To Love the Brooding Baron

FOUR

FOUR

Shakespeare had been unerring when he’d written “all the world’s a stage,” and Arabella deserved applause. It had only taken her a few days to carefully construct a script that would—with an added bit of luck—see her walk through the front doors of Brooks’s gentlemen’s club.

Act one: under the guise of making clothing for the boys at the Foundling Hospital, Arabella—along with the desperately needed needlework skills of her lady’s maid—would fit herself with an evening jacket, waistcoat, shirtsleeves, drawers, and breeches.

Act two: hair. This task took several attempts to perfect. Luckily for her, the dandy Beau Brummel had made the Brutus style popular with its longer and somewhat untamed curls at the top of the head. Using Emerson’s pomade, and with some minimal—but unavoidable—cutting, her lady’s maid was able to mold and arrange Arabella’s curly hair to her head for a more tousled look.

Act three: under the cover of darkness—and with the help of her lady’s maid’s older brother, who also happened to be her family’s groomsman—she practiced how to sound and behave like a man.

Act four: the day of her performance. Which she carefully selected for the day her mother would be visiting an ailing friend. Arabella stopped at the Foundling Hospital to deliver most but not all of the altered clothing to the boys, then dashed back to her carriage to perform the final act.

Act five: enter Brooks’s gentlemen’s club and locate the infamous betting book.

“I don’t know why I always let ye talk me into things like this,” Hattie, Arabella’s lady’s maid, groaned as she helped Arabella slip her white shirtsleeves over her bonnet and head. The bonnet was left on to keep any hairs from being disturbed while she dressed inside the moving carriage.

Arabella eyed Hattie skeptically as she fastened the two buttons at her neck, making the stiff collar reach up past her jaw. “You love our little adventures as much as I do.”

Hattie scowled as she handed Arabella her dark-blue breeches with more force than was necessary. “Yes, but this time I’m not goin’ with ye.”

“And I have told you why,” Arabella said, shaking out the stiff material before attempting to thread her leg through the hole. “This is nothing like the times we snuck out to watch the East Asian firework show at Vauxhall or to the Argyll Rooms to hear the Philharmonic Society of London perform. This is a private gentlemen’s club. It will be hard enough to talk my way inside. To try to get us both in?” She shook her head. “It would overcomplicate things.”

“I don’t like it,” Hattie huffed. “What if somethin’ happens and I’m not there to help ye?”

“Nothing will happen,” Arabella said, reaching out to squeeze Hattie’s hand. Her excitement for what secrets she would learn inside those walls far exceeded any nerves she had about the possibility of being caught. “I very much suspect I shall find an empty club. The ton has left London for the summer, and I specifically chose an early hour for today’s adventure. The odds of me being recognized is very small.”

“I still don’t like it,” Hattie grumbled, shaking out the waistcoat.

Arabella looked to the heavens for patience—something she had most assuredly not been born with—and shoved her other leg into her breeches as the carriage bounced and swayed. “This is not about me running into trouble. This is about you missing out on a chance for gossip.”

Hattie had a natural talent for making friends anywhere she went and was therefore privy to all sorts of information. If she hadn’t turned out to be the most loyal lady’s maid, Arabella would’ve recommended her to work for the Bow Street Runners.

A smile tugged at Hattie’s lips. “It’s a private club. Can ye imagine the secrets happenin’ inside?”

Arabella shook her head and laughed. She stood to pull her breeches the rest of the way up and secure the buttons at the waist. “If I promise to keep an ear out for the most juicy piece of gossip, will you stop grumbling and help me finish dressing? We must be nearing St. James’s Street by now.”

Before Hattie could respond, the carriage bounced violently, knocking Arabella backward with a yelp, landing her in Hattie’s lap.

“For goodness sake,” Hattie giggled as she pushed Arabella onto the bench beside her.

“Henry VIII.” Arabella laughed as she righted herself. For the first time since she’d thought of her plan, she was grateful she didn’t have to contend with skirts.

