Chapter Two #3
Had these qualities merely been lying dormant in Hogarth?
“But that’s not the whole picture, is it, Mr. Marchand?
A . . . business . . . such as yours depends upon the whims of fashion.
” She was proud of her strategically skeptical pause, and Mr. Marchand actually nodded, as though he was amused.
“It’s about wanting to belong, to be accepted by your peers, to be a part of something.
But if, for instance, the London Bridge suddenly acquired the sort of mystique that compelled men to flock
to it, but they continually plummeted to their deaths from it, the public might eventually demand that the government block
it off. Or even tear it down.”
He tipped his head and gave her a “come now” look, as if to say they both knew that was a ridiculous example. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say, Miss Woodville. But I can hardly help my mystique, can I?” He fanned his hands self-deprecatingly.
It occurred to her then that Mr. Marchand was toying with her.
Their contest of stares was interrupted by the slap of little running feet on marble floors.
To her amazement, a little boy burst into the room, waving what looked like half a sheet of foolscap.
“Help! What did I do wrong?” He shoved the paper in front Mr. Marchand.
“Fergus, you must ask politely to enter when I’ve a guest, and say ‘please’ when you request help.” Mr. Marchand was stern
but unruffled. He glanced at the paper, frowning slightly. “Look at this. Did you forget to do something?” He pointed.
The boy, towheaded and surprisingly clean for a boy of about seven years old, sucked his bottom lip in thought. Then his face
cleared.
“Carrying!” the boy said and slapped his forehead. “Cor, I forgot about carrying the two. Sorry! Sorry, miss! Please! Thank you!”
Mr. Ogden all but slid into the office, panting as though he’d given chase. “My apologies, sir. I was just headed to the side
entrance to take delivery of the Malbec order and he raced past me.”
With one hand firmly on the boy’s shoulder, he steered him out.
Ginny stared after them.
Then pivoted to look at Mr. Marchand.
A little silence ensued.
“That was a child, Miss Woodville.” For the first time since she’d arrived, genuine amusement haunted his mouth.
“I recognized that, thank you.”
“It’s just that your eyes have gone the size of dinner plates in wonderment.”
How Ginny loved a colorful turn of phrase. She wasn’t about to let on.
“Is—” She stopped. It was impossible to imagine him in any sort of domesticity. And yet this impossibility only turned up
the flame on her curiosity.
“He’s an employee,” he explained. “The road to iniquity is long. You have to start them out on it young or they’ll never fully
develop into rogues.” He raised his voice a little. “He’ll be taking over Mr. Ogden’s job in a few weeks.”
“Very amusing, sir.” Mr. Ogden’s voice echoed as he reentered the anteroom.
“Miss Woodville, where is your brother? Does he know you’re here?”
The question made her wary.
“He’s at home in Sussex. And no, he doesn’t know I’ve come here, but I do not think he would be surprised. I’ve raised my siblings since we lost our parents eight years ago. And he knows I would do anything for them.”
“I see. And what specifically was it you hoped to accomplish when you came here today, Miss Woodville?”
Her heart immediately leaped into a painful gallop. It was probably too late to attempt to ingratiate herself to him, but
she suspected nothing she might have said or done would have made a bit of difference, anyway. Still, she needed to try.
She softened her gaze to something she hoped approximated limpid. “I understand this is an extraordinary request. But I would
be so grateful if you would please speak to the person to whom Hogarth lost and ask him to tear up Hogarth’s vowels. In light
of my brother’s youth and inexperience. In light of the grave and perhaps permanent damage done to his family.”
She might have attempted a few tears, but she was certain they would have evaporated in the rays of scathing incredulity now
pouring off Mr. Marchand.
“Miss Woodville. Regardless of your contempt for the nature of it, my business is successful because I never trouble a member
to”—he paused, as if he could hardly believe he was about to issue the next words—“return money fairly won.”
“I understand,” she said humbly. “And I suppose it’s only good practice to feed your members a new sacrificial lamb now and
again. Someone from whom a large win is all but guaranteed.”
She could not seem to help herself. If she could dent his armor even a little, she might leave here with her pride intact,
if nothing else.
Mr. Marchand regarded her for a long moment of alarming stillness. His expression was thoughtful, his brow furrowed, his eyes hard and bright as dagger blades. She wondered if he was trying to decide which part of her to sink his teeth into first.
