be a godsend, forcing Jasper out of this life and all contact with it for good. Except without the income from the hell he couldn’t pay for Jackson Robillard’s future, his employees’ or Jane’s.
‘Something wrong?’ Mr Bronson asked.
‘I received a letter from Mrs Robillard.’
Mr Bronson nodded, needing no explanation. He’d been there and seen everything.
Jasper sat back and laced his hands over his stomach. ‘Tell me, if the quarantine hadn’t been imposed and Uncle Patrick hadn’t fallen ill, could I have convinced him to return Mr Robillard’s plantation?’
Mr Bronson took his pipe out of his pocket and tapped the bowl against his palm. ‘I like to think regaining your good opinion meant more to him than being king of the manor, but it’s hard to say. He could be a good man to those he cared about, but he had a nasty streak, too. He tried to keep it from you because he used to say if someone like you admired him then he couldn’t be all bad, then Mr Robillard came along. It was the first time you got a glimpse of what a grasping bastard Patrick could be. It’s why he got mad at you. Realised he couldn’t fool you any longer.’
This wasn’t anything Jasper hadn’t mulled over during the countless hours alone in his house in Savannah during the quarantine while he’d listened to the cannons being fired to clean the air, his body hollowed out with hunger and the stench of death all around him. There’d been warnings before Mr Robillard: a debtor beaten up here, a man thrown out there, furniture and goods appearing in the middle of the night with no explanation asked and none offered. Jasper had chosen to ignore these, too enamoured of Uncle Patrick to see the truth until Mr Robillard had forced it on him.
He twisted the ruby ring on his finger, his uncle’s ring, the one he’d removed from his hand before the men had come to take his body away. Jasper hid the truth about his past from Jane, the way Uncle Patrick had hidden his from Jasper. It wasn’t right, but if he snatched away her illusions the way Mr Robillard had stolen his, she might despise him as much as Jasper had his uncle. He couldn’t bear to see her admiration for him turn to disgust. Without her, he might never be more than the damaged and deceitful man who climbed the warehouse stairs each night. He wanted to be more, even if he wasn’t sure if it was possible. He would do all he could to shield Jane from the destruction of her dreams, but the letter’s arrival reminded him of how many things were out of his control.
Jasper rose and handed Mr Bronson the signed debts, returning to business. Things had happened and no amount of ‘what ifs’ could undo them. He must move forward, no matter how much the past still hung on him. Too many people relied on him for him to succumb to his doubts, though they seemed to increase every day.
‘I can’t wait for you to see what I’ve done.’ Jane’s voice carried over the clack of the horses’ hooves as the carriage carried them towards the building on Fleet Street.
Jasper had awakened out of a deep sleep at noon to find Jane standing over him and he’d braced himself for another round of questions. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left her yesterday, but instead of pressing him about the letter and the hell, she’d pulled him from bed, explaining her ideas for the club in rapid sentences and excited words, pretending, like him, all was well between them.
She continued to speak and Jasper watched her more than he listened. This was what he wanted her to be, a thrilled young wife instead of a strained worried one, the woman who still believed in him and their future. ‘I’m sure your improvements are brilliant,’ he complimented.
She touched her finger to her chin and looked up at the carriage roof. ‘There is a noticeable lack of cherubs in the new decor so you may not care for it.’
‘Then I insist on one or two gilded pieces, for nostalgia’s sake. The dolphin clock from our bedroom, perhaps?’
‘I’d indulge your request except I don’t want prospective clients clasping their cravats in horror.’
Jasper threw back his head and laughed, the lightness he’d always enjoyed with her returning. ‘No, I don’t want to drive our clients away.’
The carriage came to a halt in front of the Fleet Street club.
‘We’re here.’ The carriage door banged against the side as she flung it open and dashed out. The ribbons of her blue bonnet fluttered behind her as she weaved through the people cluttering the pavement. At the door to the building she stopped and waved one fawn-coloured glove at him to follow, her smile bright like the sun off the windows.
He slowly approached her, admiring the dark lustre of her hair and the joy she found in his company. She was like a flower growing through the cracks of the pavement, something beautiful in the midst of the ugliness of his life. When he was with Jane, he could believe he wasn’t so awful or beyond saving. He wondered who would arise to make Jane see the truth about him, to make her despise him as much as he’d come to despise Uncle Patrick.
He jerked to a halt at the foot of the three stairs leading into the building, his heart racing in panic. I can’t lose her.
‘Come on, what are you waiting for? You must see it.’ She grabbed his hand and tugged him through the doorway.
‘What do you think?’ She threw out her arms where she stood in the centre of the entry.
Jasper turned slowly, taking it all in. Before, it had been difficult to imagine the building as more than a former tobacconist’s shop and house. Legitimacy and respectability whispered in the green-and-red paint on the walls in various rooms and the furniture with simple lines decorating them. In one, comfortable chairs were arranged in sets of twos and threes in corners, near the window and in front of the fireplace, encouraging men to come in, sit down and discuss trade and contracts. Under Jane’s guidance, it had been transformed into something he’d dreamed about since coming home and maybe even before. ‘Amazing.’
‘As you can see, I found a place for our purchase.’ She pointed to the red couch in the high-ceilinged entrance hall, stately against the far wall, its gaudiness muted by the staid surroundings. ‘It’s the first thing men will see when they enter.’ She stepped closer to him and slid him a saucy glance, making the curls by her temples whisper against her cheeks. ‘If you could let it slip where it came from, and embellish the story to say this was where Mrs Greenwood entertained the King, it’ll draw more men in here.’
‘Too bad we didn’t buy the painting of Mrs Greenwood to hang over it.’
Her full lips formed into a plotting, and enticing O. ‘I wonder if we could still get it.’
‘We could make some discreet enquiries.’ He trailed his fingers across her shoulder to tickle her neck, her enthusiasm as irresistible as her soft skin.
She playfully batted his hand away. ‘No enquiry into a famous courtesan’s portrait can be discreet. Besides, I don’t want to be too obvious about our efforts to attract patrons.’ She sauntered to the staircase to inspect the repairs to the banister.
He strode into the dining room where tables of various sizes stood with tasteful dining chairs encircling them. The newly acquired china sat in neat sets at each place ready to be marvelled at by clients. He ran his hand along the flat line of the back of a chair. In the daylight it was stunning, in contrast to the Company Gaming Room which showed its
