Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(18)



Monsieur Labarge was temperamental, but he was a genius. As far as Sara could tell, even Mr. Craven took care not to provoke him. Guessing at the chef’s weakness for flattery, Sara made a special effort to praise his creations, until the ends of his mustache fairly quivered with pride. Now he insisted on serving her his specialties, many of them renamed in honor of Mathilda.

The kitchen was filled with constant activity; boys and scullery maids occupied with menial tasks of washing, chopping, scraping, and kneading, and servants laden with trays of food for the diners. The staff readily included Sara in their conversations as they related stories that ranged from ribald to touchingly sad. They loved to talk and watch her write down what they said. Soon they began to compete to catch her interest. The prostitutes were especially helpful, giving Sara insights about the men who visited the club in droves…and about Derek Craven in particular. Sara particularly enjoyed Tabitha’s lively chatter. Although they were quite different in temperament, outwardly they shared a striking resemblance, both of them the same size and height, with chestnut hair and blue eyes.

“I’ll tell ye about the fine lords what come ’ere,” Tabitha said, her blue eyes filled with a sly twinkle. “They likes the ruttin’ awright, but they’re the worst in the sack. Two shakes of a tail an’ it’s done.” The other house wenches laughed in agreement. The four of them gathered around Sara at one of the wooden tables, while kitchen boys brought plates of delicate omelettes à la Mathilda and crusty rolls. “That an’ the fine victuals…that’s what draws ’em ’ere. But the cards is what makes ’em stay.”

“How many men are you expected to consort with each night?” Sara asked in a businesslike tone, her pencil poised over her notebook.

“Whatewer we feels like. Sometimes we lets ’em ’ave a tiddle downstairs in the card rooms, an’ then—”

“Tiddle?” Sara repeated, perplexed, and the prostitutes burst out laughing.

“Just a little touch an’ feel,” explained Violet, a short, robust blond. “An’ if they like the goods, the usher takes ’em upstairs an’ we does ’em over.”

“Newer Mr. Craven, though,” Tabitha said. “ ’E newer asks any ow us to ’is bed.”

“ ’E gets it from ’igh-kick women,” Violet commented sagely. “Countesses an’ duchesses an’ such.”

At this mention of Mr. Craven’s sexual preferences, Sara felt her blush heighten to scarlet. The more she learned about him, the more of a puzzle he presented. His inner qualities were concealed by a smooth diamond-hard façade. He was a showman, first and foremost. Skillfully he provided a surfeit of elegant decadence that satisfied not only the aristocratic belle monde but also the shadowy world of libertines and courtesans called the demimonde. His courtesy to his social superiors was always slightly overdone, crossing the threshold of politeness into subtle mockery. Sara was certain he respected very few of them, for he was familiar with their darkest secrets. Through his own network of spies and informants, he knew about the lovers they took, the contents of their wills, even the marks their sons made at Eton and Harrow, and what they stood to inherit.

It seemed that few men felt comfortable enough to ask about the dreadful slash on his face. Members of the royal family; Wellington, the famed military commander; and the foreign diplomats who loved to lounge at the hazard-table all possessed an air of quiet unease when Craven was present. When he made a joke, they laughed a little too jovially. When he made a suggestion, it was usually followed with alacrity. Apparently no one cared to risk earning his displeasure.

As Craven had claimed the first night she had met him, he was never angry. Sara had observed that his mood could range from cold silence to biting sarcasm, but he never shouted or lost his self-control. He was a figure of mystery; arrogant, self-mocking, sociable and yet intensely private. Underneath his most congenial smiles lurked an ever-present shadow of bitterness.

Sara’s attention was drawn back to the conversation as Tabitha mused aloud over Craven’s preference for aristocratic ladies. “Won’t touch anyone lower than a baroness.” She laughed heartily at the sight of Sara’s curiosity. “Ye should see ’em at the assembly balls, the ’ighborn bitches. Those fine ladies lust after our Mr. Craven, they do. An’ why not? ’E’s a good, solid man, not like their soft, lazy ’usbands what cares for cards an’ drink more than women.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Built like a bull ’e is, an’ just where it counts.”

“ ’Ow does ye know?” Violet asked suspiciously.

“I’m friends wiv Lady Fair’urst’s maid Betty,” came Tabitha’s smug reply. “She told me once she walked in on the two of ’em by accident, ruttin’ in broad daylight while Lord Fair’urst was gone to Shropshire.”

The pencil dropped from Sara’s lax fingers, and she ducked under the table to pick it up. She could feel her pulse racing. It was one thing to listen in detachment when a stranger was being discussed, but how could she ever face Mr. Craven again? Mortified, fascinated, she emerged from beneath the table.

“Newer say!” one of the women exclaimed. “What did they do?”

“Lady Fair’urst threw a royal fit. Mr. Craven just laughed an’ said to close the door.”

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