The Reluctant Reformer (22 page)

Maggie had worn nothing but slippers around Lady Barlow's town house since the fire. She could hardly wear those out of the house, however, and Jean and Nora had mentioned while helping her sift through the chest of Sophie's gowns—retrieved under Lady Barlow's direction—that the attic was stuffed full of all sorts of things, including masks, fans, shoes, and the like. Searching through that treasure trove of stored items, Maggie had come upon a chest filled with male clothing.

The style and size of the boxed garments had convinced her that they were no doubt castoffs from James's youth, and the idea had struck like lightning that she should attend the men's club as a male. She'd had no problem finding appropriate garb in the chest for an evening at a men's club, not to mention a pair of old dress boots that fit nicely, and so her mind had been made up. She tied her hair at her nape, slid it down the back of her shirt, and donned the mask and a top hat.
Fortunately, the mask was rather neutral in style, so it was not unlikely for a man to wear. It also boasted enough feathers and other trinkets to hide the fact that Maggie's hair was long and tied back.

Grimacing, she shifted her legs, glancing around to be sure no one was looking her way, then she gave the back of her breeches a brief tug. This was not the first time that Maggie had camouflaged herself in male dress, but it was not a disguise she often chose when she could avoid it. Binding her breasts was a rather painful procedure, and besides, she wasn't all that comfortable in these tight-fitting breeches. While James had been the same size in his youth, at least length-wise in the legs, he hadn't apparently had any hips. Maggie found the breeches far too snug for comfort across her bottom, especially when compared to the freedom of billowing bloomers and skirts. She found herself plagued by the constant and horrendous urge to tug at the behind of the trousers to draw them away from her skin.

It had not occurred to her while she had donned this brilliant disguise that she was just making matters more difficult, that Maisey would never think to look for a male. All she had been concerned with was that should the scarred man see her slipping away through the garden gate at the back of Lady Barlow's home, he would not recognize her—leaving her safe from that concern for a bit as she investigated this club where dastardly events took place.

Now she realized it had been an incredibly stupid idea. Maisey had sent the mask to aid in identifying Maggie, and she would hardly be looking for it on a man. She might very well not notice Maggie at all tonight.

Heaving out an impatient breath, she peered up the
street, trying to work out how much time had passed since she had left Lady Barlow's. She had made her exit an hour before the appointed time, walking several blocks before feeling it was safe enough to hail a hack. She had planned to be here early. Maggie was always early for appointments. But it surely must be nearly seven o'clock by now. Where was Maisey?

“
Lady Margaret
.”

Maggie gave a start at that hiss from behind her. Turning, she peered into the shadows cast by the awning of the building, barely able to discern a cloaked and masked figure several steps away. “Maisey?” she asked.

Nodding, the girl moved forward to the edge of the shadows. “Why are you dressed as a man? You should have worn a gown.”

“I did not think it would matter. Does it?” Maggie asked worriedly.

Maisey hesitated, her eyes moving along the street, then across the road to the house, where yet another masked couple was spilling form their carriage; then she shifted impatiently. “It will have to do. Come.”

Turning away, the prostitute led her across the street at a quick clip that didn't slow until they neared the door to the “club.” Gesturing for Maggie to wait there, Maisey approached one of the two doorman standing on either side of the entrance a few steps away and held a brief, whispered conversation with him. It concluded with her dropping several coins into his open palm. Then, gesturing for Maggie to follow, the young woman entered the house, hardly glancing at the second doorman.

Offering a weak smile when the man turned his gaze on her, Maggie followed Maisey reluctantly into an entryway. There, another pair was handing over their cloaks to a ser
vant. Maisey whipped off her own, tossed the expensive item onto the already weighed down man, then waited impatiently for Maggie to do the same. She removed her borrowed cape and handed it to the servant with an apologetic expression, then followed her guide and the other couple into a room filled with noise and color.

Maggie's eyes widened behind her mask as she absorbed the multitudes inside. The room was crammed to capacity, and she struggled to push her way through to keep up with Maisey. The masked occupants were both men and women, all talking and crowding together. There wasn't much out of the ordinary here that she could see, however. It was true that everyone seemed to be standing a bit closer than was absolutely proper, but space constraints dictated they had little choice in the matter.

Realizing that Maisey was outstripping her, and afraid she would lose the woman in the crowd, Maggie forced her way through the throng a bit faster, apologizing for her rudeness as she attempted to catch up. She did so just as Maisey started up a set of stairs to a second level, and caught at her arm anxiously. “Where are we going?”

“Upstairs is where all the action is,” the girl paused to whisper, then continued on apparently confident Maggie would follow. Which she did, looking back over her shoulder as they went. From above, it was clear that everything wasn't as ordinary as she had first thought. While the majority of people were standing talking in the center of the room, there appeared to be a great deal of inappropriate touching going on. Scanning the edges of the crowd, Maggie discerned the true nature of this gathering. There were couples crammed into all manner of corners and recesses, indulging in the most
improper behavior. She'd heard of members of the ton sneaking away into the gardens—shocking as that was!—but copulating against the wall was not acceptable at any of the balls she had ever attended.

“Come on!” Maisey called.

Realizing that she had stopped to gape down at the crowd below the stairs, Maggie turned to see her young guide moving off down the hall. Starting after her, Maggie did her best to ignore the lascivious couples lining the corridor, and hoped fervently that this article was worth this. She felt sullied just being in this place. Briefly she considered fleeing, but then she thought of the fire and the expenses incurred daily to repair her home, and she stiffened her spine. An hour—no, half an hour—and she would surely have the information she needed and be out of here. She assured herself of that with more hope than certainty and moved determinedly forward.

She hadn't taken more than a few steps when a scream from behind a door she was passing brought her to an abrupt halt. It had been a cry of agony, and Maggie felt chills run down her back. Was someone being murdered behind this wooden portal?

