And thusly he’d steered them to the crux of the meeting.
She gathered her nerve. “Given his obvious inexperienceand youth and naivete, I suppose I’m wondering why you allowed him to lose so much money.”
She said this mildly. But her heart was jabbing away in her throat.
“Why Ilethim lose...” he repeated slowly, marveling. He studied her, idly tapping his fingers. “Miss Woodville, did you happen to read the sign at the front of this building?”
He said this mildly. She wasn’t fooled. Nothing about him was mild.
“The one that says ‘Lucifer’s Fall’? It’s a very fine sign. Discreet. Exquisite lettering.”
“And are you familiar with the biblical story of Lucifer and his alleged plummet from grace?”
“Oh, that Lucifer? Yes, I’ve heard of him.”
“Very good. Does the name Lucifer’s Fall then strike you as the name of a nursery?”
“It wouldn’t be my first choice for a nursery, granted. ‘Kittens and Unicorns’ might be more appropriate.”
She didn’t know how he’d gotten those faint lines around his eyes, but she was growing more certain it wasn’t from laughing.
“Perhaps, then, Miss Woodville, you’ll agree that the name of this establishment implies the nature of the risk inherent in entering it.”
In other words, ruination and falling from grace were builtrightinto the name.
“More of that irony you enjoy, I expect, Mr. Marchand.”
“Indeed. I would have named it Kittens and Unicorns if I felt it captured the sort of experience my customers are seeking.”
She considered pointing out Kittens and Unicorns would also be ironic, and thought better of it.
“But youadmitthereisa risk inherent in entering your premises.”
“There is a risk in getting out of bed in the morning, Miss Woodville.” He sounded indulgent and almost bored. This was her least favorite way for men to sound. “I was assured by the earl—Hogarth, if you will—when I interviewed him for membership that he has reached his majority. Is this not true?”
“He is twenty-one. I am older by three years.” She was feeling older by the minute.
“In other words, yes, he has reached his majority. When he requested a tour of Lucifer’s Fall, he professed flattering admiration for all we offer and told me he’d long yearned to be a member. He struck me as gracious, pleasant, and mature. He was also, he assured me, deep of pocket. Which is essential, as the gentlemen at Lucifer’s Fall expect deep play from fellow members.” Marchand returned to his sheaf of papers. “This”—he pushed a document over to her from his hatefully efficient little stack—“is the agreement your brother signed when he applied for membership at Lucifer’s Fall, agreeing to the membership fees and to the rules regarding conduct, discretion, debts, and payments.”
She glanced down at it. There was Hogarth’s signature, tidy and even apart from big, silly loops on his “l”s.
It gutted her to think that her bashful brother had secretly yearned for something so louche. He’d never made friends easily. He snorted when he laughed, and he laughed when he was nervous. She could easily imagine Hogarth laughing andsnorting during his tour of Lucifer’s Fall, because he would have been desperate to impress Marchand, whose charisma was engulfing.
Ginny breathed carefully through a fresh surge of righteous anger.
Mr. Marchand thoughtfully drummed his fingers again. “Miss Woodville. You look as though you might have a brain in your head.”
“Well. Faint praise is better than none, I suppose,” she said brightly.
“So no doubt you understand that those not fortunate enough to be born into wealth and status must forge their own ways in life, using the skills and experience at their disposal. Would you agree that everyone is entitled to a chance to prosper?”
If he thought he could persuade her that running a gaming hell was a legitimate and perfectly reasonable vocation for any man, regardless of his social status, he was sorely misguided.
“Oh, I think I take your point,” she said brightly. “And if you’re referring to yourself, Mr. Marchand, I think it was very clever of you to discover a way to exploit wealthy men for profit.”
He went rigid.
And then he leaned back so very slowly in his chair she was reminded of Dot lowering the tea tray. More accurately: of an arrow being primed for launching.
