Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Sophie was still snoring—not that she would admit to such a condition—when Eliza woke with no small amount of trepidation. She rather owed her mother an apology and was not excited to deliver it.
Eliza stepped into the breakfast room to find only her father buried in a book, and her relief was great. She kissed the crown of his head and sat. As she filled her plate, her mood lifted.
“Good morning, petal,” he murmured. Eliza rolled her eyes at the childish nickname, even as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Then vanished at the snap of his book as it closed.
“Good morning, Papa.” She delivered the greeting quietly to her cooling eggs.
“You can bring the smile back. I’m not cross and merely wish to talk.”
“I know I owe Mama an apology. I—”
“Your mother owes you an apology—though one from you for the way you spoke to her would not go amiss. So do I.”
“What?”
“I had no idea you felt so… unappreciated.”
With a gasp, she turned to meet his gaze. His eyes were the same worn brown she saw in the mirror, though his had creased at the corners. Sophie inherited his near-black waves—without her father’s grey streaks at the temples—while Eliza earned her mother’s lighter, unruly curls.
“I knew you were unhappy, that the season wasn’t progressing as you wished. But I thought your dissatisfaction lay in the difficulty of finding a man worthy of you. Not that you felt unworthy of them.”
“I— It’s so easy for Sophie.”
Her father squeezed her hand. “Oh, Lizzie—I know you find Lizzie to be childish and prefer Eliza now, but you will always be my Lizzie. You must allow me this indulgence. It is easy for Sophie, not because she is prettier or livelier than you—she is not—but because she does not care. If she says something silly to a foppish lord, she laughs it off and moves on to the next. You care so much. You feel even the slightest misstep so keenly—you always have—you allow it to consume you. I hadn’t realized that it translated even to this. ”
“Oh, Papa. I’ve become a jealous wretch, and I hate it.
I hate feeling this way. I love Sophie. I want her to find a man who loves and respects her.
But I ache watching from the wall each night, while the gentlemen line up to speak with her.
It’s hard to walk downstairs each morning and see every surface of the drawing room filled with flowers all for her—she doesn’t even like flowers. ”
“That I understand. Not the flowers—I agree with your sister on those; they’re ridiculous. Jealousy, though… I know her well.”
“But you’re so happy.”
“Now. But you know how I grew up. I managed the Grayson estate for your uncle until he came of age. It wasn’t easy managing a viscounty and then transferring it to Hugh—who was not at all grateful.
When I met your mother… daughter of an earl and engaged to a duke…
How was a viscount’s bastard to compete?
It was devastating. I hated Hugh in that moment, and many that came before.
He swanned around with a title he’d done nothing to earn—a title that would’ve made me respectable enough to offer for your mother. ”
“But she chose you.”
“Yes, she did,” he said, a crooked smile blooming on his face.
“But I didn’t know that then. And you do not know what will happen now.
You don’t understand your power. You’re beautiful, charming—and wealth is the least of it.
I respect this Lord Sinclair for being the first man brave enough to throw his hat into the ring.
But you cannot lose your head over him simply because he was the first. He won’t be the last.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I rather think that now that one has braved your stern countenance and they’ve all seen your smile, the rest will follow.”
Eliza doubted that, but she offered her father a small smile as a concession. “None so handsome as him,” she teased.
Her father rolled his eyes. “Yes, I heard a great deal about how handsome he was from your mother. I suspect she might be your competition.”
A flush heated Eliza’s cheeks. “You do not know him? He implied he didn’t know the club.”
“I do not. I agree with your mother that he is certainly aware of the club. But he’s not a regular.”
“Perhaps then, his reputation is exaggerated?”
He sighed. “I do not wish to get your hopes up. He may be entirely unsuitable for polite society for reasons other than gaming. But I will look into him. Is that fair?”
“I doubt he will wish to speak to me after Uncle Hugh’s display. But…”
He chuckled. “Any man frightened off a woman by Hugh is inherently unworthy of her, but he once warned me away from your mother.”
“So you’re a hypocrite.”
“Of the highest order.”
“I love you, Papa.” Eliza rose and rounded the table to reach her father, then bent to wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind.
“I love you, too, my petal,” he said, squeezing her hands where they wrapped around his chest.
“I’m so glad Mama accepted you even though you were unworthy.”
