Free A Useful Woman by Darcie Wilde Page A

“Is Mr. Whelks still inside?”
    â€œI believe that he is, Miss Thorne.” Molloy bowed and held open the door so Rosalind could step through.
    Almack’s entrance hall was spacious. The lusters overhead were quite dark, but several candles shone in the brass wallsconces. Their yellow light reflected on velvet drapes and gleaming floorboards. Mr. Whelks was indeed within, at the foot of the grand staircase. He was also engaged in what could be described as an animated consultation with several stout gentlemen wearing dingy shirts and stained leather aprons.
    â€œIt is simply insupportable!” roared Mr. Whelks. “We must have the new chairs for the card room
before
next week, you b—”
    Rosalind cleared her throat. Mr. Whelks clapped his mouth shut and turned toward her.
    Thorvald Whelks was Lady Jersey’s personal secretary and the tallest, thinnest man Rosalind had ever met. Rumor was Lady Jersey had chosen him as her assistant because he could be easily seen in any room, no matter how crowded. He was also reputed to be a harpsichordist of unusual talent, but as Rosalind had never heard him play, she could not judge.
    What was no way in doubt was that when Lady Jersey wasn’t in the building, Mr. Whelks was the voice of the Almack’s patronesses. Mr. Willis might occupy the building’s offices, reviewing the books and counting the receipts, but Mr. Whelks was the only person trusted to handle the sacred voucher lists once they were completed by the board. Rosalind had never seen him wearing anything other than a black coat, no matter the time of day or night. The only reason he changed his black trousers for white breeches when evening came was that if he did not, he would not have been admitted into the ballroom, no matter how pressing his business. The rules for gentleman’s attire in Almack’s admitted no exceptions.
    â€œMiss Thorne!” Mr. Whelks greeted her with a long, deep bow, this being the only sort his elongated frame was capable of. “Good evening!”
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Whelks. I’m here with Lady Blanchard’s carriage. Is she still upstairs?”
    â€œI confess, I don’t know, Miss Thorne. Shall I enquire?”
    â€œIf you please.”
    Mr. Whelks glanced at the aproned tradesmen and coughed. A lady, he was clearly thinking, could not be left alone with such rude mechanicals as these. “Perhaps you’d care to step upstairs? As it’s you, I’m sure no one will mind.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Whelks.”
    The secretary ordered the tradesmen to wait and took up a candle from the nearest table. Rosalind followed.
    The great marble stair curved grandly upward to the right. The light from Mr. Whelks’s candle flickered across its polished banisters and was reflected warmly in the painted glass of the arched windows. The air smelled of cold and wax, faded smoke, and old perfume. It had been a long time since Rosalind had been this far into the sanctum sanctorum, but she still remembered it perfectly. The stair ended at the broad open gallery, which furnished a fine view of the entrance hall below. To the left waited the grand ballroom and, beyond that, the famously modest tea room. To the right was the card room. Rumor whispered that Lady Jersey had fought bitterly against the introduction of cards at Almack’s, as it would take the gentlemen away from the dancing. It was one of the few battles she’d ever lost.
    The committee rooms and business offices waited one more floor up, but Mr. Whelks hesitated—delicately, of course.
    â€œIf you’ll just wait here, Miss Thorne? I think I see a light on in the committee room. I’ll go and knock for you.”
    â€œThank you.” Rosalind nodded her understanding. While Rosalind might be welcome here and even accorded a certain amount of latitude, no outsider could be allowed into the patronesses’ office—not even the Prince