Chapter Twenty-Five
Lady Mary
The noise and tumult in front of my club matched that of my heart. I stared out one of the remaining windows from my Tea Room at the crowd protesting The Minerva Club. The boards across the other window were an ugly reminder of the hate someone had directed my way.
I examined some of the protesters’ signs, saw one with my name on it.
They weren’t just protesting my club. They were protesting me.
It was a strange feeling, having a mob deride your name. A few even called for my arrest, though I didn’t see what law they could claim I’d broken.
“Lady Mary?”
I turned, and saw Bernard standing in the doorway. Behind him, two painters were setting up a small scaffold.
I tried to give him a reassuring smile, like having someone try to burn your place of employment down was just a part of doing business. “Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman here to see you. A Mister Ryder.” Bernard’s sniff told me he knew who my caller was and didn’t approve of the man.
I considered turning him from my door. Mr. Ryder deserved a good snubbing if ever anyone did. But with an angry mob outside my club with the ability to destroy it before this room had even been restored, I put my anger aside and let my better sense rule.
“Send him to my office. I’ll see him there.” The smell of smoke in this room still made my eyes burn, and I wouldn’t have him think me so upset my eyes teared.
I passed Timothy in the hallway, a ladder slung over his shoulder. “Would you send a tea service for two to my office? And if we have any of those cakes left over from yesterday, I would appreciate it.” I needed something sweet right now when everything else seemed bitter.
In my office, I tipped the cushion I had on my chair for my back to the seat, wanting the extra inch of height for this conversation. A repetitive chant reached my ears from the street, muffled and the words indistinct. I thought I heard my name. I thought the rhyme made of it less than flattering.
Mr. Ryder nodded to Bernard as the doorman showed him inside. “Thank you.” He turned, his gaze latching on mine. “Lady Mary.”
My eye twitched. He wore a dark brown jacket, the knot of his cravat somehow managing to look both relaxed and pompous at the same time.
“Mr. Ryder.” I indicated the seat across the desk.
“Please. Sit.” If I gave the order with a bit more bite than usual, I thought I could be forgiven under the circumstances.
He sat, resting his plain walking stick against the desk.
Timothy entered, and I waited for him to set up the tea between us and leave before speaking again. “What brings you to my door today? And with such a large crowd accompanying you.”
He took a cup of tea and sat back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I can take no credit for today’s protest. Gathering into a mob and shouting obscenities isn’t my idea of an effective tactic to change a person’s mind.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You expect me to believe that it is mere coincidence that you have set your cap at shutting my doors, and the London public has crowded my street for just the same purpose of their own volition?”
“I hope you will believe me.” His soft, chestnut eyes crinkled at the corners. “I have been nothing but upfront with my opposition to your club. I hope you will not think that I’ve sunk to deception now.”
I stirred a lump of sugar into my tea, the spoon tinkling against the rim of the cup. “If you aren’t here to discuss terms, then why your visit?”
“Terms?” The man had the audacity to laugh. “We are not at war. I am not your adversary.”
I laid my spoon down with a decided clack. “You wish to close my business. You are very much my adversary.”
“I am sorry you feel that way.” He took a sip of the Darjeeling, then rested his cup on his knee. “I heard about Edgar Bannister’s murder. I came to see how you fared.”
I swallowed and looked past him to my hanging fern. Several spindly leaves were brown; I should pick them out and water the poor thing. “I was not well acquainted with the boy.”
“No, but it must impact the investigation into his mother’s death, with which you are intimately involved.” He gave her a sad smile. “This latest tragedy must have affected you.”
I narrowed my eyes. He must have an ulterior motive.
Our relationship was fractious at best. It seemed strange that he would come to offer sympathy.
But even suspecting his motives, even knowing he wanted nothing more than to wipe my club off the map, his words still made the backs of my eyes burn.
I didn’t have many people in my life to offer me sympathy.
My nephew and his friends thought me stalwart, an emotional rock who never suffered distress.
And for the most part, they were right. I rarely let life bother me.
But a young man had just been murdered. A man who’d had his whole life ahead of him. A man I’d suspected of the most dastardly deed. My emotions were not as rocklike as I might have wanted.
“I’m fine.” I inhaled sharply. “No, I take that back. I’m angry. There is little doubt in my mind that the same villain who killed Lady Richford also took the life of her son. Such depravity… offends me.”
