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Chapter Eight
Dita hid inthe shadows, shifting her weight from foot to foot in her ill-fitting boots. Her heart was aflutter like a caged bird thrashing against its bars. She tugged at the rough wool collar chafing her neck while balancing the large wicker basket on her arm. She panted to avoid inhaling the odiferous stench filling the alley. She would have to replace the scullery maid’s boots and dress. The stains and smell of horse and human muck would never wash out.
Loud guffaws of laughter echoed down the empty street as the men poured out of Mr. Haversham’s gentlemen’s club in the early morning. It didn’t require a robust imagination of how men of means and privilege entertained themselves through the night. She was a muddle of emotions. Fear with an undercurrent of anger for her brother and Dash, who probably were enjoying themselves in the club as she spent the last two nights awake with worry since Roddy received the urgent note. She had sent messages to Roddy’s other clubs and his office in Parliament since he hadn’t returned home. And the entire time she spent in concern, he was most likely back to his disgusting behavior with Dash in the club. Harry, the stableman, had told her that men spent days in the club without ever leaving.
The doors to the club had promptly opened at seven a.m. as Harry had predicted. She had been standing for over thirty minutes in the darkness waiting for this precise moment.
She scurried into the street, preventing anyone from noticing her entry from the alley. Before embarking, she pulled at the brim of the oversized bonnet. With her head down, swinging her basket, she assumed the role of a distracted maid in no hurry to get to the market. No one would consider that she, Lady Perdita Tinley, would be unaccompanied in a questionable area at such an unfashionable hour.
Lord Randolph, a friend of her father who’d always leered at her when he visited, sauntered out through the doors in a fine fettle, smiling and swirling his walking stick. The baron showed no signs of a night of dissolution or debauchery. His cravat was impeccable, his coat without a wrinkle. By his cheeky grin, he must have had a good night at the tables. Perdita shut down any other images of what else would make him look jubilant.
It took all her self-control, which wasn’t at its best after standing still, not to shout out and chase after him to ask about her brother. She slowed her steps and gave herself a good talking to. The purpose of this morning was observation, not confrontation or questions. It would serve no purpose to expose her identity and be ruined in society.
She was here only to either find Roddy or identify the men who gambled at the club. She could guess at the identity of some of the wastrels. But she needed to know the men who frequented this club to ask them at tonight’s ball about Roddy’s absence.
There was no discreet way for a lady to discover the names of the gentlemen who spent their night at the notorious gambling club. What gentleman could deprive a blushing lady, with a title and a very substantial dowry, an answer to her queries? Rosetta as well as Emmy had demanded they wait outside the club and report back instead of Dita risking her reputation. But how would Rosetta recognize men of theton? And Emmy might recognize some but not all. It had to be her. She didn’t share with the women that she had to act to end the helpless feelings. Waiting and worrying for both Roddy and Dash had pushed her to her limits of coping.
She slowed her steps to not bump into another of her brother’s wild friends, Lord Tumbley, a hanger on to the group of Roddy’s dissolute chums from his past. Her older brother had left all his dissipated chums behind after university. He had returned to his behavior of not coming home at night, having questionable men appear at their door at all hours, a few months before he suddenly announced that he was headed to France to help negotiate a peace treaty between the warring countries.
An older, overweight gentleman stumbled out into the street. He rubbed his hooded eyes as if the gray May morning light was too bright. A chill of apprehension skittered down her spine at his close proximity. His eyes raked over her before dismissing her when he turned and was joined by Lord Yardley and Lord Vinson. She didn’t recognize the fleshy man. It was rather remarkable in that she knew most all of society’s gentlemen, or so she had thought. How would she be able to make her inquiries if she didn’t know the gentleman?
The fear that Dash had been challenged to a duel over some ridiculous male posturing, asked Roddy to be his second, was the worst scenario and the one that logically made the most sense. She assumed there would be news by now. But none of the servants had heard any gossip, and she was left to wait. Not her strongest virtue.
