Chapter Twenty-Four #2
Where in the devil was Davenport? Had Bessie Dove-Lyon imprisoned him in her office?
“Shite.” Nicolas needed to enter the blasted establishment to ensure his mate hadn’t been locked away.
Two large men who referred to each other as Theseus and Egeus met him at the main door.
“Dining, drinking, or playing?” the one named Theseus asked.
“Looking for my mate.” Who might very well be a captive in their insane proprietress’s lair.
Theseus held out his hand, inviting Nicolas to enter. Since there was a cloakroom on the right, Nicolas took the hall to the left and passed by a lounge full of men reclining with newspapers and books.
Next, he perused an elegant dining parlor. Davenport wasn’t among the diners.
He entered a hazy room filled with at least a dozen men. Every single gent held a lit cheroot that emitted swirling trails of smoke. Thankfully, Davenport wasn’t in the smoking room since Nicolas’s lungs currently wanted nothing to do with the thick air.
Nicolas fought his way through the gray clouds to a back exit and entered a crowded, noisy room. Davenport sat at a far table, a drink in front of him. Cards fanned from his palm.
Had Davenport seriously left him in a hot carriage for hours while he played cards and drank? With every intention of strangling the man, Nicolas marched toward him.
A large hand gripped his forearm, halting his onslaught.
Nicolas whirled to stare into the eyes of the Wolf Pack’s leader. The unnerving woman in the black veil stood beside her henchman.
“Lord Wentworth,” Bessie Dove-Lyon said. “You are finally awake?”
How in the blazes did she know he’d been sleeping in the carriage outside of the establishment?
“I invited Lord Davenport’s staff in a while ago,” she said. “They are enjoying a drink upstairs.”
She handed Nicolas a glass of water. He eyed it suspiciously.
“Don’t worry. I did not poison it.” The odd woman chortled. “This wager won’t be any fun if I kill you.”
“I see no humor in that statement, Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he said.
She sighed. “Oh, my lord, I’d hoped some of Josephine’s zest and passion for life might wear off on you.”
Oh, she’d worn off on him, all right. If his obsession could be considered “worn off.”
The widow pushed the cup into his hand. “I know you do not favor spirits. I’m having a cup of tea made for you as we speak.” Leaning close, she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “Brandy?” She clucked her tongue.
Was there anything she didn’t know about him?
“No, thank you,” Nicolas said. “I won’t be staying long enough to have a cup of tea. Besides, I can’t pay for it, and I have nothing else to give you. You are about to take everything I own. I have no doubt that you’d enjoy watching me scrub your floors to pay off my drink.”
She guffawed. “There is that spirit I knew resided somewhere inside the future Earl of Shiredale.”
Since he was dying of thirst, he gulped the water as he cast his gaze over the room to where Davenport sat, laughing and playing cards.
“How are things going with your pretty pugilist?” the widow asked.
Nicolas turned an incredulous glare on her.
She met his glare, tossing it back tenfold.
Nicolas guzzled and wiped a wayward drip from his chin. “She is a hard worker. Relentless. Lady Davenport is presenting her as a cousin at Lady Siddon’s ball in a few days where she plans to introduce her to the duke. But I suspect you already know this.”
“Splendid,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gave one demure clap. “You might just win back your family’s estate.”
She sounded as if she wanted him to win Blue Cliff Manor back, which made no sense at all since she’d given them impossible tasks.
Looking down at her, he stared through the veil, searching for some clue as to why she was playing these games. As much as she unsettled him, he couldn’t detect maliciousness. However, there was something there that made him think of a fox toying with a rabbit.
There seemed no need to mince words with her. “I suspect you are quite jaded, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
Her head tilted ever so slightly. “Oh?”
“You spend your days surrounded by this.” Palm out, he presented her room of stewed, wagering men.
“Men like my father, who sacrifice everything dear to them as they chase an elusive high. You must find me as abhorrent as them. And perhaps I am. I am a man, after all, with a man’s wants and desires.
Lord knows we men are no saints. But why would you do this to Josephine?
You have set her up for failure. You know Griffendale won’t marry her.
Why taunt her and watch her dreams dissolve into nothingness?
