Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
From the street, the Seven Sins appeared to be a quiet, unassuming residence. There were no people outside the front entrance, waiting to be let in, nor were there carriages, queueing up to drop off club members. Just a brightly lit door with potted shrubs on either side.
As Carrigan drew the carriage to a stop, Audrey’s resolve faltered. This was the address the private investigator had delivered, and if correct, through those doors she would find a club of sin and vice.
And hopefully, Lord Wimbly.
Carrigan shook the carriage as he descended and came around to open the door. The expression he wore did not help her courage to reassert itself.
“Your Grace, I know it isn’t my place to say it, but I would much rather turn this conveyance around and return you to Violet House.”
Poor Carrigan. Audrey did hate to worry him, but if the ball of apprehension swirling low in her stomach was not going to sway her, neither was his fussing.
“Where will you take the carriage?” she asked him instead of making any acknowledgement of his protestation. He grimaced.
“Around the block. There’s a mews where I’m to wait.”
She peered at him as she was bringing the ribbons of the mask into place around her ears.
The black contraption of lace and silk, dotted with small rubies and diamonds, had been part of her costume two winters before, for a masquerade Lady Dutton hosted.
The mask had been too beautiful to discard.
She’d wondered if there would be an occasion in which she might wear it again, and when she’d seen a number of women in her vision of the Seven Sins wearing dominos for anonymity, she’d dug it out of her cedar chest.
“How do you know about the mews?” she asked her driver.
Carrigan had the decency to hesitate before answering. “This is not my first time here, Your Grace.”
Philip. He’d been a member after all.
“I see.” Audrey finished tying the mask into place, her indignation firing up her resolve once again. “When were you here last?”
Carrigan helped her to the pavement. For a large and muscular man, he looked awfully sheepish as he contemplated his answer.
“You are loyal to His Grace and for that I am thankful. But this is important, Carrigan. Anything could be leveraged either for or against him.”
The driver sighed and nodded. “It was about four months ago, I’d wager. Right after Christmas.”
That recently? Audrey tried not to let her driver see the prick of disappointment burrowing into her.
“Thank you, Carrigan. I won’t take too long.
” With a hitch of her chin, she made her way up the front steps.
She presented herself at the door with all the same regality that she’d exude had she been entering a fine soiree, her husband on her arm.
Meeting the man at the door, his combed hair slick with macassar oil, his appraising eyes just as oily, she recognized how alone she was.
“My lady,” he intoned, taking a short bow. “Your entrance piece?”
She reached into her reticule, a cornflower blue silk damask to match her gown, and withdrew the locket she had taken from Miss Lovejoy’s drawer. She prayed this was the piece he referred to.
The doorman leaned forward to inspect it with a small monocle. Audrey wondered how many phony lockets were presented. It depended, she supposed, on the club dues and how exorbitant they were.
The doorman stood and lowered the monocle. “Very good, my lady. Welcome.”
He stepped aside, and Audrey’s limbs moved swiftly into the entrance foyer, though they trembled. She’d passed inspection. Now, for the hard part—finding Lord Wimbly.
Audrey let the doorman take her wrap, who then passed it to another attendant who swiftly disappeared into a cloakroom.
Taking a quick glance around, there seemed to be only one place to go: up a twisting staircase.
A slight thrumming of noise came from the first story.
Audrey placed a gloved hand on the railing and started to ascend.
Though the barrier of her silk gloves would likely protect her from any vision, she retracted her hand, just in case.
She didn’t want or need any visions tonight.
When she found Wimbly, she would need her wits about her—presuming he was present at all.
It was entirely possible he wasn’t, but Greer had made a discreet visit to the Wimbly House kitchen, where her second cousin was employed as a maid.
Apparently, the marquess was out nearly every evening, and the driver related that most evenings he went to Montagu Place.
Audrey hoped he would be in the Seven Sins loosening his cravat.
She parted through a solid wall of cigar smoke and perfume and entered a large room. The entire first level was one expansive gaming hall. Card tables were scattered around the room—faro, vingt et un, baccarat, dice—and crowds congregated at each one.
