Henry found her a hackney. They could ill afford it, but Mrs Watson had put her foot down. She’d been aghast when Emilia walked home alone after her first visit to the Vega Club. Henry handed her up, hesitating before closing the door.
“Good luck, miss,” he said solemnly.
Emilia gave him a nod more confident than she felt. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll do my best.”
He grinned, the sunlight glinting on his ginger hair as he bobbed his head. “I know.” He closed the door and chirped at the driver, who set off.
She clasped her hands, almost in prayer. Henry, like Mrs. Watson and especially Lucy, was depending on her. Shehadto succeed.
Tonight the Vega Club was lit up like a theater before a performance. The door opened before she could even raise the knocker, in the hand of a young man in footman’s livery. Emilia nodded regally to him, trying to act as if she belonged there. The same large fellow who had intercepted her before appeared almost at once. “This way, Miss Greene.”
He led her into the large salon beyond the palms and asked her to wait there. She sat on a small sofa and glanced around, interested in spite of herself. How Arabella would marvel at this place. The carpets were thick and luxurious, the walls wainscoted in dark walnut, beneath gleaming chandeliers ablaze with candles. The furniture was light and elegant, and it almost looked like a drawing room, until one noticed the hazard tables and faro boxes. Through a far doorway she spotted white-draped dining tables, and the aroma of roasting beef made her inhale longingly.
It took her a moment to realize Mr. Dashwood was there at the end of the room, deep in conversation with another man in evening clothes, but from the attentive way he listened and nodded, she sensed he was an employee, not a patron.
Mr. Dashwood himself was dressed like a gentleman. His coat and trousers were dark, exquisitely cut and perfectly fitted; his waistcoat was a sultry saffron. As she watched, a quick smile slashed across his face, turning the hard planes of his face dangerously attractive.
Emilia’s stomach took a hard lurch. He still looked ruthless, but nonetheless she felt a pull, a visceral sense of fascination. Who was this man?
She was still reeling from it when he turned her way. His smile was gone but those otherworldly eyes were fixed on her, rather like Chester’s when he was stalking some prey. She jumped to her feet and groped for her scattered wits, desperate not to be wrong-footed this time.
“So this is what a gaming club looks like,” she said as he reached her. She turned her head as if in earnest study, when it was also partly an attempt to dodge his gaze. “I’ve long wondered.”
“Have you?” He was amused, his dark brows arching. “Good evening, Miss Greene.”
“Good evening, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me again. I’ve brought some notes—”
“Let’s have a tour first.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and took a step.
“What?” Her heart leapt into her throat. “No!” Walk through the most notorious club in London? She didn’t dare. She had expected to speak to him in his office again.
“No, no, allow me to satisfy your curiosity about the Vega Club. Don’t worry, no one will see you,” he said over his shoulder, correctly divining the reason for her alarm. Emilia was forced to hustle after him.
“I’ve come to discuss my proposition, not see the club,” she said breathlessly as he led the way through the high-ceilinged salon into a dining room, where perhaps a dozen tables were covered with white linen, silver candlesticks gleaming. The scent here of roast beef and fresh bread was almost aphrodisiacal; she couldn’t stop herself from inhaling deeply.
“We serve dinner from six o’clock until four o’clock in the morning,” he said. “Not quite anything you want, but close.” He took a decanter from a nearby table and poured two glasses of wine. “And we keep an excellent cellar.”
She took the glass he held out without thinking, then blushed as his fingers touched hers on the glass. “I didn’t come for wine.”
“But you might as well have some, now you’re here.” He sipped his wine and waited until she took a reluctant sip herself.
Oh merciful heavens. It had been an age since she’d had good wine. Her eyes half closed as she took another sip, this time slower, savoring.
Mr. Dashwood was watching, his expression intent. Emilia lowered the glass with a twinge of regret. She wasn’t used to drinking, and needed to keep her head clear. “I would like to know your thoughts, sir.”
He nodded. “First the tour. This way.”
He led her through the dining room and very briefly through the kitchen, which was a whirl of activity and delicious smells. He showed her into what looked like a library, with dark paneling and leather chairs and ranks of freshly ironed newspapers. Upstairs were elegant salons that held tables with bowls set into the center for markers, and rooms that resembled a gentleman’s study, scented of pipe tobacco, with shelves full of leather-bound books. He took one out and showed her; it was a listing of private wagers between members.
Emilia tried to hide how impressed she was. The club was elegant and refined, nothing tawdry about it. No wonder it was popular.
He opened yet another door and Emilia stepped into a room of unquestionable luxury. The table was polished mahogany, the chairs upholstered in deep blue damask silk that matched the thick drapes covering the window. No fire burned in the small hearth but the room was still pleasantly warm. Fine crystal sat on the small sideboard. A bucolic landscape in a heavy gold frame was opposite the mirror over the fireplace, lending a genteel air to the room. The only hint this wasn’t a lord’s private closet was the faro box and stack of dice on the mantel.
He closed the door behind him. “Now,” he said, “we can discuss.”
CHAPTERSIX
Emilia nodded, her heart racing again. “We could have done that half an hour ago.”
