Luck Is No Lady(25)

“Do you reside here, as well?” she asked, then chastised herself for making such a personal inquiry.

He glanced at her as they continued down the hall at an unhurried pace, his expression neutral.

“My private apartments are on the third level. I spend so much time here, there seemed no point in keeping a separate residence.”

Emma nodded at the practical explanation.

“It is unlikely you will encounter much of Bentley’s staff at this time of day,” he continued in a casual tone. “Many of them would have just found their beds not long ago. Most of the activity occurs during the afternoon and early evening hours as everyone prepares for the night ahead.”

Thinking again of how the man at her side appeared to be still dressed for the prior evening, she wondered if she was keeping him from his bed as well. How odd it would be to remain awake until morning and sleep during the day. Then again, London’s high society did much the same thing when some balls could last until dawn and most people remained abed until at least one o’clock.

“When does the club open to its members?” Emma asked.

“The doors open promptly at eight. We have a large dining room and our chef provides meals of up to seven courses for those who wish to enjoy a full supper before commencing with the rest of their evening. We encourage members to conclude their entertainment by the time dawn arrives.” He looked at her with a wry grin. “On occasion, someone resists. Snipes can usually convince reluctant members it is time to seek their beds. Other times, Bishop may be called to intervene.”

“Bishop?” Emma inquired, curious what the brash footman might contribute.

“He possesses an extremely valuable skill set.” Bentley stopped and turned to face her. He stood only a few inches from her and his blue eyes looked intently into hers. A ripple of disquiet ran through her as she fell under the direct focus of his attention. “The people you meet within these walls may not always be what they seem. But they are always exactly what this club needs.”

His words settled deeply into Emma’s mind, making her feel as if he were suggesting the description also applied to her. The idea caused a flush of warmth through her center.

Bentley stepped past her, and she turned in place to see another set of double doors in an exact match to those of his office. Grasping hold of both handles, he pulled them open to reveal an indoor terrace.

“This,” he said as he led her onto the terrace, “is where I oversee the activities of the gaming room.”

Emma stepped up to the polished balustrade to look down over a large chamber, decorated with modest elegance. The walls were covered in sapphire-colored satin damask. Large gilded mirrors of various shapes and sizes hung on the walls and were interspersed with gaslight sconces of burnished gold. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling above, but remained high enough to avoid obstructing the view of anyone on the balcony.

The game room was filled with card tables covered in green felt, faro boards, and hazard tables. There was a long buffet table set along one wall and a tall desk in one corner, positioned to view the entire room. Though the space was currently empty, Emma could well imagine it brimming with the energy of men, young and old, willing to wager it all for the intense and fleeting thrill of winning.

A sick weight fell in her stomach as she thought of her father. It was easy to recall his illuminated face on those mornings when he would return home with his pockets full. And his overwhelming dejection when things had gone in the other direction, which had been so much more often.

Forcing her attention away from her dark musings, Emma noted how the balcony ran along three walls of the room, allowing one to view the play below from almost any angle. They stood at the center of the C-shaped overlook, with the double doors behind them. Smaller, more discreet doors were also placed at each end of the balcony where it butted up against the front wall of the room.

Bentley gestured to the door on the left. “That takes you down a staircase straight to the floor below, in case a quick intervention is required. The other door opens to a hall that leads to the west wing, where Mrs. Beaumont and her girls reside.”

Emma remembered Snipes’s initial misassumption yesterday. He had thought she was there to see Mrs. Beaumont. Turning her head, she gave Bentley a questioning look.

His smile made her feel frightfully naive. “We share the building with a high-class brothel.”

Emma stiffened. Snipes had mistaken her for a prostitute?

Any proper young lady would be appalled by such a gross mischaracterization, but Emma could not help but recall her very prim and dowdy appearance yesterday, and was struck by the humor of it. Snipes certainly had an interesting concept of what a prostitute looked like.