As though the adventure she craved was hers for the taking.
The powerful feeling had been almost too much to bear, and Callie had escaped above stairs soon after Ralston had left the ball. Her secret encounter, paired with the thrill that came with the tavern recommendation Ralston had provided, had rendered her unable to continue her sedate interactions with the ton. How could she discuss the season when there was scotch to be tried? A tavern to visit? A new Callie to encourage?
She couldn’t, of course.
It was not the first ball she had left early; she doubted that anyone would notice or care that she had disappeared—a truth that made for an easy escape to adventure. At long last, some good comes of being a wallflower.
She smiled at the thought as a sharp rap announced Anne’s return. The maid bustled back into the room, arms laden with brown wool.
Consumed with excitement, Callie couldn’t stop herself from clapping her hands, eliciting a scowl from her companion.
“I should think you’re one of the first people to ever applaud brown wool.”
“Perhaps I am the first person to recognize brown wool for what it really is.”
“Which is?”
“Freedom.”
The Dog and Dove was, evidently, a popular haunt.
Callie peered out the window of the hansom cab she had hired to take her to the tavern, curiosity bringing her to the edge of her seat, nose nearly pressed against the glass window. She had ridden down Jermyn Street countless times by day, never realizing that it was an entirely different place at night. The transformation was really quite fascinating.
There were dozens of people on the street in front of the tavern, bathed in the yellow light that poured from its windows. She was surprised to see aristocrats in their starched cravats mingling with gentlemen and members of the merchant class, the “cits” who were so publicly criticized in ballrooms across London for working.
Interspersed among the men was a handful of women, some clearly the companions of the men upon whom they hung, others who seemed to be without an escort. The last filled Callie with apprehension; there had been a small part of her that had hoped to arrive at the tavern and, finding no unchaperoned women, to be required to ask the hack to return her home immediately.
Frankly, she wasn’t sure if she was miserable or thrilled that she had been provided with no viable excuse to turn back.
Callie sighed, the exhaled breath clouding the window, turning the light beyond into a hazy yellow fog. She could just go home and drink scotch in Benedick’s study. With Benedick. After all, he’d offered before. At Allendale House, where she would not risk her reputation.
At Allendale House, there would be no adventure. Callie winced at the thought, clutching the square sheet in her gloved hand, feeling the rich, thick paper crinkle in her palm as doubt assailed her.
She should have let Anne come with her. Solitary adventure was fast becoming overrated.
She couldn’t go home now, however. Not after she’d gone through the trouble of asking Ralston for the name of a tavern and securing an appropriate disguise. She fidgeted under the rough wool of the gown, which irritated her skin despite the linen chemise she wore. With the hood of her cloak up, no one would even look twice at the plain young woman who entered, ordered a tumbler of whiskey and sat quietly at a table at the back of the taproom. She’d begged Anne for information about the inside of taverns as well. She was fully prepared. All she had to do was exit the hack.
Unfortunately, her legs did not seem to be willing to cooperate.
To list? Or not to list?
The door opened. And she no longer had a choice. The driver spoke, exasperation filling his tone. “Miss? Ye did say The Dog and Dove, did ye not?”
Callie crushed the list in her hand. “I did.”
“Well, here y’are.”
She nodded. “Quite.” And, stepping down onto the block he had set on the ground for her to exit, she thanked him.
She could do this. Shoring up her courage, Callie took the last step down to the street and planted her kidskin boot right into a puddle of murky water. With a little, involuntary cry of distress, she hopped to dry land and looked back at the now-amused driver. He offered her a cocky grin. “Ye should be watchin’ where ye step, miss.”
Callie scowled. “Thank you for the advice, sir.”
He tilted his head at her as he added, “Are ye certain ye want to be here?”
She squared her shoulders. “Quite certain, sir.”
“Right, then.” He tipped his cap, leapt up to the driver’s seat, and, with a click to his horses, was off to find his next fare.
Adjusting her hood, she faced the tavern. To list, it seems. Carefully checking the cobblestones in front of her for additional pitfalls, she made her way through the crowd of uninterested people outside, toward the door.
He saw her the moment she entered the tavern.
There had been no question that she’d been lying earlier in the evening about her brother’s looking for a tavern in town. There was little chance that the Earl of Allendale needed his sister’s interference to find his way to a pub.
Which begged the question, why on earth was Lady Calpurnia Hartwell looking for a tavern?
And what on earth was she doing inside a tavern in the middle of the night? Had she no concern for her reputation? For that of her family? For that of his sister, for God’s sake? He’d placed Juliana’s reputation in her care, and here she was prancing into a public house, bold as brass. She was certain to get herself into trouble.
Ralston leaned back in his chair, whiskey in hand, his attention focused entirely on Callie, who was frozen just inside the doorway of the tavern, looking equal parts fascinated and terrified. The room was packed with people, most in various stages of drunkenness. He’d selected one of the more reputable establishments in St. James. While he could have sent her to Haymarket or Cheapside to teach her a lesson, he had predicted—correctly—that this place would be enough to set her back on her heels.