by Lynsay Sands
“Please, Lord Stockton. I beg you. It really is important.”
Stephen hesitated briefly, then, wondering why even as he did so, turned back to face her. “So what is this urgent matter?”
He was more irritated than surprised when she looked hesitant and glanced uncomfortably toward Plunkett, then down at the freezing walk. Stephen opened his mouth to repeat the question, but paused impatiently as a carriage pulled up behind his own, spilling several young dandies out onto the street. As they headed for the entrance to Ballard’s, he took the woman’s arm and urged her away from the door. “Now, why do you wish to get inside my place of business?”
“I need to speak to my father.”
Stephen blinked at her quiet pronouncement. “Your father is inside and you wish to speak to him?”
She nodded, her expression bleak.
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Why?” Stephen repeated firmly.
“My mother . . .”
When she hesitated again, he prompted, “Has she been injured? Fallen ill?”
The question seemed to startle her and she quickly shook her head. “Nay, she . . .” This time when she paused, he had the distinct impression she was mentally berating herself for not grasping at that excuse. Apparently deciding it was too late, she said, “Nay. As you might know, my brother died last year.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Stephen said quietly, peering closely at the woman. Her words assured him that there was a reason she looked familiar. Apparently he should know her. Unfortunately he couldn’t place her name or title. It was quite hard to tell what she looked like, too, with that prim little hat she wore and the way she kept ducking her head.
“Thank you. But you see, it hit my family hard. My brother was the only male child and it was an accident . . . unexpected, so . . .” She hesitated, head lowered, eyes fixed on the agitated movements of her hands. Then she took a chance. “My father took it poorly. He hasn’t really recovered. In fact, he is drinking heavily, you see, and gambling—”
“I am sorry that your father is not dealing well with his loss,” Stephen interrupted. He knew who she was now. The part about the accident a year ago and her father dealing with it by drinking and gambling had cleared up the matter. Her father was Lord Prescott, a regular at Ballard’s. The moment he recalled the man, he recognized his daughter. This was Lady Prudence Prescott. “But you have yet to explain this urgent matter that—”
“It is all she wants for Christmas!” Prudence blurted over his voice, and Stephen frowned.
“Who?” Stephen asked in bewilderment. What was this lady blabbering about?
“My mother. She has been just as distressed by John’s death, but is now troubled further by Father’s behavior. He is gambling without restraint. The creditors have begun to visit daily and he is not even aware . . . or if he is, he does not care. He insists on drowning himself in drink and . . .” She paused, taking in what Stephen knew was an uncomfortable and even slightly embarrassed expression on his face at hearing such personal details, then forged ahead determinedly. “Several days ago I asked my mother what she wanted for Christmas. Her reply was ‘For your father to stop drinking and gambling our lives away and come back to us before he lands us all in debtors’ prison.’ And I thought, well, the good Lord helps those who help themselves, and if I could just make him see what he is doing to us all, if I could just make him see . . . But he will not stand still long enough for me to approach him on the matter! He is out the door the moment he awakes. He heads straight here to gamble and . . .”
Her voice faded away and Stephen glanced reluctantly back to her eyes. He really didn’t want to know all this about the Prescotts. He really didn’t wish to become involved in their problems and had let his gaze wander, his mind searching for a polite way to excuse himself. Now he saw her disheartened expression and felt guilt prick him. The man was gambling his family’s lives away while they stood outside in the cold winter air.
“Where is your carriage?” he asked abruptly, then cursed himself for the stupid question when her hands tightened on her broken umbrella and she blushed. He was surprised by the candor of her answer and admired the proud way she raised her head and the dignified voice she used to give it.
“It was sold for the creditors.”
Nodding, he glanced toward his carriage, then took her arm and urged her toward it.
“What are you doing, my lord?” the girl asked, sounding more startled than alarmed.
