Chapter 7
Seven
Andrew fingered the lush curtains that lined the walls of the Mayfair Fox, muffling the sound from the groupings of men gathered around tables, eager to bet away their savings.
He moved through the throng of people closest to the door, nodding to one man and smiling at another. However, when he got deeper into the club, passing close to the bar, it was empty.
My reputation has taken its toll.
Once, not long ago, there was a time when all the tables in the Mayfair Fox had been full. When men would come and go, open in their vices. Mayfair Fox had been the favored gambling house in the ton.
And now, due to his lascivious behavior, it was falling out of favor. The tables were emptier this Season than they had been the last.
There was a chance that he was going to save it though. After his conversation with Isobel, he was certain that she would see the reason in his offer. That she would take him up on it because she truly had no other options.
It might be wrong to prey on her situation in such a way, but the way he saw it, they were both going to benefit from his actions. She would escape her father, he could help protect her sister, and he would have a duchess to repair his reputation.
He and Isobel could both benefit; she just needed to see that.
“Annette,” Andrew said, nodding to the woman in her office who was responsible for the club when he was not there—at least on the rare occasions he wasn’t.
She was the widow of the Earl of Holford, with a knack for business and numbers and even more skill in dealing with drunkards and sour men.
Some had criticized him for hiring a woman for this role, but Andrew was not one to obey rules.
Perhaps this was one move that made the clients less inclined to visit the Mayfair Fox—but Andrew trusted Lady Holford, and they had a quiet understanding.
“Business been good tonight?” he asked.
“It has been, Your Grace,” Annette replied. “None of the men have been making trouble tonight, though I suspect that might change—Lord Dalton is here.”
“And Lord Dalton can hardly hold his liquor,” Andrew noted.
“Hardly,” Annette agreed. “But all else is well.”
“You’re a good partner, Annette,” Andrew said. “Anything you need from me before I head to my office for the evening?”
Annette shook her head. “All’s well.”
Andrew made his way deeper into the club, moving by one of the tables in the back where several men were slouching and looking at their cards. One was asleep on the table, drool rolling out of the corner of his mouth and down onto the felt.
“Foxdrey!” Lord Dalton rose from the far corner, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He tossed back the rest of it, throwing the glass to the side, grinning when it shattered against the wall, shards of glass embedding into the curtain.
“Dalton.” Andrew kept his distance from the man, watching him as he swayed on his feet. “I think it might be time for you to head home for the night.”
“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?” Dalton shook his head, spitting on the floor. “Look at you.”
“What of me, Dalton?” Andrew held up a hand as two men working for him started to approach Dalton, prepared to drag him out of Mayfair Fox.
Dalton took two staggering steps forward, careening into the sleeping man’s chair. The sleeping man jerked awake, shoving Dalton away from him.
“You’re a duke. You should have more respect for yourself than to run a gambling house. And yet you do it in the open. You take pride in it. You’ve made a laughingstock of your house.”
Andrew shrugged, holding his place as Dalton advanced toward him again. “I simply allow gentlemen a place to be honest about their vices. You should know that well. Can you say the same for your own house?”
Dalton glowered at him, meaty hands clenching, round stomach protruding as he lunged, falling short nearly a foot and teetering to the side. He had to throw his arms out to catch himself before he fell.
Other men around them laughed at Dalton’s stumbling, which only seemed to fuel his anger.
Dalton’s fist swung for one of the men at the tables, missing.
With the momentum, Dalton spun slightly, facing the back of the room.
He turned. His face was stained a deep crimson.
Taking several steps forward, Dalton stopped, leaving enough room to accommodate his ample stomach.
He poked a pudgy finger in Andrew’s direction.
“You are irredeemable.” Dalton’s voice shook, spewing venom with every syllable. “No father in his right mind would ever give you his daughter. “
“Well then I should feel grateful for your daughter and the father she has to protect her.” Andrew looked down at the finger in disgust, noting the dirt beneath the nails, wondering how long it would be until Dalton lost the last of his money and had to do more than just his own gardening.
“However, there are fathers out there who are more than willing to hand their daughters over.”
Like Lord Leyton.
Anger bubbled in Andrew’s veins at the thought of that filthy man who was Isobel’s father. Isobel would make the right decision; he was certain of it.
And if she didn’t, well, he wasn’t above speaking to her again and asking her to save her own life.
Dalton paused, lips pressing into a thin line. He crossed his arms tight, resting them on the top of his stomach as he whipped around, grabbing one of Andrew’s associates by the arm and pulling her close.
Andrew put his hand on Dalton’s shoulder. “You will unhand Lady Halford at once, or I will ensure that this is the last time you will ever set foot in a gambling house.”
Dalton chuckled, releasing Lady Halford. “Like father, like son.”
Bristling, Andrew shoved the other man away from him, nodding to the workers hovering at the fringes of the argument. “Get him out of here.”
The men grabbed Dalton by each arm, hauling him backward. Dalton tried to fight them off, arms flailing. His eyes narrowed to daggers.
Andrew turned to Lady Halford. “Go to the back and stay with the chef until he’s gone.”
She nodded and took off to the far end of the room, pushing the curtains out of the way and disappearing through a swinging door. The curtain fell back into place and Lady Halford was safe from whatever Dalton would attempt.
“Unhand me!” Dalton shouted, getting one arm free and trying to rip the other one loose. “You can’t do this.”
Andrew’s fists flexed, and for a moment he considered handling the problem himself. However, he made it a habit not to fight his patrons, even when they needed a swift hit to teach them how they should behave around a woman.
Dalton struggled as the men hauled him backward. “I’ll make sure this place is shut down!”
Perfect. Andrew made his way back to Butcher at the bar, needing something a little stronger than water this time.