The smile he gave me was warm, although I didn’t think our conversation warranted such a cheerful expression. “My dear Lady Mary, I do so admire your spirit. Even when I think it is misdirected, you are a force to be reckoned with.”
I sniffed, pushing my spectacles back up my nose. There was little worse than preparing oneself for a fight and instead finding one’s opponent all that is accommodating and flattering. It quite soured the mood.
Ryder finished his tea and set his cup on the desk. “I thought you would accuse me of penning that recent opinion piece in The Times. If you did think I was the author, I wanted to assure you that I am not.”
I flapped my hand at him. “I know you aren’t the author. The manner of writing wasn’t your style.”
There was that lovely smile again. “And do you know who did write it?”
“Not yet.” My fingers dug into the fine china of the teacup. “But I have my suspicions. The writing was in the style of another opinion piece recently in the paper.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Which…” His face cleared. “Lord Anglia. The man who wrote the vile piece about Lady Richford.”
I raised one shoulder. “As I said, it’s only a suspicion.”
“You need to take care.” Ryder frowned. “That piece was venomous.”
“I need to do a great many things.” I placed a wedge of apple cake on a plate, offered it to him, then set it in front of myself when he shook his head. “Taking advice from someone who wants to close my business most likely isn’t one of those things.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “If you won’t take my advice, perhaps you will heed a warning. This Mr. Cooke whom you’ve associated yourself with—”
“I’ve hardly done that,” I objected.
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Cooke has an association with Lord Anglia. He controls the construction guilds that always seem to get the contract for the public construction projects Anglia so likes. Large sums of money are involved. You seem to have caught the eye of both these men, and their attention is best avoided.”
I put my fork down, the bite of cake uneaten. “How do you know this?” I knew Cooke was involved in many criminal enterprises; I hadn’t realized he was involved with the guilds.
“I like to keep an eye on Cooke’s activities.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Once upon a time, we used to be friends.”
I opened my mouth. Shut it. Mr. Ryder couldn’t have surprised me more than if he’d declared his undying love for me. “You. And Mr. Cooke. Friends.”
One edge of his mouth lifted. “I do have some. Even some with whom I maintain severe disagreements.” He sobered. “But I no longer count Edric among them.”
“Well.” I was confounded. The moralist and the ruffian.
I suppose there were odder friendships, but I hadn’t yet seen one.
I thought again about Mr. Ryder’s purpose for coming here today.
Perhaps that was his tactic. Befriend the sinner, in his eyes at least, and try to redeem them with kind words and soft cajoling.
My back straightened. That wouldn’t be happening here. “Mr. Ryder, I—”
“You would not believe the impudence of some people.” Eleanor stormed into my office, gaze fixed on the cuff of her lavender gown as she swiped at it with a handkerchief.
A large reticule knocked against her thigh.
“I think someone threw a tomato at me. Or perhaps it was at Bernard. Either way, I might need a new pelisse. Bernand’s trying to clean it now. ”
“A tomato?” Anger burbled in my stomach. First her skirts caught on fire at my club and now attack by nightshade? The protest out front had gone too far. I stood.
“Yes, a very ripe….” Eleanor finally looked up and caught sight of my visitor. “Oh. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Mr. Ryder unfolded to his feet, plucking up his walking stick. “You haven’t. I was just about to leave.”
I circled my desk. “I’ll show you out. And then speak with these protesters.” The word tasted foul on my tongue. “I won’t tolerate my members being pelted with fruit.”
Mr. Ryder held up his hand. “If they have descended to throwing things, you, as the main object of their hatred, need to stay inside. I’ll speak with them.”
I pursed my lips. He could be an effective spokesman, especially if he was the one who—
“I didn’t organize this,” he said, as though reading my mind, “but I’ll speak with them. Don’t leave this club until they have dispersed.” And with a nod to Eleanor and myself, he departed.
I suppose his order was kindly given. That he had the sort of generalized concern for my well-being as he would for any human.
That knowledge didn’t stop it from vexing me. “Bother! The nerve of the man.”
Eleanor folded her handkerchief, giving up on cleaning her sleeve. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I looked at the cake on my desk but decided I needed something more substantial. Anger always seemed to stoke my appetite. “Come on. Let’s see if the kitchen can make us anything to go with that tomato.”