Chapter 3
Georgina spent the rest of the day catching up on missed sleep and allowing her headache to subside.
By the evening, she had bathed and changed into fresh clothes, restoring herself sufficiently to undertake the first step in assisting Arthur out of his difficulties.
Not that she had a firm plan in mind. All Georgina knew was that Arthur had displayed such a high level of confidence in her, she could not let him down.
The journey to the establishment of ill-repute would give her ample time to contemplate her options.
After dining with her father, she set forth to St James’s Square.
Calling to mind Arthur’s hopeful eyes watching her keenly from behind his spectacles, Georgina rallied herself as she stepped down onto the street outside the discreet facade of Solitaires.
It looked just like every other residential dwelling on the street.
She hoped Mrs Gardner would be receptive if she offered to repay the debt in full, although she anticipated an appeal to this woman’s sensibility and morality would prove useless.
In trying to hit upon a solution, Georgina had briefly entertained a range of dramatic methods for settling the issue, including holding up Mrs Gardner at gunpoint during one of her parties or simply sourcing a dishonourable fiend to invade her home and overturn it in search of the promissory notes.
As titillating as it was to consider such measures, Georgina opted for the most straight-forward solution.
She paused on the street, surprised at her own sudden passion to protect Arthur.
Admittedly, his resemblance to Henry made it difficult to deny him.
Nor could she sit by and allow any other like him—whether a miris, honourian, or otherwise vulnerable person who trusted easily or out of necessity—to be put at risk.
Not wanting to alert Mrs Gardner to her involvement in the matter yet, Georgina decided that a reconnaissance operation would be beneficial.
She would seek admittance into Solitaires, promising to gamble, and this would provide her with the chance to monitor some of Mrs Gardner’s tricks and, with any luck, spy where she concealed her promissory notes.
If housebreaking became necessary later, this information would serve her well.
Georgina strode up the stairs to the front door.
She had to find a way inside. Houses such as these relied on maintaining a low profile to avoid detection by the authorities.
This allowed them to avoid paying the appropriate taxes on their revenues and set them apart from the more honest clubs—the type that enjoyed Georgina’s -patronage.
One could gain admittance into Solitaires via personal invitation from the hostess herself or another club member.
Georgina had neither. It was unfortunate that she had not had more notice; she could have commissioned one of her friends, Lord Robert Coulthurst or Mrs Sarah Fortescue, to attend with her.
Their titles would have simplified her entry.
Nevertheless, she was certain her own social standing would facilitate her entry.
Mrs Gardner would be a fool to turn away the legendary Miss Pace and her substantial fortune. Georgina counted on this.
However, she also wished to be inconspicuous. Nothing about her, or her friendship circle, denoted discretion.
Georgina had dressed herself appropriately for the evening’s entertainment, selecting a pair of beige pantaloons displaying her shapely legs, knee-high black riding boots, a white blouse with a lace cravat and a green coat, tailored and threaded by Weston’s expert hands.
A ribbon secured her glossy black curls, and a few loose tendrils framed her face.
The young maid who greeted Georgina at the door regarded her dubiously.
“Good evening. My name is Miss Georgina Pace. Might you let me in to Mrs Gardner’s party? Sadly, I do not have an invitation.” Georgina cast one of her brightest smiles, calculated to smash down the resistance of even the most cynical person standing in her way.
The maid’s cheeks coloured deeply. “M-Mrs Gardner is not having a party.”
Georgina knew that the Bow Street Runners would welcome the intelligence of such a prolific, though highly illegal, gambling den.
She therefore suspected that Mrs Gardner had tasked the young woman with evaluating the quality of the arriving guests—to filter out such emissaries, and to only welcome guests with a formal invitation.
“She is not? My good friend, Lord Telford, must have advised me incorrectly… . Excuse me, you have something there.” Georgina removed one of her gloves and, with her thumb, wiped an invisible smudge off the girl’s pink cheek.
The maid’s breathing deepened visibly. “Oh!”
Gratified that she had put the young creature off guard, Georgina leaned against the doorway, the tails of her long greatcoat swishing around her. “Now, sweet girl, are you going to turn me away? Surely you might sneak me in somehow?”
