Chapter 7
In the two weeks since The Iris Club had opened and he’d kissed Matilda Wilson, Ambrose had listened to conversation after conversation about the club.
“It’s not right for women to be so bold.”
“What will they think of next? That they should have a seat in the House of Lords?”
And so it went on. Ambrose had ground his teeth together so much, they would be dust soon.
But they knew better than to approach him about his sisters being members of The Iris Club, and for that, at least, he was thankful.
Ambrose stepped down as the hackney stopped at the entrance to Crabbett Close, then paid the driver. Instead of heading into the close, he made for Appleblossoms Bakers. When he was irritable, he found that something laden with sugar helped.
The bakery was situated within a row of three shops. One was a bookshop, the next Nitpicks Trinkets and Treasures, which he could say with full confidence he’d never enter, and the third was Appleblossoms, which had been bought and was now run by the residents of Crabbett Close.
Money from the Pavlov fortune had paid for it, as it had many other things to make the residents more comfortable. The Nightingale family who lived in the Close were extremely generous.
The gold lettering on the front window was written inside a large, red apple now. This was the third change this year, from memory, and his favorite.
Delicious smells instantly bombarded him as he entered. Spice, fruit, buttery pastry. It all formed a delicious scent that made his mouth water.
“Good day to you, Lord Talbot,” the tall, well-built woman behind the counter said.
He’d never seen Mavis Johns smile, laugh, or show any excess emotion, unlike the other, more chatty members of Crabbett Close.
“Good day to you, Mavis. Those apricotines look tasty.” Ambrose pointed to them.
“They are almost perfect,” she said. “I think by the end of the year, we should have them where we want them.”
He wasn’t sure if she was joking, because the month was only May. One could never really tell with Mavis.
“Do not sell him any. I want them all, as I have a wife who is expecting and needs the nourishment!”
Behind him, Ramsey Hellion had exploded through the door yelling these words, looking harried, which the man had rarely looked in the short time they’d been acquainted.
“Surely you can spare me one, Ram?”
“Flora is craving apricotines,” the man explained.
Ambrose looked at the cabinets full of food, then back at Ram, raising a brow.
“I was sent for apricotines, and rather tersely, I might add.”
Tall, dark, and some would say handsome, Ramsey Hellion was married to a cousin of the Nightingales and an integral cog in the workings of the family.
They were a large, boisterous lot who had once been thrown out of society due to their father’s perfidious behavior. Now they were back, but on their terms, and from what Ambrose could gather, didn’t give a fig about what anyone thought of them.
Then there was the small matter of them being clairvoyants that had taken Ambrose a while to come to grips with.
“You’re back, Mr. Hellion.” An elderly lady, whom he knew was Mrs. Greedy, staggered in from the rear, carrying a tray of what looked to be pies. She bent to place them in the cabinet, and her knees creaked.
“I didn’t know you baked pies here too,” Ambrose said, sniffing the air like a hound.
“It’s a new addition,” Ram said, also sniffing loudly. “Sweet, savory, and delicious. Cambridge Sinclair is a constant visitor and says they are some of the best in London.”
“Perhaps you should take a room here, seeing as you’ve clearly nowhere else to be, Hellion.”
A large Scotsman by the name of Mungo delivered these deep words. He stood in the doorway, his shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the frame. He scowled at Ram, his brows drawn in the middle, as they most often were.
“Mungo, my day is now complete,” Ram said, smiling for the first time since he’d walked in.
“You do know Flora sends you out of the house because your cosseting is driving her mad,” Mungo added in his Scottish burr.
“Is he cosseting her?” Ambrose enquired, pondering the cabinets again. Perhaps an apricotine and a pie. He could eat them on the short walk to number 11 Crabbett Close. Or should he take food to have with tea? Chances were, the household would be full, as it always was.
“Constantly,” Mungo replied.
“I am merely looking after my wife when she needs me most,” Ram protested.
“Does she or does she not send you from the house every day on some small errand?” Mungo asked.
The Scotsman worked in the Nightingale household, but from what Ambrose had heard, he didn’t need to. Much to everyone’s surprise, he’d fallen in love with the governess employed by the family to shave off the rough edges before the young ladies entered society and had married her.
Privately, it gave Ambrose hope. If a man such as this one could find love, there was a chance for the rest of them.
