“There must be some mistake, Mr. Marchand. Hogarth... doesn’t typically climb up on things. He’s... he’s afraid of heights.”
“Hogarth,” he repeated carefully, after a long moment. As if he’d been given something unfamiliar to taste.
“We call him Garth at home,” she expounded helpfully. “It’s his second name. I know it’s a bit unusual, but my parents were art afficionados like you.” She tipped her head toward the Caravaggio. “Hence he was named for one of their favorite artists.”
“I’m probably less of an art afficionado than an irony afficionado, Miss Woodville.”
“Oh, I see. The way it’s a bit ironic that your first name is Gabriel, the name of an angel usually referred to as heaven’s messenger, while you run a gaming...”
Ye gods, his light eyes could, and did, get colder. They were downright arctic now.
“Hell?” he completed almost silkily.
Which is when she sensed it was wisest not to confirm or deny that that was what she had been about to say.
“Look around you, Miss Woodville.” He swept out a hand. “Does this establishment resemble hell?”
“I cannot truthfully say, since I haven’t personally visited the actual underworld. I’ve only ever read third-person accounts.”
Something at last flickered in his unblinking regard. She could not be certain, however, whether it was amusement, or surprise, or incredulity. Or whether she ought to be worried.
“Your ferns are spectacular,” she soothed.
“My—” He stopped and drew in what sounded like a patience-siphoning breath.
“Miss Woodville, since you were raised the daughter of a viscount, I suspect you’ve been sheltered from such distinctions, but Lucifer’s Fall is a gentleman’s gaming club. Like White’s, only I daresay even more exclusive. Hence its popularity. It bears little resemblance to establishments often referred to as hells.” Lest she feel comforted by this claim, he added, “I assure you, I would know.”
This didn’t surprise her in the least.
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I inadvertently trod upon a sensitivity, Mr. Marchand.”
“I have precisely zero sensitivities.”
She would have loved to argue this point in other circumstances. “How singularly blessed you are in that regard.”
Another of those minute little pauses ensued, during which she sensed she was being continually assessed, and it was impossible to know whether it was to her advantage.
“Tothe matter at hand...” he continued. He pushed the little paper-wrapped bundle over to her. “We finally managed to disentangle the Earl of Highgrove’s cravat from the chandelier. He lost his grip while he was twirling it around his head whilst dancing on the billiards table. I’m afraid there’s a slight singe mark where it struck a candle. Thankfully the cravat didn’t become a wick and light the entire premises on fire. We were unable to repair the singe, but there’s no charge for the laundering. Just one of the many benefits of membership at Lucifer’s Fall.”
This was a dizzying amount of new information to take in at once.
She gingerly dragged the bundled cravat toward her.
Despite everything, her heart squeezed at the idea of her shy, gangly brother dancing with happy abandon. Ever since their parents’ accident, he’d been conservative in speech and motion, unfailingly punctual and scrupulously polite and thoughtful. As if in so doing he could forestall chaos and impose some sort of order on the shocking caprices of fate.
“Thank you.” It was difficult to deny that laundry service was a clever benefit. “Obviously my brother got his money’s worth from the evening.” She said this a trifle bitterly.
Mr. Marchand merely nodded slightly.
“I don’t think Hogarth has ever been drunk before. Not even at university.”
“That much was clear to everyone witnessing the event.”
Oddly, he didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
“Hogarth is in fact quite shy, dutiful, and studious,” she pressed on. “A very sweet young man. I’m fairly certain he’s never gambled outside the pennies we use to play whist at home. He has always been cautious and responsible in all matters. He has never once put a foot wrong in his life... until he entered Lucifer’s Fall.”
Mr. Marchand was not taken in by her melodramatic pause. “It’s difficult to predict what a gentleman might do whilst drunk. Overcome a phobia. Dance on tables. Gamble away his inheritance. That sort of thing.”