Page 2 of A Lady’s Guide to London (The Lucky Ladies of London #2)

Lyman Price was seated before a large window in Verey’s café, overlooking Regent Street. It was a small but expensive establishment in Mayfair that catered primarily to ladies’ luncheons at this hour of the day, though gentlemen could find good French cookery and wines for supper in the evenings. Not a place Lyman would have chosen for a meeting, but it hadn’t been his suggestion. At least it wouldn’t be difficult to find Mr. Danby, even if he had no idea what the man looked like.

Lyman had described himself in his last letter ( I’ll be the one with dark hair, wearing spectacles and a brown coat ), but Mr. Danby hadn’t seen fit to return the gesture. He might be any of the gentlemen who passed by the window.

Why am I even here?

He needed to get his revisions finished and turn his draft over to his publisher so that he could return to work on his guide to Bath. The sooner he was done, the sooner he’d get his money. Mr. Danby probably didn’t even have anything new to tell him. Half the time, when someone wrote about some perceived omission from the guide, it was only a neighborhood pub with stale bread and warm beer, unworthy of mention.

But there had been something compelling about Danby’s letters—an engaging wit that made him think his correspondent’s ideas might be worth his time—and Danby had insisted that it would be simpler to explain the attraction in person. Better to take a half hour from his day than to miss something his publisher might chide him over later.

A feminine voice interrupted his thoughts, her tone too cheery.

“Excuse me, are you Viscount Ashton?” He looked up to find a lady of his own class standing before his table.

She was small and plump, and exceptionally pretty, with a round face and large, dark eyes. Her honey-brown curls were pinned up beneath a wide-brimmed straw bonnet with a ribbon that perfectly matched her blue gingham morning gown, trimmed with French lace. She looked rather like an expensive doll, right down to the healthy flush of pink that dusted her cheeks.

“I’m Cordelia Danby. I wrote to you.”

Cordelia. The C was for Cordelia. Not Charles or Colin or Christopher.

Lyman blinked, as if the sight before him might transform itself if he only refreshed his eyes.

“I’m not what you expected,” she said, mischief warming her smile. It was a look designed to charm, and it was working. “I apologize. But I wasn’t sure you’d come if you realized you were corresponding with a woman.”

I wouldn’t have. There was no brother or husband with her, nor any lady’s companion. What could she mean by this?

“You aren’t very talkative, are you?” That same smile again, quite devilish. “Would you mind if we walked over to Hanover Square? I would sit, but…”

Evidently she had no objection to meeting him alone, but dining together was a bridge too far.

“Forgive me,” Lyman said, rising to his feet. He should’ve stood earlier. “You surprised me, Miss Danby. That’s all.”

Was she a miss? He didn’t see a ring, and she didn’t correct him, so she must be. Besides, if she had a husband, he wouldn’t let her wander about town meeting strange men.

“A walk would be lovely,” he added, setting a tuppence on the table for his tea and offering his arm as they exited Verey’s. She took it, settling neatly against his side.

She smelled nice; slightly lemony. A tart, bright scent that seemed to match her carefree manner.

He had no idea who this woman was, or what gossip he might be fueling if they were seen together, but Lyman wasn’t going to show more concern for her reputation than she did. She’d arranged this meeting, after all.

“I’m the co-owner of Bishop’s,” she began, the moment they crossed the street. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us?”

“I regret to say I have not.”

“We’re a chocolate house, exclusively for ladies. We have all the amusements one could traditionally find at a gentlemen’s chocolate house, such as White’s, for example.”

“Ah.” A gaming hell for ladies. Whatever next?

He studied Miss Danby as they reached Hanover Square, where they set down the small path that encircled a little patch of garden before the church. The sun’s rays had lightened her eyes to a rich shade of toffee that contrasted with the darker hue of her thick lashes and straight brows. Her skin was smooth and flawless.

She didn’t look like a hellcat; she looked like any other young lady of means, remarkable only in how pretty she was. But if he’d thought her daring or foolhardy for meeting him like this, it paled in comparison to her other activities. How did someone in her position end up running a gambling club?

With a growing sense of unease, Lyman pondered what her business had to do with him.

