“No, sir.”
“I won’t be let in past the door at White’s,” he growled to no one in particular.
“Not dressed like a common beggar,” Amir blithely informed him from atop the stairs. “Not that White’s is necessary. Mr. Massey mentioned I inform you he would be at the Green Room.”
Emerson glanced down at his now muddied boots and wrinkled pantaloons. “Good God.” He took the stairs up by two. Thankfully, the house had been outfitted for a tub room, so there would be no waiting for hot water.
Within an hour, Emerson entered a narrow, unassuming Georgian townhouse, wedged between a music shop and a purveyor of theatrical wigs. A discreet brass plaque by the door readGRC. After dark, a red-shaded lantern would glow faintly above the entry.
Inside, Emerson found the noise almost intolerable. The main hall on the ground floor was notably referred to as the Gallery. He walked through a long corridor where not-so-precisely spaced playbills hung along the wall, interspersed with caricatures of famous actors and oil portraits of club patrons caught mid-debauch, that led to a long, velvet-draped room with a sagging ceiling that held the faint scent of spilled brandy and orange peel.
On one end, a fireplace smoldered, above which hung a crooked portrait of Shakespeare winking that someone had added in charcoal.
The dim lighting of mostly wall sconces flickered. What candelabras there were set about dripped wax like stalactites. He found a back set of stairs that led to the second floor and strode to a room referred to as the Library. It was quieter here, but not by much. Several seating groupings allowed for more intimate visits.
A table of raucous laughter near the fireplace brought Emerson’s head up. Ben sat in the corner that faced the whole of the vast room. It was the chair Emerson would have chosen for himself.
Thank God.
Slowly, the clinking of glasses paused, and four pairs of eyes, outside of Ben’s, turned to Emerson.
“Well, well, well, Massey,” Colliers said to Ben. “It appears your big brother is here to whisk you to safer company than that which you currently dwell.”
This drew a laugh from his other cronies about the table: Stockton, Lampert, and Gorman. They were all clearly sloshed. A grim smile touched Ben’s mouth. “Is that what you’re here to do, Emerson? Sweep me away?” he asked mildly.
Emerson met his brother’s eyes.
From the upstarts?
Emerson read the message in his eyes and managed to contain a smile.
Ben slammed his tankard on the table and shoved himself away. “Well, fellows, I’ll see you tonight at Peachornsby’s, then.”
The upstarts roared with more drunken laughter, leaving Emerson to wonder if they’d be sober enough to attend.
Emerson followed Ben out a rear entrance to the mews that were once used as a set of private stables and carriage houses for the gentry who frequented Covent Garden. Currently, it appeared as a blend of coach storage, theatrical deliveries, and possibly discreet assignations. Really, just general mischief. Afternoon had fallen and was easing into early evening.
He cast his gaze about and saw no one in the direct vicinity except a mangy orange cat eyeing a morsel. “I need you to get me into Peachornsby’s tonight.” The eerie whinny of a single horse sounded between the narrow stone walls. “Where’syourhorse?”
“I set Spindle to watching it for me.”
Whoever that was.Impatience weaved through Emerson’s spine, but he held his tongue.
“Why do you need to attend Peachornsby’s? Not exactly your métier, is it?”
Emerson’s lips tightened. He would have to own the matter. “I fear my masquerade lady will take matters into her own hands if I am not there to stop her.”
A quick grin showed his brother’s teeth gleaming in the gloom. “So…that’s how it is.” Ben pulled a cheroot from his waistcoat and lit it. “You can’t arrive with me. Stockton, Collier,and Gorman will know immediately something is afoot. Which, incidentally, I learned they didn’t attend the races in Sussex after all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe they visited Hallandale’s. I find the information highly suspicious.”
Emerson nearly groaned. He hadn’t time for this conversation. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he growled. “Right now, I need to find a way into Peachornsby’s. And I don’t intend to be announced.”
Ben drew on the cheroot then blew out a stream of smoke. A disgusting habit. One Emerson had never taken to sport.
“Even worse,” Ben said. “If someone sees you slinking about like a footpad, they’ll think I’ve brought a thief.”
