“I don’t intend to speak very much.”
“Then be sure to lower your voice only slightly. Do not attempt to imitate a man’s voice. It will sound ridiculous. Choose your words carefully, claim your throat is a bit scratchy, and mutter.”
She packed everything back into her dresser, finishing the stream of advice. “Above all, you must be comfortable. If you act as if you are used to looking like this every day of your life, no one else will question you. The moment you doubt your appearance is the moment others will scrutinize your behavior.”
I nodded and paid her generously for her work. It was money I could not afford to give away. Sighing, I slipped some coins and Mr. Braddock’s card in my pocket in case of emergency and left my dress in the wardrobe. Camille reminded me to return the borrowed costume when I finished. I tipped my hat—a custom I surely looked awkward doing—and dashed down the stairs to head to the tavern.
“The Spotted Dog,” my gravelly voice told the cabdriver.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, unfazed. A rush of an uncomfortable and deliciously wicked power overcame me. The freedom of an invented reputation lay in my hands—the power to create problems, accumulate enormous debt, commit horrific crimes, and shed all responsibility in an instant. But the sudden euphoria began to ebb as quickly as it came. Of course, I could never do that. The blame would simply be shifted. And there would always be someone suffering the consequences. I wondered if Camille felt freedom or stifling responsibility every time she took on a new identity.
Soon, the cab stopped in front of the establishment, and by habit I waited, wondering what was keeping the driver, while he was probably wondering the same about me.
“Sir?” he called out. “We’ve arrived.”
How foolish. No one would hand me out. “Oh yes, of course, thank you,” I yelled back, scrambling to climb out and resisting the urge to smack myself.
Crossing the street, I tried to imagine a bored man doing this every day of his life, but even a distance of fifteen paces presented obstacle after obstacle—climbing up curbs, giving way to passersby on the busy sidewalk, ignoring the requests of a tenacious newspaper boy, dodging the swaying drunkard by the Spotted Dog entrance. I attempted a grunt to greet him, and it came out sounding rather equine, but he did not seem to notice or care in the least.
Inside, a pervading stench of alcohol and smoke filled the air, but it was not nearly as revolting as I expected a public house to be. Everything was just a plain, unadorned brown: the stools, the tables, the bar, the walls. Even the various paintings—portraits of famous London men or landmarks—had lost all their luster. No attempts had been made to dress up the establishment in any way.
Cautiously, I glanced around, fearing every eye was upon me as I approached the bar without an inkling of what to do next. Some faces were lively in conversation, and others were lifelessly sipping their drinks and smoking. There was no sign of Dr. Beck or Claude. Lord Ridgewood’s face was a mystery to me, and I knew not how to identify any other members of this secret society. If only there was a butler to announce the arrival of every distinguished guest.
The clinking of glass diverted my attention. The bartender. I caught his eye and made my debut as Unremarkable Public-House Patron Number Eighteen with a couple of grumbled words. “Ale, please.”
A dripping-wet glass slammed down in front of me. “Sir,” I added before he could run off. “Question, sir.”
“Whaddya want?” he grunted. His shirt soiled, he reeked of some sour scent that made me never want to breathe again. I maintained my distance.
“Would you happen to know a Lord Ridgewood? Or Dr. Calvin Beck? Do either of them frequent this place?”
“No sir, but if ya want an introduction to the Queen, I’m your man!” Cackling to himself, he left to serve another customer.
How amusing.
No choice but to wait patiently and watch the door, it seemed. The early afternoon did not attract much of a crowd, which left plenty of empty seats scattered around the room for me. But as I searched for a table in a dark and solitary place, my eyes landed on a man who had fallen into that sorry state instead. “Oh, Rose!” he cried.
What in heaven’s name had brought Robert here?
Without realizing it, I had risen from my seat and snatched up my glass, ready to ask him. He rambled to an old man sitting next to him at the bar, who took long swigs of his beer and nodded sympathetically. My feet brought me closer and closer, but restraint or sense prevailed and I continued onward without a word, taking a table along the wall. This was neither the time nor the place to comfort Robert.
“This is a picture of my Rose,” he said, holding up a monstrosity he had drawn a couple of years ago.
“A . . . uh, fine-looking girl, sir,” his drinking partner replied.