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Chapter Four
“You’re here early.”
Sebastian looked up from his cards to see Arthur Barrow leaning against the table, a welcoming but curious smile on the man’s face. His ash grey eyes were probing, and Sebastian took a sip of his drink to divert the inspection. “Is it a crime to come in the afternoon?”
Barrow laughed. “No, but I don’t usually see you wandering in here before nine, and alone to boot.”
“Amberwood is busy cleaning up one of Lady Francesca’s messes.”
“So I’ve heard. Just about every lord in here has been giggling about it for the past several hours.”
“The little whelp managed to land a decent facer on me, much to everyone’s amusement, I’m sure.”
“I would have paid to see that.”
The dealer at the table shot Barrow a perturbed look, a card waiting to be dealt hovering in his hand. “Will you be playing tonight, boss?”
Barrow waved a hand. “No. But Ashford here will be leaving the table.”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Really, now?”
Amberwood and Barrow were just about the only people who ignored his status and dared to herd him about, one of the many reasons for their unconventional friendship. He could still remember the first time he’d visited the club, and Barrow had kicked him out on his ass after an altercation with an irate husband, whose wife Sebastian had been caught swiving in one of the back parlors. In his defense, he hadn’t known the woman’s identity, though Barrow seemed to only care about keeping the ruckus off of his floor. Even Sebastian’s strongest ducal glower couldn’t phase him, and the man had only laughed after being told of his title. Sebastian became a regular patron after that day, often dragging Amberwood along until the three of them had formed a tight knit, if not rather infamous, trio. A duke and a marquess remaining chums with a bastard club owner continued to be a great source of mystery for the Ton.
“Come now. I know you’re itching for a good night out. Besides, your hand is abysmal.” Barrow shot a humorous glance at the cards.
Sebastian’s lips quirked into a brief smile. “I had nothing better to do than try my luck regardless.”
Barrow clapped a hand on his shoulder “Come along, then. ItisThursday, after all. Might find yourself a randy widow or two tonight, eh?”
On Tuesday and Thursdays, Barrow opened the club up for female patrons, much to the scandalized outrage of high society. Women from all walks of life mingled here; with merchant’s wives, famed courtesans, and noblewomen rubbing shoulders at the tables to test their luck and find some salacious activities to get up to. The latter group often disguised themselves, lest they draw the Ton’s ire and be relegated to the demimonde, which was how he had gotten in trouble with that married lady. Things could get quite rowdy once the ladies arrived, and the many private parlors Barrow shamelessly rented out upstairs did not help matters in the slightest. There had been many attempts to shut the place down, all of which failed spectacularly. It was hard to achieve that aim when some of the most vocal public critics of such establishments were regular patrons themselves.
After a few hours of conversation and a good bit of brandy at a private table, the two sat in companionable silence, Sebastian enjoying the thrum of alcohol in his veins whilst Barrow surveyed the floor for suspicious activity, as he always did every hour or so.
“It’s so quiet without Amberwood here to chat our ears off,” Barrow mused as he continued looking around.
“Bored of my company already?” Sebastian drawled, taking a small sip from his glass.
“Hardly, but even you have to admit that you are a frustrating conversation partner at the best of times. Always a double meaning with you.”
“Says the fellow from Whitechapel,” Sebastian quipped back. Barrow had been born in that wretched neighborhood, spending most of his childhood there until the man’s father had scooped him up and thrown him into school. Despite his sire’s an attempt at reform, Barrow retained the harsh lessons of his childhood, where one wrong word could get you stabbed, or worse.
The man raised a glass in acquiescence. “Touché, my friend.”
“If anything, Amberwood must find us both tiresome to a fault.”
“He’s far too honest for his own good, though I suppose that is why we like him so much.” Barrow scanned the room once more as their conversation lulled, a mild look of surprise coming onto his face as his gaze narrowed on something in particular. “Never seen that one here before. Goodness, not even wearing a disguise. One finely kept courtesan I suppose.”
Sebastian looked to where Barrow was gesturing and nearly choked on his drink at the sight of a familiar blonde loitering near the entrance, who somehow looked both supremely confident and entirely unsure of herself in equal measures. Of all the idiotic things for her to do. “That is no courtesan.”
“Oh?” Barrow raised an eyebrow, raking his eyes over the woman with undisguised masculine interest.
He suppressed the temptation to smack him over the head. “No, Barrow,” he replied with an inward grimace. “That is Miss Kitty Highbridge.”
**
In hindsight, Kitty mused as she stepped out of her carriage in front of The White Heather, this might not have been one of her brightest ideas. Going to the place as a single unmarried woman was one thing, arriving there undisguised for everyone to gawk at was quite another. She’d heard of the infamous gambling den through the rumor mill and knew of its shocking policy to allow women entry on certain days of the week. Kitty had always been intrigued by the prospect of visiting, though even she hadn’t been foolish enough to actually make an attempt. Now, however, things were different. Seeing as her reputation no longer mattered, Kitty surmised that this would be a great place to start her adventures. She smiled and gave a cordial nod to a finely dressed gentleman as he passed by, the man open-mouthed at the sight of her.
Perhaps going without any sort of disguise was just a bit too far. Regardless, there was no going back now. She’d already been seen, and it would be a shame to waste an opportunity that she would likely never have again. Squaring her shoulders and putting on a cool but confident expression, Kitty strode up the stairs and entered the ornate establishment, pausing only to hand her cloak to a waiting footman. She surveyed the floor, squinting her eyes against the dim light. It was still early evening, so the place wasn’t terribly crowded yet, though she assumed that would change very soon. Men and women flitted about various tables, laughing, swearing, and yelling in equal measures as their fates were determined by the swipe of a card. It all looked like raucous fun, and she was itching to partake. If only she knewhowto partake. Naturally, Kitty had no idea of the etiquette used in such places, and she was loath to make a fool of herself after making a scene with her presence alone. Many well-dressed ladies wore masks, likely noblewomen not wishing to be seen, if the way some stared at her with owlish eyes were any indication. She did recognize a notorious widow or two without such camouflage, though even they could not seem to help but stare at her in marked curiosity. Kitty fidgeted, unsure as to where to begin. If only she had a companion or a friendly face to anchor herself to.
