Six
“I wish you girls would come with us,” Mrs. Danby remarked next Monday evening as her maid curled her hair. Her daughters were peering into her room, trying to look as though they weren’t counting the minutes until she left. Della needed time to prepare her disguise before she was to meet Lord Ashton, and her work couldn’t begin until her parents were safely out of the house. “Ever since you started that club, you spend all your time there.”
Della had used Bishop’s as an excuse to escape the fête the rest of the family was attending this evening. Even though the club was closed on Mondays (and had been for the three years it had existed), her mother hadn’t noticed.
If Mrs. Danby objected to Bishop’s, it was only in an abstract sort of way. Not really an objection so much as confusion. She had never understood why her eldest daughter should want to tie herself down in such an endeavor when she could be socializing instead.
“Annabelle could come with you,” Della volunteered.
“I can’t,” her sister replied without missing a beat. “I have heaps of reading to catch up on.”
They exchanged a simmering glance.
There would be a row over it once they were alone, but Della would be damned if she would let her sister ruin this for her.
She never had time to do something for herself these days. Della intended to make the most of her evening out with Lord Ashton, and that didn’t include fending off Annabelle’s barbs.
Mrs. Danby sighed, pinching her cheeks in the mirror of her vanity. With her rich, chestnut hair and full lips, she was still a beautiful woman, even in her mid-forties. “For you to manage your own lives then.”
If their mother’s childrearing style had a motto, something to be stitched above the nursery in petit point, this would be it: For you to manage your own lives.
The Danby siblings had been managing their own lives for decades. With great success, as far as Della was concerned.
“Have a good time, Mama. Give my regards to Mrs. Hayward.”
Their parents went out nearly every evening, leaving the children free to do as they wished without any consequence until one or two in the morning. Peter occasionally posed a problem, for though he was as reprobate as any of them, he expected his sisters to hold higher standards. But as he was accompanying their parents this evening, they were quite safe. The moment the front door clicked shut in the latch, Della raced to construct her disguise.
“If you’re going, I’m coming too.” Annabelle hollered after her.
Not if I leave without you.
But this proved easier thought than done. Della had given her maid the night off (her usual reward in exchange for continued silence about everything Della got up to) and now she had to dress herself. Most of her gowns were a bit complicated. Besides which, she still wasn’t sure which one would be least recognizable if they crossed paths with a man she knew.
Annabelle popped into her room without knocking, pausing to stare at the sight of Della in her shift.
“Are you not coming with us? I can accompany your viscount all on my own if you like. He’ll be quite safe with me.”
Annabelle had already donned her disguise in the time that Della had been assessing her options. She was dressed in a gentleman’s suit and top hat, her hair pinned up carefully beneath.
She stole my idea, the little cheat. She looked the part very well, being so slim that she had no figure to hide and so young that her hairless face passed as boyish. Her suit draped perfectly from her narrow shoulders, forcing Della to conclude that she’d had it tailor-made for the occasion. Their father’s and brother’s clothes would have been far too large for her. Where had she found a tailor willing to indulge this scheme?
“You’ve wasted your money on that getup. I’ve already told you, you’re not coming.”
“Then I’ll tell.” Annabelle stuck out her chin defiantly. This was an empty threat, and they both knew it. There could be no appeal to their parents before ten or eleven tomorrow morning. And if Annabelle wanted to betray her secrets, they each had a list a mile long they could use against each other. No one wanted to open that Pandora’s box.
“Don’t be childish. Just let me have my fun for one evening.”
“You can have your fun with that stuffy old hypocrite all you like, just so long as you let me come too.”
Della narrowed her eyes, irritated. She secretly hoped she might kiss Lord Ashton tonight, if the opportunity arose. Annabelle would ruin everything.
“Be honest,” she said. “You aren’t really worried about me. You just want to see the dancers.” Without anyone else here, there was no need to pretend.
“Fine,” Annabelle conceded. “I just want to see the dancers. When else will I have a chance like this one?”
“The ballet.”
“You and I both know it’s not the same thing.”
That was true enough. Della felt her resistance giving way. At times, she and her sister had much in common.
Sensing her advantage, Annabelle pressed home. “And anyway, I have more reason to want to go than you. You don’t even like women. This might sustain my dreams for weeks.”
Far be it from me to force conformity on anyone.
