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Bobby gave both men a salute and dove into the bowels of the club.
The door to the gaming room was obvious, as noise boomed from behind it. Bobby pried open the portal and walked into a wall of smoke. Cheroots, cigarillos, and Turkish cigarettes were in every hand or hung from every mouth. The only things absent were pipes, as those would be leisurely enjoyed in a quieter room, not furiously sucked on over games.
Bobby didn’t mind the miasma, as she’d have her own cheroot out soon, but Judith wouldn’t let Bobby near her reeking like a smokehouse.
The tables were packed with men from the upper and middle classes who thought they had money to spare for this insalubrious hell. No women present, which was interesting. Often seductively dressed ladies called butterflies circulated in clubs like this one to distract a man from playing his best.
Possibly no need for that here. These gents were frenziedly throwing money to the tables as though they never needed to eat again.
Bobby found an empty chair and squeezed onto it. If the table’s entering stake proved too high, she’d shrug and wriggle back out, but if not, she’d place a bet and blend in.
The game was vingt-un. Bobby studied her cards, laid down a few crowns—which seemed to be an acceptable wager—and waited for the dealer to toss her another card. A ridiculous game, she thought darkly as her hand’s total passed the required amount, more luck than skill. Bobby’s coins disappeared, and she dug into her pocket for more.
As she played, she glanced about for her quarry but did not see them. Annoying waste of time if they didn’t turn up. She’d learned, though, from Cynthia’s stories of Mrs. Holloway’s undertakings, that investigating was often more about patience than exciting breakthroughs.
The night rolled on, Bobby’s coin purse grew lighter, and she never saw Lady Coulson’s brats. She recognized gents from other clubs and a few friends of her brother, as Judith had feared. However, those lads had never paid much attention to Wilfred Perry’s awkward little sister, and they didn’t have any idea who she was now.
Bobby was simply a ne’er-do-well the chaps at the clubs had come to accept. There were enough nouveau-riche young men roaming London these days that who was who had become rather blurred. As long as Bobby didn’t try to marry anyone’s sister, all would be well.
She lingered for hours, playing cards—losing and winning—enjoying a cheroot and some fairly decent brandy, listening to tittle-tattle, and contributing opinions when asked. Gentlemen often derided ladies for nattering on about other people, but in Bobby’s opinion, gentlemen could out-gossip ladies any day.
She saw no sign of Terrance or William Makepeace. There were plenty of young men here wagering out of their depth and losing too much, but none were the two sons of Lord and Lady Coulson.
Discouraged, Bobby at last retrieved her coat and hat and stepped into the night, heading for a hansom cab stand.
She reflected as she walked that a great advantage of assuming man’s dress was that no one thought a thing about her being on the street alone, even stumbling along to find a hansom.
If she were in skirts, striding by herself in the Strand at half past eleven, she’d be roundly condemned, by those who didn’t try to assail her, that is. Even if she’d been out here through no doing of her own—perhaps she’d been abducted and dropped in this street—she’d be ruined and shunned, as though said abduction would be all her fault.
In her greatcoat and hat, a scarf around her neck against the new falling rain, no one looked at Bobby twice.
A hansom waited at the closest stand, the cabbie on top half asleep. He came awake as soon as Bobby stepped into the cab and called her direction, and they clopped off.
Bobby made it to the house in Upper Brook Street as the nearby church clocks began to strike twelve.
“Let me in, Hubbard. I’m just in time.” Bobby gave the butler a grin as he opened the door he’d been about to bolt.
“Did you have a pleasant evening, your ladyship?”
“Tolerable.” Bobby handed over hat, coat, scarf, and gloves as Hubbard reached for them. “But happy to be home.”
“Very good, your ladyship. Miss Townsend has already retired.”
It was early, by Bobby’s standards, but Judith was unpredictable. Some nights she’d stay up until dawn, painting like mad. On other nights, she’d toddle off to bed at eight.
“Then I shall retire myself,” Bobby said. “Good night, Hubbard.”
“Good night, your ladyship.”
Having carefully hung up Bobby’s things, Hubbard returned to bolting the doors, and Bobby headed up the stairs.
A light shone under Judith’s bedchamber door on the second floor. Bobby took the chance and pushed it open. She had her own bedchamber in this vast house, though most nights she and Judith shared.
Judith was indeed awake, propped up against pillows, reading a book. Nothing unusual in this, but Bobby noted that Judith was slightly out of breath and the book was upside down.
“All’s well?” Bobby asked her.
“Oh, there you are, darling.” Judith set the book aside and yawned with pretended fatigue. “I wasn’t certain whether you’d return tonight.”
