Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Andrew stood outside the Mayfair Fox, his solicitor Mr. Davies at his side, and stared at the building that had defined his entire adult life.
The gas lamps cast warm golden light across the entrance, illuminating the discreet brass plaque that read simply: The Mayfair Fox - Members Only.
Through the windows, he could see the familiar scene—men gathered around tables, dealers shuffling cards, the soft clink of glasses and low murmur of conversation.
This place had been his salvation. His proof. His identity.
And he was about to walk away from it.
Not completely, he told himself. Not forever. Just... enough to make room for something, someone, more important.
"Shall we go in, Your Grace?" Mr. Davies prompted him gently.
Andrew nodded, pushing open the door and stepping into the world he'd built.
When his eyes met Annette’s, she smiled, excusing herself from the patron she'd been speaking with.
"Your Grace. I wasn't expecting you tonight." She glanced at Mr. Davies, her expression turning more guarded. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Come with me. Both of you." Andrew led them to his private office at the back, away from curious eyes and listening ears. "In fact, I'm here to make things right."
Once the door was closed, he gestured for them both to sit. Annette perched on the edge of the chair, her posture tense, while Mr. Davies settled more comfortably, pulling out papers from his leather case.
"Lady Holford," Andrew began, choosing his words carefully. "You've been managing the Mayfair Fox brilliantly in my absence. Better than I could have hoped."
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"Which is why I want to make it official.
" He nodded to Mr. Davies, who spread several documents across the desk.
"I'm appointing you as the primary operator of the Mayfair Fox.
You'll oversee all daily operations, make decisions regarding staff and clients, and manage the accounts.
Mr. Davies has drawn up the legal documents. "
Annette's eyes widened. "Your Grace, I don't understand. Are you... are you leaving?"
"Not leaving. Stepping back." Andrew leaned against his desk. "I've realized recently that I've been using this place as a crutch.”
That wasn't entirely true. Or untrue. He was still figuring it out, still wrestling with decades of fear and self-doubt. But saying it aloud made it feel more real.
"This club will always be important to me," he continued. "It represents everything I built from my father's ruins. But it can't be my entire life anymore. I have other priorities now."
Annette's expression softened with understanding. "The Duchess."
"Yes." The word came easily. "My wife deserves more than a husband who's married to his business. She deserves someone who's present. Who chooses her. Who puts her first."
"She must be quite a woman," Annette said softly.
"She is." Andrew felt his chest tighten with the admission. "She's fierce and intelligent and far too good for me. But somehow, she chose to stay. And I'll be damned if I repay that by continuing to put this place before her."
Mr. Davies cleared his throat. "The documents give the Dowager Countess full operational control, Your Grace.
You'll retain ownership and ultimate authority, of course, but she'll handle everything day-to-day.
You'll receive regular reports and can visit as often as you like, but you won't be required to be here. "
"What about difficult decisions?" Annette asked, her brow furrowed. "What if something happens that requires your input?"
"Use your judgment." Andrew met her gaze. "I trust you, Annette. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't. You know this place as well as I do, better, in some ways. You know the clients, the staff, what works and what doesn't. I'm confident you'll make the right choices."
Annette was quiet for a long moment, studying the documents. Then she looked up at him, her expression serious.
"This is about more than just trusting me, isn't it? This is about you learning to let go."
Andrew smiled ruefully. "Indeed. I must make an effort."
“Yes,” Annette agreed readily. “That is an admirable thing to do.” She stood moving to look out the window at the club below. "I'll do it. I'll take care of this place like it's my own."
"Thank you, Annette."
They spent the next hour going over details, signing documents, discussing transitions and protocols. By the time they finished, Andrew felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He was doing the right thing. He knew it in his bones.
Now he just needed to get home and tell Isobel.
The ballroom glittered with candlelight and jewels. The space was filled with the cream of London society. Musicians played from the gallery, couples swirled across the floor, and servants moved efficiently through the crowd with trays of champagne and delicacies.
It should have been delightful.
It would have been the perfect night. If her husband had bothered to attend.
"Your Grace." Lady Foster approached with her daughter in tow, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "What a lovely ball. Though I confess, I'm surprised not to see the Duke here. Surely, he hasn't been called away on business?"
The emphasis on "business" made it clear what she thought of the Mayfair Fox.
"His Grace was detained," Isobel said, her voice smooth despite the mortification burning in her chest. "He'll be joining us shortly."
"Of course." Lady Foster's smile sharpened. "Though it does seem rather unusual for a host to be absent from his own ball."
She and her daughter swept away before Isobel could respond, leaving her standing there with flaming cheeks and clenched fists.
"Don't let her rattle you."
Isobel turned to find Eleanor and Kitty approaching, both looking magnificent in silk gowns that put her own lavender dress to shame.
"The ton's most unlikely brides, all in one room," Eleanor said with a warm smile. "How delightful."
"Unlikely brides?" Isobel repeated.
“Oh yes,” Kitty laughed, linking her arm through Isobel’s.
“Eleanor married a Scottish Duke after a shipwreck scandal. I married a duke after rejecting him for three whole weeks… of our betrothal. And of course, I had the infamous ripped-dress incident. There’s always a scandal.
And you,” she added with a grin, “married the notorious Mayfair Fox himself. Honestly, we’re like the scandalous dream team of the ton. ”
"Though I must say," Eleanor added, "Andrew seems remarkably changed since marrying you. More settled. Happier, even."
"Does he?" Isobel couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.
