Ivy emerged from the club, blinking at the sunlight. It was nearly noon, and she’d been unable to sleep past eight o’clock, which meant that she’d gotten approximately five hours of sleep—the club remained open as long as the players were wanting to play, and Lady Massingley had been surprisingly sprightly until close to three. But she’d been losing, so Ivy was more than happy to be exhausted the next day. Not that she was happy, per se; she was still irritated about the incident the previous night, especially since she’d allowed herself to be lured in by his charm and good looks.
But she had to stop thinking about it, and him. “Apples, bread, cheese,” she chanted to herself, clutching the empty basket resting on her hip. She didn’t normally take care of the shopping, their maid Carter did, but today was the day Carter was taking the rescued kittens to their new homes. Ivy didn’t think it was fair to ask Carter to do the shopping on top of that, so she’d volunteered.
And it was a welcome distraction from her thoughts.
“Miss Ivy!” a voice called. A male voice, a voice belonging to the gentleman who’d chased off several of her patrons the night before.
So much for being sufficiently distracted.
“Mr. de Silva,” she replied in a short tone, continuing to walk. He fell into step beside her, shortening his long stride.
He’d removed his waistcoat, but his hair was ruffled, and his cheeks were dark with stubble. Had he not gone home?
Perhaps he had gone to a pub and told everyone there about the hazards of drinking.
And then gone to a stable and discussed the various injuries one could incur while horseback riding.
Mr. Unwelcome Words de Silva.
“Miss Ivy, I completely understand if you don’t wish to speak to me, but you must allow me to—”
“If you understand I don’t wish to speak to you, then why are you speaking to me?”
Had anyone ever told him to stop talking before?
And why was she allowing herself to be so irritated?
“Fair point. But let me just apologize for my behavior last night.”
She stopped walking, turning to regard him. “It wasn’t your behavior that I object to, it was that you were about to discuss the inner workings of the play to the players. You do realize you were on the verge of driving away my customers?”
He winced. “I do. At least I did once I’d thought about it. And I want to make it up to you.”
She met his gaze. He really was handsome. It irked her. “So come lose money in my establishment.”
His expression tightened. “That is not possible.”
She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Because you’re such a good player? Do try to lose, Mr. de Silva, it will be a novel experience.”
“It’s not that.” He looked away from her, off into the distance as though he was thinking. “I haven’t had to measure my words before, and I regret that I said the things I did. I really do admire the unique aspects of your establishment. I was out of line.”
“You were.” Her words were direct, but her tone was softer. It did sound as though he was truly regretful.
“Where are you going? May I accompany you?” He spoke as if unaccustomed to asking. Likely he didn’t ask, he just did. Like the previous evening.
“Uh . . .” she began. Did he not know how that might look? Not that she had a reputation to lose or anything. But he didn’t know that.
He shook his head as he spoke. “That was not well done of me, I apologize. Again. I do not seem to know how to behave in certain company.”
Drat. She could never resist helping a person in need. And this gentleman seemed needy.
“I am going to buy,” she began, then tilted her head up to recall, “apples, bread, cheese.” She shrugged. “You are welcome to keep me company on such an important errand, if you want,” she said with a self-deprecating tone.
They were walking toward the market, people streaming hurriedly past them, forcing them to walk closer together. Her shoulder brushed his arm, making both of them shift unsteadily for a moment, and then he took her arm and looped it through his. She opened her mouth to object—he hadn’t asked, after all—but it felt lovely, so she thought she’d rather not.
She reminded herself sternly to reprimand him if he took further liberties.
But right now, she didn’t mind. Apparently her indignation could be mollified if the result felt pleasant. She wanted to smack herself for her pliable standards.
“The thing is,” he began, “I didn’t intend to chase your customers away.”
“It doesn’t matter what your intent was, the result was that you were on the verge of it.”
“Intentions don’t matter,” he said, sounding as though he weren’t replying to her, but commenting on something else. “The results are everything.” Once again, his thoughtful tone made it sound as though he were having a separate conversation somewhere.
