Page 17 of King of Clubs (The Ladies’ Wagering Whist Society #9)

L ord Wickford looked at her for a moment and then gave a little shrug. “The ship that was bringing rum from my estate in the West Indies sank off the coast of Ireland, taking all my liquor down to the bottom of the ocean.”

“Oh no! That’s horrible!” she exclaimed. She could imagine how upsetting that must be.

“It is, indeed, a shame. I wouldn’t be quite so upset about it except it is the conceit of my club that we have the finest rum in all of London. It’s why gentlemen come to Powell’s.” He paused and turned back toward the garden. “Without rum, Powell’s is just another club.”

“Of course, I understand.” Gwendolyn thought hard about what Lord Wickford could do about this. “Have you thought of trying to find another source of rum? Perhaps from a pub or tavern that has plenty in stock right now? I’m certain it won’t be as good, but it would be something to serve to your members.”

He shook his head. “I have thought of that and spent the entire day going from door to door tasting the rum. It was swill, plain and simple. Nothing I would ever even consider serving.”

“Oh, that is unfortunate.”

“Without rum…”

“What about another drink? Another liquor. Something unique that other clubs don’t even serve?” she asked.

He turned to look at her. “Such as?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know anything about liquor, but surely there are other types that are less common.”

He frowned. “I would imagine that there are.” He was clearly thinking very hard about this, but finally he just shook his head. “There must be something that I’m not thinking of. Everything that’s coming to my mind is common enough to be served everywhere.”

“I’m sure you can come up with something,” she said, placing her hand on his sleeve.

She was shocked and nearly breathless when he placed his own over it. “With a little help from some friends, I’m sure you’re right—and I think I know just who to ask. Thank you, Miss Sherman. That was very helpful, indeed.”

She smiled up at him. Why, oh why did he have to be so very handsome? She nearly groaned with the frustration of it. She had to remind herself that she didn’t like this man. He’d been presumptuous and annoying. Not only that, he was about to dislike her a great deal when she stole his chef, which she had every intention of doing.

~April 28~

“I can’t tell you how happy I am that you were free this afternoon, Miss Reis,” Joshua said as he turned the corner into the park.

“And I greatly appreciate your invitation, my lord,” the girl said so quietly he almost couldn’t hear her above the sound of the horse clopping and the wheels along the road.

“I did want to apologize for anything I said last night that might have upset you.”

He glanced toward her and saw her eyes widen and her brow take on a very worried look. “No, no, you did not upset me in any way, I assure you.”

“You did leave rather suddenly when I began talking about that silly book. Or is it that you don’t believe it to be silly at all? Is that it?” he asked, trying his hardest to understand what he might have done wrong.

“No. I mean, I have not…” She looked away, making Joshua wonder if she’d finished her sentence and he just hadn’t heard her. She returned her gaze to her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “It is me, my lord,” she said almost so quietly that he didn’t hear her.

“You?”

She looked around as if to see if there was anyone nearby who might overhear them talking. “May I share a secret with you, my lord?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

He smiled. “A great number of people do. It’s part of being a club-owner. I tend also to be a keeper of secrets. You may trust me. I won’t tell a soul.”

She nodded, her eyes scanning the area around them again. “The book you mentioned?”

“The one about the men who can breathe under water.”

“Yes. I am the author. I publish under the name Nathan Rice. It’s the reason why I wanted so much to come to London, to see if I could get my writing published. No one knows, not even my aunt.”

Joshua caught his mouth from dropping open. “Really?”

She nodded again. “Please do not tell anyone, my lord. It would be too embarrassing. They are such silly stories.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard they’re very popular stories,” he said.

She gave a little shrug. Her lips were twitching, as if she were trying to hold back a smile of pride.

“But why do you not want anyone to know. You should be proud of your work.”

“Oh no! I… I would much rather be known merely as the strange foreign girl who does not know how to carry on a conversation.”

He gave a laugh. “Well, you wouldn’t be the only one who doesn’t. There are any number of girls who feel awkward when they first enter society. And as you are foreign, I wouldn’t be surprised if people expect you not to know how to go on.”

“Yes. It is all to my advantage.”

“But how is it that you write stories in English?”

She gave a little shrug. “I have spoken English my whole life—my father insisted that I learn as a young child—but he did not know how to teach me to use the words I was taught. I am better at writing and reading than speaking.”

He gave a light chuckle. “Sadly, too many are in the same position, even when they have been born in this country.”

His eye was caught by a pair of women walking slowly along the pathway next to the road. It was Miss Hanslow and her mother. The younger woman spied him as well, coming to a halt as she glared at him. He swallowed hard and lifted his hat to her as they passed. Whew, that look! It would have sent a weaker man quaking, he was certain.

It was more than obvious she was not happy at seeing him driving another young lady. Well, he would just have to make it up to her by paying a call on her tomorrow. There was nothing else for it. He could only hope that he hadn’t completely destroyed any chance he had at winning her hand.

Miss Reis was very sweet, but she wasn’t at all the sort of girl he was looking for. Only his blasted conscience had propelled him to asking her for a drive this afternoon. He couldn’t stand having anyone upset with him.

He suddenly realized the girl was speaking to him. He turned toward her. “I do beg your pardon?”

“I asked who the young lady was who you just greeted,” she repeated.

“Oh, just another person of my acquaintance. I’m afraid I know a great many people. It makes it slightly difficult to go out without acknowledging them.” It was a ridiculous thing to say, but he wasn’t about to admit his real relationship with the girl.

“She didn’t look at all happy with you,” Miss Reis commented. “I do hope you aren’t in any sort of predicament by driving with me today.”

