Mina liked to give the ladies of the club instructions in weaponry, both improvised (such as hairpins or knitting needles) and more conventional (she was a crack shot with a modified pistol of her own design).
She regularly regaled the ladies with stories of her espionage activities in service of the Crown, at least the details she was allowed to share.
Hetty took careful note of the windows in the parlor. The curtains were drawn most of the way, so at least she didn’t have to worry about being observed by anyone in the buildings across the way.
She unlatched one of the windows and propped it open with one of her hairpins. There was a large ledge directly below. If she must, she could go out the window, land upon the ledge, and then hop down to the ground.
Having established her (hopefully unnecessary) escape route, Hetty set about examining his rooms. The parlor, bedchamber, and study were furnished in the same garish manner as his gaming hell. The curtains were red velvet, and there was an ostentatious amount of gold—on the walls, on frames and mirrors, and painted over the furniture. It was as though Mr. Ellis had hired someone to decorate his rooms and given them instructions to make it look as expensive as possible, with no regard for comfort or harmoniousness.
Despite the opulent furnishings, the rooms were in a state of chaos, as though a storm had blown through, scattering clothing, books, and odds and ends to every corner. How on earth could he find anything?
Hetty’s rooms were kept pristine. If even one book was askew on a shelf, she would notice.
She revised her earlier opinion about the potential for mistresses to occupy the premises. No woman, not even a chambermaid, had visited these rooms in days.
Her fingers itched to start folding clothing and restoring books to shelves.
His bed was unmade. She fancied she could still see the imprint of his huge body in the center. He probably slept facedown with his arms flung out to either side. The bedclothes were tangled, as though he’d had a restless sleep. No rest for the wicked, she thought.
And then she thought, I’ll wager he sleeps entirely in the nude.
An image sprang to mind of his taut, firm buttocks, much like the ones she’d seen on marble statues in the British Museum.
Giving herself a mental shake, she set about making a methodical examination of the room.
The problem with the clothing draped across the chairs and hung over the fire screen was that it could be obscuring evidence.
She did hope there weren’t any half-eaten dinner plates underneath any of the piles. That could attract rodents. She’d waged a war at Rosehill Park against the pests by employing the services of a tiger-striped tomcat whom she’d named Bacchus. Rodent hunting to Bacchus was a hedonistic pursuit, and he was bloodthirsty and tireless in his endeavors.
He slept in the barns, but always greeted Hetty with a cheerful brush of his head against her leg when he saw her. Her heart twinged. She should be in Surrey, tending to the vines. If August continued sunny and warm, she’d have a record-setting harvest.
Blast Mr. Ellis for making a mockery of her schedule.
His bed sheets smelled of cigar smoke and cologne. Smoking in bed, what a reprehensible habit.
In the wardrobe she found rows of gaudy crimson waistcoats, all embroidered with playing cards. The Ace of Spades. The highest card in the deck, he’d said. It all made sense to her now. He was a gambling man, and he was playing for the highest stakes of his life.
Her father’s dukedom.
She lifted some linens off a chair in front of the fireplace, and the adjacent pile twitched. Leaping backward, she hit her hip on the edge of a table.
Arming herself with a fire iron, she approached the clothing and poked at it.
A fluffy gray head emerged. Not a rat—a cat. A very large, very fluffy gray-and-white cat with sleepy blue eyes and a nose with a white spot that made it look as though it had been dipped in cream.
“Mrrow,” said the cat by way of greeting, and then nestled back into the linens.
“Why hullo there, pretty puss.” Hetty replaced the poker and bent down next to the cat to scratch between its ears. “What are you doing here? Is that wicked man keeping you trapped in his rooms? You should be running free out-of-doors.”
The cat purred her agreement, rolling over onto her back, presenting Hetty with a glorious amount of belly. The light gray fur of her belly was long and matted into peaks.
“Your fur is all tufted, poor thing. You need a good brushing. And where in the world do you relieve yourself?” Hetty sniffed the air, unable to detect any odors that might indicate the cat had used the carpet as a privy.
The cat curled its paws, kneading the air, as Hetty scratched her belly.
“My, my, at least Mr. Ellis appears to feed you well. Your belly is most magnificent.” Nothing like Bacchus, who was lean and muscular from chasing mice and birds and climbing trees with his razor-sharp claws.
Strange that Mr. Ellis kept a cat as a pet. It didn’t fit with her first impressions of him. He was a coldhearted scoundrel. Not a father of fluffy cats.
She didn’t have time to unravel more than one mystery. The landlady had said he’d be gone at a bareknuckle boxing establishment for two hours.
She consulted her timepiece. She must move swiftly.
She searched through the remaining piles of linens, finding nothing other than a loose brass button and several shillings.
She moved to the bookshelves. A collection of ancient philosophers, books on the subject of gaming, The General Stud Book: Containing Pedigrees of Race Horses, and a thick tome on the subject of pugilism, its roots in ancient Greece, and its rise in London as a pastime for gentlemen.
Gambling, racehorses, and pugilism. Mr. Ellis’s interests were everything disreputable. She wondered that he didn’t own a guide entitled, How to Steal a Peerage.
She pictured him stripped to the waist and wearing white trousers, pummeling one of his friends with his huge, bruised knuckles. Pugilism was nothing but fisticuffs with a thin veneer of civility. In Mr. Ellis’s case, that veneer was nonexistent. Pugilism was a perfect pastime for an arrogant brute like him. It allowed him to indulge his primal need for dominion in a socially sanctioned manner.
Since everything he did was done with a reckless conviction of mastery, she hoped that he’d left something damning here in his chambers, not even considering that anyone might invade his lair. There could be a letter from him to a friend stating that he was planning to dupe a duke.
That would do nicely.
Or perhaps some legal document proving him not to be the distant relation he was claiming to be. That would clear things up.
She searched through the desk in the office. Some receipts for a shipment of spirits from Portugal, and a stack of documents pertaining to 20 Ryder Street, all signed with the name Ash Ellis.
Here was something—a hastily scrawled note. She moved to the window and held it up to a crack of light streaming between the curtains.
His penmanship was atrociously florid. Oh, it wasn’t his penmanship. The letter was to him from a woman. She was describing what she wanted him to do to her in the Violet Room, one of the upstairs bedchambers at the gaming hell.
The writer described the violet and rose silk upon the walls, the purple velvet curtains, and the gilded mirrors hung upon the ceiling. And then she described in lurid detail what those mirrors would reflect. Silk cords tied around wrists . . . ostrich feathers brushed across nipples . . . naked, heaving flesh . . . her lips closing around his thick, hard—Good heavens! Did his mistress have to be quite so explicit in her love notes?