Chapter 3
Pen gulped as she inspected the Palladian facade of London’s oldest, most exclusive gentlemen's club on St. James’s Street. The crème de la crème of thetonfrequented this place. It was the ultimate domain of men. Not a woman had ever set her foot inside that forbidden place. It was simply unheard of.
Little did they know, a woman was about to breach those hallowed grounds. Even if she had to do so disguised as a man.
Pen braced her shoulders, threw her head back and strode up the stairs, heading purposefully towards the oaken door, when someone stepped in her way.
“Where'd you think you’re going?” A bulky man in a rough greatcoat sneered.
“Inside.” Pen lifted her chin and attempted to push herself past him. But the man refused to move.
“This,” the doorman said, nodding his chin at the door, “is a gentlemen's club.” He emphasised the word ‘gentlemen’.
“I am aware of that.”
Once more, Pen attempted to push past him. In vain. The man was as immovable as the statue of King Charles.
“And you, clearly, are no gentleman.” He crossed his arms and planted his legs apart.
“How dare you imply such a thing,” Pen spat. She pulled her hand into a fist to smash into his smug face, but he caught it easily with one hand. Then he grabbed Pen by the collar, and she found herself dangling a foot high from the ground.
“Let me down!” She managed a strangled cry as she kicked about helplessly in the air.
“As you wish.”
He let go. Pen crashed in an inelegant heap on the ground.
She swore.
The doorman did not heed her. He’d turned around and bowed to someone who was standing in the doorway.
Pen scrambled up and patted the dust off her pants. Through the open door, she saw a flash of scarlet on the marbled floor, stately columns, white panelling on the walls, and crystal chandeliers. She could make a run for it—she could dash up the stairs and—dash it, a gentleman obfuscated the view.
“My dear—fellow.” There was an undercurrent of amusement lacing the familiar voice. “We meet again. This does tend to become a habit. Did you run over an unsuspecting victim again?”
“You!” Why was he always appearing when she least expected it?
“Do you know him, my lord? He tried to weasel his way inside. Then he tried to give me a planter. Felt like the nudge of a puppy’s muzzle against my hand.”
“Indeed.” Alworth’s voice turned haughty. “I am surprised you did not recognise this man.”
“Recognise him? As the gutter rat he is?”
“Watch your words. He is royalty.”
The doorman barked a laugh. “Royalty? Surely you jest, my lord.”
Alworth regarded Pen with hooded eyes. “Yes, he is royalty,” he said softly.
Pen blinked.
The doorman gasped for air.
“This youth is the offspring of the Maharaja of Bikaner. Are you not?”
Pen felt like someone pulled the rug off under her feet, except she wasn’t standing on any rug but on dirty London cobblestone. She snapped her mouth audibly shut.
“Yes. Yes, I am.” She cleared her throat. “The Maharaja of Bikaner was my grandfather.” Her voice was husky. She felt the goosebumps form on her arm as she uttered the words.
