Page 43 of How to Best a Marquess

She felt deflated, a deep, unaccustomed ache in her chest. How could she avoid him, then feel hurt when she discovered he was doing the same?

Her tumultuous thoughts raced. Did he regret what he’d told her in the gardens? Perhaps she wasn’t the only woman on his mind? Ellie had claimed a headache and had left the Lady Emberly’s home soon after. Had Hugh remained to flirt with his many female admirers, or heaven help her, Lady Fabry?

Ugh.

At least the women’s gambling room was near complete. The room had been painted an inviting pale gold, and the gambling tables had arrived. Faro, hazard, and whist tables were now arranged alongside the roulette table. She’d selected croupiers and staff and picked out different liveried uniforms for them to wear to set them apart from the workers in the main casino. A blue dress with silver trim for the female servants and a blue coat and striped waistcoat for the male servants to match the blue silk curtains. Despite what she’d told Hugh, they weren’t all men.

It had been a week since the harrowing incident with Baron Willoughby. She hadn’t heard a word from Violet Lasher, but for the first time, Ellie wasn’t worried. Olivia had visited Lady Willoughby twice and had reported that the baron had kept his distance from his wife.

Perhaps one good thing had resulted from the Marquess of Deveril coming back into her life.

A low knock on the office door drew her attention. “Yes?”

The door opened and Brooks stepped inside, his large frame blocking the doorway. He held a letter in his hand. “This just arrived for you, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

He hesitated after handing the letter to her, shifting from foot to foot in apparent unease, and she looked up. “Is there something else?”

His square jaw tightened, and darkness clouded his eyes. “I never told you, but I’m sorry I was not here the other night.”

She didn’t ask. She knew which evening he was referring to. No doubt, if Brooks were guarding the door of the Raven Club a week ago, he could have easily handled the unruly baron. “It was your evening to yourself. You could not have known that Baron Willoughby would appear in such a state.”

“Still. I’m glad Deveril was here in my stead.”

Must everyone champion Hugh? First Grace, now Brooks. Ellie tried to disguise her annoyance and cleared her throat. She needed to look at things from Brooks’s point of view. He was right, of course. Deveril had taken care of matters that evening and had handled the unruly, intoxicated baron. But must Hugh continue to win over those closest to her? Was Olivia next?

She waited until Brooks closed the door behind him and she was alone before opening the letter. The flowery script was unique and recognizable. Violet Lasher had finally written.

Our plans have changed. Meet this afternoon at the tobacconists, Fribourg & Treyer’s.

Ellie pinched the foolscap between her thumb and forefinger. What could have changed? Was another lady in need of assistance?

It was possible. Violet’s position ensured she had secret knowledge of the aristocracy that Ellie could never dream of obtaining.

Ellie folded the letter and slipped it into her dress pocket. They had never met in such a public place. It must be important for Violet to pick such a location. Moments later, Ellie left the club, walked to the end of the street, and hailed a hackney.

Fribourg & Treyer’s tobacconists was located in a busy section of Piccadilly. Men and women strode down the street and in and out of neighboring shops. Ellie couldn’t fathom why Violet had picked this location at this time of day. Surely, they would be seen. Even if Violet appeared in her carriage with the shades drawn, there was risk.

The courtesan’s news must be urgent. Had something happened to Samantha Willoughby? Or was there another woman in dire need? Feeling a sickening sense of dread to come, Ellie approached the tobacconist shop. The little bell above the door chimed as she opened and closed the door to a gust of wind and stepped inside. A shopkeeper was assisting a middle-aged couple as the man perused a table of snuff.

Ellie feigned interest in the wares displayed on a table across the room where dozens of varieties and flavors of snuff were displayed. She overheard the shopkeeper talking about the different types of snuff—from texture to color to scent. She opened several tins, and the pleasant fragrances of honey, vanilla, apricot, cinnamon, and Attar of Roses teased her senses.

Ian had an intricate gold snuffbox with a hidden compartment that displayed a miniature portrait of Grace. He rarely used snuff, but she knew he occasionally indulged. She randomly selected one tin of snuff scented with orange and decided to gift it to him.

Once again, the shop’s bells chimed, and Violet Lasher walked inside. Dressed in a blue dress that enhanced the vivid blue of her eyes, she was striking. Her blond hair was upswept into a mass of curls that appeared somewhat haphazard but artfully arranged at the same time. Her breasts swelled from her tight bodice. All eyes turned to her—the clerk’s and his customers’. The husband gaped, and his wife scowled, then slapped him on his arm.

How on earth was Ellie to speak with the courtesan unnoticed?

But Violet was as shrewd as she was stunning. She approached Ellie’s table and randomly picked up a tin of snuff without ever making eye contact with her. If anyone looked, it appeared as if they did not know each other.

“Baron Willoughby found his wife’s mask,” Violet said as she sniffed a tin of camphor-scented snuff.

Ellie froze, then lowered her voice to a mere whisper. “The mask she wore to the Raven Club?”

“Yes. He knows she was there. She does not have much time.”

A stab of fear centered in Ellie’s chest, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, Violet was still watching her. “Good God. What do we do?”