Page 40 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Walking speedily, she hastened to the back of the house. After double-checking that no one was in the stairwell leading to the kitchen, she scurried down.She nearly yelped when she saw a tired maid sitting at a table, pillowing her head on her folded arms, but the girl’s breathing remained deep and steady in sleep.
After waiting a moment just to be certain the servant wouldn’t stir, Sarah slid from the kitchen out the back door. She hurried into the mews alongside the house. Her heart jumped to see the carriage waiting for her, a lone driver perched on the seat. The horse’s breath steamed in the cool night as it pawed the ground.
Seeing the animal’s exhalation convinced her that this was all very, very real. She was truly going to do this.
Catching sight of her, the driver secured the reins, then jumped down to help her in. Sarah reached into her reticule and produced a coin, which she slipped into the driver’s hand.
“Speak of this to no one,” she whispered.
“Aye, Lady—I mean, miss.”
“Madam,” Sarah corrected him. Even in disguise, a young, unmarried woman could not travel alone at night. “Mrs. Chalbury.”
“Yes, madam.” The young man carefully helped her into the carriage.
She sat down with a rustle of silk, pulling her cloak close. The driver shut the door, and the carriage swayed as he climbed up into the seat. He called softly to the horse. Then they were off.
The carriage rocked as it drove down the dark, empty streets. A few stragglers were out on their own. Some people pulled carts, and a handful of drunken men tottered along the road, leaning on each other. But for the most part, London was quiet.
She had never been out at this hour on her own. The city felt huge, laden with possibility. She could just keep going in the carriage, roll on into the night and not stop until she was far from home, far from what anyone expected of her. Liberation tugged at her. It would be so easy . . . she could write anywhere. She pictured a snug little study on a Scottish island, a view of gorse leading down to a roaring sea, with all day to write and no one to disturb her or drag her anywhere she didn’t want to go.
And . . . if she was spinning fantasies . . . Jeremy would be there, too. He’d come in to see how she was faring, bearing a cup of tea. No, it was her dream. Let him come with glasses of wine. But they’d set their wine aside as they drank from each other, instead. He’d lift her up out of her chair, and set her on the edge of the desk, then slowly lift her skirts . . .
She shook herself. Now was not the time to indulge in such flights of imagination. Though the club was known for catering to sensual whims, she needed her wits about her. It would be unfamiliar territory, an obscured part of the map, and for her own safety she had to treat the endeavor much as an explorer would. Eyes open, hands to herself.
At last the carriage drew to a stop outside a house in Bloomsbury. The den of iniquitous indulgence looked like any other house on the block—three floors, a columned entryway, even a tidy garden out front. All the curtains within were drawn, and very faintly, the trill of music rose above the stillness of the night. If she were to write such a place, it would be ablaze with light and laughter—though that wasn’t very discreet.
“This it, madam?” the driver called down uncertainly.
She checked the address scribbled on a scrap of paper. “It is. Drive on, about five blocks from here.”
“Yes, madam.”
When the carriage stopped the requisite distance away, she opened the door and stepped down.
“Wait here. I shouldn’t be above an hour.” There was always the chance that someone at home might discover her missing. She didn’t want to tempt fate by staying out too long.
“As you wish, madam.” He didn’t question her rationale, but it was all part of her carefully thought-out disguise.
She left the carriage behind and approached the house on foot. All was quiet. Hardly any noise disturbed the sleeping neighborhood. Sarah climbed the front stairs and gave the secret knock at the door. She had only learned of this place from her publisher, who’d had half a mind to shut the whole operation down, but she’d assured him in a letter that having aficionados stage scenes from her work could only help increase sales, not hurt them.
Her heart thudded as she gave the coded knock again.Tap. Tap tap. Tap.
After a moment the door opened, and a slim, black-haired woman stood before her, looking gorgeous in a bloodred mask and matching gown. Her skin was a lovely, deep-golden hue, revealing mixed heritage. She said nothing, only stared with sharp green eyes at Sarah.
“I’ve come for the plums,” Sarah said breathlessly.
“We haven’t any,” came the low reply.
“Peaches will suffice.”
It was an exchange from her novelAlone with the Rogue.Sarah exhaled when the woman stepped aside, the coolness in her expression giving way to a warm smile. “Welcome. I am Amina.”
“I’m Mrs. Chalbury.” Sarah almost stumbled over the false name, but she’d practiced saying it over and over at home so that there would be hardly any hesitation.
Amina held up a finger. “Other than myself, we use no names here.”
“Sorry,” Sarah mumbled, feeling like a green fool.
