Geneva didn’t like the look of any of the men in the room. It was as if they could all see right through her. Every eye tracked her as she walked through the crowded smoking parlor and up to the bar where, with trembling fingers, she poured herself a drink of brandy.
How did she ever get caught up in a ruse such as this?
Carefully she took a swig. Instantly she regretted it. She tried her best to fight the urge to spit out the foul, burning liquid. Why on earth would men force such a torture upon themselves? If it took swallowing this poison to be a man then she had no desire to keep this up!
Sure, there were benefits to dressing this way. For one thing, she received no catcalls as she walked down the dark alleys to this establishment. If she had been dressed in her usual bonnet and bustle she would have been teased and taunted by the dredges coming home from the docks. This time nobody seemed to notice her. She had slid through the market easily with only minimal pestering by the merchants who normally would have been fervently trying to sell her ribbons and lace. Hardly anyone had tried to bother her at all, except for the occasional young girl who may have bought into her disguise a little too easily.
She had made it here undiscovered. It had been a piece of cake getting into the smoking parlor, an establishment explicitly reserved for only gentlemen. She had never before had seen the inside of such a place. It was completely different from the sunrooms and gardens kept for women to visit company. It was dark and oppressive. Everything was grand and expensive, plush and gilded. The air was musty and heavy with smoke. There were no windows, only large ornate oil lamps and fireplaces scattered throughout the enormous space, giving the dark room a sickly orange glow. Everyone had a drink or a cigar in hand, and all were partaking in gambling or billiards.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
Geneva wasn’t impressed and she decided she would rather take the sunny arboretums and clean, fresh linen of a woman’s sitting room any day.
With a tight purse of her lips she forced the liquor and her tension down into the pit of her stomach. She had to focus. She had to remember everything that Thomas had taught her. She slouched her posture, stuck out her flat stomach, widened her stance and pretended to take another swig from her glass. The smell of the brandy made her cringe. As she lifted her glass to her lips she peered over its rim and searched the darkened room, scanning the faces for any sign of Aldon. She knew he had to be here; it was only a matter of time before he showed up.
Aldon MacMeyer. What a nasty pig. Geneva had never approved of him, but when her younger sister Melissa had come home so happy that he had finally proposed she couldn’t bring herself to adamantly protest. Melissa had looked so happy on her wedding day. Little did she knew that Aldon was a cad, and it was no surprise to Geneva that three weeks after their honeymoon he had been seen out on the town with another woman. Her sister had denied it, despite the many accounts given to her of his guilt. She loved him and couldn’t see a single fault in the slob.
It was up to Geneva to prove it to her. She and her friend Sir Walter Thomas had come up with the brilliant idea of this disguise. It would be easy, Thomas had told her. She would just have to go to the parlor, sit in the corner and listen. Aldon was notorious for being loud and outright about his affairs. He wore them like badges of honor. She would get proof from him somehow, whether it be a name of the mistress or the location of their secret meeting spot… whatever it was, she would get it and prove it to Melissa once and for all.
Geneva shuffled away from the bar just as two men approached it to retrieve drinks of their own. She slid quietly to the darkest corner of the room just behind a blackjack table and leaned her back against the wall. She wasn’t sure how long she would have to wait for Aldon to show up, but it wasn’t a problem. She had told her father she would be at the London Philharmonic with Thomas for their performance of the Greatest Works of Mendelssohn, which would certainly last all night.
She had nothing but time. With a satisfied smirk she reached into her pocket and pulled out a cigarette. She fished around in her coat pocket and found a match, striking it carelessly on the doorframe behind her. She lit the tip and gently drew a breath through the cigarette, watching an ember come to life on the tip. With a wave of her hand the match was out and discarded in a nearby ashtray. She took a leisurely puff and smiled brightly. It was the first time she had a smoke inside, let alone in front of anyone. How thrilling it was to practice her most guarded vice out in the open.
Ah, to be a man.
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