Read Online The Lady Risks All by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Ads: Link
small units, they’d become a near invincible team. There was no one he trusted more than Jordan Draper.
After studying the accounts for another five minutes, he sat back. “Let’s have them up.” He looked at the footman standing beside the distant door. “Fetch Mr. Gelman and Miss Edger, Tomkins.”
The footman—rather larger and distinctly heavier than the general run of fashionable footmen—nodded and left on his errand.
He was back within minutes, ushering in a tall, aesthetic-looking man who, by his attire and manner, would easily pass for a gentleman, and a woman of middle height with lush black hair and strikingly pale skin, neatly turned out in a dark blue gown.
Both male and female paused some yards from the desk and inclined their heads. “Sir,” they said in unison.
Roscoe studied their faces, their eyes, then, slowly straightening from his elegant slouch, waved to the chairs before the desk. “Please be seated.”
His initial impression was that, as Jordan had said, the pair had buried their differences, but, given the root cause of those differences, he felt it prudent to reserve judgment. Jenny Edger was unquestionably the best piquet player he had on his books, other than himself. As such, she was best employed in the Pall Mall establishment, his club closest to the houses of the older aristocrats, who still preferred that particular game and were happy to wager large amounts on every point.
Jenny was an asset he intended to exploit to the full, but Gelman, who otherwise managed the subtleties of running the Pall Mall Club to his and Jordan’s complete satisfaction, had taken what, on the surface, appeared to be an instant and unreasoning dislike to Jenny, matched in virulence only by her apparently equally instant dislike of him.
Roscoe’s own assessment was that the pair should just sleep with each other and get it over with—or at least move on to whatever the next stage in their relationship might be—but meanwhile each too often provided the spark for the other’s tinder. Both were otherwise levelheaded and pragmatic, but put them together and drama and fireworks inevitably ensued. Last month, after being alerted to a near disaster on the floor of the club, Roscoe had called the pair before him and given them both a vicious dressing down.
By insisting on continuing to see them both together—holding them both responsible for the profitability of the club, which in fact was the case—he hoped to make each of them more aware of the other’s importance to him, as well as underscoring that their continuing employment hinged on them both performing to his satisfaction.
The meeting went well; by its end he was hopeful that the pair had at least accepted that they had to work together.
Satisfied for the moment, as Tomkins ushered Gelman and Jenny out, he turned to Jordan. “Who’s next?”
“The Tower.” Having closed and removed the ledgers of the Pall Mall Club, Jordan opened another set, laying them on the desk. “I think we need to take a closer look at the faro table. I’m not sure, but I think there’s something not quite right there.”
That was the sort of thing Roscoe would know; just by looking at the figures he could tell whether the variation in take was within reasonable limits, or . . .
Two minutes of looking and he grunted. “You’re right. Clapham’s the manager—is he here?”
“Yes. He’s waiting.”
“Good. Let’s have him up so we can ask him who he’s let loose on his faro table this month.”
T he rest of the day proved very much a case of business as usual. Of the four reviews he conducted—two clubs, one den, and one hell—the Pall Mall meeting was the least troublesome. He sent two of his men back with Clapham to the Tower Club to deal with the crooked faro dealer—to explain his transgressions and see him off the premises. The Tower had its own security staff, but his men were of a different caliber—the sort to instill fear into
After studying the accounts for another five minutes, he sat back. “Let’s have them up.” He looked at the footman standing beside the distant door. “Fetch Mr. Gelman and Miss Edger, Tomkins.”
The footman—rather larger and distinctly heavier than the general run of fashionable footmen—nodded and left on his errand.
He was back within minutes, ushering in a tall, aesthetic-looking man who, by his attire and manner, would easily pass for a gentleman, and a woman of middle height with lush black hair and strikingly pale skin, neatly turned out in a dark blue gown.
Both male and female paused some yards from the desk and inclined their heads. “Sir,” they said in unison.
Roscoe studied their faces, their eyes, then, slowly straightening from his elegant slouch, waved to the chairs before the desk. “Please be seated.”
His initial impression was that, as Jordan had said, the pair had buried their differences, but, given the root cause of those differences, he felt it prudent to reserve judgment. Jenny Edger was unquestionably the best piquet player he had on his books, other than himself. As such, she was best employed in the Pall Mall establishment, his club closest to the houses of the older aristocrats, who still preferred that particular game and were happy to wager large amounts on every point.
Jenny was an asset he intended to exploit to the full, but Gelman, who otherwise managed the subtleties of running the Pall Mall Club to his and Jordan’s complete satisfaction, had taken what, on the surface, appeared to be an instant and unreasoning dislike to Jenny, matched in virulence only by her apparently equally instant dislike of him.
Roscoe’s own assessment was that the pair should just sleep with each other and get it over with—or at least move on to whatever the next stage in their relationship might be—but meanwhile each too often provided the spark for the other’s tinder. Both were otherwise levelheaded and pragmatic, but put them together and drama and fireworks inevitably ensued. Last month, after being alerted to a near disaster on the floor of the club, Roscoe had called the pair before him and given them both a vicious dressing down.
By insisting on continuing to see them both together—holding them both responsible for the profitability of the club, which in fact was the case—he hoped to make each of them more aware of the other’s importance to him, as well as underscoring that their continuing employment hinged on them both performing to his satisfaction.
The meeting went well; by its end he was hopeful that the pair had at least accepted that they had to work together.
Satisfied for the moment, as Tomkins ushered Gelman and Jenny out, he turned to Jordan. “Who’s next?”
“The Tower.” Having closed and removed the ledgers of the Pall Mall Club, Jordan opened another set, laying them on the desk. “I think we need to take a closer look at the faro table. I’m not sure, but I think there’s something not quite right there.”
That was the sort of thing Roscoe would know; just by looking at the figures he could tell whether the variation in take was within reasonable limits, or . . .
Two minutes of looking and he grunted. “You’re right. Clapham’s the manager—is he here?”
“Yes. He’s waiting.”
“Good. Let’s have him up so we can ask him who he’s let loose on his faro table this month.”
T he rest of the day proved very much a case of business as usual. Of the four reviews he conducted—two clubs, one den, and one hell—the Pall Mall meeting was the least troublesome. He sent two of his men back with Clapham to the Tower Club to deal with the crooked faro dealer—to explain his transgressions and see him off the premises. The Tower had its own security staff, but his men were of a different caliber—the sort to instill fear into