Lord of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  Though by then, it was too late. She had only been fortunate enough to see her mother one last time before she’d passed. Twelve days after her mother’s death, while Charlotte remained locked in her bedchamber, grieving and unable to cope, Chartwell left for the opera. And never returned.

  Well. He did. But in a pine box.

  To be sure, if his disgruntled mistress hadn’t up and shot him that night, Charlotte knew she herself would have. In the name of her mother.

  It was moments like these that Charlotte wished she could have her mother back. To prove to her how much she loved her. How much she missed her. For there was still so much in life to discover, to cherish, and to experience, and it seemed hardly fair that she was now left all alone to do it.

  “You know of this tunnel?” the French-accented voice asked from down the corridor.

  Charlotte reopened her eyes, sniffed, and removed her hand from the edge of the doorway. “Yes,” she murmured. “My mother shared its history with me after my father had passed due to illness. I was eleven. I never thought the tunnel actually existed.”

  “Ah. So you grew up in this house?”

  Charlotte half nodded. “Yes.”

  “And what is your name, Mademoiselle? I do not believe we were ever properly introduced.”

  Charlotte slowly turned to the woman, her hand leaving the doorway, and met the woman’s gaze from down the corridor. There was an inherent, proud strength in those blue eyes. A strength she felt oddly compelled to admire and trust. “I am Lady Chartwell. The only child of the late Lord and Lady Sutton.”

  Madame de Maitenon’s eyes visibly widened as she hurried toward her and closed the distance between them. “You are Lady Sutton’s daughter? And the widow of Chartwell, no less? I have never been one to judge based upon gossip, for there are those who gossip against me, but when I first met your husband at a gathering shortly before his death last year, strutting about like a rooster with clucking hens on every arm and every leg, I knew exactly what he was. Brusque. It isn’t any wonder it all ended the way it did. And what he did to you after his death!” She tsked. “Leaving you nothing. While his family merrily tossed you from the estate without so much as a skirt. Or a jupe, as we French would say.”

  Charlotte felt her cheeks flare. It sounded even worse coming from the lips of a stranger. She did leave the estate with an entire wardrobe and close to one hundred pounds. That is, until all the legal fees started accruing. “Rumors are not always as they seem, Madame. I have done fairly well for myself. Considering.” After all, she had managed to hold on to her family’s London home this past year. A triumph in and of itself.

  “And if you must know,” Charlotte added, “I am actually awaiting a sizable settlement from the Lord Chancellor himself regarding my part of the estate. Word should be arriving from the courts any day now.” She hoped.

  Madame de Maitenon was quiet for a prolonged moment. She glanced at the tunnel beside them, then peered back at Harold, who was still dutifully piling splintered pieces of wood into several neat stacks.

  Eventually, Madame de Maitenon turned back toward her, eyes ablaze with unusual mischief. “Aside from all the costs of the damage done to your home, how much will you take for your tunnel?”

  Charlotte blinked. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The tunnel.” Madame de Maitenon brushed at the sleeves of her gown, which still harbored some of the settling dust around them. “I need it. For my school.”

  How…odd. “For your school?”

  “Oui. It opens in mid-May. A little later than I would have hoped, but it will still give me enough time to do all that I have planned for the Season.”

  Silence hung between them.

  Charlotte expected the woman to further elaborate, yet clearly the woman felt as if she had said enough. “Will it be a school for children?” Charlotte prodded, hoping to the high heavens that the woman didn’t intend to shuffle orphans through the tunnel for some evil purpose.

  Madame de Maitenon let out a small, playful laugh. “Men can be like children. Can they not?”

  Charlotte’s brows came together. “Men? I apologize. I do not think I understand.”

  Madame de Maitenon sighed. “Of course you do not. No one understands. And that is the problem. No one is willing to assist an old Frenchwoman with a dream. I assure you, if I were younger it would be different. Much different.”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but feel a twinge of empathy. For she certainly understood what it was like to have no form of aid. “What sort of assistance do you require? Could I be of any help?”

  Madame de Maitenon shook her silver head while wrinkling her small nose. “Och, non. Non. It would not be worthy of you. You are, after all, a lady.”

  Charlotte felt a pinch of agitation as she crossed her arms over her chest. It seemed everyone was using that excuse as of late. If being a lady was going to keep her from eating and living her life, then she’d rather be anything but. “That is for me to decide, Madame, is it not? Now if you please. I would like to know more about your school.”

  Madame de Maitenon paused, then relented with a dramatic sigh. “My school. Oui. It is—how shall I say this?—spécial. It will educate men in the art of love and seduction. And since its conception, I confess I have fretted and fretted over how I was going to protect the identities of my étudiants. And voilà, your tunnel appears! Why, with your house and your tunnel, I will be able to keep the identities of my étudiants hidden from the world. London shall watch me walk in and out of my school every day, but they will never see a single man do the same. ’Tis brilliant, non? For however long it lasts.”

  Charlotte blinked. No wonder no one was assisting the poor woman. Because no man would ever willingly sign up for such a thing. Not unless he had a cocked pistol to his head. “Are you being quite serious?”