Isobel pricked her finger, tossing her needlepoint to the side. “I’ve about had it with this needle. And these stitches.”
Joan laughed and took the needlepoint from her, easing the needle in and out of the fabric, the soft pink thread catching the sunlight shining in the window.
“I don’t know how you do things so easily.” Isobel leaned back on the couch, crossing her legs at the ankles and staring at the molding on the ceiling. “I don’t have the patience for needlepoint.”
“And yet you excel at paintings.”
Isobel made a noncommittal noise. “I haven’t touched the one in the drawing room since yesterday. It’s tainted with Father’s words and what he wants to do with us to bail himself out of his own problems.”
“As much as we wish they were only his problems, they are now ours too.” Joan fixed several more areas of pink thread, making the little flower buds in the design look far better than Isobel hoped.
“We could both join the nunnery and be done with it all.” Isobel got up, pacing the room, trailing her fingers over the pianoforte in the corner before going to the window and looking out at the front path that led up to the house.
Part of her hoped that the Duke of Foxdrey would be coming up the walk. It hadn’t yet been three days, but he could’ve changed his mind. He could’ve decided to come earlier and demand a decision out of her sooner.
Which, if she cared to admit it, would make her life far easier.
She wouldn’t have to deal with the stress of trying to live the life she wanted while making sure Joan would be able to have the life she always dreamed of.
The last thing Isobel wanted was to take away even a small sliver of Joan’s future happiness.
If Isobel didn’t accept the marriage proposal, Joan wouldn't have the freedom to choose a husband and create a family of her own.
Swallowing hard, Isobel gripped the edge of the window. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About?”
“The Duke of Foxdrey offered me his hand in marriage yesterday,” Isobel said, forcing the words out even though there was a lump in her throat that nearly kept her from speaking. “He wishes to marry me. He promises to be a good and loyal husband.”
“I know our father owes him a great deal of money, but what does the Duke gain from this arrangement, other than having a bride by his side?” Joan’s voice was soft, but there was an underlying note there.
It almost sounded like Joan didn’t want to know the details; she just wanted Isobel to agree to the marriage.
But Joan would never ask Isobel to do such a thing and they both knew that.
Joan would only hope that Isobel would behave in a prudent manner—one that led them all down a path toward harmony.
I will make the right choice. I know I will. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about anything other than marriage.
Joan sighed. “I know you might not think much of the Duke of Foxdrey, but he is a handsome man, and he does have a large fortune.”
“He is a rake.”
“I suppose there are some flaws that might be harder to overlook than others, but do you believe him to be a tolerable enough man?”
Isobel’s cheeks warmed and she was glad her back was to Joan since all she could think about was the kiss she had shared with the Duke.
How it had stolen her breath, her sense, her good judgment.
If every day in their marriage were like that one perfect moment, then she was sure she could endure anything.
But that was a fantasy, and she knew it.
No charming rogue in a fine carriage was going to whisk her away from ruin. There were no fairytales here—just real life, consequences, and a family debt that remained unsatisfied.
“There is nothing the Duke of Foxdrey likes to do more than needle people, bed women, and make money. I doubt that the marriage is going to be a happy one.” Isobel turned around, her cheeks cooling, a small measure of calm coming over her. “But at least with him I would know what to expect.”
Joan’s eyebrows pulled tougher, a thin line forming between them before her features smoothed. “I want you to be happy, Isobel, and if the marriage is truly going to make you miserable, then I don’t believe you should go through with it.”
“If I don’t… you know Father’s plans for us. I won’t allow that to happen to you.” Isobel crossed the room, sitting beside Joan once more and picking up her needlepoint.
“Perhaps there is a way you can find some happiness for yourself in the process.”
Isobel sighed, changing the pink thread for a green one and beginning to stitch out the stems of the flowers. “All I want is freedom and my paints and your happiness.”
“I suspect all of those things may not be possible,” Joan said, though her voice was barely more than a whisper.
It was a truth Isobel loathed to acknowledge, but it was the truth, nonetheless.
Floorboards creaked in the hallway, the sound of heavy footsteps growing louder. Father appeared in the doorway with a smile.
“Good morning, Isobel. You are looking lovely today. Have you given more thought to the generous proposal put before you?”
Isobel glowered at him. “You act very sweetly, Father, even though it was only a few hours ago that you attempted to trade my and Joan’s bodies.”
Father’s jaw clenched. “You would speak to your father in such a manner?”
Isobel was rendered speechless. She was not accustomed to defying her father openly like that.
“You’re being unreasonable, Isobel.” Father shook his head, looking at her like she was a child who didn’t understand.
“At least at a brothel you would have a roof over your head. You wouldn’t have to live on the streets and beg for scraps.
Though, there’s no need to worry about that now. You’re going to be a duchess.”
“I will be nothing.” Isobel held her chin high. “I haven’t accepted the proposal, and I have no intention of doing so.”
Father’s hands clenched into tight fists. “Foolish, stupid girl! You claim you’re more than a girl with simply air between her ears, but a wise woman would see that this marriage could save her family.”
“I can see that, but why would I want to save you? Joan and I will become nuns.”
Isobel knew now that the idea of going to a monastery had been nothing more than a dramatic escape.
It was no longer an option—if it ever truly had been.
But the realization left a sting deep in her chest. Once again, the choice had been made for her.
Her life shifted and was steered by everyone but herself.
Is there anything a woman is permitted to decide?
Her future, her marriage, her body—did any of it belong to her?
The thought settled like a stone in her stomach, heavy and cold.
Joan sighed but she said nothing.
But nothing would change now. Isobel would marry the Mayfair Fox, and somehow, she would see that Joan was protected., even if it cost her everything.