Page 11 of A Lady’s Rules for Seaside Romance (The Harp & Thistle #3)
V ictor lifted his knuckles up to the door on St. James’s Street, knocked twice, paused, then knocked twice again. A graceful elderly man in a butler’s uniform answered. “Ah, Mr. McNab,” Wilson the butler said with an air of distinction. “It has been a spell since we’ve seen you.”
The butler stepped to the side to let Victor into the old, red-brick Georgian building. Victor nodded at the toughs who leaned against the wall farther down the hall. As they knew him and his purpose, they had no interest in him.
“Is he in?” Victor said to Wilson.
“Yes, he is. He’s been expecting you.”
“I know.” Victor gave the butler a nod. “Some things have come up, so I’ve been a bit delayed.”
After brief parting words, Victor left the butler behind and walked down the hall, the toughs eyeing him as a reminder they were there.
He pushed through an ornate door in the back and emerged in a large room filled with men in top hats.
There were a few tables around which many lounged or stood beside, but the large, round table in the middle held most of the room’s attention.
It was surrounded by a tight ring of men and a cloud of cigar and pipe smoke stretched over it.
Victor had once known many of the men, all of whom were nobs, and a few looked his way. He’d gone to boarding school with many of them when he’d been young. Now, they may as well have been strangers.
Victor leaned against a pillar at the edge of the room to watch, recognizing the energy that permeated the air. There was a tense game afoot. He didn’t know what card game they were playing, nor did he care. He hated card games, for he couldn’t be anonymous with them.
Something must have happened because the crowd of men began talking amongst each other excitedly.
One of the men on the outer edge noticed Victor then and, to Victor’s irritation, began making his way over.
Like all the other nobs, he wore an expensive top hat over his blond hair.
As was in fashion at the current time, he also had a neat, blond beard, and of course a bespoke suit.
Round, wire-rimmed spectacles sat upon his nose, and he was eye to eye with Victor, something Victor was, frankly, not used to seeing outside of his family.
Curious, Victor gave the man a quick study.
He was of a similar build as well, though with less muscle tone.
Was this how Victor would have looked if he’d spent his life lounging about instead of slinging shipping crates and pints?
“Mr. Felton Ashby.” The bespectacled man held a hand out. Victor briefly hesitated before shaking it and introducing himself back. Whenever he’d come here, he’d never interacted with the nobs in attendance. This was a first.
“Do you play cards?” Mr. Ashby asked as he looked over Victor’s mass-produced clothing.
“No, I’m here on personal business.”
“Ah.” Mr. Ashby bobbed on his feet. “There’s some excitement occurring at the moment. You are about to witness the Earl of Harrington’s youngest son’s ruin.”
Victor set his eyes upon the crowd but couldn’t see the men in the game. The crowd was too thick.
“I was fortunate enough to get out of that game early,” Mr. Ashby said.
“I’m here merely for a lark, though, not to bring shame upon my family.
Unlike that fellow, I’m not tempted in the least by the slim possibility of winning a fortune, though I wouldn’t be upset to fill my pockets.
A few drinks, good conversation—that’s all I require, really. ”
Victor wasn’t familiar with this man, so he gave him another quick study.
He looked to be about thirty or so, thus they would have run in different circles.
Victor gave the younger man a nod and said, “Many lives have been ruined here.” He really wanted to get about his business, not chitchat with a nob, though he did seem agreeable enough.
Suddenly, there was a cacophony of noise. Men made swift movements forward and shouts rang out.
“And there it is,” Mr. Ashby said with a laugh. “Poor old fool.”
The Earl of Harrington’s youngest son jumped up onto the table. The lad looked even younger than Ashby.
Mr. Ashby laughed. “The man has gone mad—look at him!”
Victor watched as the young man began shouting out a string of curse words, kicked about the contents of the table, then lunged at someone. “I’ll kill you!” the earl’s son shouted. “You’ve ruined me! I’ll kill you for it!”
The sound of a door banging open caught Victor’s attention and the toughs came bounding in, shoving their sleeves up to their elbows. They pushed their way through the crowd, which was now cheering on the fight.
“My word.” Mr. Ashby chuckled. “They are out for blood, aren’t they?”