Surely not.

But Miss Danby continued talking, confirming his fears. “We’re a unique venture, the only one of its kind in London, and I daresay the whole country. I think we’d make an excellent choice for a mention in your book.”

What presumption! Best to end this quickly, before she could get carried away. “Thank you for the suggestion, Miss Danby, but I don’t intend to add any more gaming establishments in the next edition.”

“But why not?” Her playful manner faded, leaving real confusion in its wake. The lady wore her sentiments so openly that Lyman could read her thoughts before she gave them voice. “If there’s something new and interesting, you must include it. That’s the whole point of releasing new editions, isn’t it?”

Lyman held his tongue as another couple approached them. The man’s gaze lingered a touch too long. Though Lyman couldn’t place him, there’d been a hint of recognition on his face before he turned to murmur something in the ear of his companion. Had they recognized him? He waited until they’d gone a little further down the path before he spoke again, lest they tell all their friends they’d seen the Viscount Ashton discussing gambling clubs in the company of an unmarried lady.

“Miss Danby, with all due respect, it’s a gentleman’s guide. Why would I include a ladies’ club?”

“Some gentlemen have wives.”

“Only the unhappy ones,” Lyman replied, before he could think better of it.

“What a terrible thing to say.” Miss Danby’s generous lips parted in shock, though he wouldn’t have taken her for an innocent. “If you’re unmarried, it’s very conceited of you to issue a blanket condemnation of something of which you have no firsthand knowledge. And if you are married, it’s quite cruel of you to speak that way about your wife, who would be heartbroken to hear you, I’m sure.”

She raised one dark eyebrow, challenging him to deny the assessment.

He might have said nothing. The opportunity was there, and Lyman’s instinct was to take it. Better to avoid such an unpleasant conversation with a woman he barely knew.

But that’s not the real reason you don’t want to tell her, is it? As with all things, it came back to his own selfish pleasure. There was temptation in the way Miss Danby’s gaze lingered on him as they spoke, in the teasing note in her voice, and the ever-present spark in her large, dark eyes.

She was very pretty, and she was trying to charm him. And Lyman—bastard that he was—enjoyed it.

This wasn’t a mature widow, in a position to take risks with her reputation. Miss Danby was young—in her mid-twenties, he would guess—and unmarried. In spite of her unconventional pastime of running a den of sin and ruin, she struck him as guileless. There was a certain childlike optimism in her speech and manners that warned him away.

He would drain every ounce of goodness from her spirit if given the chance, just as he had with Ellen. Better to stamp out this spark before it could burn her.

So he forced himself to say what he did next: “I’m afraid you’re mistaken on both counts, Miss Danby. I do have firsthand knowledge of the subject, for I am married, and I assure you it has made me miserable. As for Lady Ashton, there is no need to worry about my breaking her heart. I accomplished the task years ago. If we were still on speaking terms, I’m sure she would be the first to tell you that no sane person should enter the yoke of matrimony.”

The result of this speech was exactly as expected. Miss Danby stared at him as if he’d just dipped a kitten into a cup of tea and eaten it whole.

Monster , her eyes said. Scoundrel.

All true. And now that she knew it, Miss Danby would clutch her skirts and run back to wherever she’d come from. Her mischievous smile would never entice him again.

But she didn’t run. She drew a long breath and studied the scenery while Lyman tried not to dwell on the sensation of her hand upon his arm or her lemon-tart scent.

“Well,” she said finally. “I suppose when you put our club in your book, we can’t count on your wife’s patronage then.”

A bark of laughter escaped him, quite against his will. Who is this woman?

“Miss Danby, I admire your tenacity, but my answer is still no.”

A gambling club for ladies.

If she ran any other sort of establishment, he would have been tempted to give in, if only to reward her persistence. But this was out of the question. It was bad enough that the men of this country brought their families to the brink of starvation and ruin on a roll of the dice. He wouldn’t help Miss Danby infect the remaining half of the population with the same affliction. He knew the toll it took all too well.

“Come and see it for yourself,” she invited. “I’ll give you a tour of the premises, then you can judge if it’s worthy of a mention alongside White’s or Brooks’s. You won’t be disappointed.”