“You’re suffocating her,” Mungo snapped as he moved to stand beside Ambrose.
“Mungo.” He nodded.
“Talbot,” he grunted. “I thought you were attending the meeting at 11 Crabbett Close.”
“Just heading there now but thought to get food first.”
“No need. There is plenty. Bud has been baking.”
“Well then, just something to eat on the journey,” Ambrose said, refusing to be intimidated by this man. People had been trying to do that to him for most of his life, especially in business, and he was more than up to the task of standing up for himself.
Today was the monthly meeting of those who had found the Pavlov fortune.
Bramstone Nightingale, the head of the family, had decided this should happen, as the amount of money they had found was vast, and all involved had ideas of what to do with it.
So, this meeting took place each month to discuss that, as well as what they had already implemented.
It was an odd grouping of people. Most were family, or had a connection to the Nightingales, like he did, as his sister was wed to a cousin, and then there was Miss Matilda Wilson, his sister’s best friend, and a sharp thorn in Ambrose’s side.
With lips that tasted like the finest champagne.
He was now seriously concerned for the safety of those who entered The Iris Club. Whatever was going on below was dangerous. He was under no illusion that just locking that outside door would stop whoever had been gathering there.
Ambrose would not put it past Tilly to go down into that room again either. He needed to have a stern word with her about that and to be on the lookout for any strangers lurking around the building.
He’d checked the outside door multiple times, and it had remained locked, with no signs that anyone had tried to enter. Ambrose needed to convince Tilly to nail hers shut.
“I was coming to the meeting also, but I thought Flora may need me as she’s unable to attend,” Ram said, drawing him back to the present.
“For pity’s sake, man, let her breathe,” Mungo muttered. “Come to the Pavlov meeting and be done with the fussing.”
“While I don’t make a habit of siding with our large Scottish heathen, I agree in this case. Violet told me that your wife is ready to throw you under a carriage,” Ambrose said.
“You’ll badger her half to death with your worry if you keep it up,” Mrs. Greedy, now upright, agreed. Her lined face was flushed red from cooking, her tattered lace cap lopsided. “You men always a thinking you know the right of things, when the truth is, you couldn’t be further from it.”
“Amen,” Mavis added.
“We’re going to have our knitting meetings in The Iris Club,” Mrs. Greedy informed them suddenly.
“Well, that’s good to hear,” Ram said, frowning. “But back to me. Do you really believe my wife is trying to get rid of me?”
“I should imagine it’s like taking off an ill-fitting pair of boots when you leave the house,” Mrs. Greedy suggested.
“Like when you’ve walked through a deep puddle, and the leather tightens uncomfortably?”
“Exactly, Mavis,” the older woman agreed. “Just like that.”
“Well then, I shall attend the meeting and give you all my sage and intelligent counsel,” Ram decided, not looking at all put out over the thought that his wife wanted to get rid of him like she would a pair of ill-fitting boots.
“Idiot,” Mungo muttered.
They debated the merits of cakes and pies, then left. Ambrose’s first bite of the meat pie encased in soft buttery pastry told him he’d made the right choice.
“Flora went to The Iris Club yesterday and said that Tilly and the others have done an amazing job there,” Ram said. “It’s just a shame about all the things happening. One would think they were deliberate, due to their regularity.”
“What things?” Ambrose hadn’t meant the words to sound like a demand, but they had.
“The broken windows and fire in the kitchen. If that weren’t bad enough, just last week, two windows were left open in one of the parlors. It was a night of heavy rain, and rugs and furniture were soaked by the deluge,” Ram said.
One would think they were deliberate. Could whoever was involved in what went on below also be involved in these things happening at The Iris Club? Ambrose needed to talk to Tilly.
“I feel for Tilly, as she has put so much into the club, and these things keep happening,” Ram said.
“She’s reckless and seems completely unaware of how many people she’s annoyed choosing that location.” Ambrose wished he’d kept his mouth shut when he felt their eyes on him.
“She’s an intelligent, lovely young woman who is championing others in a world that is dominated by men. The Iris Club is offering a place for ladies to be themselves, which I doubt is often available to them as it is to us,” Ram said.
“What he said,” Mungo grunted. “However, I’ll add that I’m not happy the women I care about are going there, but only because I agree with Talbot and doubt the men who are displeased about it will stop voicing their displeasure.
