Ways to Be Wicked by Julie Anne Long

the major who spoke. “I might as well be the one to ask it, Shaughnessy. How much do you want from each of us?”
    Bravely, Tom told them.
    The silence that followed was the sort that follows a kidney punch.
    “Good God, Shaughnessy,” the major rasped when he’d recovered. “It’s a brilliant idea, granted. If anyone can make a go of it, I think it’s you. But you don’t need to buy a barouche for your wife or send a boy to Eton, or to Oxford, and I do. And the
money
...”
    “Your boy is but five years old, is he not, Major?” Tom asked smoothly. “I imagine your investment will have doubled itself by the time he’s of Oxford age.”
    A laugh rose up, amused and gently mocking the major for his lack of fiscal nerve.
Good.
They were beginning to recover from their shock, beginning to hear the faint siren song of a good gamble. And no doubt would be amenable to negotiating now.
    “But Tom’s boy wouldn’t be going to Eton or Oxford even then, would he? You’re a lucky bastard, Tommy, no offense. Have to give them a decent start in life, you know, but children are bloody expensive.”
    More laughter.
    Tom was far too comfortable with who he was and what he’d accomplished to care much what anyone said about him, and it
was
absurd to think that the son of an Irish-Gyspy hybrid bastard might go to Eton and Oxford and muck about with the sons of proper gentlemen.
    So he did laugh; a showman, he knew what was necessary to sell his proposal and was willing to do what the moment required. But though it was true, had always been true, he was distantly amused to find that suddenly nothing about the comment amused him.
    It was time to seize control of the situation once more, which was part of his strategy. He strode to the curtain, pulled it closed, symbolically and abruptly cutting off the vision of potential riches and pleasant masculine «mayhem.
    “Gentleman, thank you for joining me today. I’m looking for a very small and select group of investors, men of vision whom I trust, and naturally I thought first of you. Nothing would please me more than to continue to contribute to your wealth and happiness. . . not to mention add to my own.”
    Appreciative laughter.
    “But the owner of the property in question shall require an answer from me within a fortnight, as he has others interested in purchasing it. Please do give it some thought, ask any questions you wish—you know where to find me—”
    “Follow the trail of women!” someone who’d had a little too much brandy blurted.
    “Or look in the arms of Bettina at the Velvet Glove at midnight!”
    Tom grinned. “And if I don’t hear from you within a fortnight, I’ll assume you’ve decided to invest your money elsewhere. Hope to see you at the White Lily tonight, and”—he lowered his voice—“I’d like you, my friends, to be the first to know that we have the most
extraordinary future
production planned.”
    In unison, the men leaned forward, grown men all, eager as children.
    “Tell, Tommy!”
    “I’ll give you a hint, gentlemen. Just one word, so remember it.” They waited, leaning forward more steeply. He waited a strategic moment, then leaned forward, mouthed it
    sotto voce. “Venus.”
    “Veeenusss,” someone repeated slowly, sounding awed.
    “Spread the word,” Tom said. “You’ve never seen anything like it, and you’ll never forget it.”
    Apart from inventing and singing a naughty French song to Miss Sylvie Chapeau, the day had been one of unrelieved strategic challenges. The moment he returned from his meeting with investors, Tom decided he ought to talk to Daisy, just to get it over with. She often took her supper in her own dressing room before the evening’s entertainments—she never joined the girls for rehearsal—so that’s where he headed.
    How should he approach this? Somberly? Sternly? Brightly? It would be a delicate task, no matter how he went about it, as Daisy was as canny as she was buxom, and they knew each