“You did not answer my first.”
“I have been . . . distracted.”
“Too distracted for your club?”
“Trust me, Mr. Lance. I have had quite a week. But I am here now. What has happened that calls for my immediate attention? I am afraid I do not have much time.”
She was expected at Willoughby Castle and found herself anxious to get there. Rebecca had decided to engage, explore, and consider certain temptations. Her lips tingled at the mere thought. Perhaps the best of both worlds was possible. One where she could explore her passions and one where she kept her club. She still wasn’t sure what she felt for Wicke, could not promise him anything, but excitement bloomed inside her belly at the thought of him.
Mr. Lance pushed a mug of ale across the table and into her hands. “Drink.”
“Has Lord Cressley damaged our property again?” Rebecca took a nip of ale. The man had broken half a dozen chairs in a fit of rage the last time he had lost a game of faro.
“Unfortunately not. There is a wager going around the club.”
“How intriguing. What is it about?”
“You.”
“Me?”
Mr. Lance nodded. “The participants mean to unmask the mysterious owner of the club. A substantial amount of money is being reported.”
Rebecca paled.
Her entire reputation depended on her hidden identity. Rebecca lifted her mug to her lips and swallowed a mouthful of ale. And another. Her heart crawled into her throat, and she lowered her voice to answer, “Only three people in this world are privy to that knowledge, Mr. Lance. You, me, and our solicitor.”
“Anyone can be bought if the price is right.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me, but worry not. For me to be bought one would have to know my price, and no tinker, tailor or Lord has the currency I’d require.”
“Is that supposed to set my mind at ease?”
“Yes.”
“My solicitor is bound by an agreement to keep my identity a secret. There is nothing to worry about then.”
“Where there are paper trails, there are means to acquire information, and if there is a large sum of money at stake, then it’s only a matter of time before pitchforks and fire are added to the hunt.”
“There must be a way to quell this wager, Mr. Lance.”
“There is.” His steady look unnerved her. But then, Alexander Lance had a way to unnerve anybody in his presence. “Give them a name.”
Her brows furrowed. “It can never come out that I own Knightley’s.”
“I know. Give them another name.”
“It seems quite simple then. Give them yours.”
“They will never believe it.”
“So make them believe it. You already run the place in my stead. Surely it cannot be that far-fetched?”
“What would be far-fetched is any reason I give for hiding the fact. Wouldyoubelieve that I, Alexander Lance, the owner of Knightley’s, would prohibit prostitutes? They are good for business, everyone knows that. They will certainly not accept that a man of my inferior birth would not boast of being the owner of such an infamous club.”
“First of all, Mr. Lance, the patrons that frequent Knightley’s know you to be a man of few words. They would have found it odd if you did boast. Secondly, you have made your distaste of prostitutes clear on more than one occasion. There might be some who do not believe you to be the owner, but there are many who will.”
