A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 92
The housekeeper smiled, quiet and knowing. “It’s my pleasure.” She paused, watching as Penelope lifted the mask to her eyes, tying it back, and adjusting the silk against her brow. “May I say, my lady, how happy I am that he chose you?”
It was presumptuous and not at all the kind of thing housekeepers said, but Worth was not at all the kind of housekeeper one had usually, so Penelope smiled, and said, “I am not certain he would agree with you.”
Something lit in the other woman’s eyes. “I think it is only a matter of time before he does.” Worth nodded her approval, and Penelope was through the door and into the waiting coach, heart in her throat, before she could turn back.
Before she could stop herself.
The carriage did not deliver her to the main entrance to The Angel, but instead to a strange, unimpressive entrance accessible through the mews that ran alongside the building. She ascended in near darkness, clutching the hand of the coachman who had come to help her down and guide her to a blackened steel door. Nervousness flared.
She was at Michael’s club once more, this time, by invitation, in what she believed was her prettiest gown, for a game of billiards.
It was extraordinarily thrilling.
The driver knocked for her and stepped away as a little slot in the door slid open and a pair of eyes—black as coal—appeared. No sound came from behind the door.
“I . . . I received an invitation. To billiards,” she said, lifting one hand to check that her mask was secure, hating the movement and the hitch in her throat, the way her nerves held the high ground.
There was a pause, and the slot slid shut, leaving her standing alone in the darkness in the middle of the night. Behind a London gaming hell.
She swallowed. Well. That hadn’t gone exactly as expected.
She knocked again. The little slot opened once more.
“My husband is—”
The slot closed.
“—your employer,” she said to the door, as though it might open on its own with the proper encouragement.
Alas, it remained firmly shut.
Penelope pulled her cloak around her and looked over her shoulder to the coachman behind, just pulling himself up onto his seat. He noticed her predicament, thankfully, and said, “Usually there’s a password, milady.”
Of course. The strange, final word of the invitation.
Whoever needed a password to do anything? It was like something from a gothic novel. She cleared her throat and confronted the enormous door once more.
Knocked again.
The slot slid open with a click, and Penelope smiled at the eyes.
No sign of recognition.
“I have a password!” she announced triumphantly.
The eyes were not impressed.
“Éloa,” she whispered, not knowing how the process worked.
The slot closed again.
Honestly?
She waited, turning back to the carriage and throwing a nervous glance up at the driver. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I haven’t any idea.”
And just as she was about to give up, she heard the clicking of a lock and the scrape of metal on metal . . . and the massive door opened.
She couldn’t help her excitement.
The man inside was enormous, with dark skin and dark eyes and an immovable countenance that should have made Penelope nervous, except she was far too excited. He was dressed in breeches and a dark shirt, the color of which she could not make out in the dim light, and wore no coat. She might have thought him inappropriately attired, but she quickly reminded herself that she had never entered a gaming hell through a mysterious, password-requiring door, and so she supposed she knew very little about the appropriate dress of a man in such a situation.
She waved the paper that had been delivered earlier that day. “Would you like to see my invitation?”
“No.” He stepped aside to let her in.
“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed, as she pushed past him into the little entryway, watching as he closed the door behind her with an ominous thud. He did not look at her; instead, he sat on a stool perched near the door, lifted a book from a nearby shelf, and began to read by the light of a wall sconce.
Penelope blinked at the tableau. Apparently he was a man of letters.
She stood quietly for a long moment, uncertain of her next move. He seemed not to notice.
She cleared her throat.
He turned a page.
Finally, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
He did not look up. “Yes?”
“I am Lady—”
“No names.”
Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“No names on this side.” He turned another page.
“I—” She stopped, uncertain of what to say. This side? “All right, but I . . .”
“No names.”
They remained in silence for a little longer until she could not bear it a moment more. “Perhaps you could tell me if I am to stand here all night? If so, I would have brought a book of my own.”
He looked up at that, and she took pleasure in the way his black eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she’d surprised him. He pointed to the far end of the entryway, where another door loomed in the darkness. She hadn’t seen it earlier.
She moved toward it. “Billiards is through here?”
He watched her carefully, as though she were a specimen under glass. “Among other things, yes.”
She smiled. “Excellent. I would ask for your name so I might thank you properly, sir, but . . .”
He returned to his book. “No names.”
“Precisely.”