Lyman stiffened. The promise of a personal tour from a beautiful woman might have tempted him in other circumstances, but not here. She couldn’t know how unwelcome her offer was.

He searched for a polite excuse. “I wouldn’t want to frighten away all your guests. It can’t be much of a ladies’ club if you let me in.”

She flashed that smile again. An impish glimpse of white between the pink of her lips that promised something more wicked yet to come. “I’d be more worried for you than for them, to be quite honest. Our members are known to get a bit rowdy without their husbands and fathers around, and you’d grant them a tempting diversion. But if things did get out of hand, we have a six-foot-tall reformed pirate handling our security who could quiet things down rather quickly.” At Lyman’s stunned chuckle, she added, “None of that was a joke.”

It seemed Miss Danby had an answer to everything, but he wouldn’t drag this out any further. What she asked of him was impossible.

“Let me be as clear as I can. I won’t attend your club under any circumstances.”

She withdrew her arm from his and squared her shoulders.

“I urge you to reconsider. I would much rather be your friend than your enemy, Lord Ashton.”

My enemy? Of all the absurdities that had escaped her mouth in the past quarter hour, that had to take the cake. Standing in a patch of sunlight that fell across her face, dressed in her fine clothes and barely coming to his shoulder, Miss Danby couldn’t have looked any less threatening. A pampered tabby who thought herself a tiger. Yet the firm set of her jaw betrayed how serious she was.

“I regret that I cannot.” He almost meant it. This short acquaintance had proven Miss Danby to be an unconventional lady, one that he would have liked to know better. But that path held more danger than he could afford.

He needed to finish the revisions to his book as soon as possible—with real attractions, not the thinly veiled temptation this woman offered—and collect his money. He had debts to pay. Too many to count.

“Very well,” she finally conceded. “But you’re making a mistake.”

With that ominous warning, Miss Danby took her leave. Lyman watched her until she was out of sight, unable to shake the feeling she had only been a strange dream.

***

The club was busy that evening. So much so that Della should have quickly forgotten her rejection from Viscount Ashton. Eli hadn’t arrived yet, which meant it fell to her to keep an eye on any suspicious play, nip extravagant bets in the bud, circle the room to make sure their guests were happy, and monitor that the service of refreshments was neither stingy nor intemperate. It was a lot to handle, and Della had begun to wonder if their profits were at a point where they might hire a manager to oversee such practicalities for them.

Jane will say no. Della sighed as she slipped into the kitchen to inform the waitstaff to stop serving champagne to Mrs. Fairfield before she had to be rolled into her carriage.

Her friend could be too spendthrift sometimes. But Jane has also been indefatigable, prior to meeting her match in the form of an eight-pound, squalling tyrant. When she’d been the one managing the club in the evenings, there had never been a need for more help.

If she could handle it, why can’t I?

No matter how Della tried, she never achieved the same level of competence. Jane never got distracted, and she had a no-nonsense tone that made people fall in line. One arch of her brow and debts were paid, overly boisterous ladies hushed their voices, and servants whisked away empty glasses and plates. No one took Della half so seriously.

Just look at Lord Ashton. She’d used every tool at her disposal. She’d been charming, then she’d tried reason, then finally threats. None of it had made the slightest difference.

At best, he’d thought her silly: a reckless young lady who’d bitten off more than she could chew with this endeavor. He was hardly the first to draw such a conclusion. Most men scoffed at her club—if not to her face, then certainly behind her back. Della had learned not to pay any mind what they thought of her, but the condemnation in the viscount’s eyes was more difficult to shrug off.

It’s because he was so handsome.

What a disappointing reason! Della wished she were above such thoughts—particularly given that she’d approached Lord Ashton purely for matters of business—but she had a terrible weakness for handsome men, and the viscount was exactly her type. Although, to be fair, “her type” was a broad category that could encompass some variety in the male figure. In this case, the gentleman was of trim build and very neat in his personal appearance, his jaw cleanly shaven and his hair combed back. He was taller than her (although this wasn’t difficult to accomplish), but not so large as to be imposing. The sprinkling of gray at his temples hinted he might be a touch too old for her, or perhaps that impression came from his stern gaze.

