Page 39 of The Theory of Earls
Scotch. Margaret smiled to herself.
If there was ever a moment for her to have scotch, it was tonight when she desperately needed a bit of courage. Margaret picked up a glass and poured herself two fingers. She took a cautious sip and immediately started to cough and sputter.
The burn down her throat left her gasping for breath but once her eyes stopped watering, a pleasant warmth spread across her chest. After a moment, she took another swallow and didn’t cough once.
The door to the parlor opened and Margaret swung around, expecting to see Welles.
The man who’d escorted her to the room, the guard, had returned.
Margaret’s heart sank. Welles was here but didn’t want to see her. She cursed softly. How utterly humiliating. She would now have to go down to the street and call a hack.
He looked at the almost empty glass of scotch in her hand. “This way, miss. You can pour a bit more and take it with you.” His tone and manner were much more deferential now that he’d returned. “Lord Welles has asked me to escort you upstairs.”
Relief filled her. He was here and would see her. Margaret poured another finger of scotch into her glass. “Shall we?”
“I’m Peckam,” he said, introducing himself as he led her up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor where a door opened into a narrow hall. Loud conversation, cursing, laughter, and the sound of a piano met her ears as they approached a wide landing. Margaret stopped to look over the side. The entire gaming floor of Elysium was spread out before her. Gentlemen milled around the tables in groups, occasionally escorting a well-dressed lady. Other women, clearly courtesans, fluttered about the tables, recognizable by their scandalous gowns and flirtatious manner. A tall, dark-haired man strolled nonchalantly about the tables, stopping here and there to speak to someone. She leaned over the rail to get a better look, certain it was Welles below her. Her eyes widened, taking in his waistcoat which was a dizzying swirl of crimson and green with an exorbitant amount of gold thread. She’d never seen him wear something so…outlandish.
Her escort tapped her politely on the arm. “Come, miss.”
“I believe Lord Welles is downstairs.” She pointed down to the man on the gaming floor.
Peckam followed the direction of her finger and shook his head. “No, miss. That’s Mr. Murphy,notLord Welles. This way, please.”
So that’s Leo.Margaret’s eyes lingered on Welles’s mysterious half-brother. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but from a distance, he looked remarkably like Welles. The duchess and her daughters spoke of Leo often and with great affection, though if he visited, it hadn’t been when Margaret was there. She watched him for a moment longer, wishing he would turn her way.
“Miss?” Peckam was waving her down the hall. The second floor was quiet once they walked past the landing. Muffled sounds came from behind the row of doors as she passed. Each door was painted a different color and numbered.
The two ladies who’d preceded her into Elysium earlier came down the hall from the opposite direction. Giggling, with wine glasses dangling from their fingers, they stopped before one of the rooms and opened the door without knocking.
As Peckam ushered her by, Margaret caught sight of a man, lying on his side, facing the door.
The man was naked save for the mask covering his face and was quite…well endowed.
The two women entered the room with another giggle and closed the door behind them.
Margaret looked away, her cheeks flaming. Again, she questioned her wisdom in coming to Elysium. But after Winthrop’s proposal and Carstairs’s sudden disinterest, Margaret needed to see Welles.
It was madness to be here, Margaret knew that. Scandalous. But she could still feel the warmth of Welles’s larger hand in hers at Lady Masterson’s party. How he’d told her about his mother. The press of his lips. The look of understanding on his face when she’d told him she heard music in the flowers.
I want to be here.Her heart beat louder in her chest.
As sure as she was that she would marry Carstairs, Margaret took no joy in it. He was only better than Winthrop.
I want Welles.
She and Peckam walked the entire length of the second floor to yet another set of stairs with a velvet cord strung across the steps. Two thuggish looking men stood guard before the barrier. The brute on the left, with a shock of red curls falling across his forehead, nodded at Peckam and lifted the cord for Margaret to step under.
“Have a good night, miss.” Peckam made a short bow. “At the landing, take a right. Lord Welles’s rooms are at the far end of the hall.”
Rooms? Welles lived here?
Margaret climbed the stairs to the top, reaching a small landing. Two narrow halls led from the junction of the landing, with an enormous set of double doors at the end of each. She turned right, as instructed. One of the doors stood ajar as the notes of a Chopin nocturne floated out to wrap around her.
Welles was playing the piano.
Margaret stepped through the doorway and stopped.
The room wasn’t overly large and was sparsely furnished, though even in the candlelight she could see the rugs and furniture were all expensive. A large, overstuffed chaise, the size of a small bed, faced the piano. Two leather wing-back chairs sat at angles before a fire blazing on the hearth; a small table sat between them. A sideboard filled with various bottles and decanters took up one corner. There was also a washbasin and a stack of towels. A bookcase lined one wall and was packed full of bits of paper, books, and ledgers. Above the fireplace, a painting hung—a landscape of a pond surrounded by thick woods.
