Page 47 of Habibi: Always and Forever

Any sympathy this conjecture might have engendered in Conrad's breast was quickly quashed by Malcroft's speech as he staggered into the morning room.

"What's this I hear about me forfeiting my wager?

The devil you say, Ormondy." He fixed Conrad with a malevolent glare.

"You can't bully me into giving up a bet I earned fair and square just because you can't make your wife behave within the bounds of propriety.

What's she done this time, eh? Paraded through the park at high noon in her unmentionables?

" The viscount's thin lips stretched into a sneer that revealed yellowing teeth.

"Been caught in the stables with a groomsman? "

This last suggestion elicited a collective gasp from the spectators, though Conrad suspected they were less outraged by the aspersion than hopeful of imminent violence.

And indeed, under other circumstances, Conrad might have felt compelled to lay the bounder flat, a feat he had no doubt he could achieve with a single well-aimed blow even if Malcroft weren't already swaying on his feet.

The viscount was well into his fifties and had likely never been a particularly athletic man even before the paunch had begun to collect around his midsection.

In all honestly, it wouldn't be sporting for Conrad—a decade younger, a head taller, and as fit as some men half his age—to hit the fellow.

Good thing, then, that he had no compelling reason to do so.

He smiled blandly up at Malcroft, not bothering to rise from his seat. "The terms of the wager require that the incident be made public for you to collect, do they not?"

The viscount's rheumy eyes narrowed. "Yes. And so bloody what? Do you think you can force everyone to keep mum to protect your wife's reputation or your honor?"

Laughter bubbled in Conrad's chest, threatening to spoil the entire effect. Poor Malcroft. He had no idea what was about to happen, and Conrad could scarcely wait for the trap to spring.

"On the contrary, I think everyone is going to force you to keep mum to protect the reputation of White's."

* * *

T hat, Freddie knew, was her cue.

Every eye fixed upon her husband, which meant no one was paying the slightest attention to the short, portly waiter who had retired to the back corner.

In truth, no one had paid him any mind when he'd been pouring their drinks or removing their used cups and saucers.

That was the beauty of disguising oneself as a servant: the upper classes took notice of servants the way they did the furniture—only as much as necessary for their comfort and convenience.

When a woman wished to be mistaken for a man, there were few roles better suited to the occasion.

Now, with Conrad holding them all spellbound, Freddie was free to remove the elements of her costume that concealed her sex without being noticed. The surprise would be all the more astonishing for its apparent suddenness.

Turning her back, she pulled the wig, which sported a pair of bushy sideburns, from her head and tossed it onto the sideboard.

Her own locks were no longer than those on the wig, for she had discovered the advantages of short hair several years ago and felt the style suited her better than long, unruly tresses had ever done.

Despite its shortness, the cut was unmistakably feminine, and she used her fingers to fluff out the natural curls that had been mashed flat.

Behind her, the initial silence that had greeted Conrad's announcement was being replaced by murmurs of doubt and disbelief.

With nimble fingers, she unbuttoned the heavily padded black tailcoat she had donned in imitation of the uniform worn by the servants at White's.

The padding extended from beneath her breasts to the waistband of the coat, thereby making her appear barrel-chested rather than bosomy.

The coat's long tail masked the roundness of her hips and buttocks, further lending to the impression of a short, stout man.

But once she removed the coat, the remainder of her costume was no costume at all, for even in waistcoat, shirt, cravat, and trousers, her figure was too curvaceous to be mistaken for that of a male person.

Shrugging the coat from her shoulders, she tossed it over a vacant chair and turned to face the room. Her husband sat with his back to her and the other dozen or so men in the room arguing while he sat in silence, one leg draped negligently over the other.

Freddie put her thumb and forefinger into her mouth and blew.

The resulting whistle brought all conversation to a halt and every head—except her husband's—swiveled in her direction.

She watched with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction as eyes widened, mouths dropped, and emotions ranging from shock to indignation to horror registered on those male faces as the significance of her presence registered on them.

A woman had penetrated their hallowed halls! Their impregnable bastion of male privilege, heretofore unsullied by the presence of female persons, was no longer pure! How would they ever scrub the place of the plague that surely followed in the wake of the ingress of lady parts?

She sauntered across the floor, gratified beyond measure by the fact that—to a man—they either flinched or backed away from her advance. Their panic delighted her.

Reaching Conrad's chair, she found him beaming up at her with a jubilation that matched her own. Draping herself artfully across his lap, she turned a benevolent smile upon their dumbfounded audience.

"I believe, gentleman, that my husband is owed ninety guineas. Unless, of course, you plan to allow the ease with which a mere woman infiltrated your dominion to become public knowledge so that Lord Malcroft can collect his wager."

The ensuing argument between the viscount and the rest of the members rose to such a pitch that several of the gentlemen who'd been lounging in the other morning room soon entered the fray.

The outcome, however, was a foregone conclusion.

To admit that a woman had gained entry to their masculine sanctuary, let alone that she had done so by subterfuge and had been discovered only because she chose to reveal herself, would deal an intolerable injury to White's reputation and its members' honor.

They could no more permit such a revelation than they could reveal just how very trite and tedious their little club actually was.

Why, in most of the two hours Freddie had observed them, they had said and done nothing they could not have said or done in their own parlors, even with ladies present!

