Guests were entering in droves, wearing elaborate masks and garish costumes. They greeted one another with a mix of excitement and suspicion; the sparkle of jewels was accompanied by the glint of ill-concealed weapons. As the attendees flocked to the bar for libations, Glory noted the adjacent staircase leading to the upper floor.
The private chambers Pru mentioned must be up there. Might Sir Barkley be hidden in one of them? How can I get up there without being noticed?
“Good evening, dove. What do you ’ave on offer tonight?”
Pivoting, Glory saw that a dark-haired fellow wearing a half-mask and maroon velvet jacket was smirking at her.
“Pork pies, sir,” she said crisply.
His blue eyes glinted in the holes of his mask as he drew close. He had overdone the cologne, the pungent spice tickling her nose. As a matter of fact, he was doing everything a bit brown.
“I’m more in the mood for a buttered bun.” Leering at her, he trailed a finger along her shoulder. “Where can I find one, I wonder?”
Glory’s cheeks warmed. Although she wasn’t completely certain what Mr. Devlin was referring to, his tone was enough to make the sexual innuendo clear. When Charlie had introduced him as Hawker’s temporary replacement and Glory’s partner for this eve, Glory had been surprised. The younger son of an earl, Mr. Devlin moved in the same circles as she did. Debutantes, however, were warned to avoid him due to his reputation as a rake.
Glory, herself, didn’t mind rakes so much. Prior to marriage, her papa had been a rather infamous one, yet his devotion to Mama had turned him into what he called “a walking cliché” about reformed rakes. While Mr. Devlin’s reputation did not concern Glory, the business between him and the Earl of Hawksmoor did.
Fi had told Glory that Mr. Devlin had once deliberately put Hawksmoor in harm’s way. True, Mr. Devlin had made amends—and Hawksmoor had recommended his former spy colleague to Charlie—but as a woman who placed great value in loyalty and friendship, Glory couldn’t fathom how he could betray a member of his team in the first place.
She would have preferred having a partner she trusted implicitly. Someone whose integrity was unquestionable, who was wise and protective and kind. Someone like…
Don’t think about him, she told herself firmly. That is water under the bridge.
She hadn’t heard from Mr. Chen since her visit to his clinic. Not that it was surprising; he had made it clear that he would not teach her martial arts. What did astonish and annoy her was that he had gone over her head and talked to Charlie. Charlie had told her about his visit and inquired why he was taking such an interest.
Glory could provide no explanation. She was befuddled by Mr. Chen’s behavior. On the one hand, he wanted her to stay away from him; on the other, he kept interfering in her business. It was enough to drive a lady mad.
Stop fixating upon it. Concentrate on the mission.
She returned her focus to the setting. Guests were getting into their cups, and prostitutes had arrived, parading their wares to whistles of approval. As couples twirled on the dance floor, they rubbed against each other, their movements growing more salacious by the minute. It wouldn’t be long before the place descended into a depraved free-for-all.
Once that happens, I can slip upstairs. And maybe Mr. Devlin can prove of use after all.
Directing her gaze to the upper floor, Glory said in suggestive tones, “I ’ave me break coming.”
Devlin’s gaze glinted with instant understanding. At least he wasn’t slow-witted.
“Upstairs, one hour,” he said softly. “Don’t be late, dove.”
Kissing her hand with roguish flourish, he melted into the crowd.
Glory spent the next hour serving food and eavesdropping. While she caught some griping over rival gangs and territorial disputes, nothing was said about a dognapping scheme. What she did learn was that the job of the serving maid was as difficult as a balancing act at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Not only did she have to balance a heavy tray and distribute refreshments, but she also had to dodge groping hands whilst keeping a smile on her face.
As she was wiping down a table, a sudden hush came over the room. She looked up to see two men entering the party. From the information Charlie had provided, she could guess who they were. The taller, leaner one was the Fancy’s leader, Wulfric Scott. Even though he looked to be in his twenties, his thick, brown mane had swaths of silver, and he exuded a leader-of-the-pack confidence. The blond and bearded fellow next to him was likely Jimmy Bryant, his second-in-command.
Scott circled his narrow blue gaze slowly around the room, his manner predatory and intimidating. Glory could see the nervousness of the guests, some of whom might be his rivals. A few men placed their hands on their weapons. His lips faintly curled, Scott stalked to the bar, where he picked up a foaming tankard, holding it high.
“Tonight, we celebrate friendship,” he declared. “Enjoy yourselves, compliments of the Fancy!”
The cheers were accompanied by a few sighs of relief.
Pru sidled up to Glory. “The Wolf’s a splendid beast, ain’t ’e? ’Is manner’s fine as any toff’s, and females fight o’er who gets to kick up their ’eels for ’im. But ’e’s also dangerous, that one. After the old leader was found shot through the ’eart, men vied for the top position, and the transition weren’t a peaceful one. When the dust settled, the Wolf was the only one left standing, and some of ’is opponents vanished, never to be seen again.”
Glory shivered. “’E sounds like a man not to cross.”
“You’ve got that right, dearie,” Pru agreed. “If you’re wise, you’ll stay out o’ ’is path.”
The place soon descended into an orgy.
