The Care and Feeding of Rogues (A Lady’s Guide to Rogues #1)

Chapter 9

Berkeley’s gentlemen’s club was exactly what Elise had expected. It was a completely male sphere without a hint of a feminine influence to be seen. The décor was darker, the fabric choices lushly bold, and the satin wall coverings were either in bold or plain patterns, depending on the room. The furniture was beautifully carved, but heavy, large, and sturdy. It was a world built entirely for men. She marveled at thinking how Cinna had blended in so well when she’d set the bait for Prospero.

“Stay close,” Prospero murmured. He led Elise to the front desk, where patrons of the club would check in for the evening. An attendant stood behind the chest-high desk, his gaze focused on a set of papers in front of him.

“Prospero Harrington…The Earl of March”

The man’s head snapped up.

“I would like to bring a guest this evening. My cousin...”

“Elliot,” she said, perhaps a tad too eagerly.

“Elliott Harrington,” Prospero said, catching on smoothly with the lie.

“Yes, of course, my lord.” The man lifted up the register toward Elise. “Mr. Harrington, if you could be so kind as to sign this as proof of your attendance as Lord March’s guest.”

Elise was grateful she’d had practice writing the name Elliot, since she signed all her publication contracts under the name Elliot Hamblin, but it was her first time writing the surname Harrington. There was a practiced ease expected when signing one’s name, but if there was any uncertainty in her hand now, it did not show. She passed the register back when she was done.

“Thank you, Mr. Harrington. I hope you enjoy your evening with Lord March.”

“Thank you.” Elise kept her voice low, doing her best to sound more like Prospero.

“This way, Elliot.” Prospero nodded to a curved stairway that led to an upper floor. A few men passed them by. None paid her any mind, but a few shied away from Prospero, though he didn’t react. Elise’s heart tugged at the thought that he might have grown accustomed to being avoided like that.

They entered a reading room first, which had dozens of round tables and servants pushing drink carts through the room. The servants paused by occupied tables to inquire if anyone wanted anything to drink. Prospero chose a table at the far back of the room and sat in a chair with his back purposely toward the wall. Elise slipped into a chair next to him.

“Excellent choice, Prospero. From here, I have a full view of everyone’s comings and goings, and I have the best chance to observe their behavior.”

“Oh... yes, of course,” Prospero said slowly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Elise realized in that moment his choice of table hadn’t been for her benefit. “Wait, why did you choose this position, if it wasn’t for the purposes of my research?” she asked in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by other men.

Prospero waved a finger at a young man pushing a drink cart in their direction.

“Oh well,” he sighed heavily. “I learned early on that to have my back exposed is a bad thing. I try to avoid it whenever possible.”

“Did something happen to you?” She sensed there was a story to this and couldn’t deny her curiosity.

“I was in a tavern outside of Paris once. A man came into the taproom and attacked me from behind. Pulled me off my stool and started punching. Ever since then, I prefer to see my exits and know that my back is not exposed.”

“Good heavens... Why did this man attack you?”

Prospero lowered his voice a little further. “After some of the other patrons subdued him, we learned that he was a painter, a starving artist. He seemed to be suffering some sort of fit or episode of instability in his mind. He was blind with rage when he flew into that tavern, and he attacked the first man he spotted.” Prospero pointed to himself for effect. “There was a dark, bleak sort of madness in him that rose up on occasion, and he had no control over it. He later confessed to me that he didn’t remember what he did during these spells of mania. Once everyone in the tavern was able to calm him down, we ended up sharing a drink, and he apologized. He told me that he put his heart and soul into his work, and that he feared he would lose his mind in the process someday.”

“Did you become friends with him?” Elise asked. She wasn’t sure why she asked, but she had a sense that Prospero was the sort of man who would offer forgiveness to others.

“Not exactly friends, but acquaintances. We did meet for drinks at the tavern quite a few times once he was feeling better. He even showed me some of his work. The way he uses color... it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. He is incredibly talented, and wise. I told him how I had ended up in Paris, a broken man with empty pockets. It was hard to be so far from home and feel so lost.”

