by Carola Dunn
A light town carriage drove up, splashing dirty water from a string of puddles so filthy they failed to gleam in the wavering light of the oil-burning street lamps. Giles eyed the high perch at the back with some misgiving. Jodie would be soaked to the skin, yet he could not ask for her to ride inside, nor even help her up without arousing suspicion.
He grinned as she cast him a fulminating glance and scrambled up to join the groom. This whole caper was her notion; she would have to abide by the consequences.
To his relief, Lord Alfred did not interrogate him about America again. It was almost as difficult to avoid accepting any of the many invitations the young man proffered. He managed to escape without committing himself to anything specific while leaving the impression that he would be delighted to join in a spree with his lordship and his cronies.
“My compliments to Miss Judith,” said Lord Alfred as the carriage pulled up in Grosvenor Street. “I’m not much in the petticoat line but I like a filly with a bit of spirit.”
“I’ll convey your compliments to my sister,” Giles assured him, stepping out into the downpour.
He dashed for the shelter of the front door overhang. Dinah would be waiting down at the basement door in the area, but it would never do to let Lord Alfred see him go down there.
Glancing back to make sure Jodie was following, he saw her start down the area steps. A moment later a very twentieth-century curse floated up to him. The carriage was moving away, so he hurried down, to find Jodie seated on the flagstones.
“That was the only bit of me not totally sodden,” she said crossly.
He was shaking with silent laughter as he helped her up. She hobbled ahead of him towards the door that Dinah was opening.
“Oh, miss, you’ll catch your death,” exclaimed the maid, predictably.
“To think I thought that wretched man was cute,” Jodie growled.
“He asked me to convey his compliments,” Giles told her. “He likes a spirited filly.”
“A what?” she demanded in disgust, helping Dinah unbutton her coat. “Did he really say that? I shall never speak to him again. Do you realize he left his unfortunate groom huddled in the street waiting to run for his carriage the minute he stepped out of the cockpit? And that the reason he dislikes the use of metal spurs in cockfights is that they kill the birds quicker? I was never so disillusioned in my life.”
“What, never? What about when Brad took you to the bullfight?”
“He thought it was gross too. If he hadn’t, I’d have dumped him like a ton of hot bricks. Probably. He was a cool guy, mostly.”
“Was?”
“Was. We had a disagreement about my coming to England,” Jodie answered tersely.
It was impossible to be jealous of a past relationship, Giles assured himself as they sneaked up the back stairs. Nonetheless, knowing the name of her boyfriend disturbed him in a way that knowing she had slept with some unnamed male had not. He did not subscribe to the double standard prevalent in this age they were stranded in, yet he wished Brad had remained anonymous.
~ ~ ~
Jodie was absolutely determined to see the Royal Saloon, but Giles had been avoiding the subject for days. One morning she pounced on him as he was about to leave the house to go to Dover Street to consult Cassandra, as he still did most days.
“I am going with you. It is time I paid my respects to Mrs. Brown. I am already dressed for walking and Dinah is ready to go too, so there can be no possible objection.”
Giles smiled his crooked smile. “Have I voiced any objection? I shall be glad of the company. You won’t need Dinah, though. I’m only going to drop off some calculations for Cassandra to check against her own, then I‘ll walk back with you.”
For once it was not raining, though the sky was grey and an icy wind whistled round the corners. Jodie hugged her warm cloak about her.
“Charlotte and Roland are going to some grand affair tomorrow to which we are not invited,” she opened as they turned down Davies Street. “It is the perfect opportunity to go to the Royal Saloon.”
“I’ve been asking around and I gather it’s not the most respectable of places even for gentlemen.”
“I told you, it is frequented by half the peerage.”
“That just means it’s more likely that someone will recognize you. We can’t count on getting away as easily as we did with Lord Alfred at the Cockpit.”
“Easily! Speak for yourself. I was snuffling for three days and the bruises on my rear end lasted a week.”
“That proves my point. You don’t want to go through that again.”
