“Sorry, I’m late.” At fifteen minutes past the appointed time, George Bridgetower slipped into the room and took his customary seat by the window.
Mr. Anthon bounced up, but Daniel waved him to another seat. “You’ve earned a place tonight. I’ll spot you a few bits.”
The smile on the young man’s face spread to his brown eyes.
Bridgetower nodded, “Yes, stay. That way we get more of your employer’s money when you both lose.”
Mr. Gerard dealt him cards.
It was nice to see Bridgetower, a fellow Prinny prodigy, in good humor. The past few years had been a struggle. Between his mother’s death and the falling-out with the legendary Beethoven, Bridgetower had a run of bad luck.
Elegant in his gray coat and pale green waistcoat, the violinist whistled as he studied his hand. The tune was probably an upcoming masterpiece in the making.
Sitting back, Daniel was struck by the unwanted commonality among the younger set—Anthon, Bridgetower, and himself—a lack of fathers. Daniel’s died young, consumed by drink. Mr. Anthon’s was felled by bullets in the Peninsula War, leaving his family to certain poverty. And Bridgetower—his tried to exploit the son’s talents. The man made such a ruin of things the Prince Regent stepped in and returned the father to Prussia. The prince provided for the violinist’s continued studies and even gave a stipend to support the fellow’s poor mother.
“You have that look, Thackery. Pardon me, Lord Ashbrook,” Bridgetower said. “You’re caught in your memories?” He hummed a bit more. The rhythm was peaceful, luscious and rich. “Have you lost too many trials this month, or is it the anniversary of your wife’s death?”
Mr. Anthon tossed him a cross look. “He does not lose trials.”
Laughing, Daniel patted the young man’s shoulder. “I do. I merely forget to say. Problems with the Lord Mayor but nothing I can’t handle.”
Beef downed his lemonade and smacked his lips. “Tart. I know you’re partial to tea, but do you have anything more substantial to drink. A porter?”
Never. Not in Finchely again. “Alas, this is not an ale house, but one of my client’s did send a delightful bottle of rum.”
The man plunked his glass with his finger. The crystal made a harp’s cry. “That’s what I am talkin’ about.”
Ringing a bell, Daniel summoned the spirits, something he had prearranged with Mrs. Gallick. She entered carrying a tray of fine silver goblets and the rare bottle.
“Lord Ashbrook thought pink lemonade would become dull,” she said.
The loyal woman seemed to watch Daniel pour healthy glasses of the amber for each man. His remained empty, then she filled his crystal with more lemonade.
Once Mrs. Gallick left, Beef held up his goblet. “Who shall we toast first? Our new earl or Bridgetower’s new heiress?”
Schooling his face, Daniel made every muscle stone. His thoughts drifted to Mrs. St. Maur, the heiress he’d made the toast of London. The dower he’d crafted and used his legal expertise todiscoveralong with carefully planted gossip with the chatty Lady Bodonel had served its purpose. Mrs. St. Maur was celebrated.
Instead of a quick courtship and marriage to a sensible peer, she’d become a target for everyone, theton, merchants, everyone. With her beauty and hint of island lore and the rare times she slipped into Jamaican patois, she’d be heavily sought after. Men with a weakness for misses from the Caribbean like himself and the Barbadian-descended Bridgetower.
Yet, that was the cruel rub. Daniel found himself incredibly attracted to her, thinking of her too often, and alas jealous of the attention she garnered.
“Ladies first, gentlemen,” he said, lifting his lemonade.
Bridgetower’s wide flat nose flared in triumph, as if he’d finished another sonata. “Miss Mary Leech-Leak is amazing, but her father may have aspirations for more than a genius.”
Mr. Gerard shook his head. “She’s lucky to get you. The woman is regarded by most as mistress material.”
Squinting, Daniel tilted his head. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“It’s not my opinion. I hear she’s quite nice, but having worked for Lady Bodonel for many years, the viscountess is a source for gossip. She says Miss Leach-Leek is mistress material ’cause of her parents, the one Leech, the other Leak not marrying.”
Daniel could see the violinist seething. “That’s disrespectful. And anyone can be a mistress despite their upbringing.”
“Do you remember what a mistress is, Ashbrook?” Beef shuffled the deck three times. “Gossip says you’re a squeaky-clean hermit.”
A year of living on the streets made Daniel value things like water and clean clothes and neatness. “I do like soap, Beef. You should try it more often. And I am sure if there was a Mrs. Beef you’d be dedicated solely to her.”
“Then there shouldn’t be one for a long time,” Beef said, then tapped his chest. “John Beef is dedicated to the chase.”