I wonder if he likes to take charge in the bedroom. She did love a man with a sense of authority.

“Sorry I’m late.” Eli interrupted her reverie, his cravat askew. “Where do you need me?”

Oh dear. She should be minding her own business—quite literally—not indulging in speculation about Lord Ashton’s sexual prowess. Besides, hadn’t he said he was married? She couldn’t tell if that part was real or only his attempt at dark humor. The circumstances of the revelation had been so strange.

Why can’t you ever focus?

“We’re running low on champagne. You might run over to the wine seller’s and buy a few more bottles.”

“Already? We’ve just restocked.”

“We’ve been busy,” Della replied. “It’s a good thing. Speaking of which, the games are overcrowded. There isn’t enough space for everyone who wants to play. Do you think you could manage to squeeze another card table over by the sideboard and get one of the waiters to sit as an extra dealer? Only pick something simple, like faro.”

“Champagne first, though?” Eli looked to her for confirmation.

“I suppose so?” Della wasn’t sure who she was asking. Jane, probably. But Jane was gone, and it was up to her to make these decisions now. “Yes,” she repeated, more firmly. The trick was to pretend she was sure of herself, so it looked like she knew what she was doing. “Champagne first. Ten bottles should keep us safe for tonight. Then the extra table once you’re back.”

She would have liked Eli’s help managing the floor, but he should go where he was most needed. Della sized up the crowd, trying to decide where she was most needed. Lady Eleanor Grosvenor was at baccarat. As one of their more influential members, she always required a degree of attention. But Della also spotted Miss Chatterjee and Mrs. Duff circling one another at the edges of a vingt-et-un table like sharks on the scent of blood. Everyone knew they’d had a falling-out which had something to do with Mr. Duff’s wandering eye. Oh, and there was Mrs. Muller, about to lose a heap of chips at whist! Della had promised to cut off her credit tonight. But she could hardly do it now , with everyone watching. She would have to get her alone first, which would mean abandoning her other tasks.

There were simply too many things to attend to and not enough of her to do it all.

Mrs. Duff had just said something that made Miss Chatterjee’s brows draw together. Oh dear. They were the most urgent priority then, before someone came to blows and set their club’s reputation tumbling down to the level of a common public house. She would deal with the rest after.

Della drew a deep breath and strode into their midst. Between the two of them, Reva Chatterjee was the one she was closest to. They’d been good friends for years, though they hadn’t seen one another as often this season as they used to. Better to start with her than with Mrs. Duff. “Reva, how are you? We could use another player at the baccarat table. Won’t you let me accompany you there?”

“Good riddance,” Mrs. Duff muttered as they withdrew, not nearly softly enough to escape their hearing.

“Ugh.” Reva rolled her eyes, once her back was safely turned. “ She’s the one who came up to my table.”

“What happened between you two, anyway? I thought you used to get on.”

“We did , until her awful husband started going on and on about what beautiful eyes I have at their rout last month. Now she’s convinced herself that I’m trying to steal his attention, when I don’t even like the man!” Reva’s nostrils flared in indignation. “If she keeps this up, she’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Don’t worry; everyone knows what he’s like,” Della reassured her. “I dined at their house once and he stared at my chest the whole night, even though my parents were right beside me. I think he’s that way with everyone.”

Reva made a face. “I hope so. Not that he should be a lecher, I mean, but I hope everyone knows it wasn’t me who led him on. We’re expecting Mr. Bhattacharya to propose soon, and I don’t want him hearing any rumors about me.”

“I’ll have a word with Mrs. Duff as soon as things quiet down,” Della promised. “And that’s wonderful news about Mr. Bhattacharya! Are you excited?”

Reva’s expression transformed to a bright smile, revealing a row of white teeth. “He’s terribly handsome, and our families get along well. I think we’d make a good match.”

Della wanted to ask Reva more about her courtship, but they’d already arrived at the baccarat table. She needed to make sure Lady Eleanor was properly attended to or she would feel slighted, and then there was still Mrs. Muller to talk to, and now Mrs. Duff as well.

