“Catesby’s, milady,” announced the driver.
Charlotte peeked out. The building was like the others on the street. It had the look of Tudor architecture with its white-painted plaster and dark beams. A man in a long coat and top hat stood at the foot of a set of stone steps leading to a door with a brass knocker in its center.
She alighted from the carriage and let it drive away before crossing the road and approaching the figure who stood to attention like a sentry. The scorching scent of cigar smoke and brandy misted through the air as she neared.
Building up courage, she tried to speak with authority, “I seek the Duke of Bellmonte. Is he within?”
“I shall find out, ma’am,” the man answered before turning smartly on his heel.
“Can—can I not go inside and look?” she asked innocently.
The footman eyed her curiously. “No women permitted, ma’am. I can carry a message inside for you?”
“No, that will not be necessary,” she murmured.
It would doubtless mean standing on the street waiting for a reply to her message. And if the Duke’s recent behavior was anything to go by, she might be waiting a long time.
The doorkeeper stood resolutely in front of her, looking past her as though, with this refusal, he no longer needed to pay attention to her.
If Seth was inside and came out to speak to her, what would he say? Out in public, he would either maintain the bravado facade of the rake or he would keep her waiting, another tactic in his inexplicable quest to driveAmeliaaway.
She walked away from the door and began to make her way down the street. To her left, a narrow lane ran along the side of the building. A group of four women were making their way along it, and Charlotte decided to follow.
The lane led to a cobbled yard occupied by stables and a number of carriages. The women were going into the building through a small rear door, which was not guarded. Charlotte took a deep breath and followed.
A narrow, dimly lit corridor led to a large, busy kitchen. The women were being inspected by a portly man with a gleam of gold in his teeth and a sweaty face. Charlotte watched as, one by one, they were inspected and then approved with a jerk of his head or thumb and hurried to collect a mask and a tray before disappearing along another corridor.
When he reached Charlotte, the man demanded, “Were you not told to wear something revealing? Showing a bit of cleavage or some ankle at the very least?”
“This is all I have, sir,” Charlotte said, stupefied by the man’s boldness, suddenly realizing that she was the last woman in line.
“I doubt that, judging by your voice. What’s the matter, fallen on hard times? Well, who am I to argue? You’re pretty enough, and I need waiting girls. Take a mask and a tray and go to the front room. Make sure any empty hands are filled with glass, and any empty glass is filled with whatever they want to drink. Drunk men gamble more. Well, what are you waiting for?”
Charlotte did not know what she was thinking except that this might be the only way inside to see what Seth was up to. She felt reckless and had half a mind to walk straight out and return to Prescott Estate. Or even Hamilton House in Yorkshire—end this madness once and for all.
But she could not leave without answers.
So, she picked up a mask in the profile of a cat and put it on her head, completely covering her face. She collected a tray and went along the corridor leading out of the kitchen. Smoke drifted near the ceiling through a door that kept opening and closing behind hurrying waiting staff, either carrying empty trays as she did or full ones bearing food and drink.
Passing through the door, she stepped into a room that was dimly lit but full of noise and smoke. Men laughed and shoutedeither in triumph, despair, or anger. Tables filled a large, low-ceilinged room. Games of cards or dice were being played there. In one corner, a man threw darts of metal against a target, and in another, two men lunged and darted with rapiers to shouts of encouragement from gathered onlookers.
A hand slapped her on the behind, making her jump. A man who reeked of brandy leered at her.
“More brandy if you please. Then you can come and sit on my lap, eh?”
Charlotte slapped him, knocking the expression of drunken lechery clean off his face. Surprise replaced it, but only for a moment. Then anger appeared.
“Why you...!” he started.
“Now then, friend. There’s no sense in getting angry. A slap in the face is part of the game we’re all playing here. Wouldn’t be a sport if they made it too easy, would it, eh?” came a familiar voice.
Charlotte spun to see the Earl of Tewkesbury. His cravat was undone, and his hair was in disarray. He had a mug of porter in one hand and a buxom, dark-haired woman in the crook of his arm.
“She slapped me!” the drunken man protested.
“And if you were as polite as you usually are with the fairer sex, then you deserved it. Now, begone!” Tewkesbury proclaimed, waving his mug.
“There will be words with the management for this!” the man snapped before staggering away.
