He looked up at her, his face tight. “Mary—”
She stood, holding on to the chair for support. “I cannot do this. I cannot believe—” Mary strode toward the door and jerked it open.
And froze.
The gaming floor of the establishment lay before her, overflowing with men in various stages of high emotion. Red-faced, some shouting, spittle flying as they placed wagers at the numerous tables or with each other—in one corner, a man attempted to balance steins on his head, as those around him wagered against him. Pints of ale and rum lined tables and trays carried by servers, filling the air with their pungent aroma, which blended with the scents of old sweat, fried meat, and fresh bread. Calls from dealers resulted in bellows of success and moans of loss. In a far alcove, music from a violin and harp soared over the crowd, an odd juxtaposition to the raucous mob.
Mary had only been in London a few weeks, but she had been in Hyde Park often with her brother and his wife, as well as her sister-in-law’s brothers and parents—the Duke and Duchess of Kennet—her new family. Well-known, they attracted a great deal of attention during any outing, and Mary had been introduced to a wide scale of theton, from the lowest to the highest, save the king and queen.
Now she recognized many of them in the chaotic array before her. Gentlemen who had been polite and staid in the park nowpunched and shoved each other, sang wildly off-key to a melody no one else heard, and threatened dealers with useless claims.
Mary felt her brother behind her. “There are no saints among theton, Mary. Not you. Not me. Not them. Even if your reputation remained flawless, one of them would be at your door with flowers. And you know none of them now, merely who they appear to be in public. I assure you, Mrs. Dove-Lyon knows more about thetonthan any living person. We must trust her to bring you no further harm.”
But what about you, brother?
Mary sighed, stepped back into the office, and closed the door.
Lord Thaddeus EphraimBolton, second son, Earl of Crookham, blinked, convinced he had hallucinated the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He continued to stare, long after she had stepped back into the office of Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.
Thad glanced briefly at George Brothers, his best friend, a man who currently had two pints of ale stacked on his head, attempting to add a third to the perilous balancing act. “Did you see that?” he called out over the din of the room.
George gritted his teeth. “Saw nothing but your ugly mug. What are you going on about?”
“That woman. Blonde. Beautiful. Angelic. Coming out and going back into the Black Widow’s office.”
“Ain’t no women on this floor but the ladybirds come from upstairs.”
“You do know there is a ladies’ part of this club, do you not? Actual members of the Beau Monde who gamble and dine here? Also upstairs.”
George wavered and hesitated with the third stein. “Yeah, but they never step foot down here. Wouldn’t want to see their men behaving like this.” A cloud of blue smoke from a nearby table wafted by, and George waved it way, causing the two steins to totter on his head.
Thad watched as they settled again. “Like one of them losing twenty pounds trying to balance three pints on his head?”
“Ain’t lost yet.”
Thad turned to stare at the door again. “You have not done it yet either. Did you put something in my rum?”
George hesitated. “What are you talking about, mate?”
“Opium. Laudanum. Something to make me see a beautiful woman.”
“Ain’t no drug on God’s little green earth that good.” George scowled, sat the third stein on a table and removed the other two. George glanced at the door on the far side of the room. “Are you sure it was a woman? With your eyesight, it could have been a blonde horse for all I know.”
Thad scoffed. “Hardly. Even with only one good eye, I know a beautiful woman when I see one.”
“Given your taste and lack of experience with women, I would not be so sure.” He held out his hands as if weighing two options. “Upstairs doxy? Lady of theton? Bluestocking? Dowry princess? Which one would young Thad choose?” George picked up his coat, which had been draped over a chair at the table and plucked a snuffbox from one pocket. He flicked it open, took out a pinch, and inhaled it.
“Giving up?”
“Taking a break. My neck’s cramping.” George replaced the box, then arched his back and twisted his head to one side. The resulting cracks could be heard over the noise in the room.
Thad winced. “Does that not hurt?”
“Only the first time.” He twisted again. More cracks. “The second feels pretty good.”
“I will take your word on that.”
George rolled his shoulders. “Now what woman were you going on about?”