Prospero was quiet a long moment, sorrow evident in his face as he seemed to fall back into his memories. “This fellow, Vincent, said to me there may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passersby see only a wisp of smoke. I understood what he meant. My life is nothing but a thin gray vapor to the rest of the world, but deep inside I’m burning with a desire to be my old self, or perhaps a better version of myself. After I heard that my father died, I considered not coming home, thinking only of the cloud that hung over me here. But Vincent told me that one must work and dare if one really wants to live in life. So here I am, wanting to finally live.”

Elise was moved by the artist’s words. She’d fought hard for what she had and what she had accomplished. There was a bittersweet validation to hearing from others that it was the right path to live, even if it became hard to hang on to her dreams and desires at times.

The young man with the drink cart stopped at their table.

“Two scotches, please.” Prospero tossed the young man a few coins as the fellow poured glasses from a whiskey decanter and passed them to Prospero. Elise accepted a glass. She had never tried scotch before. Or any whiskey, for that matter. She tipped the glass back eagerly and took a big gulp. The alcohol hit her far harder than she’d expected. She sputtered wildly and gagged.

“Bloody hell!” she croaked.

Prospero leaned forward and gave her back a few surprisingly rough but effective whacks to clear her throat. “I should have warned you. That’s a sipping whiskey.” Prospero grinned as Elise managed to recover herself.

“Bloody hell,” she repeated once she felt able to speak again.

Prospero was still grinning. The handsome bastard leaned back in his chair and sipped his own drink.

“So, what do men like about these clubs?” She wished she could have brought her notebook with her to sketch some of the men and jot down observations so she wouldn’t forget anything. But it might have called too much attention to her activities. Prospero rolled his glass slowly between his palms, then lifted it up to the lamplight to study the liquid as he took his time answering.

“It’s a place where we can be ourselves. We can sit in silence or chat with friends, we can forget the woes and worries of the world outside. We can go to the cardrooms and gain or lose fortunes, or we can challenge each other in the betting books. We can be men.”

“Interesting,” Elise muttered. “It’s strange that women have no such place to escape to like that, other than retiring rooms. And that is not exactly a place we wish to be, except to see to our physical needs. The Society of Rebellious Ladies was created because women weren’t allowed to meet except in homes, where, of course, men were allowed. Whenever men discover what we are up to in the society, we have to move our headquarters. The original society was located on Curzon Street about sixty years ago. We have had three additional locations since that original founding and the Baker Street address is our current home.”

Prospero’s gaze held hers. “You know, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. There are many places you are never allowed that we as men are always allowed to go. We can escape the world, but you cannot escape us.”

They were silent for a while, and she could tell that Prospero’s thoughts were miles away. She didn’t know what he was thinking about, but she had more questions to ask and hoped he wouldn’t mind if she continued her line of study.

“How do you tend to spend your evenings here? Are you a gambler, a billiards man, or do you sit in stoic silence and sip your whiskey?”

“I’ve been all those types over the years, but as I grew older, I’ve become more of a sip-my-whiskey-in-silence sort of fellow.”

“You are only four and thirty. That is not old. I’m twenty-six, which, for women, apparently is ancient. But you are still in your prime as a man. I’ve seen you practically naked. You are a supreme specimen.”

Prospero shot her a half smile. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Elise fought off a blush that heated up her face.

“Do you still play cards or billiards at all?” she asked.

“I don’t. Mainly because I have no money these days to gamble and lose. Thankfully, I don’t have that compulsive urge the way some men and women do. I’ve seen it destroy lives.”

“Oh...” She tried to hide her disappointment. She’d been hoping to see the cardrooms, perhaps play a hand or two.

“If we had money for the buy-ins, I could arrange something, but...” His voice trailed off.

She patted her trouser pocket where she carried a slim billfold. “I came prepared. We can use this, if you like.”

He laughed. “Oh, all right. Finish your whiskey. Then we’ll go to the cardroom.”

She tried to down the rest of her whiskey as quickly as possible. It burned her throat and made her eyes water, but she had to admit it made her feel good too. Seemed to make everything glow in the most pleasant sort of way. It took far more glasses of sherry or wine to make her feel this way, but then again, whiskey was a stronger drink in most cases.

