Page 22 of Rake in Disguise (Wicked Widows’ League #33)

In retrospect, her actions in leaving had been rash, which she could see clearly now.

But learning that John had been killed, the realization that she was a widow and then to witness the tragic results of war had been so much that she hadn’t been thinking clearly.

She’d been emotional and confused and made assumptions that may not have been correct but by the time she came to realize that fact, she was already dressed in black and sitting in her brother’s parlor and hoping that Orlando would call on her when he returned so that she could better explain.

He never did.

* * *

After he had rested, the first thing that Orlando had done was visit Demetrius since his new wife, Lavinia, was now the sister-in-law to one of the owners of Athena’s Salon. It was through her that he needed permission to gain access.

If that was where Blythe spent her evenings, then he needed access.

Further, the first thing he intended to do was clear up any misconception of why he had been at a brothel.

She had dismissed him so quickly and claimed him to be a rake.

There had been little warmth and he had difficulty reconciling her with the woman he had spent nearly every evening with tucked away in a cozy chamber at an inn in Brussels.

They had shared so much of themselves, she even knew his secrets—his family history that was never shared with anyone and she had accepted him without judgement.

Or so he had thought.

If she had left Brussels and him because of his family and what his mother had been forced to become, then he was better knowing now and then he could forget Blythe forever.

“Have you called on Blythe?” Isabella asked as she stepped into his office.

“She still thinks that I am a rake disguised as a doctor.”

“What other interesting observations did she make during your visit?” Isabella chuckled.

“I did not call on her.”

“Then how do you know she still holds the same opinion?”

“She saw me leave Madam Devine’s.”

“And she confronted you. I would take that as an excellent sign that she may still care.”

“She did not approach me. I found her in the flower market. That is where she had been when she saw me exit the brothel.”

“You could have explained.”

“I am not certain it would have made a difference.”

“I hope that you have not given up.”

“No. I still require answers…” As to why she truly left.

“So, you will be calling on her.”

“No. I will be visiting Athena’s Salon. Would you care to join me this evening?”

Her grey eyes twinkled with mischief. “I believe that I will.”

“You cannot bring Storm,” he reminded her. “Unless he has already been granted permission.”

“I doubt that he would care to attend. Besides, he is required elsewhere.” She smiled brightly. “Until this evening, dear brother.” Then, in a whirl of a skirt, she was gone.

If Blythe truly thought him a rake, he could be. He was not without charm, when it was necessary, and he certainly enjoyed seducing a woman, even if it had been far too long since…Bloody hell!

He still didn’t even know for certain why she left, but if it was different than what he assumed, perhaps he would be just what she thought him to be.

And with those thoughts, he closed the office and went above to his set of rooms to meticulously prepare his appearance for tonight.

When his brother and Lavinia arrived, he directed them to retrieve Isabella, then the four of them were taken to Athena’s Salon.

It was Lavinia who entered first and nodded to a burly footman who stood just inside the door.

“They have vouchers from Her Grace, the Duchess of Claybrook,” she said.

The hulk of a man nodded and stepped back.

“Are there many more like him?” Demetrius asked quietly.

“Four I believe. A few inside and a few outside. They guard the premises and provide security for those within. At least two remain here even when Athena’s Salon is closed.”

It was good to know that the women and their guests were protected and Orlando would hate to end up in a quarrel with the giant.

“Is it gambling or discussion that you are interested in this evening?” Lavinia asked.

He was here because of Blythe only but would not tell his sister-in-law so. “I am not certain.”

“I prefer the salon and discussions.” She started through the entrance toward a corridor. “Your hostess this evening is Lady Blythe so if you need anything, she will do her best to accommodate you.”

Isabella arched a brow and smirked.

Orlando ignored her.

What he needed could not be asked in a room full of people, but he would bide his time until the moment that they could be alone.

He followed Lavinia into a long parlor, or drawing room.

He wasn’t certain what he had expected, but it was not the several sitting areas in which people had gathered.

In a small area art was displayed on easels where others gathered to discuss.

On the back wall a servant stood behind a bar and provided beverages.

One could have coffee, tea, wine, brandy or it appeared nearly any type of beverage they wished.

Not far away was a long table in which foodstuffs had been placed, also monitored by a servant and the members could take a plate, fill it with delicacies and return to their conversations.

There were no tables such as one would find at White’s, but the gentleman’s club hadn’t been designed for such a gathering as this.

He wandered toward the back and requested a brandy before he turned and studied the room and the occupants, but Blythe was not present.

With a frown, he looked at the opening at the back of the room and wandered out and then across the hall where he entered a room for gambling, filled with baize tables for seating up to six individuals playing Faro, Baccarat and Vingt-et-un, but Blythe was not there either.

He thought she was to act as the hostess this evening. If so, where was she?

He turned and left the gambling room with the intention of returning to the drawing room to search once again. It was rather crowded and perhaps he had missed her but halted his steps when she emerged from the back of the house.

His heart nearly stopped again, despite the impossibility of it doing so, which caused him to suck in a breath when he saw her.

Blythe was wearing a daring, yet fashionable gown of gold, her black hair pulled behind in an elegant chignon, curls framed her face and some caressed her nearly bare shoulders.

In truth, her bodice was not so daring, even though the swells of her breasts were pressed against the fabric and in a way that made his mouth water, he just had not seen her clothed as such.