The only time anything remotely interesting had happened had been after Malcroft had arrived and hurled indelicate insults about her.

And that had been more amusing than upsetting.

Eventually, the Earl of Harborough, who seemed to be the most senior member in attendance, said, "Very well, Lord and Lady Ormondy, you have won. We obviously cannot allow reports of this incident to go beyond these walls. What are your terms for maintaining silence?"

Conrad raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry, and Freddie nodded her agreement.

Her husband held up his closed fist and the extended his thumb. "One: Lord Malcroft's last wager on my wife's activities shall be considered null and void; he is to collect nothing, even if some subsequent incident involving Lady Ormondy should come to light."

The viscount growled, his face flushing with rage. "That's not fair! My wager was on the timing of her next public scandal. This incident shouldn't count against me because it doesn't fit the terms of the bet."

The smile that creased Conrad's lips was feral. "Fair or not, we will insist upon this point. If I discover you've received so much as a farthing, today's events will appear in every scandal sheet in London."

"But—but,” the viscount sputtered, “you'll have no proof; everyone will just say you've made it all up."

Conrad shrugged. "Whether there's proof or not, the damage will be done. Any claim that no woman has ever crossed the threshold of White's will be open to question." He glanced at Harborough. "I suspect you concur with my assessment."

"I do." The earl gestured at the two gentleman who'd been sent to fetch the viscount. "Get him out of here. And Malcroft," he added, his tone icy, "you'll keep your mouth shut or be expelled."

Freddie could see that Lord Malcroft was still furious, but the fight went out of him at Harborough's threat.

For reasons she couldn't fathom but had counted on nonetheless, these men prized their inclusion in the vacuous little boys' club to such an extent that the mere possibility of exclusion could cow them into silence.

Once the viscount had been removed, Lord Harborough turned his attention back to her husband. "We agree to your first condition. I assume you have others."

Nodding, Conrad held up his hand again and extended his index finger along with his thumb. "Two, no member of my family is ever again to be the subject of any future wager between members of this club."

A youngish-looking man Freddie didn't recognize burst out, "I say, you can't agree to that, my lord. What we bet on in the book is our business, and no one else's."

Harborough's sharp blue eyes narrowed on the speaker. "You'd best remember to whom you're speaking, Mr. Spenser." He placed a heavy emphasis on the word mister.

Mr. Spenser blanched. "Yes, my lord."

"Would anyone else care to tell me what terms I can and cannot negotiate?" the earl asked, his voice deceptively soft. When no one answered, he said, "Very well, Ormondy. We will see to it that members are warned that your family is off-limits. Anything else?"

"Yes. Three," Conrad said, extending his third (and middle) finger, "the insinuation that my wife has become 'a boring society matron' or that I have 'tamed' her.

.." Here, he paused and shuddered with revulsion at having to pronounce the words, and Freddie was hard-pressed not to rain kisses on his beloved face despite their audience.

"...because members of White's have stopped betting her exploits is to be publicly repudiated.

I don't care how. But I will not have my wife's character besmirched in this manner.

" His gray eyes twinkled merrily as his gaze met Freddie's.

"She is every bit the hellion she ever was, and as I would think you would realize by now, the hellion always wins. "

* * *

I t is with some chagrin, dear Reader, that this Reporter must confess to having been led astray by reports of the apparent reform of the character a certain lady.

In fact, if the members of White’s who have contacted your humble Correspondent are to be believed, Lady O remains not only untamed by her husband, but is even encouraged and aided by him in her antics.

The nature of her latest escapade remains a mystery, but if the vehemence with which earlier rumors that she has become a stick in the mud have been denied is any indication, this column will not long suffer from the absence of Lady O’s exploits.

* * *

"B ut how on earth did you get in?" Freddie's sister-in-law and dearest female friend, Sabine, asked.

Freddie sighed. It would have been the coup of the century to let everyone in London know she'd managed to sneak into White's right under its members' very noses, but she would have to settle for telling her best friends.

Thomas, Conrad's brother and Sabine's husband, grinned. "I'll bet I can guess."

Conrad, who lounged on the sofa next to Freddie, chuckled. "Given the mischief you two and Walter got up to when you were growing up, I imagine you can."

Sabine elbowed Thomas in the ribs. "Don't be a... How do you say it? Spoil-sport?" When the three native English speakers all nodded, she went on, "Yes, don't be a spoil-sport. Let Freddie tell it."

Laughing, Freddie did. "It was child's play, really.

Once I had dressed the part of one of White's servants, I simply walked in the front door.

I knew from Conrad's description that the entry hall is in the center and the morning room split into two halves.

The betting book is in the morning room on the right, so when the doorman's back was turned to check the register for Conrad's name, he didn't see me come in or that I entered the morning room on the left.

Costumed as I was, none of the gentlemen in that room paid me the slightest heed. "

Clapping her hands, Sabine said, "How very clever!" She sobered. "But I hope the doorman didn't lose his position because he failed to keep you out. That would be most unfortunate."

How like Sabine to consider the fate of the poor doorman.

Freddie certainly hadn't...at least, not until Conrad had brought the matter to her attention when they were formulating their plan.

Even if they never directly revealed the method by which she had gotten into the club, someone would be sure to figure it out eventually.

As if on cue, a stern, thin-faced man of middle years and rigid posture appeared in the doorway and proclaimed, "Dinner is served."

The End