“So, I ask you, man,” Alworth turned to the doorman, “are you going to leave the Prince of Bikaner on the doorstep, causing a diplomatic scandal of proportions that haven’t been seen before, or are you going to let him in?”
“But—but—” blubbered the doorman. “He’s not a member.”
“I’ll vouch for him.”
“But he needs to be elected, the protocol—”
“Damn the protocol,” Alworth said pleasantly. “I said, I will vouch for him. I’ll be his sponsor. Or do you doubt my word?” His voice took on an iron note. “Are you going to let him in?”
“No, my lord. I mean, yes, my lord. I mean, I do not doubt your word.” The poor doorman, entirely befuddled, stepped aside with a deep bow.
Thus Pen, suddenly elevated to royalty, climbed up the stairs and entered the hallowed grounds of White’s.
Alworth sauntered over to the hall porter, who stood to attention in his lodge.
“He is to be entered in the books. I will make sure to get the necessary signatures,” Alworth told him.
“But,” the porter looked at Pen horrified, “his attire!”
“Indeed.” Alworth’s eyes roved over her clothes once more. “His attire.” He sighed.
Once more, a flush spread over her cheeks. “What’s wrong with my attire?” She jutted out her chin.
He tutted. “Everything, my boy. Everything.” Turning to the porter, he said, “Procure a coat.”
The porter looked like he was about to cry. “Yes, my lord. But it’s not only the coat.”
“I know, good man, I know. But a coat will have to do for now.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The porter brought an elegant tailcoat of the finest material, of excellent cut, that even Pen, who had no sense of fashion, recognised it must be worth a considerable sum. Pen discarded her own coat and slipped it on.
Alworth flicked away an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder, adjusted the collar and tightened her neckcloth. “It will do,” he said and ushered the somewhat bemused Pen into the depths of London’s most exclusive gentlemen's club.
Lord Archibald Edward Ainsley,Viscount Alworth, felt unholy amusement well up inside him as he leaned back in his leather armchair in White’s morning room, one exquisitely booted leg extended, in one hand swirling a glass of brandy, as he studied the awkward youth in front of him. As far as he knew, he’d just helped the first woman to be a member of White’s. The devil in him found this immensely amusing. He hadn’t been entertained like this in ages. But then again, he had been told by more than one person he had a rather peculiar sense of humour. No doubt they were right.
Mind you, not that she knew that he knew she was a woman. And not that anyone else would discover that so easily, either. He had no interest in revealing her identity any time soon. It was too amusing to allow it all to unfold on its own. Pen Kumari looked convincingly like a youth, for all that’s worth. She behaved accordingly. She sat in a chair opposite his, her head turning in all directions, her eyes big as saucers, as she took in the paintings on the walls, the mahogany tables, the scarlet carpet of the morning room. She had good legs, a tall, straight bearing, a narrow, pointed face and sharply defined, stubborn chin. Minus the stubble, of course. Her black hair was hideously cut and escaped from the hastily tied queue in her neck. There was nothing in her appearance that betrayed her as a woman. Other than her atrociously tied cravat and her poorly designed coat. Alworth suppressed a shudder. But then, there were many belonging to the male specimen who ran around in worse attire.
One would have to do something about that, he mused. A new haircut, a freshly tied cravat, and those boots, by Jove, were a crime in and of itself… but one step at a time.
He’d never have discovered her identity, he’d never have noticed her at all, if she hadn’t smashed into him the moment he’d stepped out of his favourite tailor’s shop. One moment he was standing, the other he found himself flattened on the ground, with her virtually bouncing off him. In that process, one couldn’t help but notice, well, certain womanly curves. Despite cleverly tied bandages, corsets, and trousers.
Alworth suppressed a grin. He’d been intrigued by her from the very first.
He’d followed her to the Hindoostanee Cafe. She’d been right that he’d been following her. And he’d discovered another intriguing piece of her identity right there and then.
“How did you know?” She turned her huge eyes on him. They were beautiful, luminant eyes fringed with long, curling lashes.
“How did I know what, child?” He met her gaze and took a sip of his brandy, taking note of the proud tilt of her chin.
“That my grandfather was the Maharajah of Bikaner.” She spoke in a low voice, as if she did not want anyone else to hear. “And don’t call me child.”
“You yourself told me.” He set down his glass to refill it.
She was highly intelligent. One had to give her that. He wondered what prompted her to run around as a man. What secrets lay behind those beautiful dark eyes of hers?
Alworth lifted the decanter and offered to refill her glass. To his amusement, she’d taken a sip, pulled a face, then poured the contents into the plant next to her when she thought he wasn’t looking. He wondered how many glasses she’d pour there throughout the duration of the afternoon. Four, maybe five?