She opened the door, letting in a shock of light from the corridor beyond. She looked back at the strange man, impressed by the play of golden light across his dark skin, and said, “Well, thank you just the same.”
It was presumptuous and not at all the kind of thing housekeepers said, but Worth was not at all the kind of housekeeper one had usually, so Penelope smiled, and said, “I am not certain he would agree with you.”
Something lit in the other woman’s eyes. “I think it is only a matter of time before he does.” Worth nodded her approval, and Penelope was through the door and into the waiting coach, heart in her throat, before she could turn back.
Before she could stop herself.
The carriage did not deliver her to the main entrance to The Angel, but instead to a strange, unimpressive entrance accessible through the mews that ran alongside the building. She ascended in near darkness, clutching the hand of the coachman who had come to help her down and guide her to a blackened steel door. Nervousness flared.
She was at Michael’s club once more, this time, by invitation, in what she believed was her prettiest gown, for a game of billiards.
It was extraordinarily thrilling.
The driver knocked for her and stepped away as a little slot in the door slid open and a pair of eyes—black as coal—appeared. No sound came from behind the door.
“I . . . I received an invitation. To billiards,” she said, lifting one hand to check that her mask was secure, hating the movement and the hitch in her throat, the way her nerves held the high ground.
There was a pause, and the slot slid shut, leaving her standing alone in the darkness in the middle of the night. Behind a London gaming hell.
She swallowed. Well. That hadn’t gone exactly as expected.
She knocked again. The little slot opened once more.
“My husband is—”
The slot closed.
“—your employer,” she said to the door, as though it might open on its own with the proper encouragement.
Alas, it remained firmly shut.
Penelope pulled her cloak around her and looked over her shoulder to the coachman behind, just pulling himself up onto his seat. He noticed her predicament, thankfully, and said, “Usually there’s a password, milady.”
Of course. The strange, final word of the invitation.
Whoever needed a password to do anything? It was like something from a gothic novel. She cleared her throat and confronted the enormous door once more.
Knocked again.
The slot slid open with a click, and Penelope smiled at the eyes.
No sign of recognition.
“I have a password!” she announced triumphantly.
The eyes were not impressed.
“Éloa,” she whispered, not knowing how the process worked.
The slot closed again.
Honestly?
She waited, turning back to the carriage and throwing a nervous glance up at the driver. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “I haven’t any idea.”
And just as she was about to give up, she heard the clicking of a lock and the scrape of metal on metal . . . and the massive door opened.
She couldn’t help her excitement.
The man inside was enormous, with dark skin and dark eyes and an immovable countenance that should have made Penelope nervous, except she was far too excited. He was dressed in breeches and a dark shirt, the color of which she could not make out in the dim light, and wore no coat. She might have thought him inappropriately attired, but she quickly reminded herself that she had never entered a gaming hell through a mysterious, password-requiring door, and so she supposed she knew very little about the appropriate dress of a man in such a situation.
She waved the paper that had been delivered earlier that day. “Would you like to see my invitation?”
“No.” He stepped aside to let her in.
“Oh,” she said, slightly disappointed, as she pushed past him into the little entryway, watching as he closed the door behind her with an ominous thud. He did not look at her; instead, he sat on a stool perched near the door, lifted a book from a nearby shelf, and began to read by the light of a wall sconce.
Penelope blinked at the tableau. Apparently he was a man of letters.
She stood quietly for a long moment, uncertain of her next move. He seemed not to notice.
She cleared her throat.
He turned a page.
Finally, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
He did not look up. “Yes?”
“I am Lady—”
“No names.”
Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“No names on this side.” He turned another page.
“I—” She stopped, uncertain of what to say. This side? “All right, but I . . .”
“No names.”
They remained in silence for a little longer until she could not bear it a moment more. “Perhaps you could tell me if I am to stand here all night? If so, I would have brought a book of my own.”
He looked up at that, and she took pleasure in the way his black eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she’d surprised him. He pointed to the far end of the entryway, where another door loomed in the darkness. She hadn’t seen it earlier.
She moved toward it. “Billiards is through here?”
He watched her carefully, as though she were a specimen under glass. “Among other things, yes.”
She smiled. “Excellent. I would ask for your name so I might thank you properly, sir, but . . .”
He returned to his book. “No names.”
“Precisely.”
She opened the door, letting in a shock of light from the corridor beyond. She looked back at the strange man, impressed by the play of golden light across his dark skin, and said, “Well, thank you just the same.”
