Part 4 – First Meeting

Archie straightens up and makes a big show of groaning and grousing about his losses at dice. The eldest Bridgerton boy simpers and grins as he pockets his winnings, not knowing that only Lord F's adroit wrist-action ensured the losing streak that swells the Bridgerton wallet.

The Club Room is filled with smoke, a fine haze of expensive alcoholic fumes, and the clashing colognes of all the men. Archie doesn't like the flowery odors although they are preferable to the stink of raw alcohol, vomit, and urine one finds in the less effete gaming hells he has been frequenting lately. Give him clean salt air any day! However, this is where he has to be tonight so this is where he stays. But, sincerely, he needs a break. Losing at dice is hard work!

He leaves the gaming table to the youngsters, ambles tiredly over to the central divan and sinks down most thankfully. Another hour of this charade then he's going home to sleep the sleep of the just – good upstanding member of The Ton that he is. Not that The bloody Ton has the slightest idea of what good old Lord F is up to these days on their behalf.

He sips his drink and chuffs a wry laugh. Yes, good old Lord F, hot on the trail of counterfeiters and the mysterious criminal master-mind 'M' who may or may not actually exist. I have only Holmes' assurance that 'M' is real. Speaking of Holmes, his latest terse dispatch stated that tonight is the night I'm to meet my Portuguese contact here at the Club.

As the men and smoke and fumes circulate, Archie rolls an inquisitive eye and looks for new faces but doesn't see any. Maybe his contact was unavoidably detained? No matter – if he isn't here tonight, he'll be here tomorrow night. As will Lord F in a dedicated effort to establish himself as a sure-bet loser in all games of chance. He smirks; so far he's managed to lose every farthing deposited by Holmes' Ministry into the bank account of one Stephen Hesselhoff, Esquire.

Just as Lord F is deciding it's time to go home, the big mahogany double doors at the side of the room slide soundlessly open and a wave of delicious scent rolls in as women in silks and velvets pause on the threshold, eying the room like choosy predators (or cautious prey) before smiling seductively and gliding into the room. As one, all the men stand and turn to face this influx of feminine charms.

That is, all the men stand except Archibald Featherington who remains seated and uninterested. These days, amorous pursuits no longer consume his every thought. Sometimes he wonders if he's past it. All the fuss over a pretty face or impressive prow just doesn't seem worth the effort any more. He is on the brink of getting to his feet and calling it a night when something truly unexpected happens.

Someone in mauve silk alights with a rustle beside him. A slim dark-skinned arm of exquisite loveliness deposits an equally delectable fine-boned hand onto his bare wrist. His arm goes numb. His fingers spasm and it is only the quick action of that dark hand taking his glass that prevents him from staining his finest jabot.

His eyes jerk up in shocked reaction as his hormones kick in with gusto. It has been YEARS since he's felt such a rush. His eyes take in the vision beside him without any comment from his stunned brain. For there, leaning in intimately, is the absolute epitome of female beauty with flawless caramel-colored skin. Her lustrous black hair is swept up and bound by a filet of gold, leaving delicious dark ringlets to dangle lovingly over the nape of her poised, slender neck and about her face.

And such a face! Sweet and fierce with the darkest of eyes lit by the brightest of glows, a delicate curve to the nose, and full eager lips set in a challenging half-smile – and she is smiling at him! His heart thuds once, then stills in readiness for whatever happens next.

Those exotic midnight eyes slip over him in an overly familiar way and his skin prickles in response as do other parts of his anatomy that have lain long unresponsive. Her lips curl in secret delight that kick-starts his hushed heart to a rapid pace. His brain roars into high gear and every detail of the room is suddenly brighter, sharper, more vital. Never in all his years as 'a man of the world' has a woman elicited such a galvanic response in him, not even his own wife. He tries to speak but too many heroic deeds to be done flood his mind and he cannot, so she must.