“Fine, fine.” Della cast her hands up in defeat. “But help me get ready, at least. Your disguise looks quite well on you. Do you think I should try that?”
Annabelle beamed at the praise. Once they’d pilfered some clothes from Peter’s closet, it became apparent that Della couldn’t transform herself with quite the same ease. Her breasts and hips were simply too full to be hidden by an evening coat.
“It would help balance you out if you padded your middle,” Annabelle observed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Which is more important, your vanity or passing undetected?”
“My vanity,” Della replied without hesitation.
Annabelle heaved a great sigh and rolled her eyes. “It’s back to disguising you as a light-skirt then.”
“Won’t it be obvious my clothes are too fine? I can’t find anything suitable.”
“Maybe you’re a wealthy gentleman’s mistress,” Annabelle replied, obviously enjoying this. “Lord Ashton’s, perhaps. Just pick whichever gown has the lowest neckline.”
Della would have liked to issue a cutting retort, but the fact of the matter was that she would do exactly as her sister suggested. She picked a scarlet gown with an off-the-shoulder neckline that dipped in the front of the bodice to close in a wide vee with a trail of silk roses at the center. It was designed to draw the eye down.
She hadn’t worn it in years, and it was a bit too snug on her now. Once Della had squeezed herself into it, she looked downright indecent.
“Do you have a gaudy wig, as your viscount suggested?”
In fact, Della did have a wig, but she’d been reluctant to try it on, remembering his scorn. With some assistance, she managed to pin her real hair beneath the false, and she was a blond.
Annabelle clucked her tongue. “Your eyebrows don’t match at all .”
“It’s dark out!”
They found a large fan to complete her disguise, so that Della might shield her face if she needed to.
Another ten minutes, and they slipped outside to meet Lord Ashton without the servants seeing.
“Both of you?” He raised his eyebrows at Annabelle’s clothes, but didn’t comment on them. “Does Miss Annabelle fear to leave us alone together even though this whole scheme is your idea?”
“Yes,” Annabelle said firmly, before Della could answer. Only her fidgeting hands betrayed her excitement at the sights that awaited them.
“I was hoping you might have changed your mind,” Ashton continued. He was dressed in sleek black evening wear, as if he were on his way to the opera. It made their outing seem more significant. “Don’t either of you care about what will happen if you’re recognized?”
“No one will even look at us. They’ll all be watching the show,” Della said. The brim of Lord Ashton’s top hat cast a large shadow beneath the gas streetlight, hiding his face from view, but Della could feel his eyes roaming over her. She drew in a breath. “We’ll be sitting in the dark the whole time and we won’t say a word to anyone. In and out.”
“And if you’re mistaken, what then?” He shook his head. “I’ll be the one accused of corrupting you, while you behave as though nothing bad could happen in your charmed life.”
“I’m not ignorant of the dangers of anything I do, my lord. But I won’t live in fear, pretending I don’t want to experience anything London has to offer because of what someone else would think of me. None of us know how long we are for this world. I’d rather enjoy my life while I can, even if I should pay for it one day.”
His voice softened, though only slightly. “Very well, but see that you stick to your word. Stay in the shadows and don’t talk to anyone. You stay by my side the whole night, and you follow my instructions.”
A shiver crept over Della’s spine. He couldn’t possibly know how attractive she found this speech, particularly the last part.
“Thank you,” she murmured, hoping he could hear the feeling in her voice. “We appreciate this.”
“Thank me when the evening is over, if we all escape unnoticed. Not before.”
They set out to find a hansom cab and were soon on their way.
Laurent’s Casino was located in the Adelaide Gallery on the north end of the Lowther Arcade, on the Strand. It was only a short drive east of Mayfair, though the streets were clogged enough to slow them down.
Della kept peering out the window to catch a glimpse of their surroundings, while Lord Ashton reminded her to stay out of sight and not speak to anyone every few minutes, looking very stern all the while.
The poor man. If the carriage ride over had him this worked up, how would he survive an evening of debauchery?
She couldn’t wait to find out.
Lord Ashton paid the coachman and handed Della down from the carriage. Was it her imagination, or did his fingers linger on hers for the barest moment? He moved as if about to assist Annabelle, then quickly turned away, remembering she was supposed to be a gentleman.
The building was quite large and stately, as were those on either side. Della had been here back when the building used to house the Royal Gallery of Practical Science. It had been a popular attraction for children and families until it closed and was replaced by the present casino, which was said to be far more profitable.