“No one cast a second glance my way at Tattersall’s, which was swarming with gentlemen, nor at the coaching inns.”
“Which were swarming with pickpockets,” Giles snorted. Jodie grinned. A footman’s pockets had not been deemed worthy of picking. “You only lost a half crown,” she soothed him. “And when the next one tried, you caught him a crack with your cane he will not forget in a hurry, I vow.”
“There are worse hazards than pickpockets at the Royal Saloon. Harry Font told me it’s notorious for card-sharping, drunkenness and debauchery.”
“Unless you mean to play or drink or chase the Cyprians, there is nothing to worry about.”
“But you…”
“I have no intention of doing any of those things, I promise, especially not the last,” Jodie teased. His concern for her was endearing but irritating. “Nor will seeing them hurt me, if that is what upsets you. I doubt there is anything worse than what I have seen on TV or in the movies. You are absorbing the values of the day as you said I was. Remember—I have no refined sensibilities.”
“None at all.”
His remark hurt her. Still, if he thought her hard and unfeeling, changing her mind would not change his. She pressed on. “Please, Giles. I promised not to go alone, and I shall not, but I have had to give up hope of White’s and Watier’s and the other clubs, since you can only go in as guest of a member. The Royal Saloon is the least disreputable of the gambling hells open to the public.”
“It’s useless trying to protect you, isn’t it?” He sighed. “All my gentlemanly instincts going to waste.”
Reassured, she said severely, “You are quizzing me. You will take me, then?”
“If you can get away tonight.”
“I am not sure. Why?”
“Harry Font is coming up from Kent tomorrow and we’ll be comparing results into the early hours.”
“Coming up from Kent! I thought he was in London.”
“He comes and goes. It’s only a few miles to Font Hall.”
“So you have been seeing Cassandra alone.”
“Good lord, no. If Harry’s not there, we are closely chaperoned by his Aunt Tavie, I assure you. I’ve never been alone with Cassandra for a moment.”
Jodie tried to hide her relief. “Aunt Tavie—she is the rheumaticky old lady?”
“Yes, and a veritable dragon, though she’s Harry’s favourite relative, I gather. They have been waiting for the weather to improve before taking her down to Font Hall to attend their wedding. I haven’t mentioned your ‘year without a summer’.”
“Nor shall I. I daresay there must be moments when it is not quite so horrid. How are your calculations going? I don’t ask more often because I don’t want to hassle you, not because I am not interested.”
“I would report more often, if there were anything to report. We are progressing, but slowly. At our present rate, it’ll be ten days or so before we can be sure whether it’s possible or not.”
“Whether it’s possible to go home? Of course, you would have told me if you’d figured that out for sure. I guess that’s another reason I haven’t asked—I didn’t want to know.” Hearing a tremor in her own voice, Jodie added as brightly as she could manage, “Luckily I’m beginning to feel quite at home here.”
Giles seemed to guess that she needed comfort, since he could not offer reassurance. He put one arm round her shoulder
s and gave her a quick hug.
When they reached the house in Dover Street, Cassandra invited them to go in for refreshments. In her reserved way she seemed pleased to see Jodie, who at once felt guilty for not having called sooner. Though Cassandra had chosen her exile, Jodie realized she would naturally be glad to talk to a woman from her own time, and about subjects other than physics.
It turned out that their chief topic was plumbing. Cassandra was vastly envious of the Faringdales’ water closets and shower bath, and when she described the misery of washing her hair in a copper tub, Jodie was not surprised.
They also talked of clothes. Cassandra seemed to be as unaware of the “future history” of fashion as she was of the general course of events in nineteenth-century England. Remembering Emily’s distaste for hints of the future, Jodie did not enlighten her. She did not need to know that in a couple of years heavy whalebone corsets would once more be de rigueur and that women’s clothes would grow ever more elaborate and confining, culminating in the virtual imprisonment of the bustle and crinoline.
“I do miss the comfort of pants,” Cassandra admitted, “but Harry has agreed that once we are married I shall learn to ride astride in breeches as long as I stay on the estate. Do you ride?”
