With perfect timing, which he had to stifle the urge to cheer at, another precarious piece of plaster chose that exact moment to crash to the floor beside its twin, causing Mallory’s eyes to widen.
“I shall pay him triple, Mr. Sinclair—and will begin the rapidest of processes this very morning.” Eager to get going and get those papers drawn before the rest of the walls collapsed and his shady associates murdered him, Mallory pulled up the collar of his coat and strode toward the door. Once outside, he used an enormous rusty key to lock the building, then pocketed it before he shook Gal’s hand again. “I shan’t keep you, Mr. Sinclair, as I’m sure a busy man like yourself has better things to do this dour Tuesday morning than freezing to death.” He gestured to the icy street and the filthy piles of slush clogging the gutters. “It’s cold enough to freeze your knackers off.”
Mallory scurried off to his carriage without offering him a ride back to Mayfair, no doubt already mentally divvying his windfall among his many creditors, leaving Gal standing on the steps of what he hoped would one day soon be London’s biggest and brightest gaming club.
Cold enough to freeze your knackers off.
Another quirky new British saying to add to his ever-increasing lexicon of conversational oddities. Four years on since he’d crossed the Atlantic and still half the things that came out of his new countrymen’s mouths both baffled and amused him. So many he collected them like curios to ponder when the mood struck, or practice when the moment called for it. People liked people like them, after all, and sometimes it paid to blend in as much as it often paid to stand out.
Besides, for better or for worse, London was home now. There was nothing left for him across the ocean except memories, and he had brought all of those with him—the good and the bad. The family business was gone. The family house he had spent his childhood in was long gone, too, and the only blood tie he had left was to his cousin Giles who was born and bred here. That had been as good a reason as any to put down roots in this strange land when he’d had nowhere and nobodyelse to anchor him to a place, and he still didn’t regret it even if he was certain he would never fully fit in here.
But such was life and his, all things considered, was currently very good indeed.
He had enough money saved in the bank for this venture, he had a head full of plans he’d tinkered with for a decade, and now, apparently, he finally owned the property to carry them all out in. Best of all, there wasn’t a single fly to be seen anywhere to sully his ointment.
Grinning, he wandered down to the street to survey his new empire properly and metaphorically patted himself on the back as he did so. It might well clear him out of every cent of his hard-earned savings, but this was an excellent location on the busy thoroughfare of Long Acre, blessed with more passing trade than he had ever envisioned. The first of his three identical new buildings on the end of the row of terraced town houses sat on the corner of Mercer Street, which would be the ideal place to have the entrance because the comings and goings of his boisterous clientele would affect none of his neighbors.
It was close enough to the Rookery of St. Giles to be disreputable without being dangerous, and near enough to Drury Lane to draw the respectable theater crowd, who did not know it yet but would be his bread and butter.
He measured out the entire breadth then length of his three properties using strides that were as close to a yard as he could get them, then did a pleasing calculation in his head confirming that he had twice as much floor space as he had originally envisioned. Which meant this place had the potential to earn him twice as much money as he had hoped, allowing him to swiftly refill the hole in his bank balance. So all in all it was perfect.
More than perfect.
Utterly perfect in fact.
After four solid years of relentless work near the bottom of the ladder he was going to climb up the damn thing, and he intended to do it in style. If there was a drawback to his purchase, or an annoyinglittle catch somewhere beyond the enormous cost, he certainly couldn’t see it.
He spun a slow circle on the boundary of the third and final house, noticing that it sat beside a fourth that occupied another corner, so he took a moment to contemplate that, too.
Although clearly occupied, this identical building wasn’t in a better state than the three of his. The window frames were rotted in places where they hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. Like asymmetrical freckles on a face, many of the rectangular leaded panes within them were boarded where the glass was missing. Those mismatched splats of wood announced to the world that the owner had to count his pennies. The misaligned front door had seen better days, as had its dull brass work and dirty façade. A quick scan of the roof showed tiles to be missing and broken pots on the chimney. The more he looked, the more he saw there was an air of dilapidation about it hinting that the owner was really struggling with the place.
That made the cogs of his resourceful mind turn some more. There was another potential opportunity here—he could smell it. Not now, perhaps, as he didn’t have the ready funds for another building yet—but in a year or two, when his coffers were replenished, this would be another sound investment to make an offer on. To own the whole block would be magnificent. The possibilities…
A carriage pulled up alongside, distracting him from his thoughts. One he recognized only too well. The door opened and a certain someone emerged, clutching one of the ever-present books she carried and the smallest, silliest little reticule he had ever seen. A bag that would barely hold a few coins, let alone anything useful, and which was completely at odds with her practical, no-nonsense character.