“Me too,” he forced out between chuckles. “Now go apologize.”
“Yes, Papa.”
After apologizing to her mother, Eliza spent the spring morning fussing in the garden.
Though they employed a head gardener, the flower beds were Eliza’s domain.
As a child, she would pester the man with questions until he agreed to let her arrange a bed as she wished.
One became two, and eventually all four beds lining the pathway to the gazebo were Eliza’s to manage.
Though not her favorite, the roses needed care today.
They were attention seekers, requiring the most regular pruning, deadheading, and fertilizing.
Eliza preferred a wild look to her rose bed and maintained numerous varieties, all of which had their own needs.
Needs that Eliza tracked meticulously, much to Sophie’s amusement, in a ledger.
In recent weeks, Eliza had taken to minding her garden during calling hours, so the present morning’s occupation was nothing new.
Tending to her garden was one of her favorite pastimes, but even if it were not, she would have chosen it.
She could think of no activity more unpleasant than watching gentlemen fall all over her sister in the most pathetic of displays.
“Lizzie,” Sophie called from the door, a small bouquet in her hand.
“Yes?”
“They’re for you!” Sophie held the bouquet aloft in one hand, beckoning Eliza over with the other.
Eliza rose and tossed her thick leather gloves in her gardening basket before making her way to her sister under the arched door.
“What are you on about?”
Sophie thrust the blooms out at Eliza. It was an elegant, artful arrangement of pale roses and white lilacs with a few foxtail stems. Eliza’s heart skipped as she took them from her sister.
“A footman brought them. Here, there’s a card.” Sophie tugged the card from the pocket of her cornflower-blue frock.
Scrawled across the parchment in an elegant yet masculine hand, was Miss Eliza Wayland. Eliza was relieved that it was unopened as she slipped a finger beneath the paste.
Without footwork, wit, or impropriety at my disposal, I’m left with gifts.
He’d signed it only B.E.S. And she couldn’t help but wonder what the E stood for, even as she brought the blooms to her nose for a fragrant whiff. Eliza rarely preferred lilacs—but the white varietal was lighter and fresher than their powdery purple counterparts.
“Do you like them?” Sophie asked, bouncing on her toes. “You’re smiling. You must like them. Of course you like them—they’re beautiful!”
“I like them very much.”
“What does the note say? Is he going to call?”
“No, nothing about that,” Eliza said, feeling a bit of her delight dimming.
“Perhaps he intends to further the acquaintance first.”
“Perhaps, I’m—”
“I’m sure of it,” Sophie insisted, then tucked her arm through Eliza’s. “You should come inside. May just returned from Hudson’s, and no one has told Papa yet, so there are still tarts left.”
“The lavender and lemon ones?”
“And the rosemary.”
“Ooh, the honey ones too?”
Sophie nodded, biting back a smile as Eliza led them both back inside for delectable treats.
If a Wayland twin was found at Wayland’s, it was ordinarily Sophie. Neither girl was as frequent a visitor to the club as Georgiana Ainsley, who often reviewed the ledgers on her father’s behalf. But both girls were frequent enough guests that no one batted an eye when they stepped inside.
Sebastian Kincade was an unassuming man to serve as dunner and floor manager. He was neither massive of height nor width—an unusual stature for an enforcer—but his keen eye for trouble more than made up for those shortcomings. That very skill set left him groaning at the sight of Sophie Wayland.
“No.”
“Come now, Bash. It’s been ages,” Sophie protested, fluttering her lashes at him.
Bash glanced away, gaze landing on Eliza. “Why’ve you let her come? You’re the sensible one.”
“If you’ve learned how to talk sense into her, I’d love to know the secret.” Eliza smiled. She rather thought Bash would meet with more success than anyone else.
They’d been one and ten the first time Sophie had flushed at the then footman’s name.
She made too frequent mention of him during their late-night chats to be a coincidence.
No, Sophie Wayland had carried a torch for Bash for nearly five years before other names replaced his.
Even now, infatuation long forgotten, Sophie had a tendency to heed his counsel more than anyone else’s—at least when his counsel was near enough to her own desires.
“Which table today?” Sophie asked, peering around his shoulder.
He sighed as he rolled his dark eyes. “Vingt-et-un is running warm. I’d—”
“You know I don’t play against the house. That’s my inheritance.”