“No, but I shall certainly learn if we have to stay. In fact, even if we go back I hope to learn. Giles has horses at Waterstock.”
They both glanced at Giles. He was keeping the old lady nobly entertained, to judge by Aunt Tavie’s cackle. Cassandra turned back to Jodie with an understanding look.
“I wish you luck, my dear,” she said in a low voice.
Jodie decided she liked Cassandra immensely. If she and Giles could not go home it would be a relief to have a friend to whom she could talk unreservedly.
As they were taking their leave, Giles asked what time Harry was expected on the morrow.
“I’m glad you asked, I nearly forgot to tell you,” Cassandra exclaimed. “I received a note from him this morning. He’s been detained and he cannot be here until the day after tomorrow. I hope that will not inconvenience you?”
“Not at all,” Giles assured her. “We can only be grateful that the two of you are so generous with your time and expertise. Right, Jodie?”
She agreed fervently.
As soon as the front door closed behind them, Jodie gave a little skip of excitement.
“So I need not try to fabricate an excuse for this evening. We can go to the Royal Saloon tomorrow night when Roland and Charlotte are out.”
“The Royal Saloon tomorrow,” Giles agreed unwillingly.
Chapter Twelve
The Royal Saloon was situated in Piccadilly, a street that started out nobly at the Hyde Park turnpike but lost most of its pretensions to grandeur by the time it ended at Haymarket.
This was not to say that the Royal Saloon had no pretensions to grandeur. A fashionable haunt of the nobility despite its ill repute, it was decorated in vaguely eastern style, featuring pagodas and bamboo and lotus blossoms with a few sinuous dragons twining about for good measure. Jodie rather liked the palm trees—they reminded her of California.
The busiest hours, she had heard, were between midnight and dawn. Though it was still early when she and Giles arrived, as they had to be home well before that hour, the main room was already well-populated. Women in gaudy, spangled gowns with alarming décolletés sauntered arm in arm between the scattered tables. At some of these gentlemen sat ogling the parading beauties. The occupants of others were more interested in conversation, or their lobster dinners, or the contents of the bottles delivered by scurrying waiters.
As she followed Giles down the room, Jodie noticed that a few of the Cyprians had already found their marks and were seated at tables, some on chairs and some, simpering, on pantaloon-clad knees. Here and there a low-cut bodice had fulfilled its function by spilling its contents. Jodie quickly averted her eyes.
Giles found a small table in an ill-lit corner and sat down.
He beckoned to Jodie and she leaned towards him at a properly respectful angle, as if to receive his orders.
“I should think you’d better stand against the wall behind me,” he whispered, “Like those other footmen over there.” He nodded towards the far side of the room.
Jodie saw a couple of men in livery and powdered hair, waiting like statues until their masters should need them. “Not other footmen, real footmen,” she whispered back. “I’ll never manage to stand that still.”
“Just don’t scratch,” he advised.
A waiter was approaching so Jodie stepped back to the drapery-covered wall. She discovered that it was not a wall after all, just curtains covering an alcove from which issued squeals and giggles. Hastily she moved to her right until she reached a solid pier between the arches of two of the private chambers. Now that she knew what she was looking for, she realized that the main room was lined down both sides with curtained recesses, and there were more on the balcony.
Judging by some of the activities proceeding in full view at the tables, the carryings-on in the alcoves were best concealed.
Jodie had a good view of the nearer part of the room, and the overall noise level was low enough to allow her to hear snatches of conversation. She was sufficiently familiar with the cant of the period to know that horse-racing and boxing were the chief topics, though the details escaped her.
The hum of voices was punctuated at frequent intervals by shouts of “Waiter!” All the waiters seemed—and needed—to be nimble little men with a magnificent sense of balance. They also all wore worried expressions, except that the one who had taken Giles’s order now reappeared scowling. Jodie saw that Giles had asked for a tankard of ale. Being cheap it was doubtless unpopular with both proprietor and servants, promising little profit.