“I am having you taken home.” He paused beside his closed conveyance to open the door, then tried to hand her up into it, but she was having none of it. Digging her heels in, she turned on Stephen, her eyebrows drawing together in displeasure.
“I have no wish to go home. I need to speak to my father. He—”
“He is a fully grown man. And he is your father. He knows what he is doing.”
“Nay,” she said quickly. “That is not so. If he knew the effect his gambling was having—”
“He would give it up and return home to sit by the fire singing Christmas carols as a good man should,” Stephen finished wearily, then glanced away from the stricken look on her face. After a moment of silence he peered back, a sympathetic expression on his face. “Nothing you say shall stop him, you know. You cannot change his behavior. He must do that on his own.”
“I must at least try.”
Stephen’s mouth tightened at her determination. There would be no reasoning with her. She was desperate. “Then you shall have to try at home, Lady Prescott. Ballard’s is no place for a woman.”
“It is no place for a man either,” she replied quickly, and he felt his guilt replaced by annoyance.
He was much less sympathetic when he said, “Ladies are not allowed inside Ballard’s, and I shall not help you ruin your reputation by making you the exception. Now, in you get.”
This time, when he tried to hand her into the carriage, she went. Reluctantly, but she went. He closed the door the moment she was inside, afraid she might change her mind, then asked for her address through the window. She gave her answer in such a low voice that he had to strain to hear it. Nodding, he tipped his hat the slightest bit in respect, then moved to give the address and his orders to his driver. A moment later the carriage was away, and Stephen was left to watch her pale face grow smaller as she peered out the window of the departing carriage.
He was annoyed to find that the image haunted him for the rest of the night as he oversaw his club, mingled, drank, and gambled with his guests.
PRUDENCE SAT ON the expensive upholstery of Lord Stockton’s carriage seats, rage pulsing through her like a living thing. She was furious and frustrated, and knew exactly who to blame for it: one Stephen Ballard, Lord Stockton. He was the one who owned the club where her father was tossing his family’s lives away. He was the one who wouldn’t let her in to speak to her father and perhaps turn him from his destructive path.
“So ladies are not allowed in Ballard’s. No exceptions,” she said to herself as the carriage rolled to a stop before her home. “Then I suppose I shall have to go as a man.”
Chapter Two
Tugging the carriage curtain aside, Prudence swallowed as she saw that they were nearing her destination. She had thought this such a good idea when she came up with it. Confronting her father in the club would have to be successful; Edward Prescott could not walk away and leave his daughter inside. He would not want the scandal. Prudence would finally get the chance to say what needed saying. But the closer the carriage drew to Ballard’s, the more she was positive that this was a huge mistake. Terrible folly. And she had to wonder how Ellie could have possibly allowed her to go through with it.
Ellie. Eleanore Kindersley. Pru’s tension eased slightly at the thought of her best friend. She had visited the other girl for tea that afternoon and proceeded to rant about her father’s behavior, her fears about what it was doing to her family, and her failed attempt to get into Ballard’s t
he night before. The other young woman had listened sympathetically, offering to help Prudence in any way that she could with the matter, and when Pru had revealed her plans to gain entrance to the club that night disguised as a man, Eleanore had applauded the “brilliant” idea and had even volunteered to accompany her. Prudence had quickly refused that offer—unwilling to risk the other girl’s reputation—but had accepted the proffered use of her friend’s private coach.
Well, it was really Ellie’s father’s coach, she admitted, hoping that Lord Kindersley would not be too upset at his daughter for lending it out. Eleanore was always doing good and generous things like that. She was a dear friend.
Aye. Eleanore is an excellent friend. But really, she should have dissuaded me from this folly, Prudence thought with regret.
Realizing that she was terribly close to giving up and telling Jamison, the Kindersleys’ driver, to take her home, Prudence released the curtain and forced herself to lean back on the plush, cushioned seats to take a deep, calming breath. Unfortunately she didn’t feel much better when at last the coach rolled to a stop. Peering out the window to see Plunkett standing, grim-faced and arms crossed, before the door of Ballard’s did not help much.
