Very rarely is one given the opportunity to study the masculine preserves of 19th-century London--especially when one is a 20th-century lady.

However, this past summer, while embarking upon my Country House tour for Novel Explorations, I checked into my hotel only to find a message awaiting me from Anthony Lejeune, author of The Gentlemen's Clubs of London and A History of White's Club: The First Three Hundred Years. We'd been corresponding for a while and when I phoned him back, he asked if I'd like to have dinner with him at Brooks' Club. I know that a lady should never appear too eager, but you will forgive me when I tell you that I agreed, without hesitation.

Brooks' Club (No. 60 St. James' St.) has enjoyed the reputation of being a political club; but its history is as colored, if not more so, as its neighbor just over the road, White's. Brooks was founded in 1764 by William Almack (an anagram for his real name, Macall, but that's another story), moving into its present premises in October 1778 under the management of William Brooks, a money lender and wine merchant. Eight years after relinquishing management of the club, Brooks died in poverty and the club members had his body buried beneath St. James' Street without the knowledge of his many creditors.

Speaking of members, they have included over the centuries the dukes of Richmond, Grafton, Portland, Devonshire and Wellington, my lords Brougham, Bessborough, Palmerston and Selwyn, as well as those more playful pups, Mr. Beau Brummell and the Prince Regent. Like William Brooks, Benjamin Bathurst found his final resting place in an unusual locale. Elected a member in 1808, he was sent by the Crown to Vienna the following year and was never heard from again. It's surmised that he fell victim to Napoleon's machinations along the way. In 1910 a skeleton, thought to be Bathurst's, was found in the woods of Quitznow.

If some members of Brooks' found themselves in unconventional resting places, more found themselves frequenting the gaming room, playing at hazard and faro. Like White's, Brooks has its Betting Books, and in far greater numbers. If a fire had not interfered with its archives, White's would by now have three books (two survive), while Brooks' has over 10. Brooks' Books not only record bets made, but the outcome of play at the tables as well. One entry reads: Mr. Thynne having won only 12,000 guineas during the last two months, retired in disgust— March 21, 1772. And so it was within this world of Georgian and Regency anecdotes that I met Lejeune. He escorted me upstairs to the dining room, after whence there was nary a lull in our conversation as we discussed Regency topics.

I was then given a tour of the premises, including the infamous card room and exceedingly masculine library, which looks very much as you'd expect: red walls, deep leather furniture, wall-to-wall book cases, Napoleon's death mask and the original oil paintings of members of the Society of Dilettante (1734), many done by Reynolds. Over a few glasses of a quite excellent port, I perused the books on display and ephemera related to the Prince Regent, whose portrait hangs on the first landing. A few facts unfettered infer this gentleman wore a gentler mask. For instance, I found that he kept most promises he made. Where, I ask you, would Brummell have been otherwise? Also, he could evince an affectionate nature, as is evidenced by his fondness for driving out with his young niece, the Princess Victoria. Prinny also did "behind the scenes" favors, one of which occurred at Brooks. The great author Sheridan had been blackballed from membership three times by George Selwyn, who used the fact that his father had been on the stage against Sheridan. At his fourth try at membership, the Prince of Wales took it upon himself to strike up a conversation with Selwyn in the hallway while the voting was in progress, thus ensuring that Sheridan became a member at last.

And so my evening amongst the ghosts of legendary rakes, dandies and royalty drew to a close. After vowing to keep up our correspondence, and with brolly in hand, Lejeune gallantly found me a cab and I rode up St. James' Street and returned, reluctantly, to the 20th century. How does it feel to be one of the very few women ever to have gained access to Brooks' Club? Simply brilliant, old thing.