Victor crossed his arms and watched with a furrowed brow. There was the sound of another door banging open, this time from the other side of the building. It caught Ashby’s attention, and then he nudged Victor. “I’ve never seen him out here before.”
“Who?” Victor asked, then he saw to whom Mr. Ashby was referring. A very large, irate Welshman came roaring into the room. “You mean Bron? Sorry, Bronwell?”
Mr. Ashby glanced back at Victor his mouth agape, but he quickly slammed it shut.
The rough-and-tumble owner of the gaming hell rushed by and spotted Victor, tapped the side of his nose as they held each other’s gazes, then tore into the crowd to get to the fight.
“Forgive me.” Mr. Ashby put his full attention on Victor. He wasn’t even trying to hide his curiosity now. “But who, exactly, are you?”
Of course, Victor wasn’t going to satisfy the man’s curiosity. He gave a small bow. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ashby.” And Victor went about his business, ignoring the multiple fights that had now broken out, and went into Julian Bronwell’s office.
Victor sat in one of the leather seats near Bron’s desk and glanced about the room. A violin and its bow had been set on a small table beside a wingback chair and a few feet away from that was a music stand with sheet music on it.
He knew Bron to be a musical talent. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do with it.
The door leading to the office opened and closed. Bron walked in and rushed a hand through shoulder-length dark hair as his chest heaved with exertion. He then collapsed into his chair behind the desk. “Thanks for coming, and waiting. Had to go deal with that before I talked to you.”
Victor nodded.
“Surprised to see you out there mingling with the nobs.” Bron arched his dark eyebrows.
“He took it upon himself to approach me. An overly friendly gentleman. Wanted to know how I knew you.”
Bron let out a breathy chuckle and then leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers together behind his head. “What was the lad’s name? He doesn’t come here often enough for me to remember.”
“Felton Ashby.”
“Christ, what a name.” Bron shook his head. He then opened a bottom desk drawer and pulled out two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He poured them each a finger’s worth without asking Victor if he wanted one.
Victor took it, anyway.
“I’m assuming you’re here for the horses?” Bron asked.
“Yes.”
As Bron took a sip from his glass, he opened the slim top drawer of his desk, pulled out a thin booklet that he tossed to Victor, then pulled out a fountain pen. Victor took the pen once he’d opened the booklet.
“This came out last week, and I was surprised when you didn’t show. You always show when it’s put out. Thought you were dead.” Bron ended this with another chuckle. “Couldn’t imagine you not making wagers on the June races.”
Victor unscrewed the cap of the pen. “Something unexpected came up, but I’m here now.”
“What came up?”
Victor opened the booklet and eyed the page.
All of the horse races that would occur in June all over England were listed in here, including the names of the horses in each race.
Most people preferred to place wagers the day of the race in case the animal’s odds changed, but Victor didn’t need to do that.
For each race, he took a minute to consider the names, then underlined the horse on which he wanted to place his wager.
“A visit with my grandfather,” Victor finally said. He didn’t need to explain what that meant. Victor and Bron had been friends for ages, meeting as young lads when they’d worked together on the docks. Bron knew the hellish future that awaited Victor.
Bron took a thoughtful sip of his drink. “Any news on that yet?”
“No, thankfully.” Victor underlined another name.
“I’m surprised you visited him. I don’t think you’ve ever done that, now that I think on it.”
Victor flipped the page and underlined another name. “He wants me to prepare for the day I take his place. Gave me a stack of papers filled with…God knows what.”
“You haven’t looked at it?” Bron asked, doing a terrible job at masking his surprise. “Aren’t you at least a bit curious what it all entails?”
Victor tapped the pen against his chin as he studied the names of another race. “Not really, no.” He paused and looked up to meet his friend’s eye. “But the future does loom ominously, doesn’t it?”
“How did he seem when you saw him?”
“Still full of piss and vinegar. The man has several years left in him. I’m not going to worry about it now. I have enough to worry about without that.”
Bron watched Victor flip through the booklet. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to be prepared. I bet it would take away some of the anxiousness it causes.”
Victor paused. Anne had said something similar. So had Dantes. He looked up. “In truth, I’m not as concerned about the management of it.”
“Oh?”
“I know there are competent people he relies on. Hopefully, they will be as loyal to me as they are to him. What I’m most concerned with is having to be around, well…” Victor looked at the door that led out to the gambling area. “Them.”