“Then poque. Hughes is green and newly in funds—eager to lose both. He was desperate to be first on the trend. You know how the young ones are about the Continent.”
“Which one?”
He tipped his head toward a scrawny lad of no more than seven and ten.
“Perfect. You’ll be a dear and send him a drink on the house? As a congratulation on his new inheritance.”
“I will not,” he insisted, a flush blooming on his rich, brown skin.
“Thank you,” Sophie said, ignoring his response. “This is why you’re my favorite.” She wandered over to the table, half-empty for the hour.
“I’ll not do that,” Bash called after her, losing volume halfway through the sentence.
“You’re going to fetch him the drink, aren’t you?” Eliza asked.
“And hate myself with every step.”
“Is Papa upstairs?”
“Yes, he’s meeting with Mr. Ainsley and Georgie.”
“I’ll return shortly. You’d best get on that drink before you disappoint her and you’re demoted to second favorite. Now, if you brought a round for the entire table…” Eliza opined, tapping a palm to his shoulder on her way past.
“You’re as bad as she is,” he muttered as she passed.
She turned back to him with a grin. “Worse; no one sees me coming.” She spun on her heels, leaving Bash to the bar, and made her way to the staircase that wrapped around two of the octagonal walls.
Eliza passed the first ornately carved door, making her way to the second instead. Her knock was a formality, and she turned the knob even as she did.
Augie Ainsley had been her father’s best friend and brother in all but name since they were children. He’d managed the day-to-day operations of the club for years. His daughters were her dearest friends—as close as cousins or even sisters—and she loved him as another uncle.
Inside, she found her father, Augie, and Georgie hunched over a serviceable oak desk, much less ornate than the one in the office her father maintained.
Georgie’s smile was bright when she rose to greet Eliza before dragging a chair over to the desk.
“So… I may have done something. I’m not certain if you’ll be pleased or cross,” Georgie said, wringing her hands for a moment.
“You’ve done something…”
“She began researching your Lord Sinclair before I broached the idea,” Eliza’s father interjected, cutting off what was certain to be a fair bit of hawing by Georgie.
Eliza’s brow crept up of its own volition. “And?”
“We’ve no record of him here. Doesn’t mean he isn’t gaming in the silver hells or on the tracks,” Augie said.
“It seems unlikely that greed is the sin they’re referencing,” Georgie added.
Augie sighed, pinching his brow. “‘Lord of Sin’? Truly Eliza? I should have thought you would find that sobriquet too humiliating to consider.”
“I didn’t know of it before I accepted a dance, or I should have rejected him outright,” she assured him.
“Give us time. We’ll ensure he’s worthy if you want him as the future Lord of Hell.”
“What have I told you about calling my club hell?” her father grumbled.
“I did not actually visit about him,” Eliza interrupted before the playful bickering could begin. “Sophie wanted to play.”
Another sigh escaped Augie, and he pushed off his chair to his feet with both hands.
“Bash has it in hand,” she rushed to urge him back into his seat. “Though she may have flirted her way into ensuring he’ll give away the entire bar on the house.”
“Try to keep her from ruining someone entirely?” her father asked.
She nodded before slipping back out the door.
The work of two hours had one of the two men who remained at the card table sweat-soaked, desperate, and a little drunk. Neither of the men had won a round in nearly three quarters of an hour—and that loss had been strategic by Eliza—to ensure the men didn’t abandon the game entirely.
Sophie sat across from Eliza, entirely without guile.
If she was winning, everyone knew by her grin and the excited bounce in her seat.
Poor Hughes, so eager to lose his new inheritance, had developed a tick about the eye whenever Sophie so much as moved, now too aware of what her little grins meant for his pocketbook.
In contrast, Eliza gave not a single reaction to her hand, instead preferring to observe the beads of sweat along a man’s brow and the heedless way he tossed back his drink.
Both strategies worked, though Eliza was poised to edge out Sophie. Eliza had netted a tidy sum that afternoon.
She startled when someone dropped into the chair beside her and flicked her gaze over, disinterested.
It took two full beats of her heart before it recognized the man and tripped in astonished delight.
Eliza turned to him casually, refusing to allow the traitorous organ to rush her into overeagerness.
His dark eyes and self-satisfied smirk pinned her in place. Those pleased lips moved, curving to form the words, “Hello, Miss Wayland.”