mentally sighed. It was
lucky her pelisse was dark, and the pavement dry. "Do both," she said as he stared at
her. His expression was one of bewilderment. With a gentle touch, Ara patted his arm. "No matter, you cannot be held
responsible for your imbecility." With a shrug of one elegant shoulder,
she lowered herself to the ground and sat down.
"Hey, you can't go and do that." He looked
agitated. "It's not right, a lady on the floor."
That was not what she had heard. Ara smiled, and her eyes narrowed. His face mottled as if he was a turkey about to
have his neck rung.
"Miss, Marm." His voice was hoarse. "Please,
for the love of God, remove yourself. It is dark, 'tis not safe for the likes
of you. And,"—he rolled his eyes—"you'll get me sacked, so you will."
She may sympathize, but could not back down now. Too much rested on seeing her brother.
"May I go
inside?"
He shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched.
"Ah, well."
With an insouciance she did not feel, she took one of
the latest editions from Hookham's Circulating Library out of her spacious
reticule and began to read. The lamp was perfectly placed to allow her to see
the print. Nonetheless such was her agitation, it could have been written in
Latin for all she understood. Her anxiety was too high to concentrate on
anything.
The stone flags were cold, the night air chilly, and her
dress and pelisse nowhere near enough to ward of the
chill as it seeped into her.
My arse will be frozen. It
will need a great deal of heat to warm it. Well, she thought, it seemed she was
almost in the right place to rectify that.
Ten minutes passed. She flicked the pages in an attempt to
look enthralled. Another cloaked and masked figure approached, took one look at
her, and hurried away. Twenty more minutes ticked by on the church clock she
could spy over the rooftops. Three more mysterious people later, all who
declined to approach, and she could feel the waves of frustration emanating from
the doorman. He had eventually stopped rubbing his stomach, and had taken to
glaring at her from a safe distance.
At last the door opened and light streamed out, sending long
shadows towards her. Ara wished she had not chosen a gothic horror story to
read. Mrs. Fuller's prose was enough to send thrill and chills through her
without any encouragement.
A tall, elegant, unmasked gentleman stepped out. After one
brief look, she kept her head down. It was one thing to suspect, another to
have her suspicions confirmed.
"Leyton, we are several members short," he said as
he addressed the ape. "To say nothing of the
entertainment. Is there any reason they should be held up?"
It seemed the doorman was the so-called Leyton. Out of the
corner of her eye, Ara saw him gesture to her. Her seat was partially screened
by a bush from the doorway, but noticeable to anyone who approached from the
street. She had chosen that particular set of flags on purpose.
"The lady over there, my lord. She has a particular yen to
see Viscount Willingham, even though I told her I knew no such person."
Had those last words been emphasized? Ara chose not to move. All of a sudden, a
frozen arse seemed the last of her worries. This evening was proving to take a
very different direction from the one she had expected.
"Where? Ah, behind the bush. Is she
hiding?"
"No, my lord." The doorman's voice was
lugubrious. "Scaring off the punters...I mean member…oh, tarnation. The…ah, visitors, your visitors, actors. Ah…"
"Quite," said that well-known voice. "I will
see what the young female wants."
"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, sire,"
Leyton said. He sounded hesitant. "Not a young lady as such."
Bastard. I may be three and thirty, but I am not in my dotage yet. As footsteps approached her, Ara resigned herself to the inevitable and sat upright, staring in the direction
from whence they came.
"Hello, my lord. Fancy seeing you
here." She injected just the right amount of insouciance into
lucky her pelisse was dark, and the pavement dry. "Do both," she said as he stared at
her. His expression was one of bewilderment. With a gentle touch, Ara patted his arm. "No matter, you cannot be held
responsible for your imbecility." With a shrug of one elegant shoulder,
she lowered herself to the ground and sat down.
"Hey, you can't go and do that." He looked
agitated. "It's not right, a lady on the floor."
That was not what she had heard. Ara smiled, and her eyes narrowed. His face mottled as if he was a turkey about to
have his neck rung.
"Miss, Marm." His voice was hoarse. "Please,
for the love of God, remove yourself. It is dark, 'tis not safe for the likes
of you. And,"—he rolled his eyes—"you'll get me sacked, so you will."
She may sympathize, but could not back down now. Too much rested on seeing her brother.
"May I go
inside?"
He shook his head. His hands clenched and unclenched.
"Ah, well."
With an insouciance she did not feel, she took one of
the latest editions from Hookham's Circulating Library out of her spacious
reticule and began to read. The lamp was perfectly placed to allow her to see
the print. Nonetheless such was her agitation, it could have been written in
Latin for all she understood. Her anxiety was too high to concentrate on
anything.
The stone flags were cold, the night air chilly, and her
dress and pelisse nowhere near enough to ward of the
chill as it seeped into her.
My arse will be frozen. It
will need a great deal of heat to warm it. Well, she thought, it seemed she was
almost in the right place to rectify that.
Ten minutes passed. She flicked the pages in an attempt to
look enthralled. Another cloaked and masked figure approached, took one look at
her, and hurried away. Twenty more minutes ticked by on the church clock she
could spy over the rooftops. Three more mysterious people later, all who
declined to approach, and she could feel the waves of frustration emanating from
the doorman. He had eventually stopped rubbing his stomach, and had taken to
glaring at her from a safe distance.
At last the door opened and light streamed out, sending long
shadows towards her. Ara wished she had not chosen a gothic horror story to
read. Mrs. Fuller's prose was enough to send thrill and chills through her
without any encouragement.
A tall, elegant, unmasked gentleman stepped out. After one
brief look, she kept her head down. It was one thing to suspect, another to
have her suspicions confirmed.
"Leyton, we are several members short," he said as
he addressed the ape. "To say nothing of the
entertainment. Is there any reason they should be held up?"
It seemed the doorman was the so-called Leyton. Out of the
corner of her eye, Ara saw him gesture to her. Her seat was partially screened
by a bush from the doorway, but noticeable to anyone who approached from the
street. She had chosen that particular set of flags on purpose.
"The lady over there, my lord. She has a particular yen to
see Viscount Willingham, even though I told her I knew no such person."
Had those last words been emphasized? Ara chose not to move. All of a sudden, a
frozen arse seemed the last of her worries. This evening was proving to take a
very different direction from the one she had expected.
"Where? Ah, behind the bush. Is she
hiding?"
"No, my lord." The doorman's voice was
lugubrious. "Scaring off the punters...I mean member…oh, tarnation. The…ah, visitors, your visitors, actors. Ah…"
"Quite," said that well-known voice. "I will
see what the young female wants."
"Well, I wouldn't put it quite like that, sire,"
Leyton said. He sounded hesitant. "Not a young lady as such."
Bastard. I may be three and thirty, but I am not in my dotage yet. As footsteps approached her, Ara resigned herself to the inevitable and sat upright, staring in the direction
from whence they came.
"Hello, my lord. Fancy seeing you
here." She injected just the right amount of insouciance into
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