On the continent there had been modesty to her dress, almost as if she were still an innocent miss.

The same had been the case at the Venetian Breakfast and at the flower market.

However, tonight, she was enchanting, desirable, beautiful, and Orlando immediately lusted after her.

He wanted to peel the shoulders of her gown down until her full breasts were exposed so that he could feast on them before removing everything she wore so that he could kiss every inch of her exposed skin before claiming her as his own.

Bloody hell! If he continued with such thoughts, he would become very uncomfortable and need to shield his person or everyone would know where his thoughts strayed.

“Good evening, Dr. Valentine. I am glad that you could join us this evening.”

She greeted him so professionally…so…distant.

“You used to call me Orlando,” he reminded her.

Blythe quickly glanced at the entry of the drawing room and then the gambling room but they were alone.

“That would indicate a once shared intimacy that I would rather others not speculate upon. Besides, that time was long ago and our lives have changed.”

“Perhaps when we are in private,” he whispered.

A gentle rose tinged her cheeks. “Perhaps,” she returned then walked into the drawing room and gestured to a group of individuals gathered in one of the larger seating areas.

"When I left moments ago, a discussion had begun of Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus, published only a few months ago.”

“I have not had an opportunity to read it.” He had little time to read anything that wasn’t a medical text or journal.

“Is there any way to find out the name of the author? Someone here must know someone who works at the publisher,” someone insisted as they drew near.

“Is an author not named?” Orlando asked Blythe.

“It was anonymously published,” she answered.

“Then it must be a woman,” Orlando said, not realizing that it was loud enough to gain the attention of those in the discussion.

“Why do you say so?” a man he had never met asked.

“I have not read the book, but I have heard it discussed. Given the nature and horror contained within the pages, I do not believe it would have been purchased if a woman was named as the author, whereas if it were a man, it would be boldly displayed and the work fully accepted, as it is now.”

“Are you saying you would not read Frankenstein because it might have been penned by a woman?” Lavinia challenged him.

“That is not my claim at all,” Orlando defended.

“Even if it was confirmed that a woman was the author, that would not keep me from reading it. But, given what I know of Society, those outside of this room anyway, it would be dismissed and not given the attention it likely deserves.” He glanced at those gathered.

“Is that not one of the reasons Athena’s Salon came to be?

Because women are not given the respect they deserve or seen as intelligent? ”

“What of the morals of Dr. Frankenstein playing God in creating a human?” Someone asked of the others. “Is there not a moral issue there that should be discussed?”

Orlando drew Blythe aside. “I have heard little, but I’m not certain that I know fully what the book is about,” he whispered.

“Frankenstein took body parts from corpses and assembled them to create a man then with a spark, brought him to life.”

“A spark?” Orlando asked.

Blythe shrugged.

“Well, I suppose that since it is fiction, anything is possible if one has imagination enough.” He chuckled.

“As it is fiction and since the likelihood of someone creating a monster is unlikely, there is no moral dilemma because it is impossible,” another argued.

“What of the morality of how he came about the body parts he used.”

Visions of the limbs he had been forced to remove during the War on the Continent flashed in Orlando’s mind and he no longer found the conversation interesting.

“It says that he gathered the parts from charnel houses, graves and dissecting rooms. Is that not morally wrong to desecrate a body as such?” the man demanded.

“It is not when it is in the pursuit of medical science,” another announced and Orlando recognized the voice of his friend and colleague, Dr. Xavier Sinclair, sitting in a chair on the far side of the gathering, his wife, beside him.

“I thought you only studied the mind,” someone asked.

“I still attended medical school in Scotland, along with Dr. Valentine. Our education would have been lacking if it was not for the opportunity to study the human body.”

“It still is not right to take bodies, for their parts. Removing a limb…” The person did not finish, but Orlando could listen no longer. He’d removed far too many limbs and did not want to be reminded.

“Excuse me,” he said before he walked away to refill his brandy in hopes that the cries of agony and the burning of discarded arms and legs and the stench that it caused would leave his memory.

He had not thought of those days in a long time and did not want to think about them now.

He had come here to see Blythe, not relive the days when she had been his, but not truly his.

“I am sorry,” Blythe said as she drew near him.

“You have nothing the apologize for.”

“I should not have guided you to the discussion. When I had left, they had just started trying to determine who the author might be. I did not foresee that it would delve into the medical aspects, the discussion of…”

“Limbs.” Blythe knew what had bothered him and came to his side. It was comforting.

“I know that you faced more horrors than I could ever comprehend, especially following Waterloo and I apologize if those memories were brought forth.”

“You had no way of knowing.” He nodded to those gathered. “Nor do they as I assume they were thankfully spared from the experience of battle and the aftermath.”

She placed a hand on his sleeve. “We can go join a different discussion, if you would like.”

Orlando looked into her light blue eyes, full of concern for him, when it truly was not necessary. It was because of moments like this and the similar ones they had shared on the Continent that pulled at his heart.

“Or the two of us could talk more privately,” he suggested.

Blythe stared into his eyes, uncertainty in hers, then nodded. “I would like that.”

She then led him through the various areas of conversation, past the paintings displayed until they came to a smaller sitting area with only a settee and table.

She turned more fully to him. “Do the nightmares still visit?”