She slapped the empty glass down on the table and grinned. “I’m ready.”

He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Very well, then. This way, little naturalist.” Prospero carried his glass with him, continuing to take small sips, as though savoring the smoky-flavored liquor and not wanting to rush his experience. That seemed to be something men did, savor a drink the way women savored flavored ices. She surmised this as a unique trait of self-control within the species, recognizing the finite amount of their preferred substance and resisting the urge to consume it too quickly. She could not think of any other animal that exhibited this behavior offhand. Of course, there were animals like squirrels and chipmunks who saved acorns and other nuts for later consumption, but it was prompted by the seasonal changes. With humans, that “in the moment” ability of restraint was different somehow. She needed to remember such details as these.

They left the reading room and descended one floor to the cardrooms. The first such room had a cloud of cigar smoke forming a hazy layer in the middle of the room where a majority of the men were smoking. It had a dozen tables where men were engaged in a variety of card games.

“What game is this?” Prospero asked a dealer who was setting up a new table.

“Draw poker, my lord,” the young man replied.

“Excellent. Please deal me and my cousin in,” Prospero said. He nodded at the other six men at the table who were also waiting to be dealt in. It put them at eight players, an ideal number for the game.

Elise had played this game before when the society members decided to learn the various popular card games as a challenge. The object was to get a hand of cards whose rank was higher than the other players’ hands and to win more chips. Draw poker used a deck of fifty-two cards, and chips or other markers as stakes. She sat down next to Prospero and carefully mimicked his relaxed pose as the dealer shared the values of the white, red, and blue chips that they would use.

One of their fellow players looked at Prospero with smug arrogance. “Didn’t think we’d ever see you back in London again, Harrington.” It broke the pleasant silence of the men at the table.

Elise collected her cards and stole a glance at the man who’d spoken. He wasn’t a large fellow, but he was muscular and stout. He had a square face and a heavyset jaw that enhanced the meanness in his eyes.

“Ah, well, life can be unexpected, can’t it?” Prospero said coolly as he retrieved his own cards. “No doubt you’ve heard my father has passed. I’m Lord March, now.” The way Prospero so coldly put the other man in his place by reminding him of his title shocked Elise. The other men at the table reacted with subtle nods of approval to Prospero’s behavior. She realized she was witnessing a real-life challenge between two males. Prospero had just let out the equivalent of a lion’s roar at the other man.

“Nothing like a title to keep your neck from the noose, eh?” the mean-spirited man asked as the card game began.

Interesting... He’d chosen to respond to Prospero’s roar with one of his own. Elise scowled at the man. Why didn’t he keep his mouth shut about things that had nothing to do with him? Was Prospero somehow a threat to him or his standing? Or was Prospero simply an easy target to make himself appear more powerful? There were no females here, or at least no man at the table knew Elise was one, so what were the men fighting for, if not for positions of power?

“I say,” one of the other gentlemen gasped. “Really, Swinton. Have a care.”

Swinton played his hand and shot a cool smile at Elise, as if she was supposed to somehow be in on his joke against Prospero.

If there was one thing Elise despised, it was bullies, whether they were in skirts or trousers. She decided at that moment she was going to wreck this man and take all of his money. The bastard deserved it. She shot him a wicked smile and began to play cards. The men at the table didn’t know it yet, but she was a lioness and she was moving in for the kill.

* * *

Having his reputation challenged was an tiring activity that bored Prospero. After twelve years, he’d quickly grown immune to the jabs and snide remarks people often made. He had to, or else he would have gone mad. He played a few cards and instead focused on the pile of chips that was growing on the table. If he could win them, it would mean a few more complete outfits and not just a handful of new shirts and trousers to get by. Perhaps he could purchase dinner for Elise and himself at a nice restaurant tonight once she tired of parading around in men’s breeches. Not that those trousers didn’t have some advantages, mind you. They showed off her legs rather nicely, and while he’d much prefer to see them bare of any clothing, he’d take her in trousers over skirts any day.

“Nothing like a title to keep your neck from the noose, eh?” Swinton sneered, and another man tried to hush him and shot Prospero an apologetic look.