Wearing breeches had been a strange thing to get used to. It was a bit like wearing a corset, only they ran all the way down her legs, molding to her shape and hiding very little. If it weren’t for the added bulk from her brother’s old, leather, knee-high top boots, she would’ve feared her delicate ankles would give away the ruse.

She wanted nothing to ruin this opportunity. She needed this. She needed to try to fill that part of her soul that had felt empty since her father’s death.

“Waistcoat?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Hattie handed her the light-blue garment, which had darker, horizontal stripes to give the illusion of a broader chest and shoulders. In addition to binding her chest, they’d sewn extra pleats into the sides of the shirt to hide what Mr. Bradbury had described as her “attributes” that would certainly give her away.

Slipping into the waistcoat, she began to fasten the row of ivory buttons. There was nothing of splendor or pomp about her appearance. She intended to stay below anyone’s notice by looking the part of a humble, country-bred gentleman.

For the next several minutes, Arabella and Hattie worked together in silence, tying her cravat and slipping her into her dark blue jacket. They’d just managed to put on her boots when the carriage rolled to a stop. There was some noise coming from the street outside, but nothing compared to how loud London could be during the Season.

The carriage swayed, indicating Hattie’s brother had jumped down from his perch.

Arabella released a shaky breath and ran her hands down the length of her thighs, her nerves prickling with anticipation.

This is it.

Getting up from her seat, she moved toward the door.

“Miss?” Hattie called out, stopping her progress.

She turned around. “Yes?”

Hattie’s eyes shot to the top of her head. “Yer hat.”

“My hat?” Arabella knew she hadn’t forgotten her hat; she could feel it atop her head.

Hattie’s eyes widened as if to emphasize her point, and she nodded toward Arabella’s head once again.

Exasperated, Arabella reached up and her fingers grazed the familiarity of her bonnet—

Devil take it! She’d almost forgotten to switch out her bonnet.

Tugging hard on one end, she untied the ribbon beneath her chin and then pulled out the long pins that’d been added to secure the bonnet while she changed.

Hattie took the pins and the bonnet with one hand while handing her the dark-blue topper hat with the other. She gave her a smug grin. “What was that about how ye wouldn’ need me if ye ran into any trouble?”

“I have not yet left the carriage,” Arabella argued. “It does not count.”

Hattie snorted.

Arabella let out a breath and shook her head. Perhaps she was more nervous than she originally thought. Taking another calming breath, she donned her correct hat and turned back toward the carriage door.

“Be careful, miss,” Hattie called out in a more serious tone.

“I will,” Arabella replied, her hand shaking as she reached for the door handle. “No matter what happens, remember our plan.”

“Of course. Jim and I’ll be here waitin’ when ye come out—with no one the wiser.”

Arabella sent up a quick prayer for that to be true as Jim opened the door.

Stepping onto the pavement, Arabella exchanged a nod with Jim. He would drive around the row of buildings in a circle, constantly passing by until she made her exit.

Hattie and Jim each possessed a letter, signed by Arabella, to be used should the worst happen during one of her adventures and she were caught. The letters acquitted them of any guilt, stating she would’ve gone through with the plan with or without their help, and as faithful servants, they remained by her side, seeing that she was as safe as the situation allowed.

Approaching the Portland stone structure, Arabella did her best to avoid eye contact with anyone she passed. The two-story building, with its long rows of arched windows evenly spaced across its front, blended well with the other buildings along the popular street. It was what was inside the club that made it stand out from the others.

Her steps quickened, matching her rapidly beating heart. She could barely hold back her excitement, which was, no doubt, taking away the impression she wanted to give of casual indifference. She was supposed to be playing the part of a gentleman, not a child rushing to eat an entire cake. She needed to pace herself or find herself sickened with regrets.

Using the gold door knocker, she tapped twice against the black surface.

