Emilia smiled gratefully. “Of course. Thank you so much, Mrs. Watson.” The woman nodded and hurried off. Feeling drained, Emilia turned toward the tiny sitting room that Mrs. Watson shared with the cook. She would have to apologize to Charlotte and Lucy. She wasn’t sorry she had brought them down here, where they could have made an easier escape if one had been necessary, but shewassorry that she had frightened them so terribly. Perhaps they would all just pile into Emilia’s bed tonight.
She opened the sitting room door. “Charlotte?” She stepped inside. “Lucy?” There was a rocking chair, a settee by the fire, and a small table. A pair of lamps burned on the table and the mantel, illuminating the room. Chester the cat was there, hissing from his position under the settee.
But Charlotte and Lucy were not.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
It began as a deceptively normal evening at the Vega Club.
Nick arrived early. He sent the carriage away and told his men to take turns in patrol around the outside of the club. Inside the club he gathered his staff and put them all on guard. If Fitchley wanted to confront him face-to-face, Nick meant to be ready.
Emilia had said he would flee to the Continent. Nick agreed that would be the wisest course for Fitchley, but there was a vengeful streak in the baron that would probably make the man do something stupid and much riskier.
To tell the truth, Nick wanted a confrontation. Fitchley had hounded and frightened Emilia, and then he had tried to take Lucy. Nick wanted to gut the man, and to twist the knife as he did it.
But several hours rolled by without any sign of him. Even his companions were absent, and Nick began to wonder if Fitchley had been more sensible than he’d thought. It was certain that he wouldn’t have found many friends in the Vega Club tonight.
Word had gone round faster than rumors of a high stakes table setting up. Nick overheard more than one heated discussion about Fitchley. He avoided joining any conversation, but received the strong impression that every race in the previous year at Newmarket and Epsom was undergoing some serious study.
Excellent.
It was ten before the Marquess of Westmorland snared him. “Might I have a word, Dashwood?”
Nick bowed his head. “Of course, sir.” He followed the marquess to a secluded corner of the salon, where a handful of other men were waiting. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Is it true?” asked Viscount Heathercote directly.
Nick gazed back calmly. “Of what do you speak, my lord?”
“This business about Fitchley,” asked another fellow named Marlowe. He glanced swiftly toward Westmorland as he spoke, and Nick guessed Lord William had told his brother all.
“Ah. The report in theIntelligencer,”he replied calmly. “It is very shocking, of course.”
“Do you doubt it?”
Nick returned Westmorland’s probing stare mildly. “I have no reason to, my lord.”
“So you’re ejecting Fitchley?”
Nick drew out his watch and checked the time. “Naturally I cannot discuss one member with another. If the report is true, however, it would be... inconsistent with the standards of this club.”
Heathercote frowned. “How do you intend to judge the truth?”
Ah. Now Nick remembered. Lord Heathercote’s father, the Earl of Masham, owned Etonian, the horse who had been favored in the Craven Meeting. The horse who’d taken ill and been withdrawn before the sweepstakes race.
Nick smiled slightly. “I have my ways. And to be blunt, it does not matter whether the reports are proven true or not. My word is the last word, theonlyword, on who shall belong to this club. Rest assured, I have the Vega Club’s interests at heart at all times.”
It sounded fair-minded. It was even true. And Nick knew perfectly well that if he expelled Fitchley, everyone in London would view it as confirmation of theLondon Intelligencer’s report.
“Of course.” Westmorland’s shoulders eased.
“Right, then.” Heathercote stood up. “Dinner?”
Westmorland shook his head. “I’ve promised to join Georgiana at her friend’s rout. Another time.” He glanced at Nick. “Thank you, Dashwood.”
Nick bowed his head and walked away. He turned toward the dining room and caught sight of Forbes coming toward him—not at his usual purposeful walk but virtually at a full-out run, dodging patrons and footmen left and right. Instantly alert, Nick met him by the small pantry. “Rudy wants you,” said Forbes, breathing hard. “Urgently. He’s at the kitchen door.”
This time Nick ran, ducking into the service hall and bolting past startled servants with platters. Rudy leaned against the wall, red-faced and winded. “Someone threw a brick through the window,” he told Nick. “And then a fire-bomb.”