“I say. Really, Swinton. Have a care.” One of the other men came to Prospero’s defense.

“It might,” Prospero replied, leveling the other man with a cold look. “It might not. Either way it’s not your business, is it? Now, are you going to provoke me into another duel, or do you want to play cards?” He kept his manner unaffected. He just wanted to be left alone and have everyone let his past go, but it seemed they wouldn’t.

Swinton’s brows lowered. He straightened in his chair, seemingly focused on the game. Over the next half hour and a series of hands played, the pile of chips grew to a staggering amount, and Prospero stared at the cards in his hand. He wasn’t going to win. Blast and hell... He’d lose every penny of what Elise had paid him for this week’s study to come up with the extra money he’d wagered, when his hand had started out well enough to win. When the final hands were played, Swinton cursed and slammed his balled fist on the table.

“You cheated!”

Prospero had expected some sort of accusation, but this wasn’t directed at him. It was directed at Elise.

“I did not, sir!” Elise growled menacingly at Swinton. She was quite convincing in her persona, even now.

“You must have!” Swinton lurched to his feet. Before Prospero could stop him, the man swung a meaty fist at Elise’s head, striking her so hard she toppled over the chair behind her and crashed to the floor with a grunt, the chair tangled with her legs.

A dull roar began in Prospero’s ears, and his hands curled into fists.

“You all right?” he demanded as he bent over her, seeking out any sign of injury before he helped her stand.

“Y—yes,” she stuttered and clutched a hand to her right eye. The dull roar in his head now turned to a piercing whistle. Prospero snarled and whirled toward Swinton, grabbing the man’s collar.

“You lay a hand on my... cousin ever again and you will find yourself at the wrong end of a pistol at dawn.”

When Swinton’s face began to turn an alarming shade of red, Prospero realized he’d hoisted the man up in the air by his neck.

“I say, March, best to let him go. He seems to be running out of air,” a familiar voice said from close by.

“I’m not sure a man like him needs air, De Courcy,” Prospero replied.

“It may be true, but is he really worth killing?”

Guy De Courcy had a fair point. Swinton was nothing. He let go of the man, and Swinton stumbled back, coughing and gasping for air.

“Did you see that?” Swinton demanded of the other players at the game. “The bastard tried to kill me!”

“I saw nothing of the sort,” one gentleman said.

“I only saw you strike a lad half your age,” said another.

Guy stooped to pick something off the ground that had fluttered to Swinton’s feet in the struggle. It was a card, one that would have won Swinton the game had it been played.

“I believe you dropped this.” Guy smacked the card hard against Swinton’s chest, giving him a pointed look. “I think it’s best if you leave for the evening, Swinton,” Guy said.

Swinton soon realized he had no allies and stormed from the cardroom.

“Sorry about that, March. This fellow deserves his winnings. Did I hear you say he’s your cousin?” Guy asked.

“Yes, this is Elliott Harrington. Thank you for assisting us, De Courcy.”

“Nonsense, men like Swinton are swine,” his friend snorted. “So, introduce me to this cousin of yours.” Guy slapped Elise good-naturedly on the back. She winced and nearly dropped the money that the other men had been busy handing her.

“Elliott, this is Guy De Courcy, a friend from my Eton days. He kept me out of trouble in Paris... mostly.” Prospero chuckled at Guy’s reaction. They both knew Guy had gotten him into more trouble than out of it.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Elise said. “I’d shake your hand, but?—”

“You’ve got your hands full.” Guy winked. “Nicely done. How did you beat Swinton?”

“Oh, I simply counted the cards?—”

Prospero coughed hard, trying to cover her words before anyone nearby could hear. Card-counting wasn’t exactly against club rules, but it wasn’t gentlemanly behavior either. He gave her a very subtle shake of his head to encourage her silence.

“Ah,” Guy said, clearing his throat. “Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to talk?”

The three of them left the cardroom and stepped into one of the empty billiard rooms.

“Come with me.” Prospero ushered Elise into the glow of a nearby gas lamp and lifted her chin up. Elise’s right eye would be a nasty shade of purple within an hour or two. “How much does it hurt?” He couldn’t help but gentle his voice as he spoke to her. He was also aware of Guy watching them closely.

