2. A Club Reveals Some Secrets

The following Tuesday, Soho Square, London

As the Engleston traveling coach ambled over the cobblestone streets toward the Soho Club, David gazed out the rain-streaked window. Despite a relatively clear morning, muddy roads had slowed the horses once they were out of Kent. When they reached the outskirts of London, a fine drizzle began to fall. At least the four-hour trip afforded him time to review business ledgers and read a book.

“I’ll see to it your trunk is left with a footman, milord,” his driver, Carver, said as he opened the coach door. “Then I’ll pull into the mews around back.”

Before David had stepped out of the equipage, though, two footmen approached and saw to removing the trunk from the back of the coach. Carver’s mouth dropped open in awe.

Remembering he needed to show the cream calling card, David fished it from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to one of the footmen.

“We’re expecting you, my lord,” the taller footman said. “Welcome to the Soho Club.”

For a moment, David wondered how the servant knew who he was. Then, when his driver shut the coach door, he knew why. The Engleston barony crest was emblazoned in gold paint on the coach door. Although it was a bit mud-splattered, it was still readable. “Thank you. Where...?” He regarded the property tucked into the corner of the square with a furrowed brow. At first glance, he didn’t see an obvious entrance to the club—there was no shingle or a placard to indicate the name of the establishment—but a liveried man was posted next a set of doors marked “Private” .

“Right there, milord,” the shorter footman said as he pointed to the entrance. “Mr. Peabody will see to your coat and provide directions to reach Mrs. Skarsgard. She’ll have the key to your room.”

David nodded his understanding and made his way to the entrance. He held out his card, and the portly servant opened the door. “I’m looking for Mrs. Skarsgard,” he said, once he was inside the wood-paneled vestibule. He couldn’t help but notice the number of greatcoats hung on a series of hooks, and the bin for umbrellas was nearly full. The desk off to the side was unmanned.

“Would you like to leave your coat, my lord?”

Allowing Mr. Peabody to assist with his greatcoat, David shrugged out of it and dropped his umbrella into the bin.

The servant opened the next door, revealing what appeared to be an inner sanctum. Candle-lit sconces cast a warm glow along the walls while velvet drapes covered every window. Several chandeliers added their golden light and warmth, which had David thinking he had stepped into the club’s ballroom. An empty one, though, for no one else was there despite an array of upholstered furnishings.

“You can find Mrs. Skarsgard up the stairs and down the hall,” Mr. Peabody said before he bowed and disappeared through the door from which they had just come.

David turned and made his way up the stairs, his footfalls silent on the thick Aubusson carpeting.

At the top of the stairs, there was only one direction in which to go, and he made his way down the carpeted corridor until he came upon a door bearing a brass nameplate. He knocked, relieved when a feminine voice said, “Come.”

Opening it only a fraction, David dared a glance inside before he fully stepped into a well-appointed office. There were two wingback chairs and a small table. A chaise longue sat beneath one of the room’s two windows. Given the gray beyond the glass, the room was mostly lit with candle lamps.

The source of the feminine voice sat at a small escritoire. She stood upon his arrival, though. “Welcome to the Soho Club,” she said by way of a greeting.

“I’m to ask for Mrs. Skarsgard,” David said, holding out the cream card. Despite his discomfort whilst in the company of the opposite sex, he did his best to keep his gaze on the woman.

“And found her you have,” she replied. Set off by a pale yellow day gown, black hair, and chocolate brown eyes, Mrs. Skarsgard’s caramel skin fairly glowed in the candlelight. It was impossible to tell her age. She could have been twenty, thirty, or forty years old.

“It’s good to make your acquaintance. I am Lord?—”

“We don’t use names here, sir,” Mrs. Skarsgard interrupted. “Which allows our members to be whomever they wish to be without any societal expectations.”

David gave a start. “Then how am I to claim the room that has apparently been reserved for me by Lord... Dicky?” he asked, deciding if he couldn’t use Richard’s real name, he would try using his nickname.

“We’ve been expecting you,” Mrs. Skarsgard stated. She lifted a key from the escritoire and held it out to him. “Near the end of the hall on the right. I’m afraid the room doesn’t offer much of a vantage,” she added as David took the proffered key. “But it is private. Breakfast is served whenever you would like it in the dining room, or if you wish, a tray can be delivered to your room.” She paused as she glanced at a parchment from her desk. “As I understand the arrangement, you’ll be with us for three nights.”

David nodded. “Thank you, yes,” he replied. “Are there any rules I should know about?”

“No names. No sharing what you might see or hear whilst you’re under our roof, and you can be assured of the same consideration from our other club members.”

Members.

David was about to mention he wasn’t a member when Mrs. Skarsgard said, “You are a member of the Soho Club during your stay, of course, and you are welcome to return when you’re able. You need only show your card.” She held it out for him.

Giving a slight bow as he retrieved the card, David said, “I appreciate the consideration.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Skarsgard said as she suddenly held up a finger. “You needn’t feel the least bit shy when you’re in the company of our members, especially the women. Remember, nothing you say or hear will be revealed beyond the walls of the club.”

Blinking at hearing the comment, David wondered if Dicky had made mention of his problem with shyness or if the woman had sorted it of her own accord. “Good to know,” he replied, well aware of how his face was reddening. “Might you know where Lord... uh, where my host can be found?”

Mrs. Skarsgard angled her head to one side, as if she were listening intently to something beyond the door. “You’ll find him downstairs in the card room engaged in a game of whist.”

Chuckling, David once again nodded and said his thanks before he backed out of the office. For a moment, he thought to head downstairs to find the Earl of Penhurst, but instead he decided to leave his valise in his room. Unsure of what he would find beyond the wood door—rooms in coaching inns were always a bit dodgy—he turned the key and was pleasantly surprised to discover his room was as elegant as any master bedchamber in a Mayfair mansion.

Besides the Turkish carpeting decorating the floor, the bed was dressed in a blue velvet counterpane and the masculine furnishings were of a dark wood. The room’s only window was covered in blue velvet drapes, and a quick glance out proved Mrs. Skarsgard’s assessment regarding its lack of a vantage—the brick wall of another building stood a few feet beyond the glass, but there were no matching windows to cause concerns when it came to privacy.

As he was setting his valise on the bed, David noticed his trunk had already been delivered and was dry. Impressed by the service, he went about unpacking some clothes for that evening’s entertainments. His butler, who also acted as his valet when he was at his estate in Kent, had included the usual assortment of breeches, shirts, cravats, and waistcoats suitable for wear during the day. In addition, there was his more formal attire—satin breeches and topcoat, stockings, dance shoes, and the most flamboyant waistcoat he owned.

Girding his loins for what was to come—he expected he would be introduced to people he didn’t know—David took one look in the bathing chamber mirror to ensure he was presentable and then opened the door.

At the very same moment, the door to the room adjacent to his opened. A brunette-haired woman, fair of complexion and dressed in a jonquil gown, stepped out and stared at him with wide eyes the color of brandy.

For a moment, David was sure the sun had broken through the clouds. Framed by the pink decor of her room, she appeared as if she was lit from within, and when her glorious smile appeared, it only magnified the effect.

He had no idea of her age—twenty, perhaps?—but he knew at that moment he would have to say something. A greeting at the very least. He swallowed. “Hello,” he managed as he nodded.

The brilliant smile brightened. “Oh, by chance, are you my betrothed?” she asked, sounding breathless.

David blinked. And blinked again. “Why, yes. Yes I am,” he replied.