“I can’t say that I approve of your choice of servants.” He looked around the entry that led to a wide drawing room. But the improvements May had made to the space were a different story. The place looked a wonder. The walls were painted a cheerful jonquil and adorned with paintings in eye-catching hues of reds and oranges. Faux roman statues of naked men guarded the entrances of every doorway, and John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow about the proportions on some of the statues. The style was fun, eclectic, but retained a sense of luxury.
May gathered up her long skirts and marched down the hall. “Yes, but my members find him delightfully shocking. A pleasant change from the overly polite lives they are forced to lead. Why are you here?”
“To find my wayward stray.” He sidled past two women swilling champagne as they sat in a wide wicker swing hung from the ceiling. One of them pushed off against the wall, setting the swing in a dizzying circle.
He cleared his throat. “Any idea where Netta might be in this madhouse?”
“She’s playing pall-mall. But John—” May stopped suddenly, and John stumbled to avoid her. “I don’t think you should go to her right now. I can tell her you wish to talk.”
His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. “She doesn’t want to see me? She told you this?”
May flapped her hand. “Much to your consternation, I’m sure, but women do not spend all day talking of men. And it’s not Netta you shouldn’t see; it’s the woman she’s playing with.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And who would that be?”
“Your grandmother.”
He clenched his hands. Bloody hell, what was that woman doing here? And talking to Netta? The shrew would flay little Netta LeBlanc alive with herviperous tongue. “Where are they?”
May sighed, but turned and led the way. The room they entered was long, with high-ceilings. The bottom half of the walls were lined with padded leather. The reason for which became readily apparent.
Netta stood in the center of the room, a mallet cocked over her shoulder, her tongue poking out of her mouth as she took aim. She swung the mallet down and smacked the red ball with more force than it was designed to see. It bounded over the carpet, knocked against the leg of a side table, bounced off the wall, and rolled to a spot not far from a small arch made of stacked books.
“Well-played, dear,” said an older woman who absolutely could not be his grandmother. Her praise had sounded sincere and her smile looked warm.“If you knock it through, I believe that will be the fifth game you’ve won in a row.”
Netta stalked to her ball and tapped it through the make-shift arch. “Sixth.” Her smile dimmed when she caught sight of John and May in the doorway. She darted a look between John and his grandmother, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
The Dowager Marchioness of Mallen clasped her mallet between fingers bent with age. “Summerset.” She dipped her head. “You look well.”
He looked rich was what she meant. Her acknowledgement of his wealth should have pleased him. After all, he’d made a success of himself in large part to show her up. But it only made his gut churn. “What are you doing here?” Without waiting for a response, he turned on May. “What is she doing here? She can’t be a member.”
May pushed her spectacles back up her nose. “Might I remind you that I also control all aspects of membership for this club. Truly, Johnnie, if you are going to be this controlling I might have to give you your money back.”
“I didn’t mean that you couldn’t allow her to be a member.” He gripped his hands by his sides. “I meant someone like her couldn’t possibly want to be a member of such a club.”
May spread her hands in the air. “And yet here she is. Perhaps you have something to learn of your grandmother.”
“I think not.” His stomach rolled, like a bucket of eels. He’d learned everything he’d ever need to know about the woman the day she’d turned him and his brothers away. He stretched out his arm towards Netta. “Come. Let’s away.”
Netta rested her mallet on her shoulder and came to his side. “John, I think we should all go have a drink together. Your grandmother might surprise you.”
Now she decided to talk? After a day of silence? “Is this a conspiracy? Why are you even talking to her? Playing with her?”
Netta pressed her lips together and turned towards his grandmother. The head of the mallet swung under his nose, barely missing it. “She’s not what you think. Not anymore. Catherine,” she called. “How about a nice cup of tea and a chat?” She shot a look at John. “With a healthy shot of whisky in it.”
John snagged the mallet from her hand. “You are so intimate as to be on a first name basis with her?” The betrayal of that act dug under his skin. He’d told her what sort of woman his grandmother was, what a cold-hearted bitch he descended from, and she became close friends with the woman?
“Everyone is on a first name basis in this club,” May said.
His grandmother toddled forward, using her mallet as a cane. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.” She gave him a quavering smile, making John seethe.
He didn’t know what her game was, but he wasn’t fool enough to play along. “I thought you didn’t break bread, or tea as the case may be, with, how did you put it? ‘Filthy mongrels?’” He watched her face drain of color with some pleasure. “I can assure you, grandmother, nothing about me has changed except my clothes.”
His heart turned over in his chest, thudding dully. He used to dream of giving this woman the cut direct. Making her feel the shame she had burdened him with. But now he merely wanted away from her presence.
Breathing heavily, he turned to face Netta, letting her purity wipe away the filth he felt being near his grandmother. “Can we go? Are you ready?” He detested the plea he heard in his own voice.
Her face creased in sympathy. “Yes. We can go.” She nodded farewell to the other two women and tucked her hand around his elbow. Her breast pressed against his arm as they walked from the building. Full dark had descended, and he wrapped his arm about her waist to protect against any chill.
