Three
“That was easy,” Glory said under her breath. “The guards didn’t blink an eye.”
She and Mr. Chen had passed the first gate of entry and were now in a corridor leading to the inner sanctum of Fanny Bottom’s. Her partner greeted her comment the way he did most things: with an impassivity that might be mistaken for indifference. Yet she could tell that he was far from unconcerned. Although his noble features gave little away, she noted the subtle tension in his broad shoulders and the alertness of his gaze.
A gentleman who is ready for anything. How refreshing is that?
“The evening’s journey has only begun,” he said.
“Every journey begins with a single step,” she said cheerfully. “Wasn’t that one of Lao Tzu’s famous sayings?”
“You know of Lao Tzu?”
Mr. Chen’s brows shot upward. For him, that was the equivalent of a shout of surprise.
Glory shrugged, admitting, “I know a lot of things.”
Her curiosity was rarely viewed as a desirable quality and, indeed, had oft landed her in the suds. From schoolteachers to peers, most people found her inquisitive mind disconcerting (if not downright annoying). Only her family and closest friends understood and accepted her. It was one of the reasons why she adored Aunt Hypatia, who had not only tolerated her precociousness as a girl but encouraged it.
“Reserve your right to think.” Aunt Patty had been fond of quoting her namesake, Hypatia of Alexandria. “For even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all.”
Mr. Chen’s forehead furrowed. “I was not aware that there were English translations of Lao Tzu’s writings.”
“There aren’t. I read a translation by the French sinologist Monsieur Julien,” Glory explained. “After that, I attempted to read it in Chinese, but I stumbled my way through. My oral ability is far superior to my reading and writing skills, unfortunately.”
Mr. Chen gave her an unfathomable look and said nothing.
Glory stifled a sigh, realizing that she was being a bit boastful. For some reason, she wanted to impress this taciturn master…probably because she wanted him to agree to teach her kung fu and other aspects of Chinese culture. She’d always been curious about that part of her heritage, and now she finally knew someone who had knowledge to share.
Remembering how he’d smiled when she had spoken in Mandarin at the Hadleighs’ supper party, she asked in that language, “Perhaps you could teach me how to read Lao Tzu in his original language?”
“Perhaps.” A smile flitted through his eyes. “For now…focus.”
They arrived at a second set of doors flanked by guards. The robust fellows checked their membership cards again, the taller one eyeing Mr. Chen with obvious suspicion.
“Don’t get many o’ your sort ’ere,” the guard sneered.
“And what sort is that?” Mr. Chen asked.
The shorter guard cut in. “Just let the bloke in, Barnes. We don’t need no trouble.”
Barnes yanked open the door, releasing a raucous swell of noise that didn’t muffle his parting shot. “All I’m saying is that we don’t need the stench o’ opium dens stinking up the club.”
At the injustice of the accusation, Glory felt her blood boil. Mr. Chen helped people recover from their opium use. If anyone pushed opium, it was the British traders who grew, distributed, and profited from the drug. As she opened her mouth to relieve the guard of his ignorance, Mr. Chen slung an arm around her shoulders, his touch causing her to start. She caught a whiff of his scent—clean male musk combined with something herbal—and her tummy gave an odd flip.
“Let us not ruin the evening’s purpose, Smith,” he said casually.
Beneath his companionable tone was a warning.
Right. The mission.
Getting her impulses in check, Glory bestowed a look of loathing upon the guard before continuing into the club. Mr. Chen dropped his arm as soon as the door closed behind them.
“How can you abide such ignorance?” she said in a furious whisper.
“Practice.” As self-contained as ever, he circled his gaze around the large hall. “I suggest we start canvassing for Farwell before we encounter more of the guard’s ilk.”
Glory forced herself to focus on the task at hand. Paneled in dark wood, the main hall was spacious with a vaulted ceiling and hanging candelabra. Patrons from all strata of society, from local riffraff to louche bluebloods, mingled in their shared search for depravity. Serving maids sashayed about with trays of drink and food, and Glory’s eyes widened at their obvious commonality: all were generously endowed in the derriere. The snug fit of the barmaids’ skirts showcased their curvy bottoms, much to the leering appreciation of the customers.
