Mrs. Wroll produced Isabelle’s sketch journal. Sir Owensby flipped it open and immediately frowned at the pages. Viktor peered around him and understood why. “You said you had translations of these?”

“Yes. Here,” she gave him a small booklet. Viktor’s keen eyes read over the words, darting between the sketched representations found on the items and architecture of antiquity, and the cruder versions drawn by Isabelle.

“They are not identical.”

“What?” Mrs. Wroll doubted.

“Indeed,” Owensby agreed. “This symbol here,” he pointed to Isabelle’s icons, “is a logo for a gentleman’s club.” He chuckled to himself and looked up at their expectant faces. “That’s all I can contribute,” he sputtered. “Where is our artist? Perhaps she could analyze these glyphs.”

“I don’t suppose you have access to this club?” Mrs. Wroll suggested.

“I certainly do,” he stated proudly, then his smugness vanished. “But it is not what one would call, proper.”

“Nothing about you is proper,” Mrs. Wroll retorted.

He disregarded that and said, “I daresay your butler will be right at home, however. Women work there, and they are allowed to wear…well, anything they wish.”

“Perfect,” Mrs. Wroll concluded. “Shall we adjourn there at, say, eight o’clock?”

“I’m backing out of this one, if that’s all right,” Thomas spoke up. “I…I don’t feel well.”

“Of all the ventures to miss, Thomas!” Owensby chided. He examined his comrade’s complexion. “You do look a bit green…get on with you.”

He quickly left, and soon afterward Isabelle and Jaq returned. “They’re all upstairs,” Isabelle informed. “Snooping.”

“Isabelle,” Vanessa greeted warmly, coming down the stairs. “Could we borrow your journal for a time?”

“Yes,” her ward replied after a moment.

“Agatha will make you something to eat,” she prompted. Isabelle obediently went in search of the housekeeper. Mrs. Wroll transferred the booklet and journal into Viktor’s hands. “Until tonight, Sir Teagan.”

He met Jaq at the bottom of the stairs “You are to analyze these,” he stated. She took them and opened the door for him. “And we are attending a gentleman’s club this evening.”

He strode down the avenue with her beside him. “That’s out of character for you,” she said.

“The insignia for the place is in that journal,” he explained.

“Women aren’t allowed in these clubs,” Jaq countered.

“They are in this one, according to Owensby. You will be considered one of the employees there.”

“And we’re going to see why it’s mentioned in this book?”

“Yes. Do you have qualms regarding Isabelle’s privacy?”

“No,” she answered plainly, taking him a little off guard. “I have siblings,” she explained tersely.

Eight o’clock arrived. An hour prior, Viktor had the misfortune of Sir Owensby dropping by his house. “I knew it. You cannot be seen wearing that,” he had declared, marching right past him. He rummaged through Viktor’s clothes. “Is this all you have? Jaq! On the marrow, get this poor man a decent wardrobe!”

“What costume are you demanding I wear, then?” Viktor returned haughtily.

“This is a gentleman’s club! You must look the part! You cannot be your gaunt, boring self tonight.”

Viktor was not sure which adjective he was more perturbed by, but he did not have time to ponder it. Owensby was thrusting garments into his arms and ultimately dressed Viktor in black trousers, a white shirt, and a black dinner jacket with his black cravat.

“Here. Maybe the colour will do something for your complexion,” Owensby muttered, folding his own silk kerchief and inserting it into the jacket pocket. He examined how the scarlet went with the ensemble. “No. You’re as pale as a corpse. Brings out your eyes, though. It will have to do.”

Sir Owensby also insisted on walking the entire way. Swinging his walking stick and whistling, he tipped his top hat to passersby before they rendezvoused behind the club.

“Mrs. Vanessa Wroll, you are looking quite the tease this evening,” Sir Owensby chimed, bowing to kiss her hand. She was wearing a dark blue gown, evidently without her petticoats or bustle and thus leaving less to the imagination. Her light hair was lazily pulled up, suggesting she had just gotten out of bed. “Are you prepared to play your role?”

“I am, Sir Owensby,” she grinned coyly.

“I wonder if you’ve ever carried a tray in your life?” he japed.

“You would be surprised what a woman can do once her mind is set,” she warned. “Jaq and I are to enter here. We will see the two of you inside.”

Sir Owensby led the way to the front door. A man examined his membership card and let them inside a lobby. Two women dressed to the nines with coattails took their hats and coats before they entered the main floor. The room was wide and branched off into other rooms for more private groups. Cigar and cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling and immediately beside the entrance was a bar. Furniture was splayed about, so men talked animatedly back and forth while drink requests were sent and retrieved.

The décor was quite dim, the only lights being gas lamps on the walls and perhaps a candle here and there on the tables. The ceiling was pressed tin and the carpet below muffled his steps. Sir Owensby led him to a petite couch on the far side of the room surrounded by cushioned chairs. Viktor took a chair as a presence appeared beside him.

“Can I send an order to the bar?” Mrs. Wroll asked charmingly. Several women were roaming about, seeing to the patrons’ wants.

“Anything with whiskey,” Owensby chimed. “Teagan?”

“Nothing,” he responded.

“What did I tell you?” Owensby warned when Vanessa sauntered away, like any other hostess. His attention diverted. “People are coming. Don’t be boring!”

A small group of men came over. “May we join you?” one of them inquired.

“But of course,” Owensby granted. Viktor noticed that a stage of sorts was on one side of the establishment.