The door opened, revealing the world’s tallest butler standing between her and her goal. The man was a veritable giant, his square stature blocking even a glimpse inside the door.

Goliath cleared his throat. “May I help you, sir?”

Sir.That was promising.

Retrieving the letter she’d forged with her brother’s signature, she took a shaky breath. “My name is Sebastian Latham,” Arabella began, tucking her chin closer to her chest hoping it would give her voice a deeper tone. She extended the letter to the butler.

She’d chosen the name from her inspiration, Twelfth Night, in which the main character, Viola, had disguised herself as a man and used the name of her twin brother, Sebastian.

“I am here on the voucher of my cousin, Mr. Emerson Latham,” she continued, grateful her hand and her voice remained steady, though a nervous sweat had broken out on the back of her neck and under her arms.

Goliath studied her for several long minutes.

Finally taking the letter, he opened it. “Mr. Emerson Latham is not in town?” Goliath asked, his thick, black-and-gray brows lifting as he stared at her from over the top of the forged letter.

“He is not,” she replied, swallowing back the lump in her throat. Her nerves hummed with anticipation and the fear of disappointment, making her heart race.

Would he let her in?

“I am afraid you will have to come back when the other Mr. Latham—”

Goliath’s words were cut short by a familiar and very slurred voice.

“Latham? Latham, you say?”

Goliath turned in the doorway, revealing Lord Digby, the ton’s infamous drunkard. Rounder in the middle, the white-haired man teetered to the right and then the left, his next words somehow sounding even more inebriated.

“Why, Latham never”—he hiccupped—“never s’ought—” Lord Digby scowled and wiggled his jowls, as if the gesture would remove the numbing from his tongue and lips. “What are you doing here?” he managed to finish.

There was a good chance the blurry-eyed lord had mistaken her for her brother; they did, after all, stand at almost a similar height and had the same nose and color of eyes.

Before the butler could question Lord Digby’s conclusion, Arabella followed that undeniable feeling in her gut, urging her to seize the opportunity that presented itself.

“Lord Digby,” she called out with a tone of complete familiarity and offered a friendly bow, proud of herself for not automatically curtsying. “A pleasure to see you, my lord.”

With any luck, she could get the drunkard to help her through the door. She just had to find a way to trick him into offering her an invitation. Goliath wouldn’t dare argue with a member who had the added benefit of being a lord.

Lord Digby took a few tipsy steps toward the door, his feet stumbling on everything and nothing.

She moved closer to the threshold, but Goliath didn’t budge.

“Perhaps you would permit me to be of some assistance, my lord?” Arabella called out around Goliath’s shoulder.

Lord Digby had either grown weary in his struggle or the entrance hall had a serious slant, but he was most assuredly leaning closer to one of the side walls.

“Assistance?” He hiccupped mid-scoff. “My boy, when I need assistance holding down my drink, you can put me in my grave.”

Arabella twisted her lips in annoyance. The man wasn’t proving to be useful.

Lord Digby’s struggle intensified when his left foot connected with his right, launching his upper half sideways while his bumbling feet attempted to catch up. “Confound it, Latham,” he shouted, his arms flailing in an effort to steady himself. “What is taking you so long? Get in here.” He was half bent over and falling fast.

Caught by surprise, it took Arabella a moment to react. Goliath moved out of her way, and with horses stampeding in her stomach, she ran toward the fumbling lord.

Grabbing one of his arms, she attempted to stand him upright while Goliath grabbed the lord’s other arm.

“Took you long ’nough,” Lord Digby grumbled, his weight proving to be far more substantial than she’d anticipated.

“My apologies, Lord Digby,” Arabella said, “but in my defense, you had just said—”

“Hang what I said, man, and help me to the coffee room.”

“Of course, my lord,” she replied, unable to hold back the smile that curved her lips.

Her nervous sweats were gone, replaced by lightning bolts of excitement that coursed through her and brought every sensation inside her to life.

She’d found a way inside.