Audrey’s mask covered her face from hairline to bottom lip, and her breath came hot and fast as she stared at the flesh on display. Bare shoulders, tight bodices, plumped décolletage, and many of the ladies lounged in men’s laps. Some ladies wore masks, like her, but most did not.
It was exactly as her vision had been, though it was unlike anything she had seen before in person. She pictured Philip entering this room, confidently walking toward one of the gaming tables, perhaps smiling at an acquaintance, greeting them warmly, easily.
She could not do the same as she picked her way along the floor; her lips were rigid, like porcelain.
Curve them into a grin, and they would crack.
Her fingers clutched her reticule in a stranglehold, her palms sweating as she searched the room for the man she’d hoped to see.
Now, she half dreaded it. Being alone in a place where everyone else seemed to be conversing and enjoying time together made her feel as if she sorely stuck out.
The nape of her neck erupted in a cold sweat as she waited for those she passed to stare at her with recognition.
Attention did turn her way, but she’d been sure to wear a gown that would hopefully detract attention from her face and hold it around her bosom.
The plunging neckline was more revealing than what she normally wore out; the gown had come from Milan, but she had not dared wear it for the shocking cut of the bodice.
It did captivate attention now, mostly from male eyes as she drifted by tables, pretending at confidence.
Where was Wimbly? Perhaps it was too early yet. She’d give it an hour. Watch some of the gaming. Try to avoid saying too much.
But as she moved to the rear of the floor, near a collection of divans and smaller card tables, she spotted him.
Lord Wimbly sat in a cushioned chair at a card table, but he wasn’t playing seriously.
He’d angled his chair so that it faced outward, providing him a view of both the room and of the active baize green table.
Men and women crowded around it, a haze of smoke above their heads.
The marquess puffed on a cigar as he sought out something or someone on the main floor.
Whatever was unfolding at the card table, it held no interest for him.
With a ball of dread in her stomach, Audrey hiked her chin and moved toward him, deliberately swaying her hips in a more pronounced—and she hoped provocative—manner.
She felt ridiculous, mostly, but Wimbly’s rumored appetite for female companions didn’t disappoint.
His eyes latched onto her almost immediately.
They were lined around the edges, with the skin underneath a little puffy from too much drink and late, wild nights. His jowls were just beginning to sag, not quite detracting from his otherwise handsome looks. Audrey girded herself and forced a thin smile.
Wimbly took a prolonged moment to stand in greeting. He must have hoped she would slide right into his lap. When she didn’t, he got to his feet.
“Good evening, my lady,” he said, and Audrey went a bit woozy from relief. He didn’t recognize her. Had he, he would have called her the proper “Your Grace.”
“Lord Wimbly,” she replied.
He waggled his brows. “The beautiful lady has the advantage. I don’t suppose you’d fill me in on your identity?”
“If I wanted to do that, I wouldn’t have bothered with the mask,” she replied as haughtily as she could muster.
He chuckled. “Care to join our table?”
He didn’t seem to be playing at the moment, and what she had to ask him was better done in private. Or at least, semi-private. She didn’t want to find herself in any alcoves with the marquess.
“I don’t care for dice,” she replied with an air of indifference. “But there is something I wish to discuss with you, my lord.”
A flicker of excitement lit Wimbly’s brown irises. Audrey masked a shudder.
“This way,” he said, taking his whisky from the table and extending a hand toward one of the nearby divans. They wouldn’t be alone, but they wouldn’t be shoulder to shoulder with their neighbors either.
He waited for Audrey to sit before taking the section of cushion directly next to her; their thighs brushed, and she couldn’t keep up the facade. She angled herself to the side, away from him. Wimbly only gargled another insinuating laugh, as if she was playing at innocence.
Audrey tried to tame her roiling stomach.
Wimbly reminded her too much of Lord Bainbury.
It wasn’t looks that made the marquess resemble her former betrothed.
Their similarities ran deeper than that.
It was in the inspecting probe of his gaze, the certainty that whatever thoughts ran through his mind weren’t nearly as gentlemanly as his outward manner.
There was an oily quality to both men; they would keep whomever they brought close just out of reach, on the surface.
Bainbury, however, had never attempted to slide his hand along her person, as Wimbly now did. His fingers scuffed teasingly at her knee.