“I’m all right.” Elise licked her lips and looked away from him. A sweet liar. He knew it hurt, and he wanted to kill Swinton for causing this pain.

“Eh, Pross. Your cousin will be fine, he’s a tough lad,” Guy said.

“Elliott is a woman,” Prospero whispered to his friend. “And while she is certainly quite tough, I want to be sure she is all right.”

“He’s a she...?” Guy leaned forward, studying Elise’s disguise with fascination.

“Yes,” Elise answered Guy. “I’m undercover, Lord De Courcy. I’m studying men.”

“Studying men—” Guy burst out laughing. “Oh Lord, Pross, is this the study that you applied for? The one from the paper?”

“Yes, it isn’t men who are studying men, but women. This woman, to be precise. Guy De Courcy, this is Elise Hamblin.”

Guy’s gaze roved over Elise, and he whistled softly. “Well now, that is quite something.” Guy winked at her. “You make an attractive man, Miss Hamblin.”

She smiled back at him. “I do, don’t I?” she agreed proudly.

“So, what else do you need to study? How to kiss a man? Perhaps I could help you there?—”

Elise’s smile took on a touch of frost. Prospero jabbed an elbow into his friend’s stomach.

“Oof,” Guy grunted, a hand held over his stomach. “No kissing. My mistake. No need to learn about that sort of thing.”

Prospero sent his friend a warning look. “No indeed. She is learning far more important things than kissing. She’s a naturalist with advanced knowledge in a number of scientific fields. She doesn’t need the likes of you getting in her way while she conducts her study.”

“The likes of me? Ah yes... I understand, old boy. Touch her and die, eh? Very well, she is all yours, Pross.”

“As always, you miss the point,” Prospero growled. He wanted Elise to have the freedom to be left alone to conduct her study without a seduction by Guy... but Guy was also right. Prospero wanted no man teaching her anything about kissing... except for him.

Elise noted this exchange with an adorable fascination. As an only child, she’d never seen men act like this. He and Guy had tussled more than once as young boys and as grown men. The instincts were still there.

“Elise, I should take you home and see to your eye.”

“Oh, but I want to stay,” Elise protested, her voice more feminine now that they were alone.

“I think you’ve tasted enough excitement for tonight. Once your father sees your face tomorrow, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t murder me.”

“If she wants to stay, I can keep watch over her,” Guy volunteered, a little too eagerly.

Prospero shot his friend a look. “Elise is a lady, no matter how she is currently dressed, and I will not leave her in your company, old friend. I know you too well.”

Guy sighed dramatically. “That you do, I suppose.” Guy turned to Elise. “It was absolutely fascinating to meet you.”

“Likewise, Lord De Courcy.” Elise’s grin had returned, holding a mixture of delight and mischief as she peeped at Prospero. He knew then that Guy and Elise should definitely not be allowed to be alone together. They would get into far too much trouble.

“All right, off you go, Guy. Have a good evening.” Prospero nudged Guy toward the cardroom door so that his friend would leave them alone.

“Very well. I can take a hint, old boy.” Guy bowed over Elise’s hand, kissing her fingers, and then he took his leave.

“I like him,” Elise said. “Now that I understand him better. I thought for a moment he wouldn’t take my study seriously, but now I see it was more about teasing you than seducing me. Quite a different thing, really.”

Not sure how to respond to that, Prospero scowled a little. “I hope you don’t like him too much. He’s a bit of a libertine.”

“As I thought. However, I thought you were a libertine,” she said as he tipped her chin up more to the light so he could look at her eye again.

“Not me. I have been with a fair number of women, but I was always loyal to one at a time. Guy makes no promises to the women he is with. They know they have him for about a night or two before he moves on to his next conquest.”

“That is quite a difference,” she observed.

He hummed in agreement as he examined the swelling over her eye. “Yes, we best go home and put something cold on it, if you have an icebox.”

“Oh all right. Oh, here.” She dug into her pockets and pulled out the two hefty stacks of banknotes. “These are yours.”

“No, you won them.”

