Chapter 9
“Colehaven!” cried a sea of voices, followed by an equally exuberant cry of, “Eastleigh!”
The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filled the Wicked Duke tavern as its denizens cheered the arrival of the pub’s owners and erstwhile namesakes. That the infamous “wicked dukes” were now happily married did not detract an iota from their charm.
This Season marked the tavern’s ten-year anniversary. At first, London hadn’t known what to think when two dukes purchased a property near the Haymarket and opened its doors to all walks of life.
Was it a fashionable pub? Not to the aristocrats who prized exclusivity and privilege above all things. Was it a popular pub, despite the absence of certain high-in-the-instep prigs? Absolutely.
Giles took a healthy swig of ale. Along with Felicity’s brother, this was where Giles had met the deep-pursed half of his clientele. He owed the success of both his smithy and his races to the men of this tavern.
There were women here, too, although the majority weren’t of a class high enough to afford a horse, much less a carriage to pull behind it. Despite the owners’ impressive titles, most rowdy pubs were not a place sophisticated society misses could frequent if they wished to keep their reputations intact.
He wished Felicity could join him here. The segregation of “fine” ladies from fallen ones had nothing to do with the Wicked Duke. If anything, the pioneering tavern did its best to welcome all and sundry. The problem was society’s blatant double standard.
That must be what Felicity’s entire life was like, he realized slowly. She disguised herself not because she was ashamed of the things she liked, but because she was never allowed to just be herself.
Being a lady sounded bloody awful.
A fresh tankard of ale clinked down on the table before him. “How’s my curricle?”
Giles raised his glass to Colehaven’s. “We’ll win.”
“I’m counting on it.”
So was Giles. After every big race, the Wicked Duke always hosted a welcome reception for drivers and spectators alike. Keeping his reputation spotless and in the public eye was how Giles ensured future clients. He couldn’t afford to lose a race—or to lose gentlemen like Colehaven as a client. Not if he wanted to keep all his apprentices and helpers.
“Is that Raymore?” Colehaven lifted his tankard from the table. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to talk with him about a matter for the House of Lords.”
Giles inclined his head, but the duke was already gone. Lord business. Another reminder he didn’t need of all the reasons his name had never been on Felicity’s list.
He set down his tankard. There was still time to finish his ale, but Giles no longer was interested. He might not be a lord, but he, too, had an important meeting. Felicity would be coming to the smithy in an hour. If he left now, he could go home, change his clothes, perhaps have a quick jaunt down to the bakery in search of lemon tarts—
Felicity was already downstairs working on Baby when he walked through the door. His heart lightened.
She looked absolutely ravishing in lad’s trousers.
Come to think of it, he had also begun to think she looked positively delectable in her nondescript day gowns and that horrid floppy bonnet.
Apparently, it was not the clothes he was attracted to, but the talented, intelligent, bullheaded woman beneath.
He grinned at her. “You’re early.”
“I’m early.” She smiled back. “There’s biscuits on the counter.”
“No lemon tarts?”
“I ate them.” She arched a brow. “The most important rule of Giles’s smithy is—”
“—arrive first,” he finished. “No wonder you were an apprenticed smith at age twelve.”
“Thirteen,” she demurred, and set down her apron. “Ready to go?”
“I just got here,” he reminded her, startled. “Also… didn’t you say biscuits?”
“The biscuits will still be here half an hour from now.”
“Where willwebe?”
