Devlin resettled his hat, then with his cane, waved down the street. “Right—let’s head to the Reform Club in Pall Mall, and on the way, we might as well look in at the Carlton Club.”
Martin acquiesced with a nod, and they set off down the street.
After conducting an attentive, interested, and observant Martin around the two most-notable clubs in Pall Mall, Devlin hailed a hackney, and they traveled north to Hanover Square and the Oriental Club.
Standing on the pavement outside the club and looking up at its imposing façade, Devlin explained, “The club was originally established for those who had served in or who had visited and had business interests in India and the East Indies. The majority of the members would still fit that description, but others, such as myself, are connected to the East purely via business interests.” Devlin glanced at Martin. “These days, the Oriental is an excellent place to meet gentlemen with experience in the business of importing.”
Martin met Devlin’s eyes. “Whether from the East or the West?”
Devlin smiled and inclined his head. “Indeed. The club is also known for having an excellent chef and a superb cellar.” He gestured to the door. “Come. I’ll stand you lunch.”
While showing Martin around the club, Devlin was stopped by three different gentlemen, two of whom had snippets of business information to impart, and the third solicited Devlin’s advice about a milling business in the Midlands.
Martin kept silent and listened and, when they parted from the third gentleman, murmured, “And that’s why you’re a member here.”
“Exactly.” Devlin gestured toward an archway. “The dining room’s through there.”
The club’s butler welcomed them and showed them to a table in an alcove. They settled and proceeded to enjoy an excellent goat curry, served with various strange but tasty accompaniments.
Devlin waved his fork at the dishes. “The fare does tend to be oriental in nature, I suspect along the lines of stirring fond memories.”
Martin huffed, then admitted, “I suppose I can understand that.” He went on to describe some of the unusual foods he’d come across in America, and Devlin learned that, although his brother-in-law had spent most of his time in New York and Chicago, he’d also traveled to cities farther south.
Inevitably, the talk turned to business, and it became clear that Martin was devoting considerable time and mental energy toward refining his idea of establishing a machinery manufactory.
While Devlin knew little about machines themselves—gears and so forth—he recalled that Rand’s brother-in-law, William John Throgmorton, was a brilliant inventor of steam-driven machinery. He told Martin of the connection. “You might look up William John—” He broke off, then went on, “Actually, I’ve just remembered. It’s Rand’s wife, Felicia, you should speak with. Their late father—hers and William John’s—was the brilliant scientist-inventor whom Rand originally backed. Inventing-wise, both Felicia and William John are chips off the old block, but it’s she—believe it or not—who is the organized one who ensures that things get done. William John is undoubtedly brilliant, but also eccentric. You might talk to him and think you had agreed on something, only to discover he’d actually been thinking about some cog or valve and hadn’t been paying attention.” Devlin refocused on Martin. “Given your interests, I would strongly urge you to speak with Felicia Cavanaugh.”
Martin slowly nodded. “At the picnic, Rand gave me his card and told me to call if I needed advice on securing funding. I’ll follow that up, explain my interest in machinery, and ask him to introduce me to his wife.”
Devlin grinned. “Strange to say, he’ll be happy to do that. Felicia’s always on the lookout for new inventions or, as I understand it, industrial processes in need of improvement.”
Martin nodded decisively. “She sounds like the sort of person I should contact. I need to learn which industries are most in need of modernization as well as what the prospects for entirely new processes are.”
They talked further regarding his evolving ideas and departed the club in definite charity with each other.
Devlin detoured along Oxford Street to show Martin the Portland Club on the corner of Stratford Place. They halted on the pavement outside the club. “It’s the most acceptable venue for enthusiasts of card games, but you won’t find much else discussed in the rooms.”
Martin glanced at him. “A purely social venue?”
Devlin nodded. “I’ve rarely been inside, but you might well hear of it or be invited to accompany someone else there, so best you know. The play is often deep. Against that, you won’t find any Captain Sharps in residence.”
“Duly noted.”
Together, they turned away from the building. With his cane, Devlin gestured across the street, and they crossed and continued south along Davies Street, walking with easy strides into the heart of Mayfair.
“And that concludes your tour of the cream of London’s gentlemen’s clubs.” Devlin glanced at Martin. “As I’m sure your cousins and any friends you may stumble across while in the capital will tell you, there are countless other establishments catering to every vice under the sun to be found in London’s streets, but you’ll need advice from someone your own age as to which are safe to patronize.” He paused, then added, “What I wouldn’t advise is making that assessment on your own—appearances can be deceiving, especially when it comes to anything to do with the ton.”
Martin snorted. “That, I already know.”
After a moment, Devlin felt Martin’s gaze as the younger man swiftly searched his face.
Then Martin said, “I’m grateful to you for steering me in the right direction, not just with the clubs but with business as well, so don’t take this question amiss, but you’re already well-established and successfully settled in your business endeavors, while I’m your wife’s errant, black-sheep, prodigal little brother. Why are you being so helpful?”
Devlin continued to stroll as he thought about that; it was a fair question, and the answer wasn’t all that hard to find. He paused for a second, debating how truthful to be, then met Martin’s gaze. “I might say that I feel duty bound, or that I’m distantly interested in watching how you evolve your ideas.”
Martin’s gaze sharpened. “But?”
Devlin inclined his head and halted; they’d reached the corner of Brooks Street. He swung to face Martin, who had halted as well. “But the most accurate answer is that Therese wants to see you happy, meaning that seeing you find your feet within the ton and succeed in business will makeherhappy. That being so, I’m happy to—willing and ready to—assist you in achieving your goals in whatever way I can.”
