Resigned, Ewan leaned against the doorjamb, where the footmen welcomed patrons and took their coats. Some of the patrons liked to talk. Ewan had found he was not required to answer.
“Not his heir or even the spare. I know those two well. You are the soldier. The third born—or is it the fourth? I know you have a sister.”
Ewan cut his eyes to the man, and then disguised his interest by focusing on one of the flickering candles in a chandelier over a table where a group played piquet.
“Well, no matter. I had heard you were strong. You fought with Lieutenant Colonel Draven in the war.”
Ewan kept his eyes on the candle. It was an ordinary candle, sputtering and fighting to stay lit. In this world, even a candle fought for light, resisted being snuffed out.
“Now that I see you, I’m not surprised you survived,” the man said, continuing as though the two were having a conversation. “You are uncommonly strong. And you do not like to be called stupid.”
Ewan turned his head sharply toward the gentleman, who held up his hands. “For what it is worth, I do not think you stupid. No man with less than all his wits about him survived the war against Napoleon. In fact, I would like to hire you.”
Ewan narrowed his gaze, almost disappointed. It was not the first time he’d been propositioned. Men had tried to hire him to perform in entertainments or to box for them. Women wanted him for bedsport. Ewan liked his place at Langley’s just fine. He enjoyed the modest income his portion of the club afforded him and parted with very little of it to rent a room on the second floor. As his father would not deign to step foot in a gaming hell, Ewan need not trouble with unwanted visits from the earl or any other member of his family.
“I suppose this is not the place to discuss such matters,” the man said. “Would you come to my residence?” He removed a card from a silver case and passed it to Ewan.
Ewan barely glanced at it. The light in the vestibule was too dark to read anything anyway. He put the card in his pocket.
“Right. The day after tomorrow at ten in the morning then, if you are interested. It is honest work, and I will reward you handsomely. I will give you more details when you call.”
Ewan moved aside and the gentleman passed. A footman opened the door so the yellow lights and bright sounds of the gambling hell spilled into the dark street. When he was alone again, Ewan withdrew the card and moved into a rectangle of light.
“Rrr…iii…D,” he said slowly, staring at one of the words on the card. “Rid.” His head hurt as the letters moved and jumped. He stuffed the card back into his pocket and crossed his arms again.
When the last patron had left the tables and the sun was peeking over the horizon, Ewan did one last turn about the club. Maids swept and dusted. Sweet girls, most of them smiled at him when he passed. Ewan headed to the kitchen. Another perquisite of living here was the food. For as long as he could remember, he’d always had a voracious appetite.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Watkins had a plate ready for him, the mountain of food buried under a thick slab of buttered bread. “Now, Mr. Mostyn,” she said, wiping her red hands on her apron. “You sit down right here. I have some nice potatoes and a stew.”
The kitchen was comfortable and inviting, and Ewan sat, feeling the chair creak under his weight. He drank deeply from the ale in the glass before him, but he did not shovel food into his mouth as he usually did. Instead, he reached into his pocket and laid the card on the table. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.
The cook frowned at it and picked it up. Her kitchen maid, a mousy girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, glanced his way timidly, then continued scrubbing the pots. The cook held the card close to her round face, red and glistening from the heat. “It’s the card of the Duke of Ridlington.” She put a hand to her heart. Then she laid the card on the table again and pointed to the words. “See, it says ‘His Grace, the Duke of Ridlington.’”
Ewan nodded slowly. He was surprised a duke wanted his services. This was no mere request for an exhibition of strength then. It might be legitimate work. Ewan pointed to the other words on the card.
The cook turned the card and peered at it. “That’s his house: 2 Berkeley Square.”
“Thank you.” Mildly intrigued, Ewan lifted the card and stuffed it back in his pocket. Now he dug into his dinner. His mother would have fainted if she had seen him eating thus. But his mother was dead, and Mrs. Watkins only cared if he enjoyed her food, not if he used the correct fork or a napkin to dab his mouth.
“I wonder why the Duke of Ridlington gave you that card,” the cook said, wiping the table where he sat, although it was already clean. “I think he hopes to steal you away.”
Ewan wondered the same, but he didn’t want to show his interest. He lifted one shoulder, then ate another helping of potatoes.
“Seems like you could do better than this.” She gestured to the kitchens, which were as nice as any Ewan had seen. “Surely your own father could find a place for you.”
And this was why Ewan hadn’t wanted to show interest. He didn’t always like where such conversations led. Talk of Ewan’s father soured his stomach. As the third-born son, he was expected either to become a soldier or enter the clergy. Ewan had done his part for his country. After Napoleon was defeated, Ewan had sold his captain’s commission and left without a backward glance. His father had probably wished he’d died in the war, but Ewan had lived. Now, no one and nothing could ever force him to join the army again.
As for the clergy, that prospect was laughable. Ewan couldn’t even read the Bible, much less stand up every Sunday and drone on about it. If God had wanted Ewan to enter the church, He shouldn’t have made him such a lackwit.
No, Ewan liked working at Langley’s just fine. Ewan had the money he had made from his days in the army and the sale of his commission, but a little more never hurt and it gave him something to do. He didn’t exactly belong, but then he’d always been a misfit. He didn’t belong anywhere—anywhere but the Draven Club.
Ewan shoved the last bite into his mouth, nodded at Mrs. Watkins, and carried the plate to the kitchen maid so she could wash it. Then, ducking his head so he wouldn’t bang it on the low lintel, he left the kitchen and made his way through the club’s back rooms, with their gilded mirrors, mahogany tables, and red velvet chairs and couches. His mother would have called it garish, but Ewan rather liked it. After ensuring all was as it should be, Ewan climbed the stairs to his room. Using the small key, he opened the door and stepped inside, locking the door after him.