Just one glance his way was enough to make her simultaneously purse her plump lips and look down her nose as she inclined her head in disapproving greeting, hugging the book to her middle like a shield. “Galahad Sinclair. What on earth are you doing in Covent Garden this early in the day? Or should I not ask becausethisis Covent Gardenand you are… well…you?” Never had one insignificant three-letter word been filled with such unsavory implication.
She was always testy with him. Always had been in the entire four years he had known her. For all that time, he had walked on eggshells around her. Never quite feeling comfortable in her presence despite her sister being married to his cousin Giles and their colliding infrequently as a result. They had never taken to each other. Always tacitly avoided much in the way of interaction. Even when they had both been made godparents to little Giselle—Giles and Diana’s cute-as-a-button daughter—they had maintained a wary six feet of distance while standing at the christening font.
He blamed the way they had met, which to be fair to the both of them had been the most unconventional meeting of two people possible. One minute he had been snooping around his cousin’s moonlit grounds waving a lamp, pretending to be the dumbest intruder who ever walked God’s earth. The next flat on his back in the mud after being floored by a raving banshee in a nightgown screaming blue murder in the loyal defense of her family.
He didn’t mind admitting she had scared the bejesus out of him that night. Still left him unsettled, truth be told, although hell would have to freeze over before he ever admitted that aloud, so he doffed his hat with the lazy smile that was guaranteed to vex her.
“Why, if it isn’t the celestial Miss Venus.”
Instantly she bristled, because she hated her name. Gal sympathized, because he had been saddled with a dreadful one himself. Yet while everyone else called her Vee, he couldn’t bring himself to. Only part of that was because he rather enjoyed the way her big blue eyes shimmered with indignation behind the lenses of her spectacles each time he used it. The rest was because he couldn’t help thinking the improper name suited her.
She certainly had the dangerous curves of a Venus. The riot of copper-gold curls, which she worked tirelessly but futilely to tame, were reminiscent of all those shameless Renaissance Venuses whocavorted naked in oil paints and hung in fancy galleries. Or like that enormous, saucy seven-foot bare-breasted Roman statue of Venus they had in the British Museum. The one that made all the ladies blush at her brazenness, because the seductive look in her marble eyes declared that she was in the midst of getting undressed for something sinful. Meanwhile, all the visiting men ogled that giant Venus in masculine appreciation. All seduced by the look in the earthy statue’s eyes and wondering, as they gazed at the garments hanging from her generous hips, what an unbridled night tangled between the sheets with the official goddess of love might be like. These were all improper and carnal ideas, which the prim Miss Venus Merriwell undoubtedly hated more than her unfortunate name, because they undoubtedly gave those same gentlemen ideas about her, too.
She was unaware that her eyeglasses and demure clothes only added to her allure. Because most hot-blooded men, Gal included, couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath them. Especially as her lush figure filled those plain garments so well. “What are you reading this time?” He tilted to read the title even though he had already done so.
“Much Ado About Nothing. It’s my favorite book—well, it’s technically a play really—because it has absolutely everything a good story needs. Great characters, intrigue, skulduggery, comedy, and romance.” Her eyes sparkled as she stroked the well-thumbed volume like an old friend. “My sister Minerva and her husband, Hugh, had the entire works of Shakespeare leather-bound for me for my twenty-first birthday.” A day he had been present for, albeit reluctantly, so he remembered her squeal of delight when she had opened their gift. “But this volume is special. I fell in love with it at fourteen and I’ve re-read it at least once every year since.”
“Shakespeare?” Sometimes he knew exactly what levers to pull to irritate her. “Never heard of him. Is he new?”
“If you consider two hundred years oldnew.” Her expression told him she thought him an idiot. She had always thought him an idiot. Not that he had ever really tried to convince her otherwise, as it workedso well in repelling her. “Surely you have heard of the Bard in America? Shakespeare is the father of English literature. His plays are constantly performed in the theaters.Hamletis running in Drury Lane as we speak.” When he blinked back vacantly, her voice rose an octave, and the curls poking out of her bonnet bounced as she waved her free hand about. “He also wroteA Midsummer Night’s DreamandHenry the Fifthas well as over a hundred famed sonnets. Youmustknow Shakespeare.”
Gal frowned as if he hadn’t the faintest clue. “Sounds too fancy for my tastes. A fella who writes sonnets sounds a bit too dry and… boring to interest me.” That comment made her big blue eyes shimmer with so much indignation, Gal had to stifle a smile. “But I’m always happy to learn something new, so tell me what your dull ol’ book is about.”