There was a marked difference between the gallery of her memory and its current circumstances. Lively music was punctuated by the occasional whoops and cheers of the revelers inside. A number of ladies were gathered in the shelter of the Italianate columns before the door, laughing together and without any man to accompany them. They were as well dressed as she was, and Della might have mistaken them for members of the upper class, had not one turned to a passing gentleman just then and leered at him invitingly.
Why, I needn’t have worried about my gown at all! They looked just like anyone else.
“Remember not to talk to anyone,” Lord Ashton said for the hundredth time, as they approached the entrance. “Keep your head down.”
Della lifted her fan to conceal her face. Ashton drew a deep breath and turned over six shillings to the doorman, receiving three tin tokens in exchange.
The entrance opened into a large, carpeted room, furnished as handsomely as anything one might see in a Mayfair town house. Gas jets lit the glittering chandeliers above them, making Della rather conscious that the place was not so dark as she might have hoped. Lord Ashton must have shared the same concern, for he led them directly upstairs to the first floor. Della lingered at the bottom of the steps, striving to take in as much as she could before she was whisked away. The majority of the ground floor, which had once held exhibits on the functioning of steam engines or the application of laughing gas, had been stripped bare and converted for dancing. What little space was not occupied by the dance floor belonged to the liquor counters, which were doing a brisk trade. Della had no time to observe any more, for Lord Ashton hissed, “ Come here! ” and jerked his head toward the stairs.
She followed him up to a balcony, where the difference in class immediately became evident. The dancers below, still visible to Della through the railing, were mainly dressed in the style of clerks and tradesmen. Upstairs, the gentlemen wore full evening attire like Lord Ashton. The ladies were all in silks, with long trains and heavy jewelry. She could have mistaken them for her social equals, until a blonde called out for more “fizz” and lit herself a cigarette.
The band was situated on the opposite gallery, above the dancers. They were a larger number than she would have expected, perhaps forty or fifty all told, and very skillful. She understood the conductor to be Laurent himself, who was said to be the best in all of London.
“This way,” Lord Ashton said, and led them to an alcove that was tucked away from view, just beyond the bar. It was fitted with paintings on all sides: Leda in the embrace of the swan; Europa riding the white bull.
“My, there certainly is a common theme to these.”
“Hmm?” Lord Ashton followed her gaze. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”
“I hope this doesn’t reflect on the evening’s entertainment.”
He paused to consider the paintings for a moment before responding, “I expect all the performers to be human.”
He said it so seriously that she had to laugh.
“Don’t do that,” Lord Ashton looked to either side of them, as if fearing eavesdroppers. “It attracts attention.”
Della doubted the risk was as great as he thought. The casino wasn’t too crowded (perhaps because it was ten in the evening on a Monday), and those who had come were concentrated on the dance floor.
But Lord Ashton was only trying to protect her in his own way, so she whispered, “I’ll do my best.” It seemed to reassure him.
“We can’t see anything from back here,” Annabelle complained. “I’m going to move closer to the railing.”
“Don’t.” Lord Ashton must be the sort of man who was used to bringing others in line with a look, but his powers of glowering were wasted on Annabelle, who stood and marched herself to the edge of the balcony.
“I’m going to go too,” Della whispered. “Just for a minute.”
“Why did you bother asking me to accompany you if you had no intention of listening to a word I say?” he ground out through clenched teeth.
“Only a minute!” Della hurried to follow her sister.
“Is that Lord Palmerston?” Annabelle tipped her chin toward a clean-shaven man in his fifties, who was seated on a plush velvet sofa some distance from them, flanked by two ladies several decades his junior.
“It could be,” Lord Ashton replied. He’d crept up on Della’s other side, startling her with his nearness. He smelled clean—like freshly laundered sheets and something warmer just beneath it. Sandalwood, maybe? She couldn’t tell if it was a very mild cologne or just the natural scent of him. “This place is popular among men from all ranks of life.”
Della took in the scene below with eyes wide enough to capture every detail. There were some sixty-odd couples on the floor, and their dance was at once familiar and unlike that of any ballroom she had attended. They repeated movements she knew, but without any of the ordered unity she expected. One couple danced a waltz, another a polka, with no regard for their neighbors. Miraculously, no one crashed into anyone else. They all seemed to be having the time of their lives. Though their dance might be unconventional, Della noted there was no rough behavior from anyone. Where there weren’t enough partners for all, a pair of ladies even danced together, and no one seemed to pay them much mind.