Feeling her courage dwindling further, Prudence pushed the door open and burst out of the carriage, coming up short as the Kindersleys’ coachman came to an abrupt halt before her, his expression horrified. Pru heaved an inner sigh, but managed an apologetic smile. Eleanore, of course, would never have bustled out of the carriage before the man could open the door for her. But then Ellie was always a perfect lady. Prudence was not. Perfect ladies did not rush about in men’s clothes, chasing their fathers out of gambling establishments in efforts to save their families.
Ah, well, she thought philosophically, no one is perfect. Besides, she had more to worry about than behaving like a perfect lady, especially while dressed as a man. With that concern out of the way, she straightened her shoulders, stepped around the disapproving driver, and started forth.
Prudence had barely taken half a dozen steps when her breeches began slipping down her hips. Slowing her step, she jerked at them under cover of the cape she wore. Both items were her father’s, as were the shirt, waistcoat, and cravat she wore.
Unfortunately, when Prudence had devised this plan, she had not considered the fact that Edward Prescott was a jolly little man of about twice her width. Neither had she recalled that her mother had given her brother’s vestments away to charity after his death. Not that John’s clothing would have fit properly either. They, too, would have been large on her—but at least she wouldn’t have been swimming in them as she was in her father’s clothing.
Prudence had spent a goodly amount of time this evening tucking and pinning the breeches in the back in an effort to make them look more presentable, and she had succeeded for the most part. Well, they looked passable in the front. Unfortunately it appeared that her handiwork was coming undone. The moment she released the breeches they began to slip again.
Scowling in irritation, she yanked them up once more, this time anchoring them in place with a hand on her hip under the cape. Realizing how foolish she must look walking like that, she tried to add a swagger to her step to appear more manly, but found that the excessive activity made her head bob, sending the top hat she wore shifting forward on her head. It, too, was her father’s and was too large for her.
At first, that had seemed something of a blessing, since it allowed her to tuck her long chestnut hair underneath. Now Prudence found it more of a problem. She feared it might slide right off her head, spilling her hair and revealing her gender. With her father’s old cane in her right hand, and her left hand needed to twist the breeches on her hip, she was rather at a loss as to what to do. After one frantic moment, she raised the cane she held and used it to push the hat back. Fortunately the action worked; the hat shifted into place and Prudence was able to continue forward. She did so much more cautiously, trying to keep her head steady as she approached Ballard’s front door—and Plunkett.
Pru hadn’t really plotted this part of her plan. She supposed she had just assumed that the man would open the door and step aside for her to enter. He, apparently, had other thoughts. He merely stood in place, his expression turning mean as he squinted at her approach.
“Pip, pip, cheerio,” she tried in her deepest voice, hoping her mounting panic did not show as she attempted to maneuver around the man to get to the door. Her heart sank when he stepped sideways into her path, firmly blocking her entrance.
“You look familiar,” he rumbled, making Pru’s heart skip a beat.
“Aye, well . . . Undoubtedly that would be because I am a regular at this fine establishment,” she forced out, following the lie with the deepest laugh she could muster. Unfortunately, the effort scratched her throat and sent her into a coughing fit.
Eyes rounding in horror, Prudence reached up quickly to anchor her hat in place with the hand that held the cane, nearly braining Plunkett in the process. The doorman managed to avoid the blow with a quick duck and feint that would have done any boxing teacher proud, then scowled at Prudence, who, with both hands occupied, proceeded to cough rudely all over his folded arms.
Apparently deciding that holding her up was not to his benefit, Plunkett promptly opened the door, using the act as a way to step clear of her moist coughing.
“Thank you,” Prudence rasped as she rushed forward, eager to get inside before the man changed his mind.
The door closed behind her with a snap, and Prudence had just begun to take a relieved breath when she realized that she had only managed to cross the first hurdle. She was not now in the gaming room; she was in an entryway with a cloakroom off of it. There was another door to get through, and two servants between her and that door.