Why it could not have been formed in a quiet area of London and not on a busy street next to a gentleman’s club, I have no notion. ”
“I think she’s making a point,” Ram said. “I know there are other women’s clubs making less of a statement, but Tilly and the others decided on that location for a reason.”
“To annoy the members of the men’s club?” Ambrose asked.
“To make a stand on women’s rights,” Ram replied.
Ambrose exhaled slowly. “My sisters are visiting that place, and I have no wish for any of them to fall prey to the idiots who would hurl abuse at women because they do not conform with society. I want them married well and happy. Not—”
“Talbot, I did not know you held such antiquated views. Your sisters have my sympathies,” Ram said.
“Just because you lot have differing views from mine, which I understand is due to what happened before we met, does not mean they are correct.”
“But aren’t we always right, Mungo?” Ram demanded.
Mungo grunted his agreement.
“I don’t make the rules, and sometimes disagree with them, but to rebel against them helps no one and simply makes life more difficult, especially for women,” Ambrose said.
“If we all agreed, who would bring about change?” Mungo asked.
“As always, he cuts right to the point,” Ram said.
Ambrose’s eyes went to Crabbett Close as he thought about his reply.
It was an odd little place where weird people lived and strange things happened, like the Crabbett Close games, which he’d been part of twice now and hoped never to be so again.
He had been raised an earl’s son with all that entailed, but these people, especially the Nightingales, challenged that.
“Must we have change?” Ambrose asked.
“Don’t you and your father have business interests, Talbot? Isn’t that change?” Ram asked. “Most nobles loll about in their houses, doing very little to contribute to anything but their own indulgences.”
Ambrose was used to the order of things exactly as they’d always been. His sisters challenged that constantly, but for the most part, his life had been on the same path for years.
He would wed someone he respected, and they would raise a family. His wife would be a woman of society and good birth who knew the way of things.
Tilly slid into his head then, and he pushed her out. She was the exact opposite of the woman who would be the future Lady Talbot.
“What is that man doing now?” the large Scotsman demanded suddenly.
Following his line of sight, Ambrose saw his eyes were focused on the rotunda that had been erected with some of the Pavlov funds in the middle of Crabbett Close’s small park.
“Writing group, I believe,” Ram said. “Each week they have a topic they must write a piece on, and then it is reviewed.”
“Right there in the rotunda?” Ambrose queried.
“My wife, plus Anna, Matilda, and Fred are there,” Mungo said with a sigh.
“And Charles, one hopes,” Ram added. “After all, he is the writer in the family.”
“I believe he calls in when he can, but he will be attending the meeting, so he may not be there today.”
“Odd,” Ambrose muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets now that he’d finished his pie. “It’s bloody chilly today, surely inside a house would be a better place?”
“Crabbett Close,” Mungo said.
“Enough said,” Ram added.
It was never a fast journey to 11 Crabbett Close unless you took a carriage right to the front door, as the locals invariably wanted to chat. He put his head down and walked, leaving the other two to do that.
He didn’t like change and felt like it was coming, but wasn’t sure how to stop it.
“Hello, Ambrose.”
Bramstone Nightingale was a tall man with dark hair greying at the temples, who had a commanding presence for all he rarely raised his voice. He was standing in the front garden of 11 Crabbett Close, the home he shared with his wife, daughter, and three youngest nieces and nephew.
He’d stepped in to take care of his family when his brother’s actions had forced them from society. Ambrose knew he would give his life for any one of them.
“Good day to you, Bram. Is there a particular reason you are standing in your front garden?”
“We have decided to extend the house, Ambrose. I was viewing it from this angle and envisioning. But as you have arrived, I shall leave that for now.”
They both turned as raised voices reached them.
“Excellent, Ram and Mungo are here also. The others are inside. We are merely waiting on Tilly.”
Just hearing her name made him tense. The woman occupied far too many of his thoughts, and he’d been a fool to kiss her, because now it was worse.
“Perhaps she is busy,” Ambrose said. Lord, he hoped that was the case because he blamed all the sudden uncertainty in his life entirely on her, and he wanted it to stop.
With three sisters, he’d had to learn control young, and he wasn’t about to let Matilda Wilson strip that away from him.