Page 63 of A Match of Misfortune

“I know the name.” Nash leaned back in his seat, crossing his ankle over his knee. “Lucian Featherbottom advised me to seek membership at Blackstone’s if I could not get accepted into White’s.”

“Featherbottom?” Father seemed to search his memory. “Was he the boy at Eton who you were regularly in competition with for the top place in your form? The one who your Latin Master supposedly favored?”

Nash released a frustrated breath. “The very same.”

Father gave a slow nod of understanding, and with the way the corners of his mouth twitched with repressed humor, it confirmed Nash’s original assumption—Featherbottom had meant his comment as a slight. “The membership at Blackstone’s is selected from gentlemen who have been blackballed at other clubs. Though perhaps Mr. Featherbottom did not realize that.”

Nash was certain he did. “Having inherited an earldom, Featherbottom is now Lord Harlow.”

“Oh.” His father’s expression lit with understanding. “As in the gentleman pursuing Miss Bradshaw?”

Nash gave a stiff nod. “Previously pursuing, considering our betrothal.”

“Yes, of course. Your betrothal.”

Nash didn’t like the way his father looked at him, as though he were waiting for a confession. He had not time for such things, and thankfully, it was not his confession to make. Nash stood. “Well, I should be on my way.”

His father closed the ledger before him and also stood, walking around the desk to join Nash. “I assume you brought the carriage here?”

“It is outside.”

Placing a hand on Nash’s back, his father guided him toward the door. “I’ll drop you by Blackstone’s on my way home.”

THE WHITE, symmetrical building of the club appeared similar to its neighboring buildings, with the exception of its stark black door. A fitting color for Blackstone’s, indeed.

“Are you certain they’ll allow me inside?” Nash glanced at his father, who remained seated in the carriage.

“Tell the porter at the door that you’re hoping for an audience with Lord Blackstone regarding a shipping matter. I can’t imagine your connection with me will offer much sway, but you are free to mention I suggested you come. Be sure to compliment his lordship on his animal collection, and you should fare well enough.”

Nash sent his father a quizzical look. “What do you mean by his animal collection?”

His father only chuckled.

Nash moved to shut the door before pausing. “Oh, I’m to go to Hyde Park with the Rothsburgs and Miss Bradshaw shortly. Their carriage is at the blacksmith’s being repaired, so they may require ours. If you are not opposed, that is?”

“Not at all.” Father pulled out his pocket-watch. “What time are you to meet them?”

“Five.”

“That is ten minutes from now.”

Hang it all. Why did it take so blasted long to get around London? “Perhaps Miss Bradshaw might retrieve the Rothsburgs, then they can fetch me after?”

“Knowing Lord Blackstone, your meeting will likely go longer than you expect. I would hate for them to wait on you.”

Nash’s thoughts went to Cecily. He had told her he’d be at Hyde Park. But if he had to give Johnathan an answer by tomorrow, he could not postpone this conversation. He tapped a quickened beat on his thigh, thinking what to do. He could always hire a cab and meet his group at Rotten Row if time permitted, though he probably should assume it would not. Nash’s perceived lack of consideration was likely to irk Cecily, but if he failed to show when she expected him, he would certainly upset her. “Perhaps it would be best if you relay my apologies.”

“That is probably wise.”

Nash bid his father farewell and stepped up to the somber black door. He raised his hand to knock but then paused. The knocker was fashioned as a crow’s head. Just what he needed—another bird encounter. Squaring his shoulders, Nash lifted the knocker and brought it back down, causing the crow’s beak to strike the metal plate. It was but a moment when the door opened by a man dressed all in black.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m Nash Markham. If Lord Blackstone is here, I was hoping I might have a quick word with him.”

“One moment.” The porter moved to a little black book that sat on a stand near the door. “Nash … What was the last name again?”

“Markham. But my name is not on⁠—”