The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(8)
Seeing the suspicious glance Grier shot at Fanny—and the hostile one she returned—Andrew stifled a sigh. For some reason, the factotum and bawd had locked horns from the day they met. Neither trusted the other, and both made sure their employer was aware of that fact.
“Time for the walk through, is it?” Andrew said.
Grier shifted his gaze from Fanny, whom he’d been watching the way a constable does a known thief. He bowed his grizzled head. “Yes, sir. Doors’ll be openin’ in less than an hour.”
It was Andrew’s custom to do a daily inspection of the club prior to opening. He would trust Grier with his life—indeed, he had once, which was why he was still breathing today. Nevertheless, he preferred to do a final check of the club himself.
Details were everything; he’d built Corbett’s on that precept.
“Anything else to report?” he said to Fanny.
She’d already risen and was pulling on her gloves. Finger by finger, with a deliberateness that boded trouble.
“There is a list of extra expenses for the Nursery House that requires your approval… just a few items to make the girls more comfortable. Why, Grier,” she said when the factotum (predictably) made a choked sound, “got something stuck in your craw?”
Her feigned innocence didn’t fool anyone in the room. Seeing that Grier looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit, Andrew said sharply, “Send the list by. Good day, Fanny.”
The bawd departed the room in a satisfied swish of grey skirts.
The moment the door closed behind her, Grier exploded.
“Extra expenses? Making the girls more comfortable?” The brawny Scot boomed in outrage. “Does that bluidy woman no’ understand that you’re already payin’ too high a price for this venture—that ’tis your damned neck you’re riskin’?”
As this was not a new argument, Andrew said mildly, “The idea for the Nursery House was not Mrs. Argent’s but mine. She’s just assisting me with the details.”
“She’s assisting all right—the way Eve did Adam,” Grier said darkly. “With help like that, who needs enemies? And you with more than your share o’ rivals already, and none o’ them fond o’ your latest venture. Trouble’s brewin’, mark my words.”
Not the best news but also not unexpected.
“Let’s talk whilst we make our rounds,” Andrew said.
He and Grier headed to the front of the club. When he’d built Corbett’s, he’d had passageways installed behind the walls, one running parallel to this hallway. It allowed him to keep an eye on everything that happened under his roof. Here, he was king of all he surveyed, and he never took that power for granted. Never forgot that he’d built this place out of nothing, that his blood and sweat soaked each brick and stone.
From the beginning, he’d known that quality attracted quality. Everything at Corbett’s was first-rate, from the wenches to the food, gaming, and other entertainments. A gentleman who was allowed the privilege of a membership would find himself as much at home here as he would at Brooks’s or White’s—only it would cost him three times as much.
The waiting period for membership was now over a year long.
Andrew began his inspection in the foyer, a grand space that soared four stories high and ended with a stained glass dome depicting Aphrodite rising from the sea. A double-winged mahogany stairwell led to the floors above. Polished marble gleamed under his boots as he walked, Grier still ranting about the dangers of antagonizing the competition.
As if, Andrew thought wryly, the bastards weren’t in a constant state of warfare.
Whoremongering was a dog-eat-dog business and not for the faint of heart.
“The situation is nothing new,” he said as they moved into one of the card rooms. Seeing a stain on the buffet table linens, he waved over a liveried footman who stammered an apology and hurriedly set about changing it. “I don’t tell the others how to run their business, and I sure as bloody hell won’t allow them to tell me how to run mine.”
“But how you’re going about things impacts their profits.” Grier dogged his heels as he headed into the adjoining chamber.
Outfitted with rosewood furnishings and Aubusson carpets, the high-ceilinged drawing room could have belonged in any grand Mayfair mansion and served as a place for clients to mingle with the wenches before selecting their partner—or partners—for the eve. From here, guests ascended to one of the upper floors, where private chambers boasted a number of exotic themes. For those willing to spend the extra coin, a custom room could be made up to fulfill the customer’s wildest desires.
From a dungeon to a barn to a Sultan’s seraglio, Corbett’s offered up fantasies at their finest.
“The bastards were already up in arms ’bout the ’igh pay o’ our wenches,” the factotum insisted, “and don’t get me started ’bout the bleedin’ French letters. They blame ye for makin’ the whores uppity and too expensive to ’ire. They’re lookin’ for any excuse to tear ye down—and you’re ’andin’ it to ’em on a silver platter with that bleedin’ nursery.”
“How I treat my employees is my prerogative,” Andrew said shortly.
“Well keepin’ ye alive is mine, and you’re not makin’ it easy.”