She was convinced she would know in her heart if Dash was dead. The idea of the world without Dash caused primitive panic. The clawing, breathless, heart-racing feelings she kept at bay during the daylight hours now oozed beneath her skin, like dampness seeping into the soles of her boots. She was terrified and didn’t know who to turn to. She had considered approaching Lord Rathbourne, but she had no information and didn’t want to raise the alarm if her brother and Dash were renewing their friendship and their dissolute ways in the club. It would color Lord Rathbourne’s perception of her steadiness and possibly ruin any chance of their school. But if she didn’t have answers by tonight, it was her next action.
Anxiety quickened her steps until she was directly in front of the entrance. It took all her mustard not to turn her head for a glimpse of the den of sin, the infamous club that was whispered about behind fans. She was already past the club with barely a glimpse of only a few men. She had to delay her progress down the street. She had hoped to broaden her field of possible men to question. She bent, feigning that her boot lace had become untied.
How long could she remain in this position? If she had been really clever, she would have faced the entrance so she could sneak peeks of the men exiting. But wouldn’t it seem strange to change direction? She twisted to look back, but the blasted rim of her bonnet prevented her from seeing anything without looking up and revealing her face.
“Now what do we have here? What a delightful vision of womanly curves to rouse a man so early in the morning.” Perdita stilled, suddenly aware of the sound of the voice and footsteps moving toward her. She had remained too long.
“I never been an early riser but this morning…”
Loud guffaws followed with back slapping by the sharp sound.
Perdita stood slowly, aware of the danger, trying not to stimulate the predator’s nature to chase and capture.
“I saw her first, Frankland.”
Lord Frankland, the darling of the ton, was all blond curls and blue eyes. Her brother had mentioned him as a possible suitor. “I’m a patient man. I can wait for five minutes.”
And for some reason that made the men break into laughter.
Fighting the alarm flashing through her, she focused on taking one step, then another and another. Keeping her focus ahead.
“Where are you going, my darling? Turn around. Let’s see if the face matches up to the promise of your body.”
She stiffened and kept walking. Surely, one of the other gentlemen wouldn’t allow a servant to be accosted on a street.
A steely hand gripped her arm, squeezing tightly. The smell of alcohol and rank breath enveloped her. Despite his drunken state, the man’s superior strength was evident. “Haven’t you learned to obey your betters?”
Frankland’s chuckle enflamed her righteousness. What gave these gentlemen the right to accost any woman? Especially a servant, who should be under a gentleman’s protection.
His hand tightened when she tried to pull away.
With his powerful grip, her mind shifted into focus. She twisted, using her body weight to deliver a chopping blow against her assailant’s forearm. Shocked by the sudden forceful attack, he released her arm. She smashed her basket into his face, recognizing her assailant as none other than Mr. Cole, another darling of society.
“Feisty, huh? It only makes the sport more satisfying.”
Frankland’s laughter sparked furious outrage for all vulnerable women. She rolled to the balls of her feet and took a level breath, ready to defend and strike. She would teach these fools the consequences of their insidious actions.
“Cole, you arse. Let the girl go.”
Her heart plummeted to her shaky knees. She recognized the languid drawl. Not so languid, presently. She had been in love with the deep bass voice and the perfect specimen of male virility since she was eight years old. The first time Dash came to their home.
Shock had her frozen in place. Relief and rage tore through her. She had been right all along. Dash and Roddy had been in the club debauching and gambling while she had been terrified. Her better sense told her to leave, but the storm of emotions made her want to turn and scream and do bodily harm to Dash and her brother when he finally came out into the daylight.
One tiny part of her brain cautioned against an outburst. Her identity would be revealed, and she would be compromised by Frankland and Cole. And society would expect her to marry one of those craven fools or, heaven forbid, Dash with all the rumors swirling in society about them.
She waited for Dash to confront her. He would recognize her fighting style. She had to believe he would never ruin her. So, she did what only a woman of intelligence and a strong sense of self-preservation would do at this critical juncture. She lifted her skirts and ran.