“No, no, not at all. I assure you. I am quite enjoying being with you this afternoon.”

She didn’t look convinced but gave a nod of acceptance. He changed the topic, determined to prove to her just how much he liked her company. It was going to be a difficult afternoon.

~*~

It was such a lovely day, Gwendolyn decided to take a walk in the park before heading over to her new club to see how the renovations were going. When she passed Lord Wickford driving with some very pretty blonde girl in a deep green pelisse, she made an about-face and headed back home as quickly as she could.

The owner of Powell’s Club for Gentleman was clearly otherwise engaged and looked to be for some time. This was perfect.

Within twenty minutes, she was riding down Piccadilly on her way to Powell’s. How was she to do this? She couldn’t just walk into the club and demand to speak with the chef. That wouldn’t work. Perhaps there was a back entrance. Yes, there had to be. She would sneak in the back and… well, she would just have to play it by ear once she got there.

Indeed, it was with incredible relief that she found a back-alley way. She left her maid at the corner to await her, then counted gates until she found one she hoped would lead her to Powell’s. The first one she entered didn’t look or feel right. She quickly backed out and tried the next. Yes, this was right. There were two footmen wearing the correct livery, sitting on the back stair smoking.

“I do not mean to disturb you, but I need to have a word with Mr. Ropier,” she said, approaching the men.

They both jumped to their feet, and she wondered whether she should hire them too, while she was at it. One thing at a time, she decided. She gave them both a smile as she slipped past them.

The chef was in the kitchen, going over what looked like a menu.

“I do beg your pardon, Chef,” she said, coming up to him. “Might I have a word with you?”

He turned and frowned at her. “I do not know you. What do you need of me?” His accent sounded very French.

She plucked at his sleeve and pulled him off into a corner, away from the scullery maids and another footman who was eating something. “I have a proposition for you,” she said so quietly he had to lean forward to hear her. “I am starting a club for ladies that will also have a restaurant open to non-members. It needs to be fantastic, and I’ve heard you are the best chef in London.”

The man preened a little as he nodded. “I am. But I am ‘appy ‘ere at Powell’s. ‘Is Lordship is an excellent employer.”

“I’m certain he is, but does he really pay you as much as you’re worth? I most certainly would.”

He raised his eyebrows. “’E pays me quite well.”

“I will pay you more,” she told him, not even knowing how much he was being paid. Whatever it was, she had to have him, and Gwendolyn Sherman always got what she wanted.

He lowered his chin, thinking about it.

“Consider my offer, Chef. Ryder Street Club will not be opening for another two weeks. We are doing renovations—although, if you’d like to have a say as to how the kitchen is done, you should come by soon to give me your answer.” With that she gave him a broad smile and slipped back out the door.

She was so very tempted to look back to see his expression but resisted the urge. Instead, she found her maid and headed over to her club.

Mr. Jamieson was there, directing the hanging of curtains. The rooms were filled with men delivering furniture, rolling out carpets, and generally getting in each other’s way. It was chaos of the best sort.

She stopped short upon entering the establishment as a thought occurred to her. She had hired Mr. Jamieson precisely to take care of details such as hiring the chef and other staff, so why was she doing it?

Because I can do a much better job of it, be more persuasive, and do silly things like offering exorbitant wages without even getting into the particulars, she thought.

She was certain her father would have something to say about this, but he hadn’t given her a budget she had to stay within, so she would take her chances.

It would be all right. She was certain of it because the more she charged for membership, the more the ladies of the ton would want to join just to prove that they could afford such extravagance. Gwendolyn gave a little laugh and then turned her attention back to the beautiful room into which she had walked.

She nodded approvingly at the newly papered walls. They were an elegant white with small fleur-de-lis in pale purple. The curtains going up would match the lilac damask chair seats, dyed and produced to her specification by a Lancashire cloth manufacturer of her father’s acquaintance, which would be placed around the tables scattered throughout the tea room. The chairs were already in place but would be recovered as soon as the material arrived next week. There were a few sections where there were sofas instead of tables and chairs where ladies could sit and relax with their tea.

Yes, everything was beginning to shape up very well.

“Miss Sherman,” Mr. Jamieson said, turning around in surprise. “I didn’t know we would be seeing you here today.”

“I came by to see how everything was going.”

“As you see.” He spread his hands wide and smiled.

“Yes, it looks wonderful. And I have some excellent news for you.”

“Oh?”

“I believe I have secured Mr. Ropier as our chef. I was just over at Powell’s speaking with him. He didn’t give me a firm yes or no, but I have a feeling he was intrigued—especially when I told him he would have the opportunity to design the kitchen however he wanted it.”

Mr. Jamieson’s eyes widened. “But I don’t know that we’ll have time to renovate the entire kitchen within two weeks, Miss!”

“It’s all right. I’m certain he won’t want much more than the excellent new stove I have already ordered. By the way, that should be arriving next week.”

Jamieson nodded. “Very good. And Mr. Ropier?”

“I told him to come by whenever he had made up his mind. I am hoping he’ll be here by the week’s end.”

Mr. Jamieson looked impressed. “I do hope so. Perhaps I should speak with one or two others just in case.”

“All right, if you believe it’s necessary.” Gwendolyn gave a little shrug. She turned to head upstairs to the office she and Mr. Jamieson had set up. “I’m going to take a look at the books. I promised Mr. Ropier that we would pay more than whatever Lord Wickford was paying him.”

“You… you… you did?” the man stuttered.

“If you want the best, Mr. Jamieson, you have to be prepared to pay for it.” With that parting shot, Gwendolyn left the chaos for the relative quiet of her office.