"M'lord Featherington, I think?" she lisps in a soft sugar-soaked voice with the most enticing accent, firing up every nerve in his body. Suddenly his shoulders and back are straighter and his chin lifts higher as his abdomen thrums like a fine-tuned pianoforte. "I am told to seek a quiet distinguished gentleman of fine manner. They should say I must look for the handsomest man in the room." Her eyes dare him to speak but still he cannot, so she cocks her head, quirking fine unpainted brows at him, and adds, "I am Catia, here to give you whatever aid you need." She leans forward sinuously to breathe perfumed air onto his cheek. "Tell me, most excellent sir, may I be of service to you this night? Perhaps we can…"

Anthony Bridgerton is suddenly in their midst, loud and blustery and pushy, standing too close, "Say, Featherington, why are you wasting this exotic flower's time? Isn't it rather late for you to be out? Why don't you toddle off home and let me entertain the 'lay-dee'?"

Archie frowns, as does Catia, for they both heard the quotation marks around that last word. Archie's blood (already on simmer) flashes to steam in an instant, but Lord Featherington is Master and Commander of his own fate now and, rather than storm, he sends a single icy glare up into the oldest Bridgerton's salacious face. "None of your insolence, boy," he says coolly, "The Lady and I are in polite private conversation and do not welcome your presence."

Now Catia smiles and Anthony frowns for they both heard the capital 'L' there. Archie waves a dismissive hand. "Be off with you. Go inflict yourself upon those who don't care with whom they are forced to associate."

Anthony Bridgerton is just swelling in testosterone-fueled umbrage when the object of this chest-thumping exercise speaks up in dulcet tones that brook no dissent, "Sim, garotinho, run and play with the other crianças. This fine grown man and I are most happily conversing and you are the nuisance!"

Bridgerton is not used to being brooked (except by his mother)! He leans forward menacingly and Lord Featherington rises to his feet in a leisurely way, as if he regularly trounces young rakes as part of his daily routine, looking as if he is about to do gleeful battle with this lout! Shock flashes in Anthony's eyes as he sees the controlled rage of a mature male interrupted in the delicate dance of courtship. He stutters to a halt, not sure if he really wants to challenge Lord F after all!

Fortunately for everyone involved, Catia has motioned to one of the 'enforcers' circulating in the room and the large solid man takes up a position directly behind Bridgerton, beaming warning signals at the younger man's back. Anthony senses the threat without turning around. He hesitates briefly then steps back with a face-saving chuckle. "That's all right; you two finish your little chat." He waggles foolish eyebrows at Catia and mutters, "Later, when you have need of a real man, you know where to find me." He turns away with feigned disinterest and goes back to the gaming table.

In the meantime, Archie manages to hear Catia's parting shot despite the thunder of his own pulse. "There is no need for a second 'real man', my fine young Galo," as she steps up beside Lord F to trace a practiced hand down his sleeve and gather his fingers in hers, "for I have found the only 'real man' that matters." She lifts his hand and touches it to her lips. "Come, my sweet defender, let us go where we may… how do you say... oh, yes… where we may have our 'little chat' in private."

Archie feels every eye in the room upon him as this goddess draws him to the mahogany doors and into the shadowy secret world of the rooms beyond. He is determined to appear as if this too is another one of those things he does every day. Even so, something inside is telling him he'd follow this woman to the ends of the earth and beyond.

As they promenade up the carpeted staircase she casually whispers, "I am your contact. My Council orders I must work in this dirty affair. I was NOT pleased to be so tasked."

They come to an ornate door and Archie pauses where the candlelight of the hallway can mask the narrowing of his eyes and the slow stone-hard tensing of his jaw. My contact? Then this has all been an act? Of course it's an act! Oh, she's good! She not only fooled everyone downstairs but me too! His cheeks heat up. I've been a fool! I can only hope she thinks I was acting too. I must keep my head; this isn't just the most beautiful woman in all Creation but a foreign agent and not someone I can trust.

Catia takes a silver key out of her glorious décolletage and pauses, eying him covertly. "But now I must say I am pleased, yes, very pleased, most wonderfully pleased." She slots the heavy key into the lock, opens the door and Featherington cautiously steps into what just might be heaven.

END – part 4

*S/P note: garotinho = little boy, crianças = children, Galo = rooster*