Chapter Three #2
“This is the ladies’ observation gallery.
” She nodded toward the room below. “That is the main gambling floor. For your own safety, women are not allowed down there without a staff escort. Please wait here, and I will make sure that Mrs. Dove-Lyon is ready to see you.” With that, Helena pivoted and was gone.
Elspeth leaned toward the window, watching the roiling crowd of men below them, which seemed to ebb and flow around the gaming tables spread across the floor like so much storm surge off the coast. All three windows were open and the raucous noise from below added to the snarls of conversation from behind them.
“The fourth circle,” Elspeth repeated.
Eleanor, who had described the establishment as a “nefarious gaming hell but one known for many other services,” had told Elspeth little else about the owner or the hall itself.
She had heard tidbits about it, of course, here and there.
Snippets from friends or servants about the goings-on inside.
Outrageous wagers. Bets the size of a king’s ransom.
Surreptitious meetings. Clandestine dalliances.
Altogether not a place a respectable young woman should the seen, even with a chaperone.
Few people, however, worried about the reputation of a thirty-year-old spinster, and as they had made their way through the room, Elspeth had recognized two duchesses, a variety of countesses, and at least one of the patronesses of Almack’s.
What kind of place is this? A disreputable place filled with reputable people.
“What is he doing?”
Elspeth blinked at Sinclair’s question. “What?”
Her maid pointed at the far corner of the gaming floor. “That man. It looks as if he is balancing a pint of ale on the top of his foot.”
Indeed it did. Tall, blond, and wearing an exquisite kit of dark-red and purple silk, he stood on one foot, a stein balanced on the tip of his lifted slipper.
A parrot performing a carnival trick. With some amusement, Elspeth recognized the man.
Scott Hervey. The second son of an earl whose name she could not remember.
A decent dancer, with more of a sense of balance than he currently demonstrated.
Sinclair’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand. Why would he—”
A woman moved in beside her, skirts rustling as she leaned against the window. “Ha! Hervey’s at it again.” She waved to a group of ladies behind her.
Elspeth stared at her. “Again? Does he do this often?”
The lady laughed. “Oh, yes. Almost every day. He never learns. He has a substantial fortune but not a lick of brains.”
“Oh, he has plenty of brains,” a woman behind Sinclair said. “He just does not care to use them. He says it tires him out to do much thinking.”
“That’s because he prefers to think with an entirely different part of the body.”
The ladies who had crowded around them burst into laughter, as Elspeth felt her cheeks heat. Oh, dear. She glanced at Sinclair, who still watched the scene below with a focused fascination.
Gentlemen clustered around Hervey, money changing hands with quick jerks and obvious calls. When the betting dropped off, the foot would waver, the stein quivering. Betting would resume with haste, even as the ale settled.
Elspeth grinned. He’s playing them like a barker at a fair.
And she quickly spotted his accomplice, the one man holding most of the bets and encouraging the others to join in or raise their stakes.
Hervey’s valet. She had seen the two strolling in the park, which she had thought somewhat unusual. Valets were not often public creatures.
“What is his longest time?” Elspeth asked.
“Twenty-two minutes, so far,” came the answer.
She nodded. “He probably could go longer,” she said to Sinclair. “But he’ll quit when the bets are right.”
Sinclair scowled. “Why wouldn’t he go as long as possible?”
“He’s performing, and they will tire of the game. And when they do, the bets will drop off and will not rebound. See how he watches them?”
Sinclair observed the scene a few more moments. “How do you know this?”
“Believe it or not,” Elspeth said, “I learned about it at a lecture at the Royal Academy. On statistics and human nature.”
Elspeth felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up at Helena. “The Lyon will see you now. Please follow me.”
The cluster of women around them fell away as they left the windows, closing behind them as they jockeyed for position to view the action.
From the observation room, Elspeth and Sinclair followed Helena through one laid out like a smaller version of the gaming floor below.
A variety of tables and dealers lined the edges and center of the room, and women—who were much more somber than the ones they had left behind—participated in cards and other betting games.
While the room still held a loud disharmony of voices, they were all more measured than the men.
At the far side of the room, Helena led Elspeth and Sinclair down a tight spiral staircase, where the taller woman paused.