“Yes, well,” she replied. She wondered who he was arguing with inside his head. “It’s not that you were wrong. I mean, we both know that hearts is a game anyone can play, and anyone can win at. There is very little skill involved.”
“Loo and écarté take more skill.”
“As you said last night.”
“I was an ass, wasn’t I?”
“Indeed.” But her tone was amused, and she looked up at him, a smile on her face.
“But what I said before is true. Your club is distinct, far more interesting to me than Crockford’s.”
“Because Miss Ivy’s allows ladies to play?”
“That is an attraction, I admit.” He paused. “But that’s not all of it. Requiring the players to settle up before they leave, letting anyone in as long as they have money—it’s a radical concept. Quite innovative.”
“Thank you,” Ivy replied. “Here we are,” she continued. They were stopped in front of a cart overflowing with apples.
“Miss, sir, how can I assist?”
The merchant’s head popped up from behind the cart, his cheeks as red as his apples. Ivy suppressed a giggle.
“I need apples,” she said.
“It appears you have come to the right place,” Mr. de Silva murmured beside her. She bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“What kind?” the merchant asked.
“Uh—” she began.
“I’ve got the Harvey, the Laxton’s Superb, the Maiden’s Blush, and the Cox.”
“Maiden’s Blush, I think,” she decided. Apropos for the day. “Enough to make a pie and have a few left over.”
He placed the apples in a bag, handing them over the cart. Mr. de Silva took them in one hand, sliding the basket off her arm with the other, then placed the bag inside the basket.
“That’ll be two and eight,” the merchant said.
Ivy withdrew her wallet from her skirt pocket, handing him the coins.
“Apples cost two and eight,” she heard Mr. de Silva say in a musing voice.
“Bread and cheese next?” he said, taking her arm again.
“Bread and cheese,” she confirmed.
An hour later, he was walking her toward the club, having shared some of the food she’d bought. He had waited patiently as she made her purchases, even though she had told him he needn’t bother—he’d apologized, she’d accepted the apology, and that should have been that.
But.
But he was still here, and he still held her arm, and her basket, and he was such a pleasure to look at, even if she couldn’t do more than steal a few glances at him.
Pliable standards. She had them.
“Well, thank you for escorting me to the market. It was nice not having to carry all of these things myself.” She took the basket from his grasp.
“And thank you for accepting my apology,” he replied.
“Would you want to come inside to continue the discussion?” She smiled. “Now that there are no customers about, I would like to hear your opinions on how we could improve Miss Ivy’s. I am certain with so many opinions you are bound to have some on that matter.”
And then she wanted to wince at the invitation. Of course he didn’t want to come in, he merely felt bad about chasing her patrons away.
“I’d love to.”
Oh.
“It’s not as though I have anything else to do.”
Oh. That put an entirely different spin on his reply. And who was he, anyway, not to have anything to do in the middle of the day?
It didn’t matter. What mattered, what always mattered, was finding and implementing good ideas.
She slid the key into the lock, then pushed the door open. The club stood empty, the chairs all pushed against the wall in preparation for the floor getting mopped. “Through here,” she said, stopping to place her basket on one of the chairs before walking across the floor. She flung the next door open, stepping into the hallway. Straight ahead was the door that led upstairs to the private rooms, which is where she and Octavia lived, while to the right was her office, which was basically a glorified term for the room where all the necessities for the club were stored: extra dice, alcohol, cleaning supplies, and whatever else was needed.
“Come into my office.” She led the way, going to sit behind the desk where she did her paperwork.
If she were the lady she’d once been, she would have blanched at inviting a gentleman to spend time with her alone. As she would have at his asking to accompany her on her errands. But she was a businesswoman, and he had advice to share.
“Please sit.” She gestured to the well-worn wooden chair opposite the desk as she sat in her own chair, the mate to his.
“Is it too early for a drink?” she asked.
“Never,” he replied, a grin on his face.
She bent down to retrieve the bottle of whiskey she kept in her bottom drawer along with two glasses. He nodded affirmatively as she held them up.
