Where Dreams Begin(50)

Maude gazed at him speculatively. “Yes, sir,” she said after a moment, “I believe I do know that.”

The maid's remark caused Zachary to wonder uncomfortably if his feelings for Holly were becoming that obvious. Dammit, he thought savagely, and brushed past her as he strode away, overwhelmed by the need to escape.

Nine

There were clubs in London to suit any interest…clubs for gentlemen who were avid sportsmen, politicians, philosophers, drinkers, gamblers or skirt-chasers. There were clubs for the rich, the newly arrived, the intelligent, or the well-born. Zachary had been invited to join innumerable clubs that welcomed professional gentlemen, including highly successful merchants, barristers and entrepreneurs. However, he did not want to belong to one of those. He wanted to join a club that had no desire to accept him, a club that was so exclusive and aristocratic that members were allowed only if their grandfathers had once been admitted. Marlow's was the goal he had finally settled on.

At Marlow's a man had only to snap his fingers for something—a drink, a dish of caviar, a woman—and it was brought to him with discreet alacrity. Always the bestquality goods, in the finest surroundings, with never a mention of a man's preferences made to the outside world. The exterior of the club was unremarkable. It was located near the end of St. James's Street, one of a long line of gentlemen's retreats. The white stone and stucco facade was classical in design, pedimented and symmetrical and far from imposing. However, the interior was solidly, expensively English, every wall and ceiling covered in freshly rubbed mahogany, the floors plushly carpeted with a pattern of large octagons of crimson and brown. The leather furniture was heavy and sturdy, and the richly subdued light was spread by wrought-iron lamps and sconces. It had been designed to make a man feel comfortable, with nary a flower or frieze to be seen.

Marlow's was the Olympus of clubs, with some families applying for generation after generation without success. It had taken Zachary three years to gain entrance. With his signature mixture of financial extortion, bribery and behind-the-scenes manipulations, he had managed to get himself admitted, not as a member, but as a permanent “guest” who might come and go whenever he pleased. There were too many aristocrats whose business affairs were entwined with his, men who would lose their fortunes if he began to play with market forces. He had also bought up the debts of a few foolhardy lords, and he had not hesitated to hold those debts over their heads like a whip.

Zachary had enjoyed presenting key members of Marlow's with the choice of losing everything or allowing a mongrel such as himself to patronize the club. Most of them had unwillingly voted to allow him guest status, but there was no mistaking their keen collective desire to be rid of him. He didn't care. He took perverse enjoyment in relaxing in one of the deep leather armchairs and rustling a newspaper before him as the other men did, and warming his feet at the great stone fireplace.

Tonight Zachary especially enjoyed inflicting his presence on the club. Even George Taylor wouldn't have been welcome here, he thought darkly. In fact, the Taylors had probably never thought to apply for Marlow's. Their blood, though blue, wasn't quite blue enough, and God knew they hadn't the money. But Zachary had managed it, even if he was only a “permanent guest” and not quite a member. And now that he had forcibly wedged himself into the upper strata of society, he had made it just a little easier for the next fellow to climb the ladder after him. It was what the aristocrats feared most, that their ranks would be invaded by arrivistes, that their fine lineages would someday no longer be enough to distinguish them.

As Zachary sat before the fireplace and moodily contemplated the dancing flames, a wolf pack of three young men approached him, two seating themselves in nearby chairs, one standing in an insolent posture with one hand braced on his hip. Zachary glanced at the one who stood next to him and suppressed a contemptuous sneer. The earl of Warrington was a self-important ass who hadn't much to recommend him except a distinguished lineage. Upon the recent death of his father, Warrington had inherited a fine title and name, two handsome estates and a mountain of debt, much of it incurred by his own youthful follies. Evidently the old earl had found it difficult to curtail his son's wild spending, much of it done to impress companions that were hardly worth the effort. Now the young Warrington had surrounded himself with friends who fawned and flatered him constantly, thereby increasing his sense of superiority.

“Warrington,” Zachary muttered, barely inclining his head. He acknowledged the other two, Turner and Enfield, without enthusiasm.

“Bronson,” the young earl said with deceptive friendliness, “what a pleasant surprise to find you here.” Warrington was a large, well-built man with a long, narrow face—clearly an aristocratic face, if not exactly a handsome one. He stood and moved with the physical confidence of a man who was proficient in athletics and sporting. “The club has not been graced with your presence for many weeks now,” he continued. “One assumes you have been kept very busy with the new, er…circumstances in your home.”

“To what circumstances are you referring?” Zachary asked softly, although he knew exactly in what direction the conversation was heading.

“Why, everyone in London knows of your new chère amie, the exquisite Lady Holland. May I compliment you on your remarkable—and rather surprising—show of good taste. Congratulations, my fortunate fellow.”