Hades had beenmore apt a description than Robert had let on.Eloise forced herself to sit straight, spread her legs with both feet on the ground, and nurse a glass of brandy as if she were a connoisseur. What she really wanted to do was cross her arms, huddle into the depth of the plush leather chair, and pray no one noticed her.
When they had first entered White’s, the club had felt elegant and serene, mellow and masculine. Robert had been greeted warmly by a couple of fellows, but the first four rooms had been quiet, clustered with well-dressed men reading newspapers, books, or conversing quietly in cozy groups of leather chairs. She heard snatches of details—the current economic changes, Robert Peel as home secretary, the new horses that week at Tattersall’s—but nothing exciting or scandalous. Scents of tobacco and wood polish had drifted from their open doors.
Then came this room, near the back of the building, the closed door barely containing a low roar. When Robert pushed in, the fog of cigar smoke almost bowled Eloise over. Other aromas blended in with, including fried meat, sweat, and hard liquor. Here the greetings to Lord Robert included the occasional grasp of an upper arm or a quick invitation to one of the two games being held on baize-covered tables near the center of the long room. He introduced her to several men—whose names almost immediately fled from her memory as her eyes darted from one face to another, her mind twitching with worry that they would spot her for the fraud she was.
None did. Most acknowledged her with a bow of the head or a quick, firm handshake. Robert had explained that Lord Edmund, the younger brother of an old school chum, had arrived in the City as a possible suitor for his sister Beth. The resulting impression of Edmund as a provincial young man in search of a bride left most shaking their heads sadly at his plight and wishing him luck. Conversations, however, were frequently interrupted by exclamations from the gaming tables, resulting in good-natured ribbing that echoed around the room. Robert took part, measure for measure, his voice loud and jovial.
Eloise felt a sudden kinship with a rabbit flushed from its lair by a pack of dogs.
After one more explanation of her potential suit of Elizabeth Ashton, Robert had ushered her to the leather chair in the corner, its lone position in the corner next to a table and chimneyed lamp not conducive to unexpected conversation. “Stay here. I need to get to the betting book.” With that, he had left the room, leaving Eloise alone in her attempts to appear confident and strong in her male bearing.
The men around her, despite her fears, bore her no mind at all. They were completely occupied by their own pursuits, whether it was the whist orvingt-et-unat the tables or loud arguments about whether Wellington was wasted in politics, one of which almost came to blows. Copious amounts of brandy and whisky seemed to fuel all of their efforts, and Eloise realized that this is how titled men unencumbered by employment spent their afternoons while their mothers, wives, and sisters paid calls and consumed tea, cake, and clotted cream. The women gained weight in their boredom while the men grew bulbous and red-faced.
A surge of disgust, tempered with a pale of pity, gripped Eloise. And suddenly a life of tenant visits, estate inventories, and an expansive library seemed infinitely preferable to these tedious, wasted lives.
What other options did she have?
An abrupt weight bore down on her, pressing down on her shoulders, her head, her very being, as if she were being smothered by walls that eked ever closer. A box.
A coffin.
Eloise jerked from the chair and strode for the door. She yanked it open and barreled into Robert with a stark cry.
Alarm shot through his face as he steadied her. “What has happened?”
She shook her head furiously. “Nothing. I have to get out. Please. I need air.”
He pointed her toward the front door. “Go. I’ll retrieve our hats. Wait for me outside.”
Eloise headed for the front door, almost breaking into a run, barely registering the odd look one of the butlers gave her as he opened the door. She skidded down the few steps, grabbing one of the stone pillars at the base for balance. Light-headed and gasping for air, she bent over, leaning hard against the stone, fighting nausea. Her heart thudded in her chest, and her eyes stung as every muscle quivered.
She heard the club’s door open and close, then a single set of footsteps descending to the pavement. Robert pressed her hat into her hands. “Stand up.”
Eloise did, facing him, but her trembling seemed to escalate. Robert looked her up and down once, then mumbled, “I’ll get a hackney.”
Eloise turned to lean against the stone again, struggling to stay upright. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to push the panic away. Deep breaths, fists clenched. A thought flitted through her head—how would a man deal with this?—and she realized that she simply did not care. This masquerade was a fool’s errand. Whatever had possessed her to believe she could pass herself off as a man?
Timothy.
It was for Timothy.
Her son. Goddamnit all, he was herson.
The tears streamed then as she heard the wheels of a hackney roll to a halt near her. Robert put his hand on her elbow, and, ducking her head to hide her face, she plunged into the hackney, collapsing against the seat. The door slammed and Robert knocked on the roof.
As the horses stepped off, Robert pulled her hat from her hands and tossed it aside. He grabbed her, scooping her up as if she were a child, and folded her onto his lap. She gave into his embrace, sagging against his chest, sobbing hard. He held her, stroking her hair, her back, until her shuddering eased.
“What happened?” he whispered.
She swallowed the massive lump in her throat and pushed up to look at his face. “I cannot—” She gripped the lapel of his coat. “I do not—” Then she shook her head. The words would not come. Instead, she blurted the one thing that she did want, the only thing other than Timothy that seemed to give her hope, a foundation, however unstable and impermanent she knew it to be. These words did come out, hoarse and tremulous.
“I want you. Please take me.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wednesday, 20 July 1825
Campion’s Gentlemen’s Emporium
