“A private club within a club. That’s different. Sinclair’s most definitely will be unique.”
“I’m not calling it Sinclair’s. I know it’s my name and I know that’s how you name clubs here, but it doesn’t feel right.”
“Then what are you going to call it?”
He shrugged. “I still have no idea. It can’t have a tavern’s name as it’s going to be more than a tavern, and I don’t want it to sound like a crusty, aristocratic gentleman’s club because it won’t be one of those, either.”
“Especially if you come good on your promise to allow women.” That, she had to concede, would be novel.
“Of course I’m going to allow women. I want this to be a place where all those stupid divisions in society don’t matter. Where a duchess can rub shoulders with a docker and a marquess can lose his shirt to a modiste, where everyone is equal…” Conscious he was getting carried away again, he chuckled. “Or does that sound too American and revolutionary to your British ears?”
“It sounds positively Arthurian actually, as that was exactly how he ran Camelot.” Out of nowhere, an idea popped into her head. “What about The Round Table? The original Galahad was one of King Arthur’s knights, after all, so there’s a tenuous link to you, too.”
“The Round Table…” He pondered her suggestion with genuine interest. Or at least he did a good job of acting interested. “That might work. It’s certainly a much better idea than The Powder Puff.”
As that reminded Vee of her scandalous behavior over the card table, she changed the subject. “And the fourth floor?”
“Is all mine.” Like an excited little boy, he dashed back to the narrow stairwell that Tommy had disappeared up. “With the roof in such a state it needed immediate replacing, it made sense to have Mr. Evans work from the top down, so most of the progress so far is in my apartment.” The rickety old stairs creaked in protest under the weight of his boots as he hurried up them, expecting her to follow, which she did irrespective of the impropriety of an unaccompanied single lady technically visiting the home of a bachelor. Albeit a partially constructed home and her fitting only the loosest possible definition of a lady. It was difficult to see anything on the dark second and third floors beyond the piles of rubble ready to be removed, but the attic floor was a very different story. That had been gutted. All the old roof struts had been replaced and the high, angular eaves were already boarded awaitingplaster. The old plaster on the outside walls had been stripped back to the brick. As they had downstairs, the original walls between the three buildings had been taken down, but instead of leaving one huge open space, on this floor it had been partitioned with naked wooden batons marking out the new layout of the rooms.
Only one had been boarded toward the orphanage end. In the center of that new wall hung a door. The young oak was bare still, and unvarnished, furnished with a sedate but shiny brass doorknob so polished Vee could see her own face in it. As there was no sign of Galahad’s new bed, she presumed beyond the solitary door was his bedchamber. Being so close to his sheets was unnerving.
“What do you think, Miss Merriwell?” A grinning Tommy moved to stand beside her while she took it all in. “It’s going to be right smart, isn’t it?”
“It certainly looks that way.” She gave a smile to the boy and then to Galahad, forcing it not to falter. “But it’s a bit spartan right now. When do you plan to move in?”
“I sort of already did. Two days ago, in fact. My tenancy at the Albany comes to an end on New Year’s Eve, so I’m slowly migrating all my belongings over.” He shrugged despite being obviously delighted by that. “For the first time in my life, I’m sleeping under my own roof and in my own bed and not somebody else’s. As to it being spartan, I’m going to have to disagree with you. Look, Venus—” Amused, he pointed to a small cluster of furniture entirely lost in the middle of the cavernous space. “Aside from a bed and a huge new closet, I’ve also got this desk and a chair. What else does a man need?”
Both pieces were made of the same shade of oak as the door. The green leather top of the desk and on the seat pad of the chair were incongruous amid the still-drying pink plaster on the outer walls and the skeleton wooden frames dotted all around them. “Food? Water? Something to put them in?”
“If that’s a hint you want tea, then I have to tell you this is going to be a coffee-only household because I hate the stuff.” He even pulled agagging face that made her laugh. “I have no clue why the British put so much stock in it. It’s vile. Viler than vile. The worst drink ever invented.”
She blinked, stunned. “Why, after four years of knowing you, is this the first I—or any other member of my family, for that matter—have heard about it?”
“Well… um…” The tips of his ears reddened, and she found that unintentional honest reaction rather… charming. Who knew that Galahad Sinclair—smooth, suave, sweet-talking, ruthless businessman Galahad Sinclair—had it in him to blush?
“You never turn down a cup, Galahad.Never.” Which struck her as ridiculous the more she thought about it. “I even know exactly how you take it. The merest drop of milk and two heaped sugars. Sometimes even three.”
He winced, sheepish. “The more it tastes of sugar, the less it tastes of tea.”
“Why on earth didn’t you say something sooner?”
“I didn’t want to seem impolite and… well, I’m the foreigner here and tea is your national drink, so I guess I always try my best to blend in.”
She scoffed in surprise. “You drink it to blend in?” He had clearly not been built for blending. If you lined up a hundred silent gentlemen in a row, he would stick out like a sore thumb, and that would have everything to do with his golden good looks and broad shoulders and not with his accent. Although to be fair, that accent and the silky deep tone it was drawled in guaranteed he would always be noticed the second he opened his charming mouth. By the ladies at least, herself included, as it was rather alluring. Combined with his obvious physical attributes, it was deadly. “Even though you loathe it?”
He nodded, plainly embarrassed. “My ma always said it was bad manners to refuse hospitality if it was offered, and in my defense, none of the family has ever offered me coffee as an alternative else I’d have taken it. Grabbed it with both hands actually, while weeping tears of joy that I was spared the hideous ordeal of tea.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Miss Merriwell?”
At Tommy’s question she glanced again around the empty space. “You have a kitchen and a range, too?”
“Not yet.” Tommy snorted as if she was daft. “Mrs. Witherspoon said that he can use the orphanage’s, but she makes it for Mr. Sinclair whenever he fancies one.”
“Does she indeed?”
As Mrs. Witherspoon had always had a soft spot for a charming man and had been quite beguiled by the one standing before her, she could well believe it. “Clearly more than this attic has changed in the days I have been absent. And talking about absent…” Vee searched around the space again. “Where is your brother? Isn’t he supposed to be Mr. Sinclair’s other indentured servant between the hours of six and eight? And Billy?”
“Oh, they’ll be back soon. They’re helping Muldoon with the beer delivery. Many hands make light work and all that, and without our help Muldoon has to keep going up and down like a bride’s nightgown.”