“Is there to be a performance?” he asked.

“First time here?” one of the men asked incredulously. “Indeed, they bring out a fine gem. Voice of an angel and a body only missing wings. Hello,” he purred when Mrs. Wroll returned with Owensby’s beverage. “Champagne, if you would.”

“Absolutely,” she smiled, and left.

Viktor wondered where his butler was and found her on the other side of the place, carrying a tray of glasses. Mrs. Wroll returned, bending slightly so they could see her cleavage while she poured.

“What has the kitchen got in, tonight?

Vanessa blinked and improvised, “Just the usual.”

“Oh,” the man grimaced. “Cow again. I was hoping for venison. All right, I’ll have a steak.”

“Steaks all around!” they agreed.

Viktor’s eyes spanned the room and noticed that everyone was eating meat. A lot of it. Also, as soon as many of them entered, they loosened their ties or cravats. Viktor examined those sitting around him. Fresh scars were on their hands. Some had taken the time to clean under their nails, others had not. His fingers began tapping on the edge of his chair.

“When does the music begin?” he asked casually.

The man puckered his lips and glanced at his pocket watch. “I’d say…another twenty minutes.”

That would not do. He reached out and grasped the forearm of a passing woman, who just so happened to be his butler. “Bring me something,” he ordered. She simply nodded and went to the bar.

Sir Owensby was chatting with the rest of them. “What of Robertson? I am waiting for him to fight Lee! What are these managers thinking? That will be the boxing match of the century!”

The rest of them either agreed or disagreed enthusiastically. Viktor tuned it out until he felt the conversation swing toward himself.

“Speak up, you were a boxing man in university, were you not?” Owensby interrogated. The others were interested by that information. “Indeed! You’d never believe it just from looking at him!”

They laughed and Viktor was jabbed in the shoulder playfully. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

“If that was long for you, how old does that make me?” Owensby complained.

A square glass entered Viktor’s field of vision and he thankfully took the drink from Jaq. “Keep them coming,” he murmured, taking a large first gulp. It was oddly sweet and bitter, and burned all the way down.

They were discussing foreign politics next, which Viktor cared even less about. After the first gulp, he took the drink slowly, but it still emptied faster than he would have liked. The glass vanished from his hand.

“There she is!” the man beside him announced. Viktor looked over to see a woman of richly dark skin taking the stage. Her gown was flashy silver and her body was long, willowy curves. The music was instrumental, but unlike anything he was used to.

His second drink arrived, and his lips were on the rim when the man next to him leaned over to whisper, “Give this one a tour of your lap.”

Viktor’s glass hovered in the air. “A what?”

The man grinned. “Welcome to the club.”

His eyes darted around, where he saw the various women sit on their patrons’ laps. Viktor glanced up and met the eyes of Jaq, who was also exchanging looks with Owensby. The overly kind stranger handed a few folded notes to Jaq, who warily pocketed them. The others turned toward the stage for the performance while Owensby stood and strode behind them. “Do it,” he murmured to them both.

Viktor and Jaq were frozen.

Viktor’s eyes took in the sight of women rubbing against men and undoing their clothes or hiking up their skirts…

Jaq silently sat across his lap, draping her arm around his shoulders and stroking her other hand along his lapel. Now that she was this close, Viktor saw that she wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A gold chain peeked out of her black waistcoat and he saw the dial of a pocket watch. Half the buttons were undone to reveal her clavicle and some of her chest.

She turned her back to him, spreading her legs to step to his left. Circling behind him, she rubbed her hands along his shoulders, down his arms. Her breath skimmed over his neck. Jaq came to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the singer. The music clouded his head as he nervously stared at his butler undoing her waistcoat.

She draped it over his knee and stepped around his legs to stand astride him. She pulled a few pins out of her hair, and it tumbled over to one side. Her scent washed over him, strangely warm, and feminine. She unbuttoned a few more holes as she sat on his lap.

Viktor blinked rapidly, realizing what was happening between his legs. Jaq’s body rubbed against his and he trembled. She could feel it, he knew she must be able to—

“Jacqueline,” he whispered, embarrassed that his mind was completely fogged and his body was reacting against his will.

“How long has it been since you masturbated?” she said in his ear.

“What?” he would have shrieked if he had the breath behind it.

“Do you want this to go away quickly, or I can leave,” she reiterated.

He was close, and that peaking sensation made his discomfort all the more unbearable. “Quickly.”

He swallowed, breathing heavily as her hands moved up and down his chest while she slowly ground her pelvis against his, in time with the music. Jaq put her arms on either side of his neck, running her fingers through his hair and shielding him in a world shared only by the two of them. Viktor’s lips touched her collarbone—either from him leaning forward or her pulling him, he could not tell—and her flesh was warm and soft. His scalp tingled as her nails lightly dragged through it when he leaned back. He opened his hooded eyes and gazed into hers. Jaq leaned forward, her breasts pushing on his chest and her soft tresses against his face. Viktor’s breath hitched when her teeth grazed over the curve of his ear, sending a shiver all the way to his erection. His fists clenched where they hung beside the seat of his chair, his whole body subtly climaxing beneath hers.

Viktor’s heartbeat was in his ears because the song had ended. Jaq waited for his erection to go down, and then she stood up with her waistcoat, and walked away.

He realized he had been holding his drink this whole time, and he gulped it down, grateful for the dim lighting. His cheeks and neck felt as red as the pocket square.