Squelching the panic that rose in her as the two servants rushed forward, reaching eagerly for her hat and cloak, Prudence let go of her hat long enough to brandish her cane threateningly before her.
“I shall not be here long enough to have need of your services,” she said quickly, then rushed between them. Pushing through the door, she raised her hand to moor her hat as she did. It worked.
The first thing to strike Prudence as she burst into the gaming area was the noise. There were well over a hundred men in the large room, and every single one of them appeared to be talking or laughing, each voice just a bit louder than the next in an effort to be heard. It appeared men were much noisier when women weren’t around. Or, at least, when ladies weren’t around, she corrected herself as she noted that what she had heard was true; Ballard’s did have female servants. There were several moving through the crowd, carrying trays of drinks and various food items.
Prudence watched one such servant distribute drinks at a nearby table and paused to admire her outfit. The long, deep red skirt and snow white top were really quite fetching. Of course, it was nothing she herself would have dared wear. The skirt was just a touch short of being considered proper. Prudence even caught a glimpse of the girl’s ankles as she hurried about. The scoop-necked top was a touch risqué as well, she decided critically, but all in all it was an attractive uniform. Since every woman present wore it, she decided that it had to be a uniform.
The entrance of new arrivals behind her forced Prudence to give up her consideration of the apparel Lord Stockton had chosen for his servants. Moving away from the door, she started through the room, her gaze shifting over the sea of men in search of her father. She had reached the back right corner of the club before spying Lord Prescott deeply involved in a game of cards at a table in the opposite corner. Spotting the pile of money in the center of the round surface, she wondered bitterly how much of it her father had added to the pile. The sum there would go a long way toward paying off their debts should he win, she could not help thinking. But that was the trick. He would not win. She would lay odds on that.
Determined that, however much he had already gambled away, he would be losing no more, Prudence s
traightened her shoulders and prepared to confront him. She was about to stride forward when a cry of pain by her side made her hesitate and glance over at a dispute taking place. Nearby, a tall, hawkish man had one of the serving women by the arm and was shaking her rather viciously as he hissed into her face.
Frowning, Pru moved close enough to hear what was being said.
“You stupid, clumsy strumpet!” the man said snarling. “This waistcoat cost more than you will make in a lifetime!”
“I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to spill ale on you, but you bumped my arm and—”
“Are you suggesting that it is my fault?” the noble barked, giving the servant a bone-rattling shake that had Pru’s teeth aching in sympathy. Putting aside the matter of her father for the moment, she slipped closer to the pair.
“I say there, my good man,” she said lightly, doing her best imitation of her father’s cajoling voice. “Surely the gel did not mean to—”
Pru’s voice ended on an alarmed squeak as she found herself suddenly grabbed by the cravat and jerked nearly off the floor. Feet slipping in her father’s overlarge boots, she was suddenly standing on the very tips of her toes and nose-to-nose with the hawk-faced man.
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
Wincing at both the pain he was causing in her neck and the cloud of whiskey fumes that spewed from his mouth, Prudence glanced from him to the serving girl, who had tumbled to the floor as he had abruptly pushed her away. The servant appeared rather relieved to be on the floor, and Prudence couldn’t blame her. The wooden surface was looking a fairly comfy place to be at the moment, she thought, then noted the shocked horror now coming over the girl’s face.
“A woman!”
Pru’s attention jerked back to the hawkish man at that exclamation, only then noting that her head was feeling a touch cooler than it had moments before. Alarm rising up within her, she forgot about the cane she held and reached up instinctively to feel for the hat that should have been on her head, nearly knocking herself senseless in the process. Prudence actually saw stars as pain exploded through her head, but it might have been partially due to the fact that the man had lifted her higher in his surprise and she was now dangling off the floor, her cravat becoming a rather effective hangman’s noose.