“And don’t I know it,” he muttered as he grabbed his hat and cane to lead his sister-in-law down his front steps straight into his waiting carriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Milton quietly delighted in his sister-in-law’s ebullient company, for Annabelle Winthrop was not the cowering miss he remembered. In fact, she was the opposite of meek, though she was still no Elizabeth.
As they perused London’s bookshops, she chatted amicably about which novels Lizzie had loved growing up and which books her sister had yet to read. Books Elizabeth had written in her youth (so shewasa secret novelist) and which books her sister felt should never have seen light of day, making him laugh at quite a few Annabelle mentioned.
Milton began to think his wife had lived her entire life in books, and if he let her, she would in all likelihood continue to.
“Jasper.” Bella interrupted his thoughts, and not because she’d addressed him by his first name—he’d invited her to do so the moment they’d settled into his carriage. “How do you know Mr. Harris, the gentleman I met at your wedding luncheon?”
Milton was instantly all ears.
“We grew up together,” he told her. “Arthur’s like a brother to me.”
“But you are not … actual brothers?”
“No. My actual half-brothers would prefer I not exist. Arty is more brother to me than either of them will ever be.”
“And you’ve no other siblings?”
“I have a half-sister I have never met.”
She looked surprised. “Why?”
“Because I am illegitimate, Bella, by-blow.”
She sucked in her breath.
“For all I know, my father left me even more siblings sprinkled about London.”
She remained quiet after his pronouncement, slowly sipping her chocolate. Milton had brought her to the same locale he’d taken Lizzie, though Bella had not blinked when he’d ordered for her.
He watched her savor her drink, the mug cradled in her hands, and recalled whom else he knew had a sweet tooth: Arty.
“Jasper, is Mr. Harris’s gaming hall—I believe he called itThe Gilded Leaf—a reputable one?”
And there it was.
“Why do you ask, Bella?”
She avoided his stare. “He knew my father at your wedding, and as Papa is known to frequent such places, I thought it prudent to ask if?—
“Mr. Harris runs one of the more respectable gaming hells in our fair city, miss, and tolerates no funny business. In fact, he’s known to sniff out cheats.”
“Oh, Papa never cheats,” the lady neatly deflected. “It is why he loses so abysmally. Or rather, why he sadly suffers such bad luck.”
His new sister was up to something. And given what Harris had said of her abilities…
“So ifThe Gilded Leafis more reputable than other establishments, I assume a gentleman like Papa would require more funds to enter than he would at other halls, correct?”
“Miss Winthrop, titled gentlemen like your father rightfully forgo the poor man’s gaming den, for not only are the fees and stakes less high in such hells, but the clientele decidedly less savory. Rarely is a man gutted like a fish and left to carry his own entrails out the door at Arthur Harris’sfine establishment.”
She blenched.
“Arty runs a safe business. And debts accrued are settled honorably, in private, rather than with fisticuffs.”
He watched her swallow, then extend her chin. “And what of ladies, sir? Are there no comparable halls for their amusement?”
