Page 35 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“And they admit women,” Sophronia said.

“Aye, and that means I’ll wait outside for ye, mum. But if ye needs me for anything, say a mort tries to fling ye, call out for me and I’ll come dowse ’em on the chops.”

“I hope there shall be no robbing me, therefore no protection shall be necessary.” Sophronia followed Nate into the small alley, which was surprisingly clean and orderly, and waited while the groom knocked on the painted red door. It opened, and the linkboy held up the torch so the porter could see Sophronia, and he her.

“New here, ain’t ye?” The porter was a large man whose face bore signs of a career in prize fighting, likely of the bare-knuckle variety. “Whose recommendation?”

Sophronia went for honesty, though the name caused a flutter in her chest. “Victor Rowden.”

The porter looked her up and down, from the tip of the ostrich plumes revealed as she pulled back her calash bonnet, to the train of the muslin and silk robes she held out of the dirt. He stepped aside.

“Aye, then.”

Her heart pattered as she walked down a narrow hallway. The polished floorboards creaked beneath the weight of the porter, following behind. Oil lamps smoked in their wall sconces, and there was such a swirl of scents in the air, food and oil and cologne, they muddled her head at once. The passageway opened to another hall, this one carpeted and brightly lit to show the gilded designs in the paneling and the recessed ceiling. The porter pointed to three different sets of doors.

“Dining parlor, billiards parlor, smoking parlor.” He tipped his head to the side. “Gaming parlor up the stairs.”

“I cannot say I am acquainted with billiards,” Sophronia murmured. “The dining parlor, to begin?”

Sophronia had no notion what to expect of a dining parlor in a private club for women. She hadn’t asked Rowden about accommodations at the Albion for the obvious reason that she did not want him to know of her interest, nor her intentions to go on an information-gathering excursion.

Furthermore, she wasn’t aware of private dining clubs in London that accepted women. There were the supper boxes at Ranelagh or Marylebone pleasure gardens, and private dinners in the homes of friends. The dining parlor at the Albion had contrived to model itself on both.

The room was all gilded opulence, with a domed ceiling dangling a glittering chandelier that must hold at least a hundred candles. Wall sconces about the room cast more light on circular tables covered with crisp white linen and silver bowls spilling fresh flowers. The walls were a pale wheat with gilded tracery in the panels and occasional medallions that punctuated the décor. The carpet was a deep red, as were the curtains hung at opposite ends of the room. What Sophronia first took for false windows were in fact private alcoves, where small groups could sit apart from the rest of the room.

For all its subdued elegance, the atmosphere in the room was relaxed and welcoming. Nearly all the half dozen tables were occupied. Here and there a woman dined in peaceful solitude, but most sat in pairs or small groups. Soft chatter and gentle laughter rose like the murmur of birds in flight, and delicious scents wafted through the air.

Sophronia had enjoyed a splendid dinner at the Baron’s table, hosting Miss Kemp and her chaperone along with the family party, which that evening included his lordship. Rowden had scored an inroad for Miss Kemp with the fast friendship that had formed between the girl’s chaperone and Aunt Dobbs, but Sophronia had contrived to keep the conversation to topics that made Miss Kemp stand out not in the least, thus giving no reason for Giles to take an interest in her. She had attended to her meal along with the social interactions, but the scent of roast beef reminded her that a bite of supper would not be out of order.

Liveried footmen stood behind broad silver trays laid on a long table, ready to lift their covers at a sign of interest. Along with beef, Sophronia detected roast chicken, sliced ham, and braised mutton. She filled her plate with a boiled egg, a slice of bread with butter, a salad of herbs and cucumber, and tiny early strawberries, bright red. Then she looked about for a table, feeling suddenly shy about being all on her own. She ought to have brought Lily after all; a dining parlor was perfectly unobjectionable. Most of the women were well-dressed and bore the polish of wealth, with jewels and accessories hinting they could afford an expensive lifestyle.

“We’ve a place at our table here.” One young woman offered a friendly smile. She sat with a group of four at a table that could seat six, and she waved a hand gloved in white silk toward one of the open chairs. “We were about to request another bottle of claret. We’ll ask a glass for you.”

A footman appeared to pull out Sophronia’s chair, then placed a small basin of scented water and a crisp white length of linen beside her plate, along with a setting of silver cutlery. The handles bore a design of vines twining around a stylized letter A.

“Bespoke utensils, less likely to be stolen,” she murmured to herself, but the young woman beside her laughed.

“You might slip it into your purse, if you fancy the design, and the steward will add it to your tab. They notice everything.”

Sophronia looked around, spotting several liveried footmen moving discreetly about the room, all in burgundy coats, nankeen breeches with white stockings, small white periwigs, and white gloves. They looked borrowed from the royal palace of Versailles in the heyday of Louis the Sun King.

“Here for our comfort as well as our honesty, then?” Sophronia sat and peeled off her long gloves, then dipped her fingers in the water.

“They’re fine to have when gentlemen from the other side try to enter without an invitation.”

“Does that happen often?” Sophronia daubed her fingers with the linen.

“Only once that I’ve seen, but then, this is merely my second visit. My sisters were looking for a new entertainment, so I wanted to introduce them to the place.” She indicated the other women at the table. “I am Tressie, this is Starria, that child there is Selene⁠—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Selene, who wore a simple muslin gown of pure white. “I have made my debut, same as you.”

“But mine was years ago,” Tressie said. She wore a white muslin gown with short sleeves and a drape of Tyrian purple silk around the bodice, cleverly tied in the back. The same dark purple ribbon trimmed her white cap, with the feathers dyed to match. Sophronia guessed that Tressie was a few years younger than she, and her sister Starria a bit younger than that. Starria wore a tunic of primrose pink over her white gown, with the same gauzy fabric tied about her head.

“And this is our venerated elder, Lady Judith Falstead.” She pointed to the other woman, whom Sophronia judged to be a few years older than herself. Lady Judith wore a patterned silk robe over a petticoat of fine muslin, with a sea-green silk ribbon at her bodice and waist. A slender green visor shielded her eyes. Unlike the other girls, she was not dining, but sipped her wine from a delicate stemmed glass.

“I feel I should curtsy,” Sophronia murmured, trying to recall which great family bore the Falstead name.

“No need,” Lady Judith said with a soft smile in Sophronia’s direction. “Tressie will not say it, but these three are sisters to the Marquess of Arendale as much as I am.”