“I hardly require them. Besides, I got the impression from you and Guy that counting cards is not exactly gentlemanly behavior. Please, Prospero. Take them. Purchase a new suit or two, whatever you please.”

“I don’t want money out of pity, Elise,” Prospero said quietly. He had some pride left, and this woman sure knew how to prick it, even though he knew she didn’t mean to. The last thing he wanted was her treating him the way women in Paris had. Even well-intentioned pity was too much.

“There is an ocean of difference between pity and compassion,” she said with gravity. “I never do anything out of pity. But this is not about compassion either. I require you to purchase a horse and a riding outfit. Riding in the park seems to feature heavily in a number of male rituals, particularly in the courtship of females. Consider this a research expense that I am paying you for.”

With great reluctance, he took the money and tucked it into his pocket.

“It’s time we left.”

“Could we stop for a meat pie on the way? I’m rather famished.” She followed him to the door, and Prospero couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, all right. Meat pies it is. My treat, obviously.” He patted the stack of money in his trouser pocket and hated himself just a bit. Tonight was the strangest night he’d ever had, and he had a feeling it was not over yet.

* * *

Guy De Courcy walked up to the marble pedestal that held the betting book in Berkeley’s. He took up the pen that rested above the heavy tome. He opened the betting book using the black silk ribbon to find the newest page, and he bent over the pedestal to write a wager upon it. When he was done, he walked off with a smug grin.

A man sitting alone watching Guy waited for him to leave the room before he walked over to open the book and read the words in a whisper to himself.

The man scowled and slammed the betting book shut, then left the room in a hurry.

In the far corner of the room, a third man smoking a cherrywood pipe smiled as he puffed out a smoke circle in the air. Then he glanced at his companion, who was diligently reading a newspaper. His friend nudged his spectacles upon his nose and took a sip of his bourbon.

“I’ll be damned if I lose my Stradivarius over this, Watson,” the man with the cherrywood pipe said.

“Then perhaps you ought not to make foolish wagers against our Baker Street neighbors, Holmes,” Watson replied. “I happen to think they are quite charming. There’s a lovely young woman named Mary I would rather like to take to dinner some evening, if I can buck up the courage to ask her.”

“Humbug,” Holmes muttered. “What could be so fascinating about a woman, eh? You’d waste your considerable talents if you would content yourself with a tucking-in by a warm fire, allowing some woman to darn your socks.”

Watson rolled his eyes. “I sometimes think you fail to realize that love is a grander puzzle than any you could ever solve, my friend and it certainly doesn’t involve a woman darning anyone’s socks.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He puffed out another ring of smoke, his gaze shifting.

“I wonder...” He stood and walked over to the betting book he’d seen De Courcy sign and another man read moments earlier. Holmes turned to the page and read the words to himself.

“Prospero Harrington, Earl of March, will be wed by Christmas of this year to Elise Hamblin. 100 pounds—Guy De Courcy, Viscount De Courcy.”

“Wed to Hamblin... by God, I didn’t expect that. But how did...” He replayed the cardroom fight he’d witnessed a few minutes ago and suddenly started to laugh, perhaps a little too loudly, given the stares the other gentlemen shot his way. He strolled back to where Watson sat, still engrossed in his newspaper.

“I’ve reason to believe a dangerous game is afoot, Watson.”

“Oh? What was in the betting book?” Watson asked. Watson was quite clever at looking as if he wasn’t interested in the things going on around him, when in fact he was very much paying attention.

“A marriage wager.”

“Sounds positively terrifying,” Watson said with a hint of amused sarcasm. “Who’s the poor devil?”

“Lord March.”

“The man from your wager with Miss Hamblin?” Watson lowered his newspaper and fixed Holmes with a look that dared him not to meddle any further with the members of the Society of Rebellious Ladies.

“Yes, but it’s not the marriage that’s the danger. What worries me is that someone isn’t pleased with March, and that wager may have given him a terrible idea.”

Watson finished his drink with a sigh, stood up, and tucked his folded paper under one arm. “All right, you have my attention. What are we to do?”

“I’m not sure... Come, Watson. I have much to think about... and I wish to play my violin before that woman steals it from me.”