“Come on!” Maisey was suddenly at her side, taking her arm and dragging her forward again.

“But it sounded like someone was—”

“Games,” the prostitute said in a hiss; then she showed Maggie the back of her head as she dragged her forward. For a moment Maggie felt trepidation race through her. Then, recalling some of the tales the prostitutes at Madame Dubarry's had told her, she forced herself to relax. She had seen for herself the games that Pastor Frances had enjoyed. They were just games, she
assured herself silently. Then she frowned. If all this was just some sort of sex club…But Maisey had said “dastardly things” happened here.

Confused and unhappy, Maggie sped up until she drew abreast of her short guide. “You said ‘dastardly things' happened here. What—”

“You'll see soon enough,” the other woman assured her, pausing near the door at the end of the hall and producing a key. After turning it in the lock, she pocketed the item and went through the now open door leaving Maggie to follow. After a quick glance down the hall, Maggie did so. Inside, her gaze moved over the room's odd trappings as Maisey lit a single candle by the bedside, then carried it to the window to stare at the street below.

“What—?”

“Shh,” Maisey hissed, then hesitated before setting the candle on the window ledge and walking to the door. “There is a peep hole in that painting on the wall. Through it, you can see the room next door. I'll return shortly.”

“But…” Maggie started anxiously toward the prostitute, breaking into a run when the girl stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed. She heard the lock click as she reached it, and she cursed. Maisey certainly liked to lock her in uncomfortable places, she thought with disgust. She twisted the doorknob futilely.

Giving the door an angry kick, she turned and surveyed the chamber. The bed was the only ordinary item in the room. An oddly angled bench with chains on it and an oddly shaped chair with wrist locks made her wonder just what went on here. Her second thought, as she peered at chains dangling from the ceiling and af
fixed to the walls, and a selection of whips and various other unpleasant-looking items along one wall, was that she probably didn't want to know.

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she glanced at the painting Maisey said had a peep hole and moved for a better view. It didn't take long for her to realize that the eyes in the rather naughty portrait were hollowed out. Unfortunately, they were a good foot above her head. Moving to the chair with the wrist locks, she dragged it over to position it beneath the painting, then climbed onto it and peered through the eyeholes. A room similarly outfitted to the one she was in was all there was to see. It was empty.

Sighing, she stepped back down off the chair and glanced around, then paced the room, examining each various item therein. When she reached the door, she tried the doorknob again, but it was still locked. On impulse, she knelt and pressed her eye to the keyhole. Despite the fact that the room she was in was at the end of a hall and presented a clear view of its length, there wasn't much to see. The corridor was still crowded with couples indulging in libertine behavior she had barely touched on in those frantic moments in the Ramsey library. She supposed this was quite an education—and more like what she'd expected in Maisey's closet—but not one she really wanted. Maggie was about to straighten from the keyhole when a figure mounting the last few stairs at the end of the passage caught her attention. Surprised, she stared at the man as he moved up the hallway.

He wasn't wearing a mask.

That was what had originally caught her attention, but as he drew closer and his face came into better focus, her
eyes froze on the scar. Sucking in her breath on an alarmed gasp and shoving instinctively back from the door, she tumbled from her knees onto her behind. She stared at the keyhole briefly, as if it were a snake, then just as quickly returned to her kneeling position. Much to her horror, she saw as she again peeked outside that the man was moving straight up the hallway. It seemed she hadn't given him the slip with her disguise after all. He must have followed her, had probably just been waiting for her to be alone!
Dammit!
Where was Maisey?

Realizing that the girl wouldn't return in time, and probably wouldn't be much help against the brute in any case, Maggie cursed and leaped to her feet. She searched frantically around the room for a weapon.

Her gaze flew over whips and chains in agitation; she somehow didn't see herself wielding any of them with much success. Still she grabbed the nearest one, then took an empty candleholder in her other hand for good measure. Turning grimly to face the door, she readied herself for battle. Her intrepid stance lasted until she heard the key in the lock; then Maggie's courage failed her and she scrambled in a panicked shuffle to the wall behind the door. Perhaps she might take him by surprise and bash him over the head as he entered.

The door opened, and Maggie reacted out of hysteria more than anything else. She leaped from her hiding place with a shriek, which made the intruder turn with a start. She brought the candleholder down on the side of his head with all her terrified strength. Much to her amazement, the man gaped at her, then went down like a felled tree.

Maggie stared uncomprehendingly at his unconscious form for a moment, hardly believing it had been so easy,
then regained her scattered wits enough to drop her makeshift weapons and scramble over the man's legs and out the door. She was running at full-tilt, paying no attention to the startled reactions of the people in the hallway in her haste to flee the scene, so that when she suddenly found someone in her path, she smashed blindly into his bulk. With a moan of despair at the delay, she scrabbled to break free of the hands that rose automatically to restrain her.

“Maggie?”

Some of her hysteria slipping away, Maggie focused on the face of the man gawking down at her. Lord Ramsey's wonderfully familiar features took shape.

“James,” she said with relief.

His expression immediately turned from shock to anger. Maggie bit her lip, then glanced back the way she had come.

“That man…” was as far as she got before she found herself being jerked along the hall by her arm. James was obviously furious, she realized, and peered over her shoulder toward the room where she'd left her attacker. He was beginning to stir. She considered telling James about the man, then decided against it. Scarface was a very strong man—bigger than Lord Ramsey—and she didn't want to see James hurt. Perhaps it was best all around if they simply left well enough alone and got out of there.

She made no protest as James jogged her down the stairs and dragged her through the crowded room to the exit. He had hauled her out of the house and crammed her into his carriage before she recalled that her borrowed cloak was still inside.