“I’ll make certain he cannot refuse.” Max’s dark eyes glittered. “We’re not partners. He owns the building. I own everything inside of it. All I need is a meeting.”
Heath considered, then shook his head. “Nonnegotiable. Your silent investor has been silent for a reason. You are not the only one I’ve made promises to.”
“I don’t need him to chat. I need him to sign a reversion clause. It is past time I become full owner of this establishment.” Max clenched his jaw. “I have spent every day and every night for the past three years pouring my blood and sweat into every corner of this business, and he has never once walked through the door.”
Heath arched his brows. “So you’ve learned his identity?”
“No.” Max’s eyes flashed. “And I don’t care. I just need him gone. Can you broker the deal or not?”
Heath gazed back at his friend. “I cannot make promises. Both of you are my clients. But if you give me the terms, I will present your offer.”
Max growled in frustration. “Can we not simply meet in person? Surely by now every gentleman has seen enough high-in-the-instep lords and dandies frequent my club that he realizes it won’t hurt his precious reputation to meet somewhere other than White’s or Boodle’s.”
Max was not welcome at the “right” gentlemen’s clubs. It was one of the many reasons he’d chosen to establish his own. His request to meet here, in a public location co-owned by both parties, was more than fair.
“I’ll ask,” Heath repeated.
Max inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Heath assented and allowed his gaze to roam the club’s crowded interior. Max was right. His establishment was more popular than ever. Heath should be proud to have brokered the deal that allowed the Cloven Hoof to become a reality.
Instead, Heath’s temples began to pound. He didn’t feel fulfilled. His life felt like it was missing something important. He had helped countless others live the lives they desired. When would it be time for Heath to do the same?
Max had followed his dream and made it work. He had gone from shadowy stranger with a questionable background to lord of a semi-reputable gambling den with an impressive clientele.
It was not the direction Heath would have chosen for himself. Nevertheless, he envied those who could pursue their passion at all costs. Camellia and her singing. Dahlia and her charity. Heath and his art gallery?
A cold sweat tickled his skin. His mind overflowed with images of all the ways such a venture could go wrong. He could not abide the thought of people judging him for his taste, or lack thereof. Soon enough he would have a title, a wife, an heir, a spare. That would have to suffice.
“Grenville!” One of his friends pointed to the sea of caricatures hanging from reams of string tacked around the ceiling. “Have you seen the latestLord of Pleasure?”
Heath sighed. Months ago, the Earl of Wainwright might have actively earned his rakish reputation, but now that he was married to Heath’s sister there was nothing funny about the golden-haired earl causing a roomful of women to spontaneously—
His heart thudded to a stop.
That was not Lord Wainwright front and center in the new caricature, but Heath’s own sister Camellia. She was not drawn in some ballroom, but rather on stage in a recognizable London theater. The audience full of women were not swooning at Wainwright’s legendary Grecian profile, but cooing to each other about the hopelessly lovesick expression on his face as he gazed up adoringly at his wife.
“He’ll never live this down,” another gentleman hooted.
“I heard from three people who were actually there,” shouted another. “That is exactly how his face looked during her entire performance!”
Heath’s muscles shook in both fury and horror. His lip curled as he glared at the damning inked lines. He recognized that the “joke” in this case was the scandal of being in love with one’s wife, not Camellia’s career choice.
But it didn’t matter. That was hissister’s face. Who knew what the next caricature would bring? Perhaps all three of his sisters would be next to have their reputations torn asunder. How positively amusing for the caricaturist.
Heath dropped into the closest chair and hung his pounding head in his hands. He was a failure. Both as a fixer of problems and a big brother to his sweet, talented sister.
What good was he at either calling, if he could not keep Cam’s likeness from being passed around Town as a penny jest?
He slammed his fist on the table before him. If he had disliked the so-called artist before, it was now hatred… and personal. He was going to put a stop to this cruelty if it was the last thing he did. The caricaturist now had a formidable enemy.
Heath no longer intended to unmask the coward.
He planned to destroy him.
Chapter 20
The twenty hours and forty-five minutes since Mr. Grenville had taken his leave and promised to return were the longest twenty hours and forty-five minutes of Nora’s life.
