Chapter 15
The next day, Pen called in Cavendish Square to bid Alworth goodbye but was informed by the indomitable butler that Alworth had left for Wiltshire. Already? She hadn’t known that he’d intended to leave so immediately. But of course. A man like him had no time to lose. He had his estate and business affairs to settle. And, no doubt, a family to visit… An odd feeling beset Pen. First Marcus, then Rochford. They all abandoned her, the people in her life.
Pen stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and slapped herself lightly on the cheek. “Stop this nonsense at once, Penelope,” she chided herself.
The boy who came towards her threw her a frightened look.
“I’m just talking to myself,” Pen explained, and he nodded and scurried away.
Pen had her friends still from the seminary. Even though they were married with their own families and had no time for her. And there was Fariq. The owner of the Perpignol. Pen’s heart started to hammer. With Alworth gone to oversee her every move, she would, of course, seek Fariq. Alworth never needed to know.
The Perpignol was located in a red brick house in Pall Mall. She braced herself for trouble with the doorman, after all, she was not a select member of the club. But after she mentioned Fariq’s name, he nodded. “Mr Fariq said you might come.”
He led her through a set of ordinary looking drawing rooms, then opened an inconspicuous tapestry door. Lights lit the stairs, and she followed them down with a growing sense of curiosity.
The gambling salon was underground. Decorated entirely in scarlet and gold, it looked elaborate, if not decadent. It wasn’t as big as she’d expected. There was a roulette table, a faro table and several other tables where people played whist, picquet and vingt-et-un. A hush of concentrated silence engulfed the room. Only the rattle of the ball in the roulette wheel was heard.
There was Fariq, in a dark suit and golden turban, looking stern and formidable as he headed the roulette table. He was, at most, five years older than Pen, yet with that dark beard of his, he looked decades older. Who would’ve thought he could look so intimidating? He must’ve seen her enter, yet did not acknowledge her presence.
Pen grabbed a glass of champagne that a footman offered her and strolled through the room. She saw immediately that Marcus was not there. Was it too early, maybe? Would he come later?
A man threw down his set of cards with a sigh and pushed back the chair. His partner, a gentleman in a wine-red coat, who remained seated, studied Pen. “Care to play?” he drawled.
She shrugged. “Why not.”
Pen had been taught the tricks of the trade by one of the most accomplished gamblers. The man who sat across from her seemed to think he could easily fleece her. She bit down a smile.
The game turned quickly, and Pen had the upper hand.
Her opponent threw down the cards. “Hats off, you’re not to be underestimated,” he admitted grudgingly, as he handed her her winnings. “Another round?”
Pen declined. She stuffed the bills into her pocket and strolled into the next room, where there was a similar scenario. She was in no playing mood. She sat down in an armchair and waited for Marcus.
As soon as she’d settled, a shadow fell over her.
“Well, well, well, look who’s here,” said an oily voice above her.
Pen looked up, straight into a florid, leering visage.
“Blackstone.” Pen took a gulp from her drink. “Still about insulting hapless females?”
“Not me. My taste runs to spanking brazen-faced milksops these days.” He bared his yellowed teeth.
Pen gripped her glass. She had to be on guard.
“You played foul the other day. Might’ve mentioned Alworth was your mentor.” He waggled a fat finger at her. “With someone like him protecting you, no wonder you tear your insolent mouth wide open. But when he is not about…” His eyes wandered through the room. “Where is he? Is he here?”
Pen’s mind raced for an answer.
“Oy. Have you seen Alworth in these rooms?” Blackstone called to a group of men by the fireplace.
Pen recognised with a sinking heart that Forsyth and Pennington were among them.
“He’s stepped out for a moment and will be back shortly,” she lied.
“Alworth? He’s not a member here for all I know,” Pennington answered.
“He isn’t, is he? This place is too low for the likes of him.” Blackstone settled down in a chair opposite hers and leaned up close, so that she could see the little red veins in the white of his eyes. “Listen, whelp. You played foul, and I was forced to back out of the duel.”
