Free The House of Velvet and Glass by Katherine Howe

tell Captain Allston would be more convenient?”
    Harlan looked up at the houseman with a sordid glare, saying nothing.
    “An hour then, sir?” the porter suggested, unflappable. Captain Harlan Plummer Allston Junior, Lan to his intimates, Lannie to his wife, had been a member of St. Swithin’s longer than his son. His influence there, as in all other venues of Harlan’s life, was considerable.
    Harlan returned his eyes to his cards, slapping a useless seven of hearts on the table.
    “Blast,” said Bickering. “If that don’t cap all.”
    “Ninety-five,” Rawlings remarked with amusement.
    “Well, I reckon we’re beat,” Bickering said, stretching his arms overhead.
    Harlan scowled, heart sinking. Ninety-five! And on top of everything else, too. He should’ve known better, picking Bickering for a bridge partner.
    “Now then, Allston,” Rawlings continued, lips moving around his pipe. “Rather early to be slinking out of old Westmorly Hall for the summer, isn’t it?”
    “What d’you mean?” Harlan asked levelly.
    Rawlings laughed as Bickering and Townsend exchanged a glance.
    “All right, have it your way,” Rawlings said. “But I wish you’d give us the scoop. Otherwise we’ll just amuse ourselves with speculating.”
    Harlan paused, considering how they might respond if he actually told them the truth, and then laughed. Impossible. They’d never believe he meant it. He could afford a variation, at most. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case.
    “Well, Rolly, I’ll tell you,” he began, lighting his cigarette as the three young men pricked up their ears. “It’s a pretty good story.”
    “I knew it,” Bickering said to Townsend, who raised his eyebrows.
    “It has to do with a certain young lady,” Harlan said. “About whom I can’t say any more, for fear of her reputation. You understand.”
    “Oh, come now!” Rawlings protested. “Can’t a man speak plainly within the confines of his club, and in the company of gentlemen?”
    Townsend and Bickering gave their audible assent.
    Harlan made a show of hesitating, and then deciding to persevere. “Very well. I’m sure you’re aware, this isn’t the first time a member of the fairer sex entered our humble Cantabrigian domicile. So I invited this lady of my acquaintance in for a drink and some companionable conversation.”
    “That’s the boy,” said Bickering, elbowing Rawlings in the ribs. Rawlings grinned, teeth still clamped around the mouthpiece of the pipe.
    “So there we were, a nice fire going, a couple of excellently made cocktails,” Harlan continued.
    “And some companionable conversation, no doubt,” Bickering interrupted.
    “When she comes over faint,” Harlan said in feigned surprise.
    “The poor thing,” Rawlings said through his grin.
    “Well, what could I do?” Harlan asked, hands spread in helplessness. “I helped her to loosen her dress. Ladies’ underthings can be so restrictive, you know.”
    “I’m all for dress reform, myself. So much more modern. So much more . . . accessible,” Bickering mused.
    “Well, wouldn’t you know, the tutor chose that most inconvenient moment to drop in.” Harlan sighed. Anguished groans broke out around the table. It wasn’t a lie, exactly.
    “Not Baker, was it?” Rawlings asked.
    “I had a few run-ins with Baker myself, before I parted ways with the Crimson Goliath,” Bickering remarked to no one in particular.
    “So there you have it, fellows. Hoist by my own petard.” Harlan took a last drag on his cigarette before rubbing it out in the brass tray on the table. Townsend idly shuffled one of the decks of cards, his hands in constant motion as Rawlings pursed his lips around the base of his pipe.
    “Now, Allston,” Bickering said, adopting a faux-schoolmarm tone, “there’s a rather important detail lacking in your account.”
    “Oh?” Harlan asked, in false innocence.
    “The name of this infamous lady. Mademoiselle