“Yes,” Potter replied looking up from the card. “I’ve seen Kit’s letter to Mr. Sharp.” He smiled then, an extremely charming smile that dented his cheek and warmed his pale, chilly gaze. “We usually require two referees for new members, but in your case, that won’t be necessary—you could hardly have a better referee than Kit Redford himself.”
“No, I suppose not,” George said. He found himself trying to imagine Kit standing where Potter was now, welcoming a new member, and found it surprisingly difficult. The Kit he knew seemed nowhere near as worldly as this man. George cleared his throat. “Are there any papers to complete?”
Potter shook his head. “Your registration has been taken care of by Mr. Redford, and the year’s fees have been paid. There’s nothing more on that front until next year’s fees fall due—assuming you wish to continue your membership. All that remains is for me to show you around. Do you have any questions before we do that?”
George set down his wine glass. “Kit said—” he began, then broke off. Took a deep breath and tried again. “He said that discretion is guaranteed here.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Potter said calmly. “Our members all observe a strict code of secrecy as to what occurs within these four walls—it benefits everyone. Kit mentioned in his letter that he’d explained that to you.”
“He did,” George said. “But it is reassuring to hear it again. A man of my position…” He trailed off, awkwardly.
Potter smiled reassuringly. “All of our members feel the same way, my lord. And a very good thing it is too. It means everyone shares a common understanding of the need for mutual discretion. And I can assure you that our staff are chosen with extreme care.”
George nodded.
“So,” Potter said, smiling kindly. “Are you ready for the tour now?”
George’s stomach knotted with nerves but he managed to paste a semblance of a smile on. “By all means.”
“Excellent,” Potter said. “In that case, I’ll take you to the public rooms in number fifteen first. As you’ll see, these are just like the rooms in any other gentlemen’s club, with the usual activities—cards, supper, conversation and the like. You may want have a drink there to relax before I take you to the back rooms in the private area. That’s all in number seventeen, where the more… intimate activities take place. To all intents and purposes, the two buildings appear quite separate from the outside, but as you’ll see when I take you around, they are discreetly connected.”
George cleared his throat. “Interesting. Well, lead on, Mr. Potter.”
Potter led George back downstairs and into a large, well-appointed lounge where a number of gentlemen were gathered in small groups, some talking amongst themselves, others playing cards. Amongst them, silent footmen moved, their dark, unshowy livery ensuring they blended into the shadows as they served out champagne, port and brandy.
“This is the main lounge,” Potter said. “As I mentioned before, nothing happens here that you wouldn’t witness in any other club in London. Some of our gentlemen spend most of their time here—they are more concerned with finding likeminded companionship than anything more physical.”
“And the rest of the gentlemen?”
Potter’s lips quirked with amusement. “Most of them eventually make their way through to the back rooms. That’s where I will take you next. This way, please.”
Potter turned on his heel and began heading towards a door on the other side of the lounge, George on his heels. They were almost there when George caught sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man facing away from him, deep in conversation with another gentleman. That confident bearing, and the rich, chestnut hair—even from the back, he looked familiar. But, no, it couldn’t be, could it?
Just then, the man turned towards George, as though he’d felt George’s gaze upon him. And good lord, it was him.
For the second time that evening, George found himself staring in astonishment at Theo Caldwell.
6
THEO
Theo blinked at… George Asquith?
For long moments, he just stood there, staring at him in horrified disbelief, robbed of the ability to move, speak, or even think as his heart beat a panicked tattoo in his chest.
It was George who broke the silence first.
“Theo,” he breathed, shock in his tone. Then, “Wh—what are you doing here?” A moment later, his cheeks flushed scarlet as his mind answered the question for him.
“George,” Theo got out in a strangled tone. He cast an apologetic glance at the man he’d been speaking to—who was already diplomatically strolling away—then stepped closer to George. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.”
Or any evening.
“Nor I you. I was—” George seemed to run out of air. He gestured at the door that led to the back rooms. The manager, Potter, was standing there, propping it open—presumably waiting for George. Potter’s gaze moved between them. Then he let the door close and returned unhurriedly to George’s side.
“I take it you two gentlemen are acquainted?” he said gently.
George’s gaze flew to Potter, startled. “Oh, um… yes. Yes, I suppose we are,” he stammered out. It was oddly reassuring to see how flustered George was. Theo was not the only one fighting rising panic, then.
