his mother, that Tom had made the choice that impelled him to Bloomsbury tonight. After this night, he would never again return to the Orchid Club.
A throb of loss pumped through him, but he put it aside. He meant to enjoy these last hours of freedom before donning the permanent disguise of staid, sober duke.
He adjusted the green silk mask covering half of his face. While wearing it, he could be anyone. A sailor or a tradesman or a vagabond. All cares could be set aside for a few hours in his final pursuit of selfish, wonderful pleasure.
The carriage pulled up outside a place Tom knew very well. He’d visited it weekly for almost a year, until recently, when he’d stayed at his father’s bedside and failed to attend the Orchid Club’s openings.
His footman jumped down and opened the carriage door for him.
“Wait for me in the mews,” Tom directed the young man, though he needn’t have bothered. The routine was well-known by his servants.
When the carriage drove off, Tom tugged down his dove-gray silk waistcoat and brushed at the shoulders of his gunmetal-gray coat. How strange to be out of mourning, even for a few hours, but he didn’t want anyone inside knowing such intimate details.
After climbing the short flight of stairs to the door, Tom gave the customary secret knock. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Waiting, hoping, his heart rose in his throat in anticipation. They hadn’t seen each other in too long.
Throughout these long weeks, he’d used the memory of her as a touchstone, a gleam of gold amidst the ashes. He needed that brightness now.
A moment later, the door opened a sliver and the black woman appeared.
After he’d exchanged the customary password with the doorkeeper, he entered. For good measure, he showed her a small coin, stamped with a mask. The token was given to whomever had attended the club more than three times, to demonstrate that they were familiar with the rules of the establishment.
The tangles of grief and responsibility loosened in his chest as he stepped into the foyer. A sense of ease and release crept through him. No one here called him Your Grace. Only the moniker for all guests: friend. This was where he was meant to be. Not the heavy-paneled study where all the matters of the estate were handled, nor the corridors haunted by England’s men of power, where Tom was charged with both preserving England’s traditions—regardless of Tom’s own feelings on the matter—and preserving the Powell family’s reputation.
He handed the doorkeeper money, which she tucked into the purse hanging at her waist.
“Most everyone is in the drawing room and the ballroom,” she said, gesturing to the hallway behind her.
Familiar with the route, he made his way toward the sound of conversation, laughter, music, and sex. With each step, more and more weight fell from his shoulders. For the first time since his father’s final illness, Tom felt genuinely buoyant. Yet that buoyancy was undercut by the fact that soon, he’d give this up, too.
He entered the parlor, and his gaze fell upon the familiar sight of guests in various states of dress and undress. Bare flesh gleamed in the candlelight, laughter and sighs filled the air, and the scent of perfume and unbridled sexuality wafted like a tropic current.
Some weren’t actively engaged in sensual pursuits. Two women drank champagne and chatted in low voices. A quartet played a game of cards—though it appeared the stakes were articles of clothing, as evidenced by the piles of gloves, stockings, and coats heaped in the center of the table. No one bid their masks.
The people in this room could have been anyone, from barristers to fishmongers, barons to abigails. That was part of the thrill. The man or woman someone was coupling with could have been their servant, or master. It was rumored that spouses had made love to each other without ever knowing their partner’s true identity. But it was impossible to ever know the truth of this.
Tom took a glass of wine from a passing footman, then sipped as he surveyed the room. He took his usual place by the window. The moment a woman in a red dress began approaching him, he moved on. Over the course of the year, he’d fielded many offers of sex from interested parties, but he’d never accepted. That wasn’t why he came to the Orchid Club.
He crossed the threshold of the ballroom. This was where he’d first met Amina, a night he’d never forgotten. As always, the notes of a waltz drifted from the musicians as the guests on the dance floor surrendered to the seductive air of unfiltered desire.
This was not sanctioned London. It was the secret, dark side. The place where people of all walks of life came for release, to cavort and be free.
He sensed a charge like unheard music, a subtle threading of awareness moving invisibly through his body. Despite being engaged in watching the unfolding action, Tom became conscious of a new presence in the room.
Amina had arrived.
She glided through the chamber, calm and assured, a small, unreadable smile playing about her lips as she stopped to chat with guests, making certain they had everything they needed. Tonight, her mask was emerald green, embroidered all over with gold thread and tiny pearls. The mask matched her richly hued gown, which hugged her curved body.
Tonight, her thick black hair was pinned up, though small brilliants seemed to twinkle in the dark waves. But it could have been his imagination. For surely whenever she was near, he had eyes for no one but her.
Riveted, Tom watched her glide through the ballroom, expertly weaving through the crowd. She kept that slightly removed smile on her face as she talked with the celebrants. Occasionally, she waved over a servant to provide more refreshments to the guests. She checked with the musicians and adjusted the position of a candelabra on a table.
This is my realm, she seemed to silently declare. The ruler of Bloomsbury. The empress of the Orchid Club. Regal and confident, her head held high, her shoulders back.
She caught sight of him, and he straightened to his fullest height. A thrum of excitement pulsed through him, all the way to his bones, as she approached. The lingering clouds of his unease lifted the nearer she came.
This close, he could see the deep brown of her eyes shining behind her disguise. Her pupils were large, fathomless.
“Rogue,” Amina said when she stood before him.
“You chide me baselessly.” His heart took up double time to have her so close and to hear her low, throaty voice again. Every now and again, he caught a hint of an unknown accent in her words, yet he could never ask after her origins.
She had to be from somewhere warm, a place where, beneath a gleaming sun, dark-eyed beauties felt temperate breezes caress their tawny skin. The thought of all Amina’s flesh bared to the sunlight made his mouth water.
“I’m not a capricious creature,” she said crisply. “I do nothing without reason.”
“If you are my judge, I’m entitled to know the offense for which I am accused.”
She clicked her tongue. “Even worse that you don’t know.” At his mystified silence, she explained, “Six weeks. It’s been six weeks since I’ve last seen you within these chambers. I thought you’d enlisted or run off to Argentina.”
He smiled to himself. “You think me an adventurer?”
“I
