Page 5 of Gentleman's Anger
“Sure, do you have a pen?” He pats his pockets down with one hand, but comes up with nothing.
“No, shite.”
“Hang on,” I say reaching into the bowl of crap mum keeps by the front door. It’s mostly change and rubbish mints, but I find a mini hot pink Sharpie in the mess. I sign my name to the piece of paper, a receipt, I think. I take the box from him and thank him. Opening the box, I find a note and a gorgeous red gown, along with all the proper Regency undergarments. Holy shite. Are these crotchless drawers? I’ve never worn anything so elaborate before.
Wear this tonight. Get your own shoes, girl. XX Holly.
This is how I find myself being cinched into a corset tighter than a vise by my mums ten minutes before my taxi is set to arrive, but we did it. I stare at myself in the mirror not recognizing myself. Rita curled my hair to look like Daphne’s in Bridgerton. My boobs are right under my chin, and the pearls I borrowed from Mum look amazing, just kind of nestled there.
“You look beautiful. Tonight is going to change your life. I can feel it, Sweeting,” Rita says, looking at me. She’s beaming with pride; just likes she’s always done. I could kick myself for not realizing how much she loved me. I pull her into a hug, which is the first time I’ve done so since I was six, I believe. I pull Mum into out hug and kiss both of their cheeks.
“Thank you, Mama. Mum.”
After a quick goodbye from the Dads, I hop in the taxi, ready for wherever this night will take me.
three
LOGAN
As soon as we get to the Pinnacle, I see a huge, ornate sign by the entrance way that reads:
Welcome to The Pinnacle.
This is an exclusive, all-inclusive club hidden in the heart of London. Here, no one knows your name. Privacy is paramount. There are only a few rules here:
This is a 21 and up establishment. Guests are welcome but they must remain with the member at all times.
Never discuss what occurs within these walls with any non-member. To get to this point, you signed a non-disclosure agreement, remember that always.
No cellphones.
No cameras.
No Modern clothing. All of our patrons are to be dressed to the nines in Regency Attire only at all times, unless utilizing a private salon. There are several shops in London we recommend, however if you are looking for something couture, be sure to contact Migan Jorgensen. She has created all of our proprietrix’s wardrobe.
Do be sure to remember, on the last Saturday of each month we hold The Crisis, a no holds barred, hedonistic party where non-members can see what we are all about.
Here we are all Lords and Ladies.
Here we can be whomever we want.
Whatever your pleasure: cards, billiards, drinks, dancing or if your daring, be sure to check out The Auxiliary, where all things debauched dwell.
Come inside and party like it’s 1820, because here, it’s forever the Regency Period.
I read each rule. As I do, I get more and more excited. Like Christmas morning when you’re ten excited. I’m barely in the doors when I decided to join. I step into an antechamber and meet with the owner, and fill out paperwork. I also sign the NDA. We chat for a few minutes while she runs my credit card.
“Welcome to the Pinnacle, Lord Reynolds. Enjoy your evening,” she owner says, smiling at me. She’s a consummate professional. If she knows who I am, she doesn’t say anything.
“Come on this way,” Jimmy says, leading me over to a locker area. “Phones go in here. You keep the key until you leave.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. The sign is making sense now, not to mention the additional rules the owner said she’d email me.
“Welcome to the Pinnacle, gentleman. I’m Elyse. Should you need anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask. Enjoy The Crisis.” She gestures toward the entryway.
“Thank you,” I say, not knowing what to expect.
The entryway is thick red velvet curtains. Automatically, the curtains part and we are in the main salon. It looks like pretty much every fancy bar in the world, but the historically accurate touches are what makes it stand out. We make our way to the bar and order shots of Jameson. I throw mine back, savoring the delicate spicy flavor of it. On the way over, Jimmy told me that most of the team are members here. It’s a place to go where we aren’t mobbed by fans. The way it was described to me is Julia Roberts could be drinking a dirty martini right next to you, but you can never tell a soul. In here, no one cares who you are, they are pursuing their own pleasures. That kind of anonymity is unheard of. It was recently released in the press that I am the highest paid rugby player in the world and damn sure gold diggers came out of the woodwork. No fucking thanks. I am glancing around the room, when the curtains part again and my breath leaves my lungs in an undignified woosh.
