Chapter 6
They arrived at the club, where the porter wordlessly handed Pen a coat.
“Something occurred to me,” Alworth mentioned as he strolled into the coffee room. “You mentioned your guardian plays cards? He is a gamester?”
“Yes. He is very good with cards.”
“He might be frequenting different clubs. Madame Spiel’s, maybe. Any gamester would try that. Or Perpignol’s. But no. I suppose Perpignol’s is out of your league.”
Alworth lifted his finger and ordered a glass of burgundy.
“What’s Perpignol’s?”
“A gaming hell. That’s where only the hard-core gamesters like Rochford go. No place for you, child. They’ll pluck you the minute you step into the room.”
“Who is Rochford?”
“Never say you haven’t heard of the notorious Duke of Rochford? He is one of the most degenerate men that walk on the face of this earth. He fills the gossip columns daily.” He waved a hand at the newspaper that lay on the coffee table.
Pen picked it up. Indeed, the headlines proclaimed in bold ink: ‘Scandal at Perpignol – Lord V fleeced by Duke R. V dead’.
“Duke R – Duke Rochford fleeces who?”
“That would be Lord Villingham. Lost his entire fortune to Rochford in a single game.” Alworth shook his head. “Shot himself, the poor sod. It’s never a good idea to cross Rochford.”
“That is absolutely horrifying! Poor man!”
“It’s his own fault if he plays against Rochford.”
“He sounds vile.”
“He is. Perpignol is full of the likes of him.”
Pen pushed the newspaper away. “I don’t read gossip columns.” She paused. “Do you suppose I should? For news about Marcus, I mean?” She picked up the newspaper again.
“Doubtful there’s anything useful in the gossip sheets. Only about men shooting each over their lady loves. How a man can allow himself to get carried away over something they declare love is beyond me.”
“I take it you do not believe in love?”
“My dear Pen. No. I do not. It seems to be an affectation that makes men make fools out of themselves, nothing more.”
Pen digested that. “I do believe in love,” she then said, “very much so.” She’d been painfully in love most of her life, so she’d become somewhat of an expert on unrequited love.
“You are a romantic, then.”
“A fool, more likely,” she muttered. “As you say.”
“Ah. Then you would very much enjoy tonight’s programme at the opera,” Alworth said brightly. “Mozart’sSeraglio. It is about love and foolishness.”
“Opera?” Pen shook her head. “I have a duel tomorrow morning, in case you’ve forgotten. I’d be better off practicing my shots.”
“I beg to disagree. I firmly believe the best thing one does the night before a duel is to go to the opera. Listen to music and introspect. Mind you, not that this is a pastime I allow myself to indulge in too often. However, the night before something as momentous as a duel, music is most excellent in helping one relax.”
“I’d rather stay at home tonight.”
“And spend a sleepless night tossing and turning in bed? That won’t do.” He clapped a hand on her shoulder. “The opera it is tonight.” He studied her coat and pulled a face. “However, not in this outfit.”
Pen looked down at her coat. “No. This belongs to White’s.”