Della nudged Annabelle, who nudged her a bit harder in return, as if to say, Yes, yes, I already saw.
When the dance ended, gentlemen flocked to the liquor counters and purchased glasses of what looked to be beer and gin, often turning these over to their dance partners, who drank without restraint. Della couldn’t stop staring. Ladies could do whatever they wanted here! Why hadn’t she discovered this place sooner?
A few of the couples made their way back upstairs to rest after the song and Lord Ashton grew nervous again. “That’s enough, let’s go back to the alcove. It’s darker there.”
Della had seen enough to have satisfied her curiosity and moved to obey, though Annabelle ignored them.
“Leave her a little longer,” Della murmured. “She looks well enough like a boy in her suit. No one will give her a second glance.”
Lord Ashton frowned but said nothing, which she took for agreement.
“Might we have something to drink?” she ventured to ask. Her fan wasn’t as effective combating the heat as she’d hoped. “What’s that icy thing those people have got?”
“Sherry cobbler. It’s an American cocktail. I’ll buy one for you if you like. They aren’t too strong. Only you must give me your word you won’t wander astray while I’m gone.”
“You speak as if I were a cat rather than a person,” Della noted.
“You’re certainly as ungovernable as one,” he muttered, though there was a reluctant twitch at the corner of his lips. This seemed a victory.
Lord Ashton withdrew to the adjacent liquor counter and returned a moment later with two sherry cobblers. When he reclaimed his spot on the divan, he set the second one before Annabelle’s vacant seat rather than his own.
“Thank you. Don’t you want anything?”
“I don’t drink,” he said simply.
Della was so astounded, he might have knocked her over with a feather. Everyone drank, save the teetotalers. The question was only whether a gentleman drank in moderation or to excess.
Goodness, was Lord Ashton a teetotaler?
How did such a man write a guidebook full of amusements?
Della tried not to let her shock show plainly, though she wasn’t sure she succeeded. She took a sip of her drink to give her face something to do besides make unwanted expressions. The sherry cobbler was both sweet and tart, but she refrained from telling Lord Ashton how much she enjoyed it, given his most recent revelation. Best to find a safer subject of conversation.
“Have you been here often?”
“Only once or twice,” Ashton replied. “I needed to see what all the fuss was about once it opened, but I can’t waste my time here every night.” After a small pause, he added, “Though I’ll own the music is excellent.”
He was right about that. There was nothing like music to unite a group of strangers in common feeling. Della’s thoughts were already leaping to plans for Bishop’s. They couldn’t fit anywhere near this many musicians on their premises, of course, but perhaps a string quartet would elevate the atmosphere…
Oh dear, she was neglecting their conversation to follow her own train of thought. And just when Lord Ashton had dropped some of his usual reserve. She could almost imagine they were old friends catching up.
“What sort of place do you prefer to frequent?” Della asked hastily. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t drink. He didn’t attend casinos or dancing halls. What was his pleasure, then? “How do you like to spend your time when you aren’t working on your books?”
When Lord Ashton replied, his tone was crisp and businesslike once more. Perhaps she’d lost her moment. “I don’t leave myself much time to be idle. I devote my days to my writing, and I sit in the House of Lords when the debate is important. I make time to visit a few close friends, but I don’t see the point of drinking and dancing all night.”
Della shouldn’t have been surprised by this, but somehow she was.
“You mean to say you don’t even attend house parties here in town?” She’d wondered why she’d never seen him before their first meeting at Verey’s, for she used to attend all the major events of the season before she’d begun devoting herself to Bishop’s. She’d presumed that a peer might run in a more exclusive circle than hers, even if the Danby family’s wealth was enough to make them welcome in most houses. “Not even a country ball?”
“I don’t have time for such things.” Those lovely green eyes of his had grown guarded. She’d touched a sore spot somehow, without meaning to. If only Lord Ashton would let her understand him, it might be easier to navigate his moods.
“It doesn’t sound as if you leave yourself any time for fun,” she observed.
“Fun?” He said the word as if he harbored great suspicion for it.
“Yes. It’s something people do to enjoy their lives and replenish their energy.”