Eleanor's sharp gaze missed nothing. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything is perfectly fine." The lie tasted like tart. "Except my husband is late to the ball he insisted we host, and everyone is talking about it."
"Men are terrible with timing," Kitty said sympathetically. "Norman once missed our anniversary dinner because he got distracted discussing crop rotation with our steward."
"This is different." Isobel looked around the crowded ballroom. "Andrew promised. He promised to be here, to help Joan, to show the ton that we're a proper couple. And he couldn't even bother to arrive on time."
"He'll be here," Eleanor said firmly. "Whatever's keeping him must be important."
"That's precisely the problem." Isobel's voice dropped. "The Mayfair Fox will always be more important than me. I knew that when I married him. I just... I thought perhaps things might change."
"And they haven't?" Kitty asked gently.
Before Isobel could answer, Joan appeared at her elbow, slightly breathless and glowing with happiness.
"Isobel! Lord Ashford just asked me to dance for the third time. Do you think that means—" She stopped, taking in Isobel's expression. "What's wrong? Where's Andrew?"
"Detained." The word was clipped.
Joan's face fell. "Oh. I see."
"Don't worry about it." Isobel forced a smile. "You go dance with Lord Ashford.”
Isobel hesitated. A third dance would not go unnoticed — not in a room like this. It would invite speculation, nods exchanged behind gloved hands.
And Andrew had been clear: this evening was meant to give Joan choices, not funnel her neatly toward the first acceptable gentleman who showed interest.
“If you wish to dance with him again,” Isobel said quietly, “do so knowing what it may suggest. But do not feel obliged to limit yourself tonight. You are meant to be seen. Enjoy yourself. That's what tonight is about, helping you find a match."
Isobel paused. "This ball was supposed to be for you, but somehow it's ended up being about me again. About Andrew. About whether he'll show up or let me down."
"I'm not blind, Isobel." Her sister's voice was gentle but firm. "I can see you're hurting. And I can see that you're trying to pretend everything is fine when it clearly isn't." She let out a small smile. “He sure has a talent for causing scenes whether he’s present or not.”
Eleanor and Kitty exchanged glances, both tactfully fading back to give the sisters privacy.
"I'm fine," Isobel insisted.
"You're not.” Joan took her hand. "What happened? What's really going on?"
Isobel opened her mouth to deflect, to lie, to maintain the careful facade she'd been holding all evening. But looking at her sister's concerned face, the words just... came out.
"I'm in love with him."
Joan's eyes widened. "Oh."
"And I thought, I hoped, that maybe he felt the same way.
That maybe what we had was real. But then the club needed him, and he left without a second thought, and I realized.
.." She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.
"I realized that I'll never be his priority.
The Mayfair Fox will always come first."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" Isobel gestured around the ballroom. "He's not here, Joan. On the night he promised to stand beside me. On the night we're supposed to be helping you. He's at his precious club, and I'm here looking like a fool."
"Perhaps there's a good reason."
"There's always a good reason." The words came out sharper than intended. "An emergency. A crisis. Something that requires his immediate attention. And I'm supposed to just accept that I'll always come second."
Joan was quiet for a moment, then: "Do you really think he doesn't care for you?"
"I think he cares as much as he's capable of caring." Isobel blinked back tears. "But I don't think I'll ever be more important than the club. And I don't know if I can live with that."
"The past few weeks have been wonderful though, haven't they?" Joan asked. "He's been attentive. Present. Kind. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It counts for everything." Isobel's voice broke. "That's the problem. It gave me hope. It made me think maybe things could be different. Maybe I could be enough to make him choose me. But the past few days proved I was wrong."
"What happened then?"
Isobel hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it.
"We were together. Truly together. It was splendid and wonderful and everything I'd been afraid to want.
And then someone from the club came to fetch him because there was an emergency, and he left immediately.
Left me alone in a room that still smelled like him, like us, as if none of it had mattered at all. "
"Oh, Isobel."
"I told myself I wouldn't do this." She wiped angrily at a tear that escaped. "I told myself I wouldn't fall in love with him. I knew better. I knew he was married to his business, that I'd always be secondary. But I fell anyway, and now I'm paying the price."
"Have you told him how you feel?"
"How can I?" Isobel laughed bitterly. "How can I tell him I love him when I'm terrified he won't say it back? When I already know where I rank in his priorities? At least if I don't say it, I can maintain some dignity."
"That's not dignity, that's fear." Joan squeezed her hand. "And you're the bravest person I know. You stood up to Father. You married a man you barely knew to save our family. You defended Andrew against Lord Dalton in front of half the ton. Surely you can tell your own husband how you feel."
"It's different."
"It's not. It's just scarier." Joan's smile was sad. "Because telling him means risking real rejection. Not just him choosing the club over you, but him hearing that you love him and actively choosing not to love you back."
The truth of it hit Isobel and rattled her completely.
That was what she was afraid of.
Not that Andrew would prioritize the Mayfair Fox; she'd already accepted that as inevitable. But that he would hear her confession of love and feel nothing in return. That she would share her heart completely, and he would look at her with pity or discomfort or worse, indifference.
"I can't risk it," she whispered. "I can't tell him and watch him pull away. I'd rather have this, whatever this is, than lose him."
"But you're already losing him," Joan said gently. "By not telling him how you feel, by pushing him away, by assuming the worst... you're losing him anyway. At least if you're honest, you'll know the truth. You'll know if there's something real to fight for."
“I really don’t know what to say right now. I just want to enjoy the ball.” Isobel replied, looking around and realizing she did a good job setting the place up.
“Then let’s dance and go have a talk with Lord Ashford.”