The Last Time We Met - By Lily Lang Page 0,24

superficial trappings of elegant manners—these were measures he could understand and counter. He could cut through the heart of hypocrisy and social snobbery when he wished to. He had spent the past five years among not only the cream of London, but of all of Europe. He had bedded some of their wives and on occasion even been permitted to court their daughters, and he had learned a noble title or ancient bloodline was no guarantee the lady in question would be worthy of that name.

There had been the spoiled, selfish daughters of a minor Continental margrave, avid and lascivious in their desire to acquire wealthy husbands; the vain wife of a Northumberland earl who left her two sickly young children immured at her country estate under the care of servants while she sampled the delights of the London season; the widowed marchioness who had bankrupted her late husband’s estates to finance her extravagant habits and appalling tastes… He could not imagine any of those highborn women sending a kitchen maid home to tend to a sick mother and then submitting to the demands of a temperamental chef, let alone crossing two counties alone and on foot.

But Miranda had done all that, and more. Though only a single day had passed since she had arrived in London, Miranda already held the members of his staff, usually so quick to reject an outsider, in the palm of her slender hand. She had worked among them like any maid, but they had gone to her, as the servants at Thornwood had once done, with their cares and their worries. They had immediately recognized in her some indescribable quality that was empathy entwined with authority—they had known she would not only understand, but had also the capacity and the willingness to help them.

He reached his office and pushed all thoughts of Miranda aside. He would need all his wits to deal with the man who waited for him. Turning the handle of the door, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

William Crockford, the operator of London’s other great gaming hall, had been pacing the length of the room. He now came to a stop and spun around.

He was a tall, thin, balding man, with a coarse, florid face strongly marked by the pox. His massive bulbous nose resembled nothing so much as a lump of cheese. Like Jason, he was dressed simply but expensively, though his signature white cravat contained its usual surplus of cambric. His gaze, as he peered across the room at Jason, was as shifty and suspicious as ever.

“Well, Blakewell?” he demanded in the slurred Cockney accent he had never bothered to conceal. “I don’t enjoy being summoned here like a damned servant.”

“Good evening, Mr. Crockford,” said Jason coolly. “Very good of you to call on me tonight. Won’t you have a seat?”

“Hrmph,” said Crockford, lowering his spare frame into one of the chairs by the fire.

“Cigar? Brandy?” inquired Jason, moving to the mantelpiece where he kept his decanter.

“Brandy’ll be fine,” said Crockford, and accepted the glass Jason handed to him. “Your Mr. Harvey said you had some sort of proposition for me.” He gave Jason a narrow, speculative look. “Thought about my offer, did you? Finally decided to sell this place to me? About time, I should think.”

“No,” said Jason shortly. “In fact, I wish to buy.”

“Buy?” repeated Crockford incredulously. “You wish to buy Crockford’s? Are you mad, sir? I would never sell.”

“Not Crockford’s, no,” said Jason, and explained what he wanted.

When Jason finished speaking, Crockford blinked in astonishment. “Ye want to do what?”

Jason regarded his rival impatiently. “You heard me,” he said.

“I see,” said Crockford, still looking utterly flabbergasted. “May I inquire as to why, sir?”

“You may not,” said Jason.

Crockford shrugged. “’Ave it yer way, then,” he said. “Don’t matter none to me, not if you’ll take it off my hands.”

“I most certainly will,” said Jason. “I will have Mr. Harvey complete the transaction as soon as possible.”

A crafty gleam now lit Crockford’s pale eyes. He leaned back in his chair and swirled his brandy glass.

“Not so fast, Mr. Blakewell,” he said. “We haven’t yet settled terms.”

Jason smiled at him coldly. “No terms, Mr. Crockford. Consider yourself fortunate you will be paid for those IOUs at all.” He rose to his feet and bowed to his old rival. “After all, the young man in question is not, as I understand, in the habit of paying his debts.”

At half past six the next morning, Miranda gave up on the