Page 38 of The Theory of Earls
After the group of gentlemen passed through the door, Margaret cautiously approached the doorman. He looked frightening with his broad forehead and barrel chest, but he smiled easily, watching her with curiosity.
The giant glanced her way then dismissed her.
Taking a deep breath, Margaret walked forward, meaning to enter the door. She wasn’t sure what she would do once she was inside. Ask for Welles, she supposed.
“Here now. What’s this?” The man with one arm stopped her with a frown. “You can’t go in this way, miss. Surely you were told?”
Margaret’s cheeks puffed. “Why ever not? You allowed those gentlemen before me to do so.”
“They’remembers. Are you a member?” He gave her a skeptical look. “I thought not. I’ve never seen you before.” He peered at her, his eyes narrowing. “You here at someone’s request?”
“A…request?” She supposed she was, in a manner of speaking. Her presence had been requested. “Yes, I am.”
“Then you should know to go around back.” He jerked his thumb. “They’ll check to see if your name is on the list. If not, then you can catch a hack.”
“But—”
The giant rolled his eyes and took her arm, dragging her along with him before she could object.
Margaret had to run on her tiptoes to avoid being dragged, all while struggling to keep the cloak closed. Torches lit a gravel path winding around the side of the building to another door, this one not nearly as grand as in front; this door, too, was painted red.
Two ladies stood awaiting entrance while another man, equally as large as the one in front, checked a ledger. The women turned at her approach, their faces each covered with an ornate silk mask sufficiently hiding their identities. The sound of their laughter reached Margaret’s ears as they were waved inside.
The giant moved her forward to stand before the door.
“Who are you here for?” The man looked her over with little interest.
“I’m not on your list,” Margaret said. “I had an open invitation and I’m not certain—”
“Your name and who you’re to see.”
Margaret lifted her chin. What difference did it make if these two men knew who she was or why she was here? She doubted Elysium would still be in business if the employees were less than discreet.
“Margaret to see Lord Welles.”
“Margaret?”
“Just Margaret. I’m here for Lord Welles.”
The brute holding her arm cursed softly. “I’ll let Johnson know.”
The man at the door shrugged and put down the ledger. “Inside with you then, miss.” He took her arm and led her through the doorway.
Margaret swallowed. “Would it be possible to wait outside for him?” The cloak slipped revealing her naked collarbone and she pulled it tighter around her.
He shook his head. “No. You wait inside.”
Her escort barely took notice of the fact she was half-dressed under the cloak. She supposed in his line of work he’d seen things much more interesting than the exposed collarbone of a plain-faced spinster.
Taking her by the elbow, he opened the door. A gangly youth leaned against the wall just inside, reading a book of all things. Her escort motioned for the young man to go outside. “I’ve got a package for Lord Welles I need to deal with.”
The youth took one look at Margaret and then went outside.
“Is Lord Welles here?” Belatedly it had occurred to her that he mightnotbe here tonight. Margaret rarely made rash decisions, but in her panic about Winthrop and the horribly revealing discussion she’d had with her aunt, she’d chosen to come to Elysium without a second thought. She should have sent him word she was coming.
“He’s here,” the guard assured her before opening the door to a small parlor. A fire burned in the hearth; shivering, Margaret immediately went to stand before the flames to warm herself. She turned to ask another question but saw only the door closing behind him.
Margaret circled the room, taking in her surroundings. The furnishings were understated and elegant, the rug expensive and plush beneath her feet. A silver tray on a sideboard held a collection of crystal decanters, each filled with amber liquid. Walter Lainscott had liked scotch and Irish whisky, and the parlor at her home in Yorkshire had been filled with the stuff. Eyeing one decanter, she lifted the crystal stopper and sniffed.
