Chapter Thirteen
Eleanor was sketching a moth that had gotten stuck in her room when Georgina dropped off a letter.
“I had to grab that before the footman looked at it too closely. It’s addressed to Cecil.”
Eleanor broke the seal and unfolded it, brow furrowing when she saw the name Arthur Smith scrawled at the bottom. She read it, and then read it again to make sure she wasn’t imagining things.
“What do they want?”
“I’ve been invited to a gentleman’s club,” she said. “Apparently the members of the Natural History Society frequent it.”
“Will you go?” Georgina asked.
“Of course not,” she responded automatically.
Her sister shrugged, spoke to her a little longer, and went along her way. A few minutes later, Eleanor heard Georgina begin to practice the harp—the melodic plucking drifted up the stairs. It was a slow, haunting tune that reminded Eleanor of the Highlands. Distracted, she put down her sketch and picked up the letter again.
Arthur Smith, who was a respected member of the society, praised her lecture and her specimens with such admiration her cheeks heated. He said the gentleman’s club would be a chance to further her acquaintance with like-minded people.
But it was too risky. She pushed the letter away.
Of course, she’d already been caught by an unscrupulous boxer. And only because he was unnaturally observant. She didn’t think anything more dire would befall her, simply from one visit to the club.
And wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this what she’d yearned for?
It was a shame she couldn’t go as she was, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still enjoy herself.
She stood and went to her wardrobe. Atop a pile of stockings rested a gray powdered wig. She lifted the wig gingerly and remembered how wonderful she’d felt when she’d finished her lecture and been greeted with applause. A fierce longing gripped her. The longing was mixed with trepidation, yes, but desire was a very powerful thing.
Everyone wanted to find a place they fit, didn’t they? Everyone deserved that, didn’t they? Didn’t she?
When she had returned from the lecture, she’d assumed Cecil Townsend wouldn’t make any more appearances. It would be stupid and reckless. Robert certainly wouldn’t allow it if she told him, after what had happened the first time.
But then, she was feeling a little reckless.
…
The next day, she managed to sneak out, dressed as Cecil, fairly easily. Robert was gone, and she simply dodged the other servants and waited until the footman in charge of answering the door left the entrance hall for a moment, possibly to use the necessary. She didn’t run into Georgina, though she wasn’t worried about her.
She had a feeling she could concoct any number of wild schemes and have Georgina’s full support. She wondered if her younger sister was a bad influence.
She set a brisk pace down the walking pavement. The sky was a deep gray and snow fell softly on her greatcoat and melted almost as quickly as it landed. When she’d put a safe distance between herself and her family’s town house, she hailed a hackney.
The gentleman’s club was almost exactly what she’d imagined a gentleman’s club would look like. Tall sash windows lined a long room. The velvet curtains were closed, but soft winter light seeped in through the cracks. Almost all of the expensive furniture was occupied. Deep-red settees with gilt frames and matching winged chairs pointed toward a large fireplace. There were several round tables surrounded by chairs.
The men by the fireplace were reading the newspaper while most of the men at the tables were playing cards or eating. Almost all of them were drinking. Many were smoking or using snuff. She grimaced as she watched a man close to her pinch a generous portion of the powder between his thumb and index finger and hold it to his nose.
There were no women in sight.
She felt like she’d unwittingly stepped into a world where everything feminine had been eradicated with a vengeance.
Someone stood from a table at the back, and she recognized Arthur Smith.
After a footman took her hat and greatcoat, Mr. Smith greeted her jovially and led her to the back table. She recognized almost all of the men at the table from the Natural History Society. Each man had a drink in hand.
“We were just discussing James Hutton’s work, are you familiar with him?”
“Oh yes,” she said. James Hutton had been a leading geologist who’d lived in Edinburgh. Geology wasn’t her favorite scientific field, but she had read Hutton’s theories.
“Sir William here was acquainted with him before his death.” Smith nodded at the older man. “He says Hutton put forth a rather intriguing idea.”
Eleanor leaned forward. “Do tell.”
“It’s a principle of variation. Hutton believed that a species can adapt the traits that are most essential to their survival. For instance, in dogs—if a keen sense of smell is necessary to survival, dogs without this sense will be more likely to perish, which would then produce a species of well-scented hounds.”
Eleanor was mesmerized. “And this was never published?”
