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 in 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.
And then it all came rushing back, his memory of what had happened in the solicitor’s office, the evening with Nash, the apology he’d offered, the time spent pondering his future, all accompanied with a sharp sense of panic.
As though he were falling off a cliff with no idea of what awaited him. Which would be merely a moment of panic if it wasn’t also entirely true.
“Damn it, I have to get going.” He sat up suddenly in bed, groaning at how his head reacted to his movement, but keenly aware of time ticking by.
As a duke, he hadn’t been answerable to anybody. Plus, he’d always been accompanied by various servants. But he was on his own now, and he had no idea if Nash was concerned about his not appearing home that evening. What had he done? Right, he’d returned to Nash’s house for dinner, and then was too restless to settle down. His roaming had brought him to the club, hoping for a chance to speak with her again. Even though it had been ridiculously late, what had he been thinking?
Which meant he hadn’t made it to Nash’s house. Would his friend be concerned?
Likely not, knowing Nash. But Finan might be.
“You’d better not. Let me get you some tea.”
“Tea will not solve anything,” he said firmly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His boots were on the floor, and he was still clad in his shirt and trousers. So he really had just been knocked unconscious. Drat. Although that meant he hadn’t disappointed her in that way, so at least there was an upside.
A moment of bleak humor in the midst of all this uncertainty.
He got to his feet, sitting abruptly back down as his head started to spin.
“Tea,” she said firmly, walking out of the room and closing the door behind her.
He lay back on the bed, his legs dangling off the edge, staring up at the ceiling.
He needed to start his new life. Whatever that would be. After he told Ana Maria. Not that he knew what he would tell her. What would he tell her?
The truth.
Well, yes. The truth. It wouldn’t affect Ana Maria directly, except it would confirm what both of them already knew—that Sebastian’s mother was ruthless and wouldn’t let anything stand in her way. Not her husband’s daughter or British law.
And even though he knew it had nothing to do with him, he didn’t want to be the reason she was disappointed again.
Damn it.
But thinking about her meant he wasn’t contemplating what the hell he was going to do.
He sat up again just as Miss Ivy returned holding a tray of tea things. She placed it on the bureau to the right of the bed, nudging what appeared to be an ancient doll with one eye missing to make room for the tray. He glanced around, taking in the details of the room.
An enormous bookshelf was at one end, stacked with books put in any which way. Dolls ranged along the surface of the other bureau he could see, all in various stages of disrepair. Taxidermic animals sat between a few of the dolls, while an enormous bust of some glowering man stared straight at him. Pieces of bric-a-brac were scattered around, seemingly without a thought toward decoration.
“This isn’t your room, is it?” he said, unable to disguise his tone of voice.
Because if it were, and he had been here for a romantic interlude, he’d have to ask himself just how much he wanted to have relations in this setting. The room was . . . unsettling, to say the least.
“Are you back to thinking anything happened last night, Mr. de Silva?” She shook her head, beginning to pour the tea. “This is not my room. I slept in my own room, thank you very much. How do you take your tea?”
“Not at all, if I can help it,” Seb replied.
She gave him an exasperated look.
“Fine,” he said, waving his hand. Not as impressive a gesture when he was effectively in bed. “A bit of milk, no sugar.”
She nodded, then handed him a cup and saucer. She made her own cup and sat back in her chair.
“I did a lot of thinking prior to the incident last evening,” she said. She took a sip of tea while Seb studied her.
Her expressions shifted as she thought, and he wondered just what was going through her mind. He could see she was debating something and saw when she’d made her decision.
“You’d make a terrible card player,” he remarked.
Her eyes widened, and for a moment it actually seemed as though she was about to growl. “I would not! I do not! I am an excellent card player as it happens, Mr. de Silva. How do you think Miss Ivy’s is so successful? It is not because I am a terrible card player.” He wanted to laugh at her outraged tone.
He shrugged deliberately, accidentally spilling some tea onto his leg, which made him jump. “Blast,” he exclaimed, putting the cursed tea on the side table next to the bed.
She was laughing, damn her, one hand held up to her mouth, her eyes dancing with humor. He couldn’t help but join her. It was funny, and he definitely deserved her laughter. Plus he had been rather obnoxious when he’d believed he was a duke who had spent the night with a lady.
