Luck Is No Lady(26)

Or was it Emma who possessed the misconception?

The thought was disconcerting.

Clearing her throat, she responded to Bentley’s revelation.

“Is the…brothel part of your business?” Her tone sounded far more prudish than she intended. It was not a phrase that came easily to her lips. She knew such diversions were often offered at clubs such as this—she just hadn’t expected the women to be in permanent residence.

“No. Mrs. Beaumont rents the whole of the west wing. She has a separate entrance, and her services are entirely autonomous from those of the club, though on occasion we do host special events when the girls are invited to mingle with the guests here.”

Emma studied him for a moment. He stood tall, resting his hands on the railing, his gaze casually surveying the room below. He didn’t appear even the slightest bit apologetic for the topic at hand.

“Do you have a share in Mrs. Beaumont’s profits?” she asked, telling herself she needed the issue clarified for purposes associated with her position.

“I do not,” Bentley replied. “There are, of course, mutual benefits to having both businesses housed in the same building. Patrons of the club are not forced to venture far from the tables when in need of a specific sort of diversion. And the ladies share in the protection afforded by my vigilant staff, who do not stand for anyone to behave out of hand.”

He turned toward her, his eyes sparkling with the hint of a challenge. “Quite frankly, Mrs. Beaumont and the girls are very good for business.”

She realized he was testing her, waiting to see how she would react to one of the more shocking vices his club supported. Of course she knew such places existed. She had just never expected to be so closely associated with one, even if it was in an indirect way.

Accepting a position at a gambling hell was scandalous enough. That the club also supported a brothel put the situation into another realm altogether. Yet Emma felt no desire to alter her decision.

At some point she may have to analyze her ready acceptance of such debauchery, as Lady Winterdale called it.

But not now.

“Bentley’s takes the privacy of its members very seriously,” he continued, “and we put a great deal of effort toward maintaining discretion. It is one of the things that sets us apart from other clubs. In your position, you will have unlimited access to details about our members’ finances and various aspects of their personal lives. It is imperative the information be kept entirely within the walls of this establishment.”

Emma met his gaze squarely and replied without hesitation. “I completely understand and would never consider handling the affairs of Bentley’s members in any other way.”

He stared at her with the same steady sort of focus he had demonstrated the day before. Now, as then, she felt a rising sense of self-awareness she was not accustomed to.

After a moment, a smile spread his lips, softening the intensity of his gaze. “Shall we continue?”

Emma nodded. “Of course.”

With an acknowledging tilt of his head, he led her from the terrace and drew the doors closed again behind him. Sweeping his hand to the side to indicate she should continue in the direction they had been going, he bowed his head. “This way, please.”

His formality wasn’t exactly mocking, but it was not sincere either. Something in his tone suggested he went through the motions of proper manners because it was expected rather than because he felt it was necessary.

A few doors down, Bentley stopped and gave another sweep of his hand, directing her into a small sitting room. “Your office.”

Emma stepped past him through the door.

It was a modest-size room done in a muted shade of gray. Here and there, touches of sage green were presented in the drapes that framed the window and the chintz upholstery on the two chairs that sat side by side, facing a sofa in a darker shade of green. A desk half the size of Mr. Bentley’s, but still larger than what she had used during the audition, was set before the window. It already held a stack of ledgers.

More ledgers lined a bookshelf standing against the adjacent wall.

It was a lovely room. For some reason, she felt compelled to ask, “Is this where your prior bookkeeper worked?”

“No. Goodwin was an austere sort. I thought this room would be more to your taste than the Spartan closet he preferred.”

She felt a twist of self-awareness at the idea he would take even a moment to consider her comfort. She was starting to wish he would take his leave so she could settle her nerves and get to work. His presence made it impossible for her to relax, and her diligent effort to hide her internal disquiet had created an ache in her spine.