She wants to follow her passion and teach other women to defend themselves against the likes of us.
” He pointed at himself, then again presented the room of men.
“I would think you would applaud her cause instead of setting up pointless barriers.” He exhaled his rising frustration.
“You know I can’t win back my estate and yet you stand here pretending like there is a chance. Like you might even want us to win.”
He expected the widow to rage or have her henchmen toss him from the building. Instead, seeming unperturbed. she shrugged. “Women come to me requesting I make unlikely matches, so I do. That is why I am known as the greatest matchmaker in London.”
“But you had to know Josephine had no intention of making a match with Griffendale. She isn’t daft.
She was simply angry at me. She felt as if I was looking down my nose at her.
Which mayhap, in a way, I was. Not because we are of different classes, but because I didn’t understand how damn strong a woman could be. ”
The widow chuckled. “Oh, I know.” She patted his forearm. “When will you come to realize that I know everything? Josephine does not need me for anything. She will accomplish her life’s goals without me. You, on the other hand, my lord, need a helping hand and a swift kick in the arse.”
Was she saying this entire farce was for him because he needed some life lessons?
“Consider The Duke of Astleyshire and The Duke of Paulsgrove,” she said.
“Yes, I know of them.” But both of their wives were from aristocratic families. They were not orphans from the East End.
But the truth was, Nicolas wanted it to be acceptable for a man of his class to marry a woman like Josie because he wanted to spend his life with her. Maybe raise a brood of hellions with her.
Children? Holy bollocks. As this farce went on, he was falling deeper and deeper into a sentimental abyss.
An uproarious noise in the back of the room halted his musing.
Jonathon leaped from his chair and tossed his cards on the table. The men surrounding him laughed. Also chuckling, Jonathon plopped his arse back onto the chair and dug his pencil from his coat pocket.
Nicolas squinted and watched as Davenport scratched something on the foolscap he’d been carrying about.
Odd indeed, because the viscount wrote about as well as he read.
Not to mention, the fool was defying the widow and making side bets in her establishment.
And after she’d told him not to. As if they weren’t in enough trouble.
When the viscount finally looked up from his scribbling, his gaze met Nicolas’s.
Nicolas stiffened.
“Do not worry about Lord Davenport,” the widow said, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “He has my permission. This time.”
Davenport gathered his belongings. Juggling his hat, tailcoat, and gloves, he approached.
“What the hell? You left me sleeping in the carriage for hours,” Nicolas said.
As Davenport clapped him on the back, papers fluttered from his coat pocket. One of the wayward slips landed beside Nicolas’s boot.
“You were finally sleeping. Don’t think I don’t know you toss and turn all night with all that fretting,” Davenport said. “I accept your thank you, as well as your apology for being a horse’s arse.”
Nicolas and Davenport knelt at the same time. Nicolas retrieved the paper near his foot as Davenport gathered the rest.
Nicolas took a moment to study the simple drawings and numbers scratched on the paper. Dare he tell his mate that his fives were backward? At least, Nicolas suspected the crudely drawn numbers were fives.
Maybe later, in private, he would point this out. Although he’d mentioned the backward numbers in the past, and it had done nothing to solve the problem.
Nicolas and Davenport stood at the same time.
Nicolas handed the note to the blushing viscount. “Can we return to Greenpark House now?”
“Not until you’ve had a decent meal. We serve the finest food in the city,” the widow assured Nicolas. “Please see the gentlemen to their table,” she told her henchman.
Now that he thought about it, Nicolas was famished. He hadn’t eaten since he’d had a few cold bites at the Smalls. Damnation, he disliked the Smalls. Every time he thought about them, he wanted to punch something.
“By the by, my lord.” The widow held up her index finger. “Breeding does not make a lady, and his ancestors do not define a man.”
“Wise words, indeed.” Humming his agreement, Davenport wrapped his arm around Nicolas’s shoulder and nudged him toward the retreating pack leader. “I do hope they serve roast lamb tonight.”
Nicolas peered over his shoulder, intending to thank the puzzling woman for the meal. He might be irritated and crapulous, but he was still a gentleman. However, she’d vanished into thin air.
Dear Lord, he needed food, tea, and more sleep.