Some tiny part of her was outraged that she was impressed with the thoroughness of the recordkeeping.
And then the plural of the word registered.
Or more like detonated.
“I was under the impression it was just the one debt.”
“He owes fifteen thousand pounds to one member. And he owes the house four thousand pounds.” He said this gruesome thing matter-of-factly.
Her stomach plummeted again and the room momentarily guttered like a candle flame in a breeze before her eyes.
“The house?” Her voice had gone hoarse.
“Me. I’m the house, Miss Woodville. Your brother is four thousand pounds in debt to me.”
The blood migrated away from her skin as if fleeing far, far away from this fresh horror. She was all-over ice now.
“Once per year, members are allowed to borrow up to that amount against their accounts here at Lucifer’s Fall. Which your brother did, against all advice, after he lost the initial amount. He then rapidly lost the four thousand pounds. The agreement he signed when he joined the club states explicitly that he has thirty days to repay it. I’m also given to understand that he won a few other wagers of a, and I quote, ‘more whimsical nature.’ My employee on the scene noted this.” He gestured with his chin to his notes.
“Whimsi... I don’t know what that means,” she croaked.
“My records indicate only that your brother won an orange from Lord Grayford and a chamber pot painted with the king’s face from Mr. Fenwick. Perhaps there were more so-called whimsical wins that went unrecorded.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
“Why didn’t anyonestophim?” She was perilously close to shrill.
He was impatient now. “Miss Woodville, he’s a grown man. Hechoseto do it. Surely no one knows better than a woman that it’s men who invariably do thechoosingin life. And while your brother’s evening was eventful, it was not exceptional. Every evening at Lucifer’s Fall is lively in an entirely different way. He was clearly having a wonderful time, until he wasn’t.”
It seemed inconceivable to her that he could discuss a life-shattering catastrophe so matter-of-factly.
“Perhaps the more important question, Miss Woodville, is whyyoulet him do it. Since you raised him.”
She stared at him.Wellplayed, Mr. Marchand, she thought. It was so exquisitely timed and absolutely brutal that she sucked in a breath.
“My brother is his own man, Mr. Marchand, as you noted,” she said coolly.
“I see,” he replied dubiously.
Fear and loathing expanded in her chest. She had so far accomplished nothing unless it was gaining an enemy. She consoled herself with the conviction that not a tactic in the world would shift this man if he didn’t want to be shifted.
He was studying her.What do you see, Mr. Marchand?She longed to know. His expression remained inscrutable. And yet she’d never felt so thoroughlylookedat.
“Miss Woodville... How many women do you suppose have visited Lucifer’s Fall for the purposes of haranguing me over the past five years?”
“Eleven,” she hazarded.
“Close.”
Distantly she heard men’s voices and the clink of what sounded like bottles. And was that a woman’s giggle? Perhaps Martine, whoever she was, had at last arrived.
Mr. Ogden breezed into the office and placed something in front of Mr. Marchand, who glanced at it, snatched up his quill, and dipped it.
“More than a few women, Miss Woodville. And while I do have some sympathy for their predicaments”—he scrawled hisname across the bottom of the paper and sprinkled sand—“they, like you, inevitably come up against the uncomfortable conclusion that, despite any initial impressions to the contrary, I’m actually a... Mr. Ogden, what was it Lord Gramercy called me the other day?”
“A thoroughgoing bastard, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ogden.”
