fatherâs house tonight. Tomorrow I am returning to Inverness, and then Iâm off to Ceylon. Should anything urgent come up this afternoon, you can reach me at the Marbury Club.â
Lionelâs pen froze in mid-scrawl. âThe Marbury Club?â He knew his employer detested that particular bastion of elitism.
âIâm going there because Iâm trying to find a Lord Philmore.â Jack was not sure why he felt he needed to justify his actions to his employee. Maybe because Lionel, like himself, had come from inauspicious beginnings. While his employee had never lived on the streets, or been thrown in jail for stealing, or been subject to vicious beatings, Lionel Hobson had lived a life utterly void of luxury or privilege. It had only been through considerable discipline and struggle that the young man had managed to secure for himself a respectable job as an office manager, for which he earned the sum of one hundred and forty pounds per year. If he continued to work for Jack without the business going bankrupt, he might eventually be able to lease a small house and take on the burden of a wife and children.
The idea of dining at a place like the Marbury Club was as inconceivable to Lionel Hobson as going for tea at Buckingham Palace.
âDo you mean Viscount Philmore?â Lionel wondered.
âDo you know him?â
âIâve read about him in the newspaperâhe attends almost every important ball and social event in London.â
Because he is a fatuous fool with nothing more important to do,
Jack reflected acidly.
âHe was mentioned in the
Morning Post
just this morning,â Lionel continued, clearly excited by the prospect that Jack was going to see someone of such recent notoriety. âIâve got it here.â He struggled to pull open a warped drawer in his desk.
âAnd just what glorious thing did the viscount do to merit being in the
Morning Post
today?â Jack enquired sarcastically.
âHe is going to marry one of the richest American heiresses in London,â Lionel reported, finally freeing the recalcitrant drawer. He cleared a space on his desk and spread out the wrinkled sheets of his newspaper. âHere it is.â He pointed a blackened finger at the headline.
Â
V ISCOUNT P HILMORE TO M ARRY A MERICAN B EAUTY.
Â
Jack frowned, confused. Although it was possible the papers were aware that Miss Belford had deserted Whitcliffe at the altar the previous afternoon, how in the name of God could they have known that she had returned to London with the intention of marrying Lord Philmore? He quickly scanned the paragraph below.
And realized the newspaper was not referring to the American beauty he had left curled in bed but a few hours earlier, her tearstained cheeks luminous in the leaden morning light.
Â
T HE MARBURY CLUB WAS SITUATED IN THE HEART of the supremely fashionable district of London known as Mayfair. Its entrance was evocative of a Greek temple, boasting a stately row of Corinthian columns capped by an enormous pediment, which housed a violent frieze of the Roman army conquering some helpless enemy. Once one summoned the self-assurance needed to walk through the buildingâs heavily carved oak doors, one was overwhelmed by the oppressive sumptuousness of the Grand Hall. Beyond this were the elegantly appointed rooms in which the clubâs members cocooned themselves each day. The windows were shrouded in plum velvet curtains, which custom dictated must never be opened more than a handsbreadth; the walls were paneled in somber English oak; and the floors were buried beneath acres of worn, musty carpets. It was here that the feckless gentlemen of London society gathered, closeting themselves from the rest of humanity so they could smoke, drink, eat, read their newspapers and gossip amongst themselves in the drearily oppressive and rarefied atmosphere of the privileged few.
Jack had not been inside more than a minute
Lionelâs pen froze in mid-scrawl. âThe Marbury Club?â He knew his employer detested that particular bastion of elitism.
âIâm going there because Iâm trying to find a Lord Philmore.â Jack was not sure why he felt he needed to justify his actions to his employee. Maybe because Lionel, like himself, had come from inauspicious beginnings. While his employee had never lived on the streets, or been thrown in jail for stealing, or been subject to vicious beatings, Lionel Hobson had lived a life utterly void of luxury or privilege. It had only been through considerable discipline and struggle that the young man had managed to secure for himself a respectable job as an office manager, for which he earned the sum of one hundred and forty pounds per year. If he continued to work for Jack without the business going bankrupt, he might eventually be able to lease a small house and take on the burden of a wife and children.
The idea of dining at a place like the Marbury Club was as inconceivable to Lionel Hobson as going for tea at Buckingham Palace.
âDo you mean Viscount Philmore?â Lionel wondered.
âDo you know him?â
âIâve read about him in the newspaperâhe attends almost every important ball and social event in London.â
Because he is a fatuous fool with nothing more important to do,
Jack reflected acidly.
âHe was mentioned in the
Morning Post
just this morning,â Lionel continued, clearly excited by the prospect that Jack was going to see someone of such recent notoriety. âIâve got it here.â He struggled to pull open a warped drawer in his desk.
âAnd just what glorious thing did the viscount do to merit being in the
Morning Post
today?â Jack enquired sarcastically.
âHe is going to marry one of the richest American heiresses in London,â Lionel reported, finally freeing the recalcitrant drawer. He cleared a space on his desk and spread out the wrinkled sheets of his newspaper. âHere it is.â He pointed a blackened finger at the headline.
Â
V ISCOUNT P HILMORE TO M ARRY A MERICAN B EAUTY.
Â
Jack frowned, confused. Although it was possible the papers were aware that Miss Belford had deserted Whitcliffe at the altar the previous afternoon, how in the name of God could they have known that she had returned to London with the intention of marrying Lord Philmore? He quickly scanned the paragraph below.
And realized the newspaper was not referring to the American beauty he had left curled in bed but a few hours earlier, her tearstained cheeks luminous in the leaden morning light.
Â
T HE MARBURY CLUB WAS SITUATED IN THE HEART of the supremely fashionable district of London known as Mayfair. Its entrance was evocative of a Greek temple, boasting a stately row of Corinthian columns capped by an enormous pediment, which housed a violent frieze of the Roman army conquering some helpless enemy. Once one summoned the self-assurance needed to walk through the buildingâs heavily carved oak doors, one was overwhelmed by the oppressive sumptuousness of the Grand Hall. Beyond this were the elegantly appointed rooms in which the clubâs members cocooned themselves each day. The windows were shrouded in plum velvet curtains, which custom dictated must never be opened more than a handsbreadth; the walls were paneled in somber English oak; and the floors were buried beneath acres of worn, musty carpets. It was here that the feckless gentlemen of London society gathered, closeting themselves from the rest of humanity so they could smoke, drink, eat, read their newspapers and gossip amongst themselves in the drearily oppressive and rarefied atmosphere of the privileged few.
Jack had not been inside more than a minute
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