“That may be so, but he should not get too comfortable,” Lady Hudsyn said with an air of smugness. “Society shunned Lord Byron, and he was both a successful writer and an English baron!”
“Lord Byron bedded his sister. And as far as I know, Mr. Bastin has no sister, so you need not concern yourself.”
Ottilie stifled a laugh.
“Don’t be vulgar, Henry.” Lady Hudsyn took up her fan and sniffed.
“You needn’t worry, Mama. As Ottilie is my cousin, I can assure you that Mr. Bastin will not compromise her in any way whatsoever. You have my solemn promise on that count.”
Ottilie picked up a biscuit and took a bite to mask her smile.
“You really must try and cut your sugar consumption, Ottilie,” Lady Hudsyn snapped. “A young lady must show constraint while eating. A small appetite and dainty portions are admirable qualities.”
“Yet another sacrifice women are expected to make in order to please a gentleman and secure a husband in this society you so admire, Aunt. The perfect lady will be idle and half-faint with hunger so as to appear pale, weak, and helpless. All to make a man feel like a man.”
Ottilie saw Henry give her a slight shake of his head just as Lady Hudsyn turned her tightly pursed face to him. “Do you see what you are encouraging, Henry? How could you take your cousin to see that rogue when you know her own father was…” Lady Hudsyn flapped her mouth as if searching for the appropriate term.
“A poet,” Ottilie offered when Lady Hudsyn seemed unable to find the word.
“Of bad blood.” Lady Hudsyn smoothed the ruffles of her blue taffeta skirt and turned her face as though she could not bear to look at the living proof of her words.
An awkward silence fell over the room.
“Not all poets are drunken rakes, Mama.” Henry’s face steeled with fury. Ottilie knew he’d kept his love for writing poetry a secret from his mother because of her father—the man who’d brought her mother low and stained the family name with his debauchery. Ottilie wished she could take her words back. Why did she provoke her aunt when she knew the woman placed so much importance on the past?
“Perhaps if you read Mr. Bastin’s book, you would change your mind, Aunt,” Ottilie said, determined to break the tension. “It’s quite marvelous. Mr. Bastin has great talent, and his novel is an outstanding study of humanity and its extraordinary capacity to endure. Which is why I am so eager to secure him as a guest lecturer for the college—” She paused, suddenly realizing she’d forgotten to ask the favor of Mr. Bastin after being interrupted by his valet.
Her aunt stood up. “I feel a headache coming on. I need to lie down. Henry, ring for my lady’s maid.”
“Let me help you.” Ottilie stood up.
“No need. Sit down and finish your tea.”
“Don’t be silly, Mama. I’ll take you upstairs.” Henry put down his cup and stood up. “Ottilie, ring for Mama’s maid, please.”
“Thank you, dear.” Lady Hudsyn said icily, “I can manage on my own. I think you have done quite enough for one day.”
“As you wish, Mama.” Henry clenched his jaw and sat down again.
Lady Hudsyn swept out of the room like a martyr on her way to the gallows.
Ottilie sipped her tea and decided it would be better not to enlist Henry’s help in speaking with Mr. Bastin again. It wouldn’t do to drag him into another disagreement with his mother. She would have to solve the problem on her own.
*
Jack stood outsideBoise’s Gentlemen’s Club in St. James’s and slipped his gloved hands into his navy sack coat.
“You’re certain he’ll be here?” he murmured.
“I’d bet my life on it,” Brandt replied. “A gambler always believes he can dig himself out of his own grave. You’ve buried enough of them to know as much.”
“True.” Jack maneuvered his neck, cracking it to release his pent-up tension. “I’m ready,” he said.
They entered the building and ascended the carpeted stairs leading to the gambling hall. Cigar smoke clouded the room, already weighed down with an air of entitlement and frivolity. Well-dressed gentlemen plied with an abundance of drink and coins clustered around various card tables in accordance with their game of choice.
“Ain’t it a sight for sore eyes,” Brandt said. “Spoilt dandies throwing fistfuls of money away, thinking they know how to play cards. I could fleece them all in one night.”
“But we’re not here for that,” Jack said.
