With a firm grip of Priscilla’s hand, Matthew came to a stop outside the imposing black door with a lion-head knocker. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a crisp calling card. “This club keeps a register of those who enter. They take my card and return it when I leave.”
Priscilla wrapped the silk cloak across her chest and clutched his arm. “What if a gentleman forgets to bring a card?”
“Then someone inside must vouch for him. Failure to do so results in the manager politely asking him to leave. If one creates a fuss, his assistants are far from polite. Of course, things are different if you’re a lady. Then you’re given tokens to enter whenever you wish.”
“Then I presume ladies are part of the entertainment,” she mocked.
“Gentlemen come here to escape the pressures of daily life. Recklessness can be addictive. The club would be bankrupt if they didn’t cater to their guests’ every need.”
While she’d appeared confident earlier, the slight tremble of her body and the lines marring her forehead conveyed a sudden apprehension.
“What will they make of me?”
“You’re here with your husband. People will assume a scoundrel is educating an innocent in the ways of the world. No doubt I will be considered lucky to have a wife willing to break with convention. You will be considered an original, and consequently, can do no wrong.”
“The only reason I’m here is to support you.” She hugged his arm. “Though I suppose I should try to enjoy the experience.”
“We are here to work,” he reminded her. “I’m assured Lord Boden is playing tonight. Have you remembered the signs you must watch out for?”
For an hour after dinner and during the carriage ride to Pickering Place, Matthew had educated Priscilla in the language of the sharps. It was vital she understood every nuance: every subtle difference in movement or expression. To interpret the silent communication required concentration, a heightened awareness.
“A left eye twitch means he’s playing a knave. Fingers clasped tightly together means it’s a king,” Priscilla recited. “It makes sense when you think of it. A knave is mischievous, a bit of a scamp. The eye twitch is to mimic a wink. The king is regal, and holds his fingers clasped to convey authority, and as a barrier against an attack.”
To say her insight impressed him was an understatement. “You’ve just proved your point, Priscilla.”
“What point?”
“That I need you.” He paused, his words rousing an odd feeling in his chest that he fought to suppress. “Not once has it occurred to me that there might be a logical definition for each movement.”
“No doubt it made it easier for the sharps to learn the language.”
“And easier for us to read the signs,” he added, raising the brass knocker on the door and letting it fall. “Come, let us go inside and take refreshment. The hard play doesn’t begin for a half-hour. We’ve time to wander before we observe the rogues at work.”
The stick-thin gentleman who opened the door and escorted them into the hall snatched the calling card from Matthew’s hand as a starving man would a ten-pound note. Lifting his
monocle, he studied the script before placing the card in a wooden box on the shelf behind him. The man turned and inclined his head. “Welcome, Mr Chandler.” He opened the ledger on the desk before him, dipped his pen in the inkwell and made a few scrawls on the page. “I see you have brought a guest this evening. Is the lady to play at the tables?”
“Mrs Chandler is only here as an observer.”
“Mrs Chandler? I see.” From the dubious look gracing the man’s weathered face, he assumed the woman parading as his wife was, in fact, his mistress. “You’re aware I will need to enter her name in the guest book?”
“I am aware, yes.”
“Will the lady require tokens to return unaccompanied?”
Priscilla spoke up. “I shall only ever attend with my husband.”
The man dropped his monocle, the eyeglass dangling on a string tied around his neck, and looked down his beaky nose. “Then may I ask will you require the use of any other house services?”
Priscilla nudged Matthew’s arm. He turned and whispered, “By services, he is asking if we require the use of a private room.” Noting her frown, he added, “Do we desire the use of a bedchamber?”
Recognition finally dawned.
“Certainly not.” Priscilla’s blunt reply made the gentleman draw back. “As his wife, I have no need to take advantage of your hospitality,” she continued a little more calmly.
An ache of disappointment filled Matthew’s chest. The desperate need to bed his wife meant he was in a constant state of arousal. Even so, he’d not take her in a room used by every debauched sot, and there was but an hour or two to wait for the opportunity to sample her heavenly delights.
“Supper is served at midnight in the dining room. Should you need anything else you need only ask.” The man held his open hand awkwardly in front of his chest only pulling it back when Matthew graced his palm with two sovereigns. “I wish you both a pleasant evening.”