Robert read the lines once more, and this time the subtlety that had escaped him clarified, and he did not know whether to smile in anticipation or find a way to stop her from returning to the hell. He knew he should do the latter—they should not continue their association. It was far too risky for Eloise. And definitely risky for his relationship with Lydia Rowbotham.
But the very thought of Eloise Surrey made every muscle tense, and his memories of the way she felt in his arms, the tender way she had touched him, her eager responses under him, made him instantly aroused. Robert also dearly wanted to see her, to find out if what they had exchanged last night had been only a fleeting comfort between two people who were grieving and heartbroken.
Because part of him wanted it to be that and nothing more. He had become embroiled in a tempest—adding another strong emotion to the storm could be untenable.
He placed the note on a growing stack of papers needing his attention, then left the big cherry desk and walked to the window overlooking the gambling floor. A few people wandered through the great hall—mostly dealers or the women from the brothel side—all of them looking a little lost. While the floor was not normally busy this time of day, this quietness of a closed business compounded the grief that gripped them all. After visiting Lydia and her father, Robert had met with the entire staff to establish what would happen next. Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium would remain closed until after the funeral, which would be held later that evening at midnight. They were all welcome to attend. Tuesday would be a day of rest and mourning. The Emporium would reopen Tuesday evening at six.
When he had told them that he—still Robbie Green to all of them—would be taking charge until Bill’s estate was settled, there was an audible sigh of relief. This unspoken vote of confidence in him made his breath catch, and for several moments, he could not speak. When they realized how moved he was, they closed ranks even more, and Lucy said, “As long as you’re in charge, we know we’ll be all right.”
It made what he had to do even more of a challenge.
And he had to do it. His visit with the Duke of Makendon had been infinitely worse than that with his family. Lydia had threatened to swoon—what woman knows she’s going to swoon before she does it?—and the duke had shouted threats against him, his father, and the entire Kennet dynasty. After Robert explained the actions his father had taken—with which the duke heartily agreed—and set out the plans for divestiture, the duke had calmed down but insisted that Robert not see Lydia until those plans had come to fruition. Only then could they marry, and quietly, and they would be sent to live on the Makendon estate near the Scottish border, away from Society and any lingering sense of scandal.
Robert then realized that whatever it was the duke wanted from him and his family involved a great deal more value to the Makendon holdings than he had first thought. Otherwise, he would have been immediately jettisoned in favor of more suitable nobles. He stored that thought for examination later.
Robert also hoped that northern manor house had enough rooms to keep them apart—so that he and Lydia did not kill each other. But he could not tell a furious duke that the thought of being isolated with his daughter far from the city did not entice Robert to rush the divestiture of so much as one pub, much less an entity that had been his home, family—and life—for more than a decade.
A weight seemed to move across Robert’s shoulders and down his spine, and he leaned heavily against the window frame. How easy it would be to surrender. To embrace this life and walk away from Society, from the way he was raised.
But that would also mean giving up his real family for the rest of his life. To never see them again. And that he could not do. There had to be an answer, one that would allow him to continue being a part of both worlds. But if there was, he could not see it.
After the abhorrent visit with the Makendon clan, Robert had sought out his former landlord in Bloomsbury, grateful to discover he had an adequate set of rooms available, one floor below the ones where Robert had lived before returning to Ashton House earlier in the year. Robert had paid the man, unpacked his few belongings, and changed into a clean version of his familiar “Robbie Green” attire. Nora had agreed with him that to wear the green suit to the funeral would declare his leadership among Bill’s employees and friends, especially as he walked with her from the church to the cemetery.
Robert inhaled deeply, once again pushing away the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to remain upright and stolid for the next few hours. But inhaling so deeply meant a pungent scent caught his attention—the smell of beef, onions, and fresh bread. He turned to find Gilley standing in the doorway, holding a small basket and two tankards.
“Ophelia had one of the pubs bake up meat pies for everyone. Thought ya might like one or two.”
“You would be right. I’m starved. I have not eaten all day.” He went over and cleared a space on the desk, and Gilley set down the basket and the tankards. “Join me?” Robert asked. “Looks like there are plenty of them.”
Gilley grunted in agreement, tugged one of the wingbacks closer, and grabbed a pie. “I had two downstairs. They’re really good.”
And they were. The first bite had Robert moaning with delight. The dough was crisp but pillowy, and the savory insides—beef, onions, pepper, and bits of potatoes—thrilled his taste buds as much as any delicacy from a Mayfair table. He took a swig of ale, the light but bitter brew the perfect accompaniment to the pie. He ate more than half the pie with no other sound but a low grunt of contentment, the food and drink warming his body and soothing his soul. He let out a deep breath and his shoulders sagged a bit, the comfort bringing home exactly how exhausted he was.
“Ya ain’t slept either?” Gilley gave him the side eye as he chewed.
“I look that bad?”
“Ya look like the devil’s own alley cat spewed ya up.”
“Damn. And here I thought I looked perky as a May morning.”
Gilley snorted, then took another bite, watching Robert closely. “When ya gonna tell ’em?”
Robert finished his pie and reached for another. He took two bites before answering. “That I am the one who will inherit the business?” Gilley did not know Robbie Green’s real identity, but he had known that Bill’s floor manager had bought into the businesses and was in the will.
“Yeah.” Gilley drained his tankard and set it aside. “Most of ’em assume Nora will, and that some rotter is gonna swoop in and take it from her by hook or crook. Ya know most of ’em got nowhere else to go.”
Robert took a deep draw on the ale. “I know.” He examined the last few bites of his pie as if it were the most fascinating object on earth. His mind flipped through a list of the people who not only worked at the emporium but also lived there. All the women on the brothel side—their rooms were also their homes, and the cluster of people who occupied them was their family. Even many of the hell’s dealers and runners lived on the premises in a maze of hallways and chambers Bill had built in what had once been an expansive warehouse complex. He had hired people from the rookeries and streets. Maids and guards as well as the dealers and doxies. A team of four young men whose sole job was to lower the eight massive chandeliers that lit the hall and replace the candles each day, then buy more for the next evening.
The mere idea of closing the emporium, of scattering those people back to the streets to struggle to find new jobs, new places to live, filled Robert with a dread he did not think he could face, no matter what it cost him. There had to be another way. But first, he had to be honest with them, starting with the big man sitting across from him.
He finished the pie, drained the tankard, and cleared his throat. “Um, Gilley.”
“Yeah?”
“There is something—”
A tap on the doorframe got their attention. Saunders, one of their regular boxing competitors, who also worked as a guard on the floor, stood just outside the door. “Sir?”
