papers that in previous centuries, the club had been a chocolate house. When its popularity had waned, its owners had hastened to convert it into a private club like White’s and the Cocoa Tree. But the original club had been failing badly when Jason Blakewell purchased it for fifty thousand pounds. He had closed the building down for a year, refurbished and refurnished both the interior and exterior, and reopened it as Blakewell’s to instantaneous success.
The club soon attracted an exclusive clientele of the wildest and most extravagant members of the beau monde. In addition to offering Monsieur Leblanc’s incomparable suppers, the club also provided every variety of gambling—macao and hazard, faro and whist, piquet and backgammon. Nor did Jason discourage high stakes. At Blakewell’s, whole estates could change hands in a single evening. Certain snide society papers had speculated that the mysterious Mr. Blakewell, in his four years operating the club, had won as much as a million pounds off of the current generation of young aristocrats.
Miranda could well believe it. In her three days spent observing the comings and goings of its members, she had counted ministers and marquesses, poets and painters. Once, a coachman waiting for his master to emerge from the club had even pointed out a tall, haughty-looking man as the Duke of Wellington himself.
The corridor ended in a long flight of stairs. Once or twice, Miranda, dizzy from exhaustion and starvation, stumbled, but Jason never slowed or look back. Finally they came to the top floor and another long corridor lined with identical wooden doors. Jason pushed open the third door, admitting them into a small, tidy office.
The only occupant was a small, balding, owl-like man with a pair of round glasses perched on his enormous beaky nose. He looked up, then shot to his feet, his mouth set in lines of surprise.
“Jason! I wasn’t expecting you. I thought you had gone for the night.”
“I intended to leave,” said Jason. “But a complication arose.” He indicated Miranda with a slight inclination of his head. “Miss Thornwood, this is my steward, Mr. Oliver Harvey. Olly, this is Miss Miranda Thornwood, daughter of the late Lord Thornwood, and sister to the current viscount. Please show Miss Thornwood to my suite and have the kitchen send up a supper for two.”
Miranda turned away from the steward’s expression of complete bewilderment.
“I don’t need supper, sir,” she said. Unable to meet Jason’s sardonic gaze, she fixed her eyes on a point just above his left shoulder. “I need to speak with you. Immediately.”
Jason ignored her, raking her sodden cloak and hair with a single passionless glance.
“Also have some of the maids bring up hot water. Miss Thornwood needs…” his lip curled, “…a bath.”
Mr. Harvey, probably shocked at having a gently bred female presented to him in his office, managed to recover.
“Of course,” he said. “Immediately.”
Miranda made an impatient gesture. “My business with you is urgent, Jason.”
He did not look at her again. “So is your need of a bath,” he said. “And I’m hungry. You interrupted my original plans. The least you can do is dine with me. We can talk over supper.” He turned back to his owlish-looking steward. “Thank you, Olly. I know I can depend upon you.”
“Of course.”
Jason nodded, and without gazing back at Miranda, exited the room through a different door than the one through which they had entered. She was now alone with Mr. Harvey, who continued to stare at her in fascination.
“Uh,” he stammered, gesturing. “If you’ll come this way, Miss Thornwood. I beg your pardon. This is simply most unusual.”
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly. “I did not intend to cause such a fuss.”
“No trouble at all, miss,” he said.
She followed him out into a hall banked with tall windows looking out onto a park below. They were likely on the fourth and highest floor of the club. Continuing down the corridor, they came to a great pair of double doors. Mr. Harvey retrieved a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door.
“Just inside, miss,” he said, holding aside the heavy door for her.
Miranda crossed the threshold into a large, vaulted room, richly appointed with heavy curtains, thick carpets, and floor-to-ceiling shelves on three walls, all crammed with books. She gazed at the endless rows of leather-bound volumes, and the weight of a thousand memories pressed against her.
“The bedroom is just through that door,” said Mr. Harvey from somewhere behind her. “The maids should be here with hot water soon. Do