She took a breath. “I will be frank with you, Mr. Marchand.”
“Will you? I wonder what you’ve been up until now,” he said flatly.
“Discussions regarding the marriage settlements for my sisters, Felicity and Fiona, are scheduled for a fortnight hence. The
success of these, and their marriages, and their futures, are predicated on the assumption of dowries that, as of a particular night Hogarth spent
at Lucifer’s Fall, no longer exist.”
Marchand’s head went back and came down in a nod of comprehension.
“I assume this applies to your dowry, too?”
She didn’t reply. Yes, of course, her dowry, too. But this was quite beside the point, and she had no reason to believe she’d
endeared herself to Marchand in any way. He would likely be pleased enough to tell her to go hang.
“No doubt you see the urgency, Mr. Marchand. I cannot bear to see my sisters’ hopes crushed and their futures ruined, and
I know Hogarth is devastated. If you would kindly share the name of the person to whom Hogarth lost, I promise I’ll never
trouble you again. I understand that you cannot speak to this person. But surely you cannot object if I had a word with him?” She beseeched him with her eyes.
This, in fact, was the information she’d been angling for all along.
She knew the odds were very long of getting it from Marchand.
But her chances of persuading a man of her own station—a man who might even have a daughter, who had a dowry—to take pity on her and her family were infinitely greater than budging the man in front of her.
Mr. Marchand was now studying her curiously.
And then he smiled faintly.
It wasn’t a pleasant smile at all. He looked impressed and oddly . . . satisfied. No: vindicated. As if some unspoken suspicion
had been confirmed for him.
“It seems you and I are not too different, after all, Miss Woodville,” he said gently. The kind of “gently” that made the
hair prickle on her neck in alarm.
He’d clearly chosen that sentence for maximum offense.
That’s when she realized that not only did he recognize her tactics, but they were child’s play to him. As simple as carrying
the two.
“I expect you already know that if your brother were to violate any of his agreements regarding repayment of debt and confidentiality,
it would mean the destruction of his reputation. I don’t need to tell you that this, of course, would influence how his entire
family is perceived. This”—he pushed another document over to her—“is his signed acknowledgment of his debts, which he also
recorded in the book of wins and losses we keep. As a gentleman should.”
Some tiny part of her was outraged that she was impressed with the thoroughness of the recordkeeping.
And then the plural of the word registered.
Or more like detonated.
“I was under the impression it was just the one debt.”
“He owes fifteen thousand pounds to one member. And he owes the house four thousand pounds.” He said this gruesome thing matter-of-factly.
Her stomach plummeted again and the room momentarily guttered like a candle flame in a breeze before her eyes.
“The house?” Her voice had gone hoarse.
“Me. I’m the house, Miss Woodville. Your brother is four thousand pounds in debt to me.”
The blood migrated away from her skin as if fleeing far, far away from this fresh horror. She was all-over ice now.
“Once per year, members are allowed to borrow up to that amount against their accounts here at Lucifer’s Fall. Which your
brother did, against all advice, after he lost the initial amount. He then rapidly lost the four thousand pounds. The agreement
he signed when he joined the club states explicitly that he has thirty days to repay it. I’m also given to understand that
he won a few other wagers of a, and I quote, ‘more whimsical nature.’ My employee on the scene noted this.” He gestured with
his chin to his notes.
“Whimsi . . . I don’t know what that means,” she croaked.
“My records indicate only that your brother won an orange from Lord Grayford and a chamber pot painted with the king’s face
from Mr. Fenwick. Perhaps there were more so-called whimsical wins that went unrecorded.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“Why didn’t anyone stop him?” She was perilously close to shrill.
He was impatient now. “Miss Woodville, he’s a grown man. He chose to do it. Surely no one knows better than a woman that it’s men who invariably do the choosing in life. And while your brother’s evening was eventful, it was not exceptional. Every evening at Lucifer’s Fall is lively
in an entirely different way. He was clearly having a wonderful time, until he wasn’t.”
It seemed inconceivable to her that he could discuss a life-shattering catastrophe so matter-of-factly.
“Perhaps the more important question, Miss Woodville, is why you let him do it. Since you raised him.”
She stared at him. Well played, Mr. Marchand, she thought. It was so exquisitely timed and absolutely brutal that she sucked in a breath.
“My brother is his own man, Mr. Marchand, as you noted,” she said coolly.
“I see,” he replied dubiously.