“No,” Sir William said. “I don’t even know if he completed the manuscript he was working on at the time. But it’s just as well—it cannot possibly be true. And anyway, Hutton was more a geologist than a naturalist.”
“But it seems sound. If we can deliberately produce traits that are deemed useful…as in breeding fast horses to produce race horses…why is it not possible that a similar process could also occur naturally?”
“But where would it end? If the earth is as ancient as Hutton claimed, and if this process occurs naturally…one could claim that cats were once dogs, or, or”—he waved his arm wildly—“humans were once monkeys, or something equally ridiculous! His theory leaves the door open for that sort of delusion.”
“Didn’t Lord Monboddo suggest a relation between apes and humans?” Eleanor asked.
“Monboddo,” Sir William sneered. “If you subscribe to the ideas of an addle-pated fool, I certainly can’t help you.”
Eleanor was about to suggest that name-calling was perhaps not the best use of their time, but the conversation was cut short when a footman came by with more tumblers. The man next to her handed her one, and she frowned down at the murky brown liquid. “We call that Smith’s punch,” her companion said with a laugh.
“What’s in it?”
“That’s part of the mystery. Rum, we know for sure. Aside from that…” He shrugged. “Could be anything.”
Eleanor stared down at the glass with trepidation. The man next to her slapped her on the shoulder. “It might hurt your head a bit, but you’ll be stronger for it.”
She didn’t really see a correlation, but everyone else was tipping it back like watered-down wine. She forced herself to take a sip.
And nearly spit it out.
The liquor burned her mouth and her tongue. It was potent and fiery, sweet and disgusting.
“Eh,” the man next to her said, profoundly.
A moment later, lethargy hit her limbs and tingled. She wondered if she’d been poisoned—that would explain the noxious taste.
But she didn’t die, and she continued to listen to the conversation around her—they’d moved from Hutton to the latest anatomical advances. She also continued to sip Smith’s punch. Everyone else was, and she had a feeling they might think it was odd if she didn’t join in.
Eventually, though, the conversation disintegrated—and this was possibly in direct correlation with the amount of punch consumed—to talk of mistresses and gambling and horseflesh. She unwillingly learned about Mr. Thompson’s troubles with a mistress who was becoming more expensive with each passing day and a wife who was growing possessive and suspicious. She learned that Mr. MacKenzie was an inveterate gambler and seemed to think he’d always win more than he did. She learned that Mr. Black had just spent his new wife’s entire dowry on a thoroughbred.
She wasn’t certain what any of these things had to do with the other.
When the footman came by with more punch, she—without quite knowing how or why—took another glass. It tasted better than the first.
Her thoughts began to drift. Or, more apt, they drifted from the topics at hand and shot, unerringly, to James MacGregor.
To the feel of his hand clasping hers, large and callused and hot. To the intense blue of his eyes. To the deep voice that taunted and pushed and pushed and wouldn’t let her be. Even now, even here, it echoed in her mind.
Eleanor swayed to her feet abruptly. The men looked at her.
“I just remembered an errand,” she said. Was she speaking with her deepened voice? She thought she was. Though, at this point, she didn’t know if they’d notice.
They raised their tumblers to her. “To Cecil Townsend, king of the stag beetles!” They laughed jovially, as though they’d thought of something too clever not to laugh at.
In her haste to leave, she nearly collided with the Duke of Sheffield, who was just outside the door. They’d been introduced once—when she wasn’t dressed as Cecil—and she hesitated, realizing how close they were to one another.
She hoped he didn’t find anything amiss.
But he was only glaring down at her with pale, cold eyes, no hint of recognition in them. “You are in my path,” he said.
He did not raise his voice—he didn’t need to—it still carried a thousand threats. He looked at her with the haughty, disdainful assurance that only came from years of being a duke, from snapping out orders and having them answered in the space of a heartbeat. He was used to being above everyone else, and Eleanor assumed he quite liked the view from the top.
She’d almost forgotten how much she exceedingly disliked the man.
Almost.
She tipped her hat in apology and gave him a wide berth.
Then, shaking off the unpleasant encounter, she hailed another hackney, and with some effort, climbed inside. It smelled like sweat and alcohol and the sharp tang of urine—her too-full stomach rumbled. Before she knew what she was doing, she gave the wrong address. Not to the Townsend’s house.
No, she gave the address of one James MacGregor.