“I need to get back to work, but why don’t you stop in again tomorrow and we’ll catch up properly?” she suggested. “Come a bit earlier, before the crush is in full force.”

“I tried to call on you a few weeks ago,” Reva revealed, biting her lip, “but you weren’t at home and you never returned my call…” Her tone didn’t carry any accusation, only a measure of doubt. As if she weren’t quite sure if she’d been snubbed.

Oh dear. That’s right, she’d seen Reva’s card among the others and meant to do something about it, but that had been the same day that she’d first thought of her plan to get Bishop’s put in The Discerning Gentleman’s Guide to London . She’d been so excited with the idea that she’d forgotten everything else.

“I’m sorry.” She squeezed Reva’s hands between her own. “I’ve just been so busy at the club since Jane’s confinement that I haven’t had time to keep up with my friends as I ought. But if you come back another night, you’re sure to catch me!”

Wait a minute, why should she stop there? Reva used to deal for them when they were shorthanded, back when the club was an informal group of ladies who played vingt-et-un in Della’s drawing room on Monday evenings. And Della was certainly shorthanded now.

“What if you helped out again, the way you used to in the old days?” It would be wonderful to have a friend by her side in the evenings again. Eli did his best, of course, but Della missed having another woman to talk to. “We’ve got hired dealers now, but we could always use another lady to play hostess, if you want to earn some extra pin money.”

“Er…thank you, Della.” Reva’s gaze slid away, toward the other players clustered around the baccarat table, who gave a whoop of victory as the next card was turned up. “It’s always great fun here, but…” She shrugged helplessly as she met Della’s eye once more. “I think I’m getting a bit old for this sort of thing. As I said, I wouldn’t want Mr. Bhattacharya to hear any rumors about me.”

“Oh.” Della slumped a little as her fantasy went up in smoke. It would have been so perfect! But she could hardly blame Reva for having other plans for her own life, so she forced a smile and said, “I understand. Let’s call on one another soon.”

Once she’d said her goodbyes, she went directly to Lady Eleanor’s side and was informed that her guest longed for nothing so much as a watercress sandwich, but the last one had been eaten by none other than Mrs. Muller (who had no doubt done it on purpose ), which sent Della scrambling to the kitchen to persuade Cook to prepare another batch before Lady Eleanor expired from hunger.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Eli came back at some point to keep the champagne flowing, though Della scarcely saw him. She moved from table to table, smoothing away any troubles that might mar the thrill of the game. Jane’s cousin, Lady Cecily Kerr, showed up around one in the morning and immediately made a hash of her play at vingt-et-un, leaving Della to intervene before anyone mistook her natural inability to recall the rules for an attempt to cheat. Some people really couldn’t be trusted with a deck of cards.

Oh! Mrs. Muller!

Della had meant to find her hours ago. Where had she got to? A quick scan of the room revealed nothing. At this hour of the morning, only a few last hedonists remained at their games, their faces flushed with excitement and drink. Della went over to the whist dealer, who was packing away the chips.

“Good evening, Mr. Parekh. Did Mrs. Muller already leave, do you know? I thought I saw her here earlier.”

“You just missed her, miss. She left about a quarter hour ago.”

Drat! How had she forgotten? Della was loath to ask the question that weighed on her spirits, but she had to know. “Did she…um, lose very much?”

“Hmm.” Parekh looked up from his count just long enough to bob his head in a noncommittal fashion. He pointed to the ledger for his table, letting the numbers speak for him. Twelve pounds, and that was on top of what she already owed them.

Della raised her eyes to the heavens and suppressed a groan. Jane is going to kill me.

“What’s the matter?” Eli had finally found her again, now that his own table was empty.

“I forgot to cut off Mrs. Muller. I meant to do it earlier, but there was always something more urgent and it got away from me.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. We had our hands full the whole night. No one could have done more.”

That wasn’t strictly true, and they both knew it.

“Jane did more,” Della said with a touch of regret.