“Although I do not play cards with my clientele, at least not often. Sometimes I sit in when there is a large pot and the player likes to feel as though anyone could win or lose.” She shook her head as though impatient. “But that’s not important. I am wondering, Mr. de Silva—if your position is one you would consider leaving,” she began, lacing her fingers together. “I would like to offer you a job at Miss Ivy’s.”
Mr. de Silva was staring at her as though she’d sprouted an additional head. Was it such an odd question? And if it was, all he had to say was no. He didn’t have to look at her as though she’d just arrived on this planet.
Although she could understand that presumption if he thought this was her bedroom. It was filled with detritus from her childhood, plus several of Octavia’s odder interests, including the time she thought she might want to be a taxidermist. She’d even thought of a name for her shop—Dead on Arrival.
“Uh—” he began.
“If you have a position you don’t wish to leave, I would understand,” she interrupted. “Or if you believe it would be beneath you—” This same scenario had not been nearly as difficult when she’d hired Samuel and Henry. But neither of them was this gentleman.
“No,” he said.
She blinked. “No, what? No, you are absolutely not interested in working here, or no, you don’t have a position, or no, it isn’t beneath you?”
“No, I don’t have a position.” He looked thoughtful, and Ivy nearly held her breath to hear how he’d answer. She’d never thought of hiring a second-in-command before, but the club was doing well, and Mr. de Silva had so many interesting ideas. Ideas she knew her clientele would love.
Plus he was obviously a gentleman, and she’d realized there was a certain group of patrons she would never lure into the club if they thought a fallen lady was entirely in charge. Hiring him would pay for itself in no time. If she could increase the club’s revenue, she would be set that much sooner. Perhaps there’d even be enough money to give Octavia a reasonable dowry so she could get married.
She winced as she imagined Octavia’s inevitable response to that idea.
She’d cross that marital bridge when she came to it.
“So do you want to work for me?”
Mr. de Silva took a deep breath, his hands curled into fists on either side of him. “I have to do something with myself,” he said in a bitter tone. What was that about? “I would,” he said in a louder voice, meeting her gaze. “Thank you.”
He looked and sounded humble now, the first such time she’d thought that about him. Perhaps there was more to him than a man of clever ideas and rakish pursuits. Or maybe there was less to him, since she had no idea who he was. Making her impulsive decision even more impulsive. But that was how she worked, and thus far, her instincts had been proved right.
“I am grateful for the opportunity.” A pause as his brows drew together. “But what do you want me to do?”
Ivy couldn’t help the immediate and completely inappropriate thought that first came to her: a fig leaf, a pedestal, and perhaps a gaming table.
Even though she should absolutely not be thinking any such thing, since the thought was so inappropriate.
For one thing, he was to be her employee, and there were rules about such behavior, even though it was normally a male employer and his female employee. For another, she didn’t know if he was already involved or perhaps even married.
And then there was the fact that he appeared to try to flirt with every female, so she’d never know if he truly liked her, or she was just convenient for the time. He hadn’t been successful with Caroline, but he had tried.
That was a lowering thought. But it had the benefit of making her realize just what a horrible idea it was in the first place.
Even though she still found him ridiculously handsome.
“I want you to help me implement some of your ideas from last night, help me manage the club. Perhaps work as a dealer occasionally.” She shrugged. “We’ll have to see. There is a lot to do, and not a lot of people to do it.”
“I’ll need a day or two to—to settle my affairs,” he said. He looked pained again, and she opened her mouth to inquire about it. But that wasn’t her business—his working for her was, but nothing else, she reminded herself firmly.
No matter how handsome or charming or rakish he was.
“And,” he said, taking a deep breath as he spoke, “I suppose I should tell you who I am.”
“So who are you?” she asked. Unless he was a spy, or a serial cribbage board attacker, it didn’t really matter.
He gave a chuckle devoid of humor. “Until two days ago, I was the Duke of Hasford. But because of some recent information, it turns out that I am not.”
“The Duke of Hasford?” No wonder she’d pegged him as a gentleman. He was one of the highest such gentlemen in the land. Or had been. So what was a gentleman who used to inhabit such a prestigious title doing defending her club with a cribbage board? Now tucked up in her spare room as though he were just another one of Octavia’s collected items?
She had so many questions. But again, it wasn’t her business.
Besides which, she knew as soon as Octavia found out, her sister would waste no time getting all the details, so her curiosity would be satisfied without having to ask him for clarification.
Which made her principled decision not to ask him a lot less principled.
“Yes.”
“Well, Your Grace,” she said, a wry grin on her face, “when would you be able to start working?”