“We will follow the wall around to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. Stay close to it and to me. Ignore the other patrons. If any of the men approach you, do not speak to them. If they persist, I will take care of it. Do you understand?”
Eyes wide, they both nodded. The door opened, and the noise burst through at a volume Elspeth had not heard since her father had taken her to see the fireworks at Madame Saqui’s tightrope walk at Vauxhall six years ago.
She froze, the clamor overwhelming her. Then Sinclair nudged her from behind, and Elspeth lunged forward, scurrying to keep up with Helena’s long strides, even as she cast scant glances at the room.
Some of the men—red faced, shouting, and obviously intoxicated—lunged from game to game, waving money and calling to the dealers.
Some of the games were lively and raucous; others focused and almost serene.
Liveried footmen weaved among tables and patrons, carrying trays filled with glasses of wine and champagne, along with small plates of treats.
A light-blue smoke hung near the ceiling, and the scents of tobacco, ale, sweat, and fried meat hung heavy in the air.
Over the top of called bets, threats, and dares, an exquisite melody wafted through the room, and Elspeth caught a glimpse of a gallery at the end of the hall, one filled with musicians who seemed to play on, no matter what occurred on the main floor.
And there was plenty to watch. At one table they passed, three men suddenly shot to their feet, one grabbing a chair and brandishing it over his head as calls of “Cheater!” and “Shark!” bounced among the players.
Two men snatched at nonexistent pistols, looking startled when their hands did not find weapons.
Three broad men, dressed in a similar fashion to Helena, rushed at the table.
“What in the world—”
Helena looked around at her. “Hazard. People get worked up about it. That’s why no firearms are allowed on the floor. Do not fret. The wolves will take care of it.”
“Wolves?”
Helena nodded at the broad men. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s staff who maintains the peace.”
As Elspeth looked back, the table had, in fact, settled some, with two of the men escorting the one with the chair away. She glanced at Sinclair, who watched them go.
“I think I feel safer,” the maid uttered, then crossed her arms over her chest.
They followed one wall into the corner, then turned toward a wall that bowed out into the room slightly. They passed two closed doors, then Helena rapped sharply on a third one. She motioned for Elspeth and Sinclair to go inside. Helena announced them, then stepped outside, closing the door.
Elspeth’s breath caught at the sudden silence.
It felt like the first time she had seen a production of Hamlet, that breadth of time between the end of the play and audience’s realization that it had reached its conclusion.
Everyone had been so stunned by what they had seen, it took a moment for the uproar of applause to begin. Just a moment of pure, awed silence.
Then the woman behind the desk spoke. “I understand, Lady Elspeth, that you are in need of a husband.”
Elspeth stared, unable to speak, at the woman before her.
Her face was shielded by a veil, and a cup of tea sat near one hand.
A sole oil lamp on one edge of the desk gave off a steady glow, although some light seeped into the room from the windows near the door, which looked out on the gaming floor.
On the other side of the desktop sat a silver tray with a small teapot.
And unlike the main room, this place smelled of the lilies that sat in a vase on a nearby table, as well as hints of jasmine and mint.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon held out one hand. “Both of you, please sit.”
Elspeth eased into one of the two cabriolet armchairs in front of the desk, while Sinclair perched on a straight-backed chair near the wall. Elspeth smoothed her skirt, then clutched her reticule in her lap, her knuckles white. “Thank you, um, Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“I am.” She took a sip of tea.
Elspeth’s eyes widened as she stared at the cup and saucer. “Cyclamen coum!”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sat a little straighter. “You recognize the pattern?”
“Oh, yes! Round-leav’d Cyclamen. From Curtis’s botanical publication. Is that Spode 1678?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s voice held a hint of amusement and admiration. “It is, although I am surprised you recognized it. Not many ladies know the formal names of plants.”
Elspeth could not contain her excitement.
“Of course, I do! It is one of my mother’s favorite flowers.
And we have studied the Curtis magazines for ages.
We grow cyclamen in our conservatory, and Mother was thrilled when Spode released that pattern a few years ago.
Of course, we could not af—” Elspeth broke off, her manners finally catching up with her enthusiasm.
She slumped in her chair. “My apologies.”