Most of the shouts were for champagne, brandy, or claret. The waiters were kept as busy removing empty bottles as providing full ones, and more than one gentleman’s red face and glazed eyes suggested their owner would soon be under the table.
Jodie decided it was time to investigate the two doors leading off the back of the room. None of the unaccompanied lightskirts had ventured through either door, and most of the men going that way did not take their ladybirds with them. That must be where the serious gaming went on.
Jodie moved to Giles’s side and adopted the deferential pose. “You called, sir?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” he teased. “Go away.”
“I want to see what is going on in the back rooms.”
“I dread to think. Must you?”
“It’s probably more decorous than in here.”
“It could hardly be less. I rather fancy that redheaded wench over there.”
Jodie followed his gaze, just in time to catch the cheerful wink aimed at Giles by a voluptuous lady of the night. As she swayed towards them her lime-green gown clung to every curve, and in contrast her hair blazed in the candlelight.
“Dyed,” Jodie scoffed. “Come on.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Giles rose and led the way, shaking his head with a mournful expression as they passed the redhead.
“Good luck, lovie,” she wished him. “Come back when you’ve lined your pockets. Just ask for Fifi.” She smiled at the footman following him, then her kohl-ringed eyes widened and she looked Jodie up and down. Grinning, she put a finger to her lips. “Already taken, is ‘e, ducks?” she whispered. “Don’t worry, I’m no poacher. It’s the legs gives it away but none of them won’t notice.” Her sweeping gesture expressed supreme contempt for every male in the place.
“Ta, love,” Jodie whispered back, and hurried after Giles. The room they entered was hushed, an occasional exclamation of pleasure or dismay rising above the rattle and click of dice, the shuffling of cards, the gurgle of bottle and glass. There was an odd squeaky sound Jodie could not identify, until she saw that some of the gamblers were keeping score on slates.
It was too quiet to risk telling Giles that Fifi had seen through h
er disguise. He was looking around the room as if searching for someone but it would soon become noticeable if he did not sit down to play. Jodie concentrated on mentally cataloguing the furnishings and the players as fast as possible, then tugged unobtrusively on his sleeve. She could feel his tension.
He turned and went out into the main room. The din had grown louder, unless it was just in contrast to the card room’s quiet. No, a couple of bucks were shouting at each other across a table.
Jodie was glad of Giles’s tall figure just in front of her. She nearly stopped him to tell him about Fifi but he would undoubtedly insist on leaving at once. Though she was far from reluctant, she must just take a peek at the other room first. She followed as close to his heels as she dared.
The room was dedicated to billiards. A reasonably competent pool player, Jodie watched with interest. At the nearest table a game was just beginning. The white ball swished across the smooth green baize and hit the red with a clunk. Both balls rebounded and rolled down the table, coming to rest behind a line drawn from side to side. A murmur of appreciation and scattered applause from the spectators told Jodie it was a good shot.
The player straightened with an air of nonchalant smugness. It was Lord Thorncrest.
His gaze slid across Jodie’s face—and returned. His expression changed to astonished incredulity. She had no doubt whatsoever that he had recognized her.
He looked at Giles and his eyebrows rose in the familiar cynical arrogance. For a moment the two men stared at each other, then Giles turned and walked calmly to the door. Jodie had to force herself not to beat him to it.
As they entered the main room, one of the two bucks she had noticed before, now standing, aimed a blow at the other across their table. The second responded in kind. A chair went over and hit a waiter behind the knees, sending him to the floor. His tray went flying. It slid across another table, scattering bottles, and hit the midriff of a large man with a broken nose. As he surged to his feet, a ferocious scowl on his misshapen face, his table toppled and females fled screaming.
Giles grabbed Jodie’s hand and started round the melée. Fists were swinging in all directions. Several of the filles de joie joined in, pulling hair and scratching, and screeching imprecations. An incensed waiter brought down his laden tray on the head of a nearby gentleman. Glass crunched underfoot and fumes of spilt liquor made Jodie dizzy.
