Stringed music escaped on a cloud of cheroot smoke and perfume. Cynthia stepped in front of Helena, her bustle pushing against Helena’s belly as they both faced a man dressed much like Cynthia’s butler.
‘Your presence is requested in Mr Sinclair’s private office, Lady Burrows.’ His gaze flicked to Helena. ‘Miss Blair, you may join the marchioness, if you like.’
Helena could feel Cynthia stiffen as both women tried to hide their surprise. How the bloody blazes did Sinclair know who they were, and that they were at his club? And what was he playing at, inviting them upstairs to his personal office?
Ellie’s description of her vision echoed through Helena’s mind. If Sinclair’s office was decorated in crimson velvet or black lace, so help her, Helena would blast him with a spear of seawater powerful enough to flood his precious club and drown his patrons before she would let him touch Cynthia.
Mine.
The primitive instinct resonated in her bones.
She blinked hard.
What madness is this?
She was water in a glassy pool.
But not now. Need coalesced with anger, rising like a wave mighty enough to crash upon the shore and destroy her enemies. It was chaos and power and glory.
She would reclaim her calm later.
This night, she would ride the crest of her magic into the heart of a devil’s lair.
10
Cynthia was quite certain she was going to cast up her accounts or have a fit of the vapours – something she’d never had before. Never in her life had she been so nervous. Not even when she was presented to the Queen as a debutante at fifteen.
The burly gentlemen led them past a room full of smoke, masculine cheers, and what looked to be a rather large gaming table. Several women fluttered about, exotic birds winging from one man to the next, hovering but never landing.
Cynthia wished they weren’t walking quite so briskly. This was the first, and very likely last, time she’d ever visit a house of ill repute. Her curiosity was piqued, and she would have loved to linger and watch the men wager away staggering sums of money while the painted doves giggled and flirted shamelessly. Unfortunately, their escort seemed to be on a tight schedule, and she rushed to keep pace.
The door to her left resembled a lady’s parlour, though the activities happening on the elaborately embroidered lounge, the wingback chair, and the rug near the hearth would cause no end of scandal in the beau monde.
My lord. Is that woman cavorting withthreemen?
Cynthia craned her neck and nearly pulled a muscle as she caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, her head thrown back in ecstasy as one man suckled her shockingly bare breast like a babe, another had his head buried beneath her skirts doing who knew what, and the third leaned closer to take her lips with his own.
‘That’s Lady Bucklethorne,’ she hissed to Helena. ‘She leads the Society of Genteel Ladies.’
The gentleman stopped abruptly and turned to face her.
‘Mr Sinclair has strict rules of confidentiality, Lady Burrows. His patrons are guaranteed privacy. He would be… displeased if that promise was threatened.’
‘And what happens when Mr Sinclair is displeased?’ Helena’s confidence was akin to a warm hand on the small of Cynthia’s back. It granted her a measure of needed strength.
The man held Helena’s gaze, his own rather terrifyingly blank. Sweat gathered and trickled down Cynthia’s spine as the moment stretched so tightly, she feared to exhale lest the tension snap and lash her like a whip.
After what felt like an eternity but must only have been a few seconds, Sinclair’s butler blinked, spun on his heel, and continued walking down the corridor.
‘I suppose that answers your question,’ Cynthia whispered to Helena as they hurried after him.
The hall ended with double doors opening into a room grand enough to host a society ball. There were tables throughout with gentlemen and some ladies crowded around. Cynthia recognised several of the games being played. Bacarat, Macao, hazard. Games that required wagers. She had engaged in such frivolity at several house parties, but the atmosphere in this room was nothing like the frothy silliness she experienced. These men approached the gambling tables as one might a battlefield with the same frenzy and wild abandon.
The ceiling was at least two stories high, and a haze of smoke billowed above them as various patrons, both male and female, enjoyed puffs from cigars, cheroots, and, in the case of one very finely attired woman wearing a mask to obscure her features, a pipe.
Cynthia tried not to gape, but the dresses alone were lavish enough to tempt her fashion-favouring heart to flutter. The women seemed less worried about adhering to the social mores of the upper class and far more interested in baring their various temptations for the world to see. Low-cut necklines abounded, and some of the hems were short enough to expose several inches of ankle. A strange buzz of arousal skittered over her skin. She glanced back to see if Helena was similarly distracted, but the enigmatic woman’s grey eyes were focused solely on Cynthia. She tripped on the edge of a rug, and Helena leapt forward, catching her elbow to steady her. Bergamot and lemon soap. Clean, fresh scents cut through the miasma of heavy perfume and smoke.
‘Sorry.’ Cynthia’s voice was far too breathless.