Eli sighed, his expression turning wistful at the mention of his wife. “Jane is a singular woman. Not everyone can store the smallest details in their brain as she can, but we each have our own strengths. There’s no point in comparing yourself to her. And as for Mrs. Muller, you’ll get another chance.”

“I suppose.” Eli was probably right; there was no sense in worrying about what she couldn’t change. But Della had a nagging feeling that she might have made Mrs. Muller her first priority if she hadn’t found the prospect of catching up with Reva Chatterjee to be infinitely more appealing than the difficult conversation that was still in store for her.

“Anyway, I have good news,” Eli continued. “I found someone for the new dealer’s post. An old friend of mine from the navy.”

What?

“I said I wanted to do the hiring, remember?”

Eli couldn’t be trusted to judge the subtleties of male beauty the way she could. And handsome dealers were an essential part of her business plan!

“I know, I know.” Eli winced. “But he’s just been dishonorably discharged, and he has nowhere else to go. I can’t abandon him.”

“ Dis honorably.” Della cocked an eyebrow.

“It was all a misunderstanding. Give him a chance before you say no, won’t you? He’s coming to London in two weeks. You can judge for yourself if he’s handsome enough to be a dealer.”

“Oh, is that how you’re choosing staff now?” Parekh murmured. He fixed them both with a cool gaze, evidently having heard his fill.

Oh dear. When had he finished tallying his chips?

“Don’t pay Mr. Williams any mind,” Della blurted out. “That’s just a little joke of his.”

The dealer latched the box that held his chips and cards, then carried the whole lot over to the gaming cabinet, shaking his head as he went.

Eli turned back to Della. “I never had a chance to ask you: How did your meeting with that author fellow go this morning?”

“Terribly.” She felt like pouting, if she weren’t far too old for it. “He was so stubborn. He wouldn’t even give me the courtesy of pretending to consider my request. Please don’t tell Jane she was right; I would prefer to maintain an illusion of infallibility.”

Eli chuckled. “I’ll tell her that you thought better of meeting a gentleman alone, took her sage advice, and canceled the whole plan, shall I? Then she’ll be very pleased with you.”

“No.” Della sighed regretfully. “She’ll know we’re lying. Let’s tell her something believable, like a kitchen fire destroyed our meeting place and prevented me from speaking with the viscount, so we’ll never know what he might have decided.”

“That’s much better,” Eli agreed, laughter still lighting his eyes. He turned his attention away for a moment to see a group of stragglers out, leaving Della to ruminate on her failure.

She could picture Lord Ashton now, looking very disapprovingly at her from behind those adorable wire spectacles of his. She loved men with spectacles.

Miss Danby, with all due respect, it’s a gentleman’s guide. Why would I include a ladies’ club?

It echoed the dismissal she faced every time a new acquaintance learned of her endeavor. Why should ladies want to gamble? Aren’t you worried about your reputations? Everyone thought she should be encouraging virtues, not vices. As if her sex made it physically impossible to enjoy a little fun.

Well, she thumbed her nose at all of them every day that Bishop’s kept its doors open. Why shouldn’t she thumb her nose at the Viscount Ashton as well?

He wasn’t the sole arbiter of entertainment. No one had vested him with any superior taste or authority; he’d merely claimed his status by being born with a title and then writing a book. And not even a real book, with a plot and characters, and intriguing twists, that might require some creativity. No. His guide was nothing more than a list of things he liked, with the sort of idle commentary any number of gentlemen might exchange when deciding how they should spend their evening.

In short, anyone could do it.

I could do it.

The realization struck her with such force, Della could scarcely contain herself. She could do it! Why shouldn’t she? Heedless of the last few ladies trickling out into the night, she grabbed the club’s guest book, flipped to an empty page at the back, and began scribbling.

She would scrap the public houses, of course, and any other place ladies couldn’t be seen. What could serve instead? There weren’t many shops in Lord Ashton’s book, only a few tailors and cobblers. That was his most glaring omission. Women came to London to see and be seen, not to drink. Milliners and dressmakers should occupy the opening chapters…

“What are you doing?” Eli had returned to squint at her messy scrawl.

“Writing down some ideas,” she said impatiently, not looking up. “I’ve decided to publish a lady’s guide to London.”