“In my experience, the selfish pursuit of pleasure only leads to heartbreak. Men gamble away their fortunes, or drink to excess and make fools of themselves, betray their wives, or even get themselves killed at racing or dueling on occasion. Far from replenishing their energy, self-indulgence makes them useless for anything but further self-indulgence.”
“What an unforgiving view you take of your fellow man.”
“Come, Miss Danby.” He leaned back in his seat and cocked his head, studying her. “You run a business that you’ve told me you attend every night of the week except Mondays. You now aspire to write a book, as well. Our acquaintance has been brief, but you strike me as a woman who likes to keep herself occupied. Surely you can’t tell me you find time to keep pace with the events of the social season on top of all this?”
“Well…” Della’s face grew hot, as if she’d been caught out in a fib. “I suppose I have been forced to decline a number of invitations since we opened our doors.” She thought of how long it had been since she’d seen Miss Chatterjee, or any of her old friends. It was hard to maintain connections when she missed so many of the routs and balls they attended while she was at Bishop’s. “But I still make my morning calls whenever I can, and besides, missing a dinner party or two doesn’t mean I don’t have fun. All my endeavors are things that I love. So I’m always enjoying myself.”
He smiled at this. It was his first real smile of the evening.
“I’ve no doubt that you do.”
Might she be winning him over, at least a little? He seemed more relaxed in her presence than he had been at their Tuesday meetings. Perhaps the change in setting did him some good, notwithstanding his proclaimed aversion to fun.
Della still wasn’t persuaded he was being completely honest with her—or with himself, more likely. No one could live without some joy in their days.
“Don’t you love writing?” she asked. She took another sip of sherry cobbler and savored the feeling of citrus at the back of her cheeks. “You must, to have produced three books and be working on a fourth. And you must love seeing new places, or you wouldn’t have chosen the subject.”
Lord Ashton seemed to need a moment to consider his reply. His lips parted the barest touch, without forming words. When he spoke, Della wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to himself. “I suppose I did love traveling when I was younger. Discovering new places, as you say. But I’m not sure if I can say that I love writing. More that it’s something I’m good at, and it seemed a way to make myself useful when I needed that.”
There was something like a confession in the way he presented this information, though Della felt as though she didn’t quite understand him. Why should a viscount need a hobby to feel useful? In her experience, peers usually considered themselves useful simply by virtue of being born.
And then there was the more pressing question: “But how can you spend so much time on something unless you love it?”
“I just sit down and apply myself to the task.” Ashton shrugged, as though this were perfectly ordinary and not a feat approaching sorcery.
“For three entire books? I can’t imagine working that long on something unless I feel a passion for it.”
“You’re a more passionate person than I am, perhaps.” He said the words almost affectionately. Or was that only wishful thinking on her part? She would swear that she’d caught his eyes skimming appreciatively over her gown just now.
I could teach this man a thing or two about passion if I had the chance , Della mused, eyeing him in the darkened room. She liked the way he was speaking to her this evening. His voice had a naturally commanding quality to it. Though this had annoyed her at their first meeting, she’d soon come to enjoy it, particularly when any coldness in his tone was chased away by good humor. The gaslight above them made the gray at Lord Ashton’s temples shine with silver and set his features into stark relief. Though she had always admired his looks, he was at a particular advantage tonight. The lighting lent him an air of mystery, or perhaps that was the result of their conversation, which had begun to feel rather intimate. His perfectly tailored clothes skimmed the planes of the firm body beneath. She wanted very much to reach out and touch him. To feel the heat of his skin beneath her own.
You really shouldn’t. The more reasonable part of Della’s mind often adopted a tone that was very similar to Jane’s. You still have most of a book to write. How will you manage that if he rejects you and you’re too embarrassed to show your face again?
But the less reasonable (and far stronger) part of Della’s mind had its counterargument ready: First, she was perfectly capable of writing her guidebook without Lord Ashton’s help. If he stopped calling on her, she would simply manage on her own as she’d intended from the start. Second, it was apparent that Lord Ashton was far too proper to make any advance toward her, even if he did feel an attraction. The only way she could be sure how he felt was to signal her interest too clearly to be ignored. And third (here was the most important part), she wanted very, very much to make her cold, aloof viscount melt into a helpless puddle of desire at her feet.
In fact, she could think of nothing that would please her better this evening. The matter was decided.