“Here,” she said, sliding one glass across her desk to him. He sat as though on a throne, not in her spindly office chair, his legs planted on either side next to the chair legs, his hands resting on his thighs. A king amongst the clutter.
“To Miss Ivy’s,” he said, lifting the glass.
She smiled, raising her own glass as she took a deep swallow. The whiskey burned as it went down her throat, and her chest immediately felt warmer. At least she could blame that on the alcohol, and not on him.
“Excellent,” he commented. “Like your champagne.”
“Yes, and our food is even better.” She couldn’t disguise the pride in her voice.
Another one of Ivy’s rescues, her chef, Mac, was an Irishman who’d trained in the celebrated chef Alexis Soyer’s kitchens. He had remarkable talent, but of course no aristocrat would hire an Irish chef. And Mac was far too talented, and aware of his talent, to settle for less than what he was worth. That made him tricky to manage, but the food was delicious. Word was already spreading that there was fine food as well as fine gaming to be found at Miss Ivy’s.
“Well,” she said, finishing her whiskey and setting the glass down on the surface of her desk, “what ideas do you have for me?”
So. This is how it felt to be asked one’s opinions and advice because of one’s actual opinions and advice, not because it would flatter the opinion giver, or bestow some sort of reflected splendor onto the asker.
Perhaps not being a duke wouldn’t be the barren nightmare he imagined.
No moping, he reminded himself.
Just reality, he retorted.
Seb finished his whiskey, nodding affirmatively when she gestured toward the bottle again. Now it didn’t seem quite as important that he dull his mind, but her whiskey was truly excellent, and he didn’t know when he could afford its quality himself. He was glad, however, he’d accepted her offer of bread and cheese—he needed to keep a clear head for—well, for the rest of his life, since he couldn’t afford any kind of misstep.
Which reminded him he still had to figure out what to do with the rest of his life. And that the rest of his life was a vast unknown chasm. What did people who were not dukes do, anyway?
But now, he still had whiskey and conversation with an intriguing woman. He could table the whole “rest of his life” question until later.
“Masks, as I said last night.” He tilted his head to stare at the ceiling. “I suppose you could also have special evenings.” The ideas were whirling through his head. As though his change of circumstances had freed something inside him.
It was refreshing for him to actually be thinking. Not just pushing things along, or attending something because of who he was, standing silent as he acknowledged his importance.
He wasn’t important anymore. He was the illegitimate offspring of a duplicitous woman. But he could be the useful illegitimate offspring of a duplicitous woman. So that was an improvement.
“Special evenings such as costume night, where your guests arrive in costumes from another era. Or one evening where the wagers aren’t based around actual money, but around transactions.” He thought of the possibilities. “That could be quite intriguing,” he added.
Her cheeks flushed, and he surmised she had come to the same conclusions he had. Conclusions that seemed far more intriguing if she were involved.
Well, at least he knew that if he was no longer a duke, he would still be a rake.
“Your ideas are certainly creative,” she said. She took a deep breath. “So tell me, Mr. de Silva, why aren’t you running your own gambling hell?”
His immediate reaction was to be affronted—how dare this woman suggest that he actually work at something?
But then he realized his response would be insulting even if he was still a duke. This woman was working at something, something that clearly mattered to her. She was obviously proud of her accomplishments and wanted to improve her business. She served the best food and drink, even though similar establishments made do with mediocre fare because their clientele would accept it.
And if he were still a duke, he wouldn’t have even gone to the club in the first place to see what she’d done. He’d have gone to a party, getting fawned over by people whose names he could scarcely remember. Being eyeballed as a prospective husband by any number of conniving mothers.
But that was far too harsh. He needed to remind himself that he was still Sebastian, even if he didn’t have a title.
The reality was that he did have some friends whose presence at that party would have made it tolerable. Who would have shared a commiserative glance at an obsequious comment? He had been depending on those friends to help Ana Maria navigate Society; he doubted practical Thaddeus would be able to charm people as well as he could. In fact, he knew that was a sure bet.
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 struck 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.