Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(11)

“No, Mr. Craven felt that Nash’s ideas were not sufficiently imaginative. Besides, Mr. Nash was quite elderly, and far too busy with projects for the king. Instead Mr. Craven chose a young architect by the name of Graham Gronow. He made it clear to Gronow that he wanted a building so magnificent that it would outshine Buckingham House.”

Sara laughed. “Mr. Craven never does anything in half-measures, does he?”

“No,” Worthy said ruefully. He indicated the entrance to the central hazard room. “I thought we might begin with a general tour of the club.”

She hesitated. “That would be delightful, but I wouldn’t like to be seen by any of the patrons—”

“You won’t, Miss Fielding. It’s too early in the day. Most fashionable Londoners do not rise until afternoon.”

“I like getting up with the sun,” Sara said cheerfully, following him to the central room. “I do my best thinking early in the day, and besides—” She broke off with an exclamation as she stepped through one of the doorways of the octagonal room. Her eyes widened as she stared at the famous domed ceiling. It was covered with lavish plasterwork and splendid paintings, and ornamented with the largest chandelier she had ever seen. The central hazard table was positioned directly beneath the dome. Quietly Sara absorbed the atmosphere of the room. She could sense the thousands of dramas that had unfolded here; the fortunes gained and lost, the excitement, anger, fear, wild joy. Several ideas for her novel occurred to her all at once, and she wrote as fast as possible, while Worthy waited patiently.

Suddenly an odd sensation crept over her, a ticklish feeling on the back of her neck. The movements of her pencil slowed. Disturbed, she finished a sentence and glanced at the empty doorway. An inner awareness prompted her to gaze upward to the balcony that overlooked the main floor. She caught a shadowy glimpse of someone leaving…someone who had been watching them. “Mr. Craven,” she said beneath her breath, too softly for the factotum to hear.

Seeing that she had finished her note-taking, Worthy gestured to the exits at the other side of the room. “Shall we continue?”

They visited the dining and buffet rooms, a long row of elaborate card rooms, areas for smoking and billiards, and the concealed cellar where the club members could hide in the event of a police raid. Encouraged by Sara’s questions and her rapt interest, Worthy told her all about the intricacies of gambling, the architecture of the building, even the lands of food and wine that were served.

Throughout the tour Sara couldn’t dismiss the feeling that they were being followed. Frequently she glanced over her shoulder, suspecting she might catch someone watching them from a doorway or from behind a column. As the minutes passed, she began to see many servants bustling back and forth. Scores of housemaids crossed the halls carrying long-handled mops, buckets, and piles of cleaning rags. Door plates were polished, carpets were swept, fireplace mantels were wiped, and furniture was thoroughly dusted.

“How well-organized this place is,” Sara remarked as they went up the grand central staircase with its heavy golden balustrade.

Worthy smiled with pride. “Mr. Craven has exacting standards. He employs nearly a hundred servants to keep the club running like clockwork.”

Each of the six staircase landings branched off into long hallways. Sara noticed that Worthy’s color heightened when she asked what those rooms were for. “Some of them are servants’ quarters,” he said uncomfortably. “Some are temporary residences for guests. Many are for the use of…er…house wenches.”

Sara nodded matter-of-factly, knowing exactly what a house wench was. After the research she had done for Mathilda, she was very much against the practice of prostitution. She had sympathy for the women who were enslaved by such a system. Once they began on such a path, it was difficult, if not impossible, ever to turn back. One of her reasons for writing sympathetically about prostitutes was to show that they were not the amoral creatures people considered them to be. She didn’t like the idea of Mr. Craven increasing his wealth by procurement—it was far more distasteful than gambling. “How much of Mr. Craven’s profit is earned by the house wenches?” she asked.

“He takes no profit from them, Miss Fielding. Their presence adds to the ambiance of the club, and serves as an added enticement to the patrons. All the money the house wenches make is theirs to keep. Mr. Craven also offers them protection, rent-free rooms, and a far better clientele than they’re likely to find on the streets.”

Sara smiled ironically. “Better? I’m not so certain, Mr. Worthy. From what I’ve been told, aristocratic men are just as adept at abusing women—and spreading disease—as poor ones.”

“Perhaps you would like to talk to the house wenches. I am certain they will describe both the benefits and disadvantages of working at the club. They’ll be straightforward with you. My impression is that they consider you something of a heroine.”

Sara was startled by the remark. “Me?”

“When I explained that you are the author of Mathilda, they were all quite excited. Tabitha read the novel aloud to the others on their off days. Recently they all went to see the stage production.”

“Would it be possible for me to meet some of them now?”

“At this hour they are usually sleeping. But perhaps later—”

A raspy feminine voice interrupted them. “Worthy! Worthy, you bloody idler, I been looking all ower the damn club for you!” The woman dressed in only a ruffled white wrapper that was slightly transparent, hurried down the hall to them. She was attractive, though her small face was coarsened by years of hard living. Rippling waves of chestnut hair, much like Sara’s own, fell down her shoulders and back. She spared Sara only the briefest of glances.