The girl gulped. “If I let you in, I will be in a lot of trouble, miss.”
“Of course, that won’t do. If your mistress is displeased by my presence—and I vow she will not be—then I shall say I overthrew you,” Georgina said with a laugh, removing her other glove and tucking both into her hat, which she then passed over with her coat to the lass.
Moments later, she was across the threshold and into the house. That had almost been too easy.
The obliging maid ushered her up the stairs and into a gaming room, where she found gentlemen, ladies, and electora of the ton playing piquet, whist, hazard, faro, and EO.
A good range of amusements were on offer, Georgina granted.
Without prior knowledge of the gambling hall, one would not know it existed.
She certainly admitted that Mrs Gardner did well to maintain discretion and order over her establishment.
The room reminded Georgina of a beehive.
Music hummed around the chamber and blended with the buzzing sounds of laughter, dice rolling, and cards being shuffled.
Attendants sailed between the tables, topping up the guests’ drinks to the brim.
This was a most pleasing sight. Georgina did appreciate an establishment with an excellent and abundant cellar.
Unlike the patrons of Mem Lavigne’s velvet-draped salon, most of Mrs Gardner’s guests wore full evening attire.
Had people worn less, perhaps the room would have entertained her more.
Georgina wondered whether she might last the hour here before she succumbed to boredom.
She suspected, for all the activity inside this busy little hive, she would find very little honey.
The helpful maid drew Georgina’s attention to a small Venetian side table and explained the significance of the betting book. Mrs Gardner expected all her guests to place a stake on the bet of the night.
Georgina read the lazy scrawl in the book.
Tonight, the house wagered that Mr Harry Carruthers could not hold his drink without relieving himself before the clock struck midnight. Of all the ridiculous ways to waste one’s time and money, she thought, annoyed at this arbitrary prerequisite to enter the house.
She scribbled her name in the column supporting Mr Carruthers to win, dropped a shilling in the purse, and sauntered over to a table that was forming for a game of faro.
Georgina accepted a glass of Burgundy from a passing attendant and cast her eyes around the room.
She recognised a few faces but would be hard pressed to name them.
In the main, she did not care for social niceties, and she was aware that the ton only tolerated her for the sake of her father and sizeable fortune.
Except for her lovers, of course, who tolerated her for a different set of gifts entirely.
She wondered which character Mrs Gardner was.
At some point, Georgina would introduce herself and crave forgiveness for intruding on the soiree.
For now, however, she wished to gather as much information as she could about the establishment—to ascertain how Mrs Gardner preyed upon people and whether she used underhanded methods in her approach.
A striking lady sat to her left at the table.
Georgina’s eyes drifted over her for a moment longer than was socially decorous.
Her coiffed light brown hair lay in curls atop her head, with a delicate cluster of flowers pinned over one ear.
Her features were well-defined: a straight nose and fine eyes.
She appeared to be a velina, a lady who was born male.
Her slender arms rested at the edge of the table, half-hidden by the little puff sleeves of her dark-blue taffeta gown.
“I could sit for a portrait if you fetch your paints, should you desire to regard me indefinitely,” the lady offered. Her deep, silky voice sliced through the noise of the room, and Georgina gasped, surprised out of her reverie.
“Forgive me,” Georgina murmured, lowering her eyes. “However, you cannot blame me for staring. Your forearms are exquisite, madam.”
The woman blinked at her. “Forearms?”
Georgina took a slow sip from her glass before answering.
“Yes, forearms.” In one fluid movement, Georgina traced her fingertip from the lady’s elbow down to her wrist, enjoying the velvety soft skin under her touch.
She withdrew her hand. “Delightful.” Georgina watched the woman to see what would happen next.
“My name is Lady Elizabeth Mortimer.”
Georgina straightened up and reached to shake the lady’s hand. She noticed a delicious scent as she leaned a little closer. “The Countess Mortimer? I’m Georgina Pace.”
Curious as to how Mrs Gardner’s shady gambling den had garnered such illustrious patronage, Georgina accepted her hand of cards from the dealer. She cast a sidelong look at the Countess. Her clear gray eyes were pretty, though impenetrable, and she bore an air of both amusement and shrewdness.