” she said, offering him a sly grin. “Her dowry should be tempting enough to catch a hungry baronet at the least.”

The twinkle in her papa’s eyes was all she needed to tell her he approved of her methods.

Finger by finger, she ticked off other items on her mental list. “We’ll need to audition musicians for the balls and invite authors to do readings. There’s that woman who wrote Sense and Sensibility. She’d do nicely to start, if I can convince her to come. And that poet fellow, Blake. Those events will be exclusive, limited to ticket holders, and we can charge according to the popularity of the attraction—after all, we must ensure this is a profitable venture. But of course we’ll open the establishment with a grand ball gratis.”

Unable to contain her nervousness entirely, she clasped her hands to keep them from visibly trembling and giving her away. “Papa, you must invite Mr. Brummell and be sure he attends. If he comes, the Prince Regent will likely come, as well.” Calming herself, she focused on the small victory she’d already won, met each man’s eyes, and said fiercely, “Everything must be perfect when the doors open, because I can promise you our club will be the talk of London the next day.”

It would. She’d make certain of it!

Her father’s chuckle interrupted her castle-building. “And what will this club be called?” he asked. “I assume since you’ve already planned every other detail that you’ve chosen a name for it, as well?”

Now her cheeks flushed from embarrassment rather than enthusiasm. “My apologies,” she said, looking to Devlin. “In my eagerness to help, I fear I’ve overstepped.”

Eyes the color of larkspur gleamed with amusement, and his mouth twitched at the corners as if he was holding back laughter. “Not at all. As I said, I leave it in your capable hands.”

The tension drained from her, but only for a moment. “Then I propose we call it Saint’s.” Two sets of eyebrows rose, and her voice shrank as she delivered the reasoning behind the choice, hoping it would not offend. “I thought that, given our purpose, it sounds better than Wayward’s.”

Devlin’s deep, rumbling laugh startled her, even as the sound of it snaked beneath her skin to warm her from the inside until she tingled all over. A true smile lit his whole face as he bared his teeth in a broad grin that showed his gums. Sudden longing all but smote her on the spot. To her delight, the smile remained even after he regained composure enough to stop laughing.

“I like it,” he declared. “Especially since Wayward’s sounds more appropriate for a brothel.”

Now it was her father’s turn to let out a bark of laughter. “I’m afraid I must agree. Bad enough you already have a gaming house called The Black Sheep. Saint’s it is, then!”

…

The following morning, they met up at the site to inspect it along with her father’s preferred builder, who’d been pulled from his other project for this “emergency,” and her favorite decorator.

They elected to rectify the problematically small main entrance to the ballroom by creating a generous opening supported by four Grecian-style marble pillars salvaged from another build that had lost its capital. Such lavish ornamentation would give it a truly grand appearance—and it would cost them pittance, since the builder had been unable to find another buyer.

She won the color battle, thanks to the decorator’s tactful assertion that lighter hues made rooms appear more spacious. As there wasn’t enough time to have the vaulted ceiling painted with a proper mural, they decided to keep it simple and have it made to look like a bright afternoon sky with a few fluffy, white clouds. The light blue would extend down the walls and be reflected by gilded mirrors on all sides.

“It will seem as if they’re entering heaven,” she reasoned. “Perfect, considering the name. In keeping with the theme, we’ll drape and upholster everything in matching blue and white with gold trim. The ladies will appreciate the simplicity—it will serve as a perfect foil for their elegance rather than being a distraction.”

“Well, it will certainly stand apart from other establishments of its kind,” said her father, his approving nod echoed by Devlin.

The decorator looked somewhat less pleased with this decision but was mollified a few minutes later when she appointed him the task of acquiring appropriate furnishings and art from among their best suppliers—for a generous fee, of course.

The inadequate kitchen facilities would be rectified by annexing a storage room. Dining space would be enlarged by knocking out a dividing wall adjoining another salon. Smaller rooms upstairs would be converted to ladies’ refuges, gentlemen’s retreats, and card rooms. Additional privy closets would be added both upstairs and downstairs.

Perhaps the most wonderful aspect of all this was that Papa seemed content to allow her to take the lead. He deferred to her judgment and stepped in only when his approval was required for an expenditure. Not once did he deny her logic.

By the time they were done, she knew she’d earned his pride and, even better, the open admiration of the object of her desire.

Never before had any man other than Papa been appreciative of her intellect. In fact, the more feather-headed she appeared to be, the more men seemed to like her. Not Devlin. He fairly radiated approval of both her reason and assertiveness. It was refreshing to feel respected for something other than the size of her dowry or her father’s connections.

But she didn’t fool herself. The game wasn’t yet won, and there were plenty of other players out there looking for an opportunity to snap him up.

I must think several moves ahead of them and him.

The builder assured them his men would begin work the next morning, and the decorator was sent off to Bond Street with a letter from her father guaranteeing expediency.

The rest of the afternoon was spent back at her house going over the finer points, settling on the exact wording of the rules for membership and discussing operations, which of course necessitated maintaining close proximity to Devlin.

With every moment they spent together, his pull on her senses intensified. Whether they were separated by a dozen feet or only a few inches, the air between them was always charged. She felt as if her skin would catch fire if they actually touched. It made her want to know…things. Like the texture of his hair. The feel of his bare skin.

As they pored over the plans with enthusiasm, she couldn’t help noticing his smiles came easier and were more relaxed. Or that his deep, resonant baritone now held a different timbre when he talked to her, too. Warmer, more intimate. When he spoke to her thus, her body thrummed in response like a plucked harp string.

Within a few hours, it was all she could do to concentrate on the subject at hand and not simply stare at his handsome face. Such a strong jaw he had, his cleft chin now shadowed just a bit with the day’s growth. The stubble only accentuated his mouth. His lips, almost too pink and plush for a man’s, were far too sensual for her peace of mind. She longed to learn their texture.

So distracted was she that when the butler came to announce the arrival of a guest, she barely paid him any mind.

Until her father spoke.

“Who the devil comes uninvited so near to the dinner hour?” he muttered with an annoyed frown.

And then she remembered—at the same time as the butler answered: “Lord Lovelace, sir. I sent him to the blue salon to await you and Miss St. Peters.”

Devlin’s sharp, speculative gaze settled on her, and the blood rushed to Olivia’s face. Clutching her father’s arm, she hissed in his ear, “I invited Lovelace to dine with us this evening. He accepted, but amid all the excitement, I forgot to inform you.”

Her father’s whisper was, oddly, lacking in any anger as he answered, “We’ll manage it. Go and change into something suitable—and say nothing to him of our endeavor,” he added quickly.

She nodded and, unable to look Devlin in the eye, immediately fled the room. Just as she reached the door, she overheard her father address him: “I fear I find myself in a bit of an awkward situation…”

Damn! Eyes smarting with regret, she hurried on, not wanting to hear her father ask Devlin to excuse them for the evening.