Page 84 of Miss Dignified
The other kitten was dozing in the basket on the hearth, but Lydia herself was nowhere to be found.
Wesley tried not to gawk, though The Aurora Club was a lovely venue. Understated, scrupulously clean, and both elegant and comfortable. The art was bland landscapes; the decorative scheme was Mayfair male preserve: burgundy red velvet draperies, dark wainscoting, and floral Axminster carpets.
The maître d’hôtel was a dapper fellow of apparent African extraction who projected both welcome and reserve, a skill Wesley would need when he was Earl of Tremont. This club was a wide cut above the glorified drinking venues that had admitted Wesley to their membership, which confirmed for him that matters were indeed moving in the right direction.
Finally.
“Monsieur Fournier awaits you in the lounge,” the maître d’hôtel said. “We pride ourselves on our supper menus, Mr. Glover, and I am merely being honest when I tell you that our cellar is the equal of any club in St. James’s. I hope you enjoy your evening.”
The fellow bowed, not too low, but low enough—that was important—and gestured in the direction of a large, dark-haired gentleman who rose with an outstretched hand.
“Monsieur Glover, welcome. I am honored that you could join me. What is the sense of membership in a club if one cannot show it off to one’s friends, eh?”
Fournier had charm, another skill Wesley needed to cultivate for when he had the title. Sybil found Wesley dear—she told him that often enough—but a peer needed to be able to charm his equals, and for a short time at least, Wesley would also have to charm dear Lydia.
Ambition required sacrifices, after all. Fournier introduced Wesley to the other occupants of the lounge. No titles, though some Scottish lordling’s heir was among the offerings, as was Sir Orion Somebody, who looked somewhat worse for having served in the military. Sycamore Dorning was an earl’s son, though a seventh son, so not much point in cultivating his acquaintance…
But still, the members were an improvement over the squires’ puppies and gentry wastrels Wesley was used to hobnobbing about Town with. These were men to whom Wesley did not extend his hand in casual bonhomie. They outranked him socially—for now—and introductions to them were occasions for polite bows.
Even Fournier, who imported a luscious claret and owned at least a few acres, was arguably Wesley’s social superior—at the moment. Sybil had introduced Wesley to him and hinted that volume discounts were offered to only the most respected customers.
The wine order of a future earl ought to merit a great deal of respect, not that Wesley would be discussing business over a social meal.
“And this is my dear friend Captain Dylan Powell,” Fournier was saying. “Powell, may I make known to you Mr. Wesley Glover, late of Shropshire.”
Powell extended a hand, the first to do so. “Come to the Old Smoke for your annual dose of wickedness?” he asked, smiling.
“You’re Welsh,” Wesley said, the first thing to pop into his head. Powell was a bit weathered, as many former soldiers were, and his handshake was firm and businesslike. He also had the merry eyes and friendly demeanor of the inveterate carouser.
“At least I’m notFrench,” Powell said, his smile becoming a grin. “Or worse yet,American. I understand you appreciate a good claret, Glover. You must not bring that up over supper, or Fournier will bore you to tears rhapsodizing about grapes and barrels and whatnot. Quite tiresome. Have you treated yourself to a night at Dorning’s club yet? If not, I must take you. Elegant surrounds, honest tables, fabulous food, and”—Powell leaned closer—“free champagne after midnight.”
“And fine champagne it is too,” Fournier said, “but might we continue this discussion at table? Powell, you must join us, lest I descend into rhapsodies about grapes. Lavellais signals us that the table is ready, and we disappoint him at peril to our digestion.”
Wesley followed his host and the friendly captain to a private dining room. The door remained open, the better to allow a procession of waiters into and out of the room. The wine was quite good, the food exquisite, and the banter Powell and Fournier exchanged witty and ever so slightly naughty.
Wesley cut off another bite of perfectly delectable rare steak and congratulated himself on matters proceeding according to an excellent plan. By this time next year, Marcus could be declared dead, and Wesley would no longer be simply Mr. Glover, late of Shropshire.
He’d be the Tremont heir, complete with a courtesy title, and these lovely gentlemen would consider themselves lucky to have made his acquaintance. He’d acknowledge them—no need to be arrogant—but his companions of choice would become other heirs, peers, and the occasional comely Society widow with a good ear for gossip.
“Have some more wine,” Powell said as Fournier excused himself to confer with a footman in the corner. “Fournier pays attention to who appreciates his vintages.”
“Thank you, Captain. Why is it you’re not enjoying springtime in Wales? I’m told the Welsh countryside is nearly as lovely as what Shropshire has to offer.”
Fournier returned to the table and covered himself with apologies as only a member of the merchant class could. The press of business, an urgent matter having to do with a missing shipment, French effusions, a request that Powell take over the role of host, and then Fournier was gone.
“So dramatic,” Powell said, filling Wesley’s glass with first-rate claret. “Let’s drink a health to Fournier’s business, shall we?”
The captain lifted his own glass and winked, and the toasts began. Wesley kept pace with the former soldier, and soon the captain had ordered another bottle.
The mellow glow of good wine and good fortune spread over Wesley, for what in life could be more cheering than merry companionship, a happy and inventive mistress, and the prospect of a title looming close at hand?
Dylan’s old skills were still in good repair, much to his relief.
He knew which smile to give Glover, which innuendo to leave hanging in the air. He drank—or appeared to drink—at just the right pace to ensure Glover’s good spirits, not fast enough to inebriate, and by careful degrees, he allowed silences to crop up in the conversation.
Wesley Glover bore a resemblance to Lydia and Marcus, around the eyes, about the nose. His bearing was that of the dandy, loose-limbed and subtly arrogant. Preening, always peering about to see who was looking at him.
“Let’s move to the reading room, shall we?” Dylan said. “Let the menials tidy up in here while we get serious about our libation.”
