And yet . . . He couldn’t stop thinking about her—and her damned proposal.
Nick didn’t like any of it.
He left his office and walked through the club. It was morning now, sunlight streaming through the open windows as the servants cleaned and tidied after another night of profitable gambling. Nick felt the familiar hum of satisfaction in his chest. This was his estate, built from a single hazard table in a shabby cellar to the finest club in London. He was someone, a man of means and importance, even without a title.
The thought made him scowl. Never once in his life had he thought about having a title, nor wanted one. Most of the lords who came through his club did not serve to recommend the aristocracy, whether they were pompous winners or sulky losers. But Miss Greene had made him think about other sides of the matter, and he was not pleased by the way it taunted him.
At the back of the dining room he pushed open the baize door and went down to the kitchen. Like the salons upstairs, it was still alive with activity, but on a more relaxed pace than the frenetic rush that began in the afternoon.
The kitchens were one of the Vega Club’s prime attractions. While most clubs served dinner, none did it the way Vega’s did. Here they served every sort of meal a patron could want, from the time the doors opened until they closed around dawn, and every morsel of it was delicious. The scullery was filled with servants washing dishes, scrubbing pots, and polishing silver from last night’s service. The long trestle table in the main kitchen was covered with freshly plucked capons and geese, waiting to be dressed and roasted for hungry diners tonight. Baskets of vegetables and herbs sat on the table under the windows, just delivered. The scent of baking bread perfumed the air. All these signs of industry, prosperity, and luxury filled Nick with fierce pride.
Guillaume, the chef, had his hands in a large mound of dough, but he jerked his head toward a tray on the opposite end of his worktable. “Freshly baked, Monsieur.”
He leaned over the plate and inhaled deeply. Guillaume’s fresh pastries filled with gooseberry jam, topped with thick clotted cream, were sinfully delicious. Betsy, Guillaume’s wife, whisked across the room. “Just a moment, sir, you’re early today.”
Nick grinned as she laid the pastries in a basket and covered them with a clean cloth. “And hungry. These smell divine.”
“’Tis Betsy’s gooseberry preserves that make them so.” Guillaume winked at his wife.
“I thank you both for the compliments,” she said pertly, handing Nick the basket with a curtsy.
He bowed in reply, then went through the narrow corridor outside the kitchen, still cool and dim since the sun hadn’t risen high enough to reach the kitchens. He jogged up the stairs in the courtyard and let himself out into the mews, making sure the lock was securely fastened behind him. More than once patrons had tried to sneak into Vega’s through the service area, desperate to retrieve something they’d lost at the tables. Nick put a quick end to that, installing tall gates with sturdy locks at every entrance point, and sending imposing employees on frequent tours of the grounds. Gambling might not be an inherently honorable pastime, but when a man lost, he had to pay his debt.
At the end of the mews he turned away from the rumble of Piccadilly Street, toward the quiet, refined heart of Mayfair. He whistled tunelessly as he swung the basket in one hand. This was the best part of his day, every day. Even his headache receded as he walked.
In a quiet little street less than a mile from the club, he turned into a courtyard and let himself in through another gate. The scullery door stood open to admit the fresh morning air, and he walked right in.
The scene was far quieter than at Vega’s, although the cook was also kneading bread on the table. At Nick’s appearance, she smiled in greeting and curtsied.
“Has breakfast been served already?” he asked, one hand on the swinging door.
“Yes, sir. She’s just rung for tea and Nelly took it up,” replied Mrs. Barnes, the cook.
Without another word Nick pushed open the door and jogged up the steps, heading for the dining room.
“Nick!”
He laughed as Charlotte ran and flung her arms around his neck. “Good morning to you, too. Have I been neglectful? That was quite an enthusiastic greeting.”
She gave him a look of reproach as she resumed her seat and Nick took his, at the head of the table. “You’re on time for once. I’m beside myself with astonishment.”
“Wait until you see what I’ve brought.” He set his offering on the table. “From Guillaume.”
Her dark eyes widened, and Charlotte seized the basket, sticking her nose under the cloth and inhaling deeply. “Guillaume is quite possibly the love of my life.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Someday I’d like to meet him.” Charlotte put a pastry on her plate and handed the basket to Nelly, who busied herself arranging the rest on a platter. “Will you let me come to the club and thank him?”
“No.” Nick gave the same answer he always did, but today it came out a little sharply.
“Why not?” she protested. “You allow ladies to be members. Why can’t I come and see it one day? Don’t you think it’s one of the best clubs in London?”
“It is the very best, and it’s also no place for you.” Nick tapped his empty teacup, trying to divert her.
Charlotte frowned at him, but she poured his tea. “What’s wrong with me, that I’m not fit to visit the best club in London?”
“Charlotte,” he said under his breath, in warning. Every now and then she got her teeth into this subject, and he never liked it. “It is not about you.”
Her brows were still drawn together. “Then what is it about?”
“I said no, and that’s the end of the matter.” He looked at Nelly. “The ham, please.”
“You’re not being honest with me.” Charlotte waved off his offer to serve her a slice of the cold ham on the platter Nelly brought. “And you’re in a temper this morning, which spoils all my joy at your punctual arrival.”
He gave her an aggrieved look. “You may go,” he told Nelly, who curtsied and slipped from the room. “I’m not in a temper.” He rotated his sore arm, blatantly soliciting sympathy. “I had to throw out a patron last night and he tossed me against the wall.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but her frown softened. “How hard?”
“Violently.” He winced—exaggerated for her benefit, but only a little. His shoulder did ache. “I feared it would be out of joint.”
“You should put a cold poultice on it.”
“I would have been late for breakfast.”
Sympathy flooded her face. Charlotte put her hand on his arm. “You silly man. You ought to have gone home and had Pearce look after you.”
“But there were fresh pastries,” he said, “from Guillaume.”
Her lips twitched, then slowly turned into a smile. “You’re such a scoundrel, Nicholas Dashwood. Are you even hurt at all?”
“I am!” He started to strip off his jacket. “Let me show you the bruise.”
“Stop.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it won’t keep you from any of your usual habits. And I realize you distracted me from my question, you know.”