The Historical Collection. Stephanie Laurens
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it coming since he refused to cover his mistress’s bills.”
“You’re a daft bastard,” Mowbray said with a shake of his head.
“I’d agree,” Tom said affably, “except everyone knows about my parents’ celebrated fidelity. Bastard in deed but not blood.”
Someone handed him a bottle of whiskey and he took a drink before passing the spirits along to a trio of bucks who looked in dire need of refreshment.
“Good Christ, here you are!”
The throng opened up just enough to allow Christopher Ellingsworth to emerge, looking slightly bedraggled despite his military bearing. Since returning home from the War a year ago, Ellingsworth had renewed the friendship he and Tom had begun at Oxford, and from that point forward they had been nigh inseparable, with the exception of tonight.
“Missed the excitement.” Tom handed his pistol to the footman, who returned it to its polished mahogany case.
“Not for want of trying,” his friend said. “I’ve been to the opera, two gaming hells, and a phaeton race. Everywhere I went, I’d just missed you by ten minutes.” He shook his head but his eyes gleamed with reluctant admiration. “Good thing we’re not competing for the title of Most Scapegrace Gentleman in London, or else you’d best me.”
“That trophy isn’t much sought after, anyway. Why such urgency to find me?” Tom lifted an eyebrow. “My father’s not looking for me, I hope.”
The duke periodically got it into his head that Tom would somehow reform and conduct himself with the dignity and sobriety of a ducal heir with a family history of deeply traditional beliefs, but that was precisely why Tom spent his days asleep and his nights in endless rounds of revelry. One day, hopefully in the far distant future, Tom would inherit the title, and with it, the morass of responsibilities and duties that came with being one of the most powerful men in England—and a voting record dedicated to preserving the ancient systems of power.
Life as Tom knew it would end. He’d say goodbye to nights entertaining opera dancers, midnight swims in the Serpentine, and behaving like the kingdom’s veriest rogue, with his equally dissolute companions keeping him company.
As a marquess’s third son who had recently sold his commission, Ellingsworth had considerably less money but shared Tom’s appetite for running riot. There wasn’t one corner of the city they hadn’t explored in search of amusement and pleasure.
Ellingsworth hooked an arm around Tom’s neck and led him several paces away from the celebrants.
In a low voice, he said, “I’ve heard about something that I knew would interest you. A place in Bloomsbury called the Orchid Club.”
Tom groaned. “I’ve grown weary of clubs. Same games of chance, same people, same wine, same everything.”
His friend’s grin flashed. “This club is different. For one, it opens its doors only once a week and it just so happens to be open tonight.”
That wasn’t enough to snare Tom’s interest. Many clubs did what they could to cultivate an air of mystery in order to ensure steady business from those eager to discover its secrets.
“What else makes it so special? Is it a brothel?”
“It is most decisively not a brothel. You’ll need this, however.” Ellingsworth unhooked his arm from around Tom’s neck. He reached into his coat before producing something, then slipped the item into Tom’s hand.
Tom held up the object so he could study it better. It was a half mask made of midnight blue satin.
“What the devil … ?”
Ellingsworth chuckled. “You’re intrigued.”
“You’ve gotten my attention.”
Tom had torn all over London tonight, but still edginess and restlessness pulsed just beneath his skin. He needed diversion. Surely there had to be something in the city he hadn’t already done.
“Excellent.” Ellingsworth clapped his hands together. “I left my horse with the boy watching yours.”
He headed toward where the animals waited, and Tom quickly followed.
“Won’t you tell me more about this mysterious Orchid Club?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise.”
They reached the horses and after tossing coins to the lad holding the reins, Tom and Ellingsworth swung up into the saddles.
“Not even a hint?” Tom pressed.
In response, Ellingsworth put a finger to his smirking mouth, then wheeled his horse around.
Together, he and Tom rode off into the night.
Bloomsbury slumbered peacefully as Tom and Ellingsworth rode down an avenue lined with prosperous-looking homes. It hardly seemed the environment where a club—of admittedly unknown character—might thrive. The street was empty, while lamplight glowed warmly on the houses’ facades.
Ellingsworth pulled his horse up outside one genteel but ordinary home that boasted several stories and a colonnade, with potted plants flanking the front door. Heavy curtains had been drawn in all the windows, keeping the activities inside hidden. Not a sound emerged from the structure. No human voices, no music. Nothing.
“Still as the grave.” Tom eyed the building doubtfully. “You’re having me on. There’s no club in there.”
“I’d never feed you poor intelligence. Not when it came to finding new pleasures.” Ellingsworth looked affronted that Tom even suggested such a thing.
“My most sincere apologies.” Tom inclined his head. “What do we do with our cattle?”
“We take the mews to a stable in the back, but everyone enters through the front door.” Ellingsworth clicked his tongue as he guided his horse toward the narrow alley beside the house, and Tom followed.
A considerable brick stable awaited them, staffed by three smartly dressed grooms. A few carriages were parked outside, dozing coachmen sitting atop the vehicles. But within the stalls, there were horses of varying quality and age. Some were sleek, pampered animals clearly purchased from Tattersall’s, while others had seen years of hard service to their owners. There was even a donkey.
As he handed one of the servants the reins, he studied the groom’s face for some indication as to what kind of place this might be—a knowing wink, or maybe a sneer of disgust. Yet the servant seemed to deliberately school his features so that he gave nothing away.
“Be needing a mask, sir?” the groom asked.
Tom frowned at the servant’s use of sir rather than my lord, but he surmised that any club requiring a mask seemed to want anonymity for its patrons, insisting that he be called by his proper title might be ill-advised.
“I have one,” Tom said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.
“You’ll want to put it on now, sir. Before you go inside. House rules.”
As Tom donned his blue satin mask, he saw that Ellingsworth did the same with one made of bronze silk.
“We’re to play at being highwaymen?” Tom guessed.
In response, his friend smirked. “Badger me with as many questions as you like, but I’ll answer nary a one until we’re inside.”
Tom heaved a sigh. “You’re enjoying my torment.”
They walked back up the mews to the front of the house.
“The trouble with you, Langdon, is that you’re far too indulged. That’s what comes of being the heir. Whatever you want, you get, and if anything is denied you, you insist it’s worse than the sufferings of Tantalus.”
“I am not indulged.