“Of course I do.” Mr. Clarke threw his shoulders back. “I may not be a toff, and my father may not be a duke, but I’m a smart man, and I know a double entendre when I make one. I bloody well know when I’m being bawdy.” He slapped the table, and every instrument on it rattled.
Devon jumped. “You terrify me, sir.”
“Good, good. You want people a bit terrified of you.”
Devon shook his head. “When I see you attonevents with your daughter, dressed just as sharply as any duke, manners just as slick and polished… that’s not who you arehereat all.”
Mr. Clarke rubbed his chin, a sly grin creeping across his lips. “Here’s another thing to remember, little duke. Any man who wants success must be a bit of a chameleon on the outside. But on the inside”—he pounded a fist to his chest—“he must have one true thing that guides him. He may show the world whatever face he pleases as long as he’s always true to that one thing. Do you understand?”
Devon laughed. “I don’t understand much that comes out of your mouth, sir. You’re too smart for me.”
“I am that,” Mr. Clarke admitted, “but you’re smarter than you let yourself think. Don’t underestimate yourself—another thing to remember. Are you writing these thoughts down?”
“Should I?” Devon asked.
“For your own edification, yes, but also for posterity.”
“Of course.” Devon swiped his notebook and a pencil from nearby and made a flourish of the pencil in the air before setting it to paper. “Chameleon on the outside.” He spoke his written words. “One true thing on the inside. Plow ahead always. Do not underestimate yourself. Be a bit terrifying.”
Mr. Clarke wagged his finger at the paper. “Good, good. Always keep that handy. You never know when I’ll say something else that needs to be recorded for history.” He turned to leave, then turned back sharply. “How’s that coffee thing of yours coming?”
“Not well. If I underestimate myself, it’s because I deserve to be underestimated.” He flipped the pages of his sketchbook until he found the last sketch he’d made. “I just can’t figure out the mechanism to—”
“No. No. You will not rope me into helping.” Mr. Clarke bustled toward the door. “You must figure it out for yourself.”
“This would be so much easier,” Devon said through gritted teeth, “if you would help me.”
“I’d rather stick a knife through the small tendons of your good hand and strip them from your body than help you. A man isn’t made by someone else’s hand.” Mr. Clarke pointed at Devon’s notebook. “Write that down.” Then he left.
Devon raised a shaking hand before his face. He’d never loved the tendons of his good hand more, and he did not wish to part with them. How long would it take to discover the mechanism that would work? Until then, there would always be grains—the one downside of a good cup of coffee.
He gently closed his notebook and stood, stretching his back. Perhaps Miss Clarke had been correct. He needed a break, a productive one.
As he rode a hack to the Collingford townhouse, he considered his savings, the only money he’d earned by his own hand. It was not much. Not yet. He added to it slowly, carefully, since gambling was one of the few means of doing so at the moment.
Not for long.
While his brother’s valet fluttered about him, helping him don his evening clothes, Devon considered whether he’d change the name of the coffeehouse once he bought it. Frederick’s Coffeehouse was well known, and he’d not mess with its notoriety. He planned changes, though, improvements to the location and to the coffee. Especially to the coffee.
First, he needed blunt, and it had to be money he’d accumulated on his own. Not an inheritance, not an allowance, not even funds arising from the coffers of his one estate. That had come to him from his mother in perfect working order. Its success had nothing to do with him.
He slipped into the townhouse unnoticed. The guests had all arrived much sooner than he, to see and be seen. Devon didn’t care about either.
He peeked in at the crush. He rather missed dancing. Flirting more like. He’d not join the twirling throng this night. The room nearby clouded, surely, in cheroot smoke, called his name. The men with deep pockets gathered there would soon curse it.
He almost turned from the glittering spectacle, but a crown of golden curls caught his eye. The face below the crown—Miss Clarke.
She was why he’d glanced in the ballroom instead of finding the card room straight away. He’d been hoping for a glimpse of her. Hoping she’d glimpse him and—ah, there it was. She glowered at him. Naturally. What else would she do?
He winked, turned, and left her to hertonnishpleasures.
His pleasures were to be had elsewhere. He followed a footman with a silver tray into a room inhabited to its gills, the occupants fully enraged with one another. A polite, simmering anger fizzed about.
The footman swept through another door across the room—Devon’s destination, the card room.
He stepped into the throng.
“Gambling?”