  Madame de Maitenon lowered her chin. “Do you believe that men innately understand women and their true desires?”

  Charlotte genuinely laughed and rolled her eyes. “I have yet to meet such a man.”

  Madame de Maitenon smiled triumphantly. “You see. Which is why my school will be a success. Now.” She gestured toward the tunnel beside them. “I am willing to offer whatever it is you want for it. I can pay weekly or monthly. You decide.”

  This was rather a stunning turn of events. And one, she confessed, she much preferred over a trunk full of dresses. Or waiting around for the courts to make a decision.

  Charlotte eyed the woman. “What is the name of this school?”

  Madame de Maitenon held up her hands as if displaying a large brass plaque. “I call it Madame Thérèse’s School of Gallantry.” She said it so proudly, so majestically, there was no doubt the woman believed it would be a success.

  A school that would actually educate men on the topic of a woman’s pleasure? Why hadn’t she thought of that? If only these lessons could be mandated by law. Then real progress would be made in this world. “And aside from the tunnel,” Charlotte ventured, “is there anything else I could assist you with?”

  The woman lowered her hands and offered a small smile. “Well. As pretty as you are, I have no doubt you could be an enticement when the men come in with their applications. Perhaps…” She shrugged her slim shoulders as if coming up with small tasks. “Perhaps you would be willing to help during the interview process? I still have not found someone for that.”

  “An interview process?” That sounded rather complicated. Considering what it was they were applying for.

  “Oui. I cannot have merely anyone walking into my school. I must be selective if I am to uphold its authenticity. Even with regard to those I originally invited. You see, not everyone knows about this school. I sent off fifty-three private advertisements to a select number of titled men whom I knew would benefit from what I have to offer. Men whom I have met, heard of, or had been recommended to me as worthy of my help. So you see, these men will need a lady’s finesse. A finesse in understanding what a pearl
this school truly will be. Especially in the beginning. I have a good feeling you will be able to guide them most beautifully in this. After all, you have a charming, noble, and most commanding air to you.”

  Charlotte pulled in her chin at the thought of herself greeting titled men during their application to a school bound for scandal. “And what if someone recognizes me? Though I have no family to speak of, Chartwell kept a large circle of friends.” Not to mention a large circle of enemies.

  Madame de Maitenon tilted her head slightly and puckered her lips as she perused the length of Charlotte’s body. “Let them recognize you. It will bring more men. And more men means more money.”

  Charlotte bit back a smile. She had to admit, the idea was rather intriguing. It wasn’t as if she had a reputation to lose. Or anything else for that matter. Besides, she needed the money. And depending on how well the school did, perhaps she’d even be able to indulge in chocolate rolls again. And champagne.

  Madame de Maitenon reached out and grasped Charlotte’s shoulders, delivering more of that heavenly scent of mint. “Understand, chérie, that I have not even told my own granddaughter, Maybelle, about the school. It is a concept even she would have trouble accepting. Which is why if I intend to be successful in this, I will need alliances. People I can trust to do my bidding. People like you.”

  Charlotte glanced over at the giant, who now towered beside them. He sighed and wiped his dusty, massive hands against the expanse of his livery. She would certainly be better protected. And wouldn’t need to be at the mercy of male charity. What was even more promising was that the men of London would finally receive a good spanking of an education that each and every one of them deserved.

  Charlotte stepped outside the woman’s grasp and stuck out her right hand, announcing in a business-minded tone, “The tunnel is at your service, Madame. As am I.”

  The woman grabbed Charlotte’s bare hand with both of hers and shook it excitedly, a laugh bubbling from her lips. “Magnifique!”

  Madame de Maitenon released her and swept a gloved hand toward the entrance of the tunnel. “Now allow me to show you what is on the other side. For that is where the réel adventure begins. Harold? Come. Lead the way.”

  Lesson Four

  S o you think you are a knight in bright, shining armor? Pray, humor me, and think again.

  Has no one ever told you the reason why so many knights carry such large, wooden lances? Why, it’s because they’re all desperately trying to make up for all those lost female glances.

  —The School of Gallantry

  London

  Early May 1830, morning

  Alexander William Baxendale, the third Earl of Hawksford, had never once lost a wager. Not in all of his one and thirty years. And it had nothing to do with luck, really. Luck had never existed in his realm. Nor did he believe it existed in any realm, despite what some people—namely Caldwell—thought. It was simply a matter of having an innate understanding of what was possible and what was impossible. And anyone who thought differently ought to be shot. Preferably in the ass.

  No, he was by no means a fool. But. If there was one wager he knew he could always win, it almost invariably involved a woman. For he understood them. A bit too well.

  Though only those under the age of fifty.

  And Caldwell, the damn son of a bitch, had had the temerity to take advantage of that. Which is why Alexander was now in the rot he was in, being led God knows where.

  “Oh, come, Hawksford.” Caldwell, who sat on the opposite side of the carriage, tapped the side of Alexander’s leather boot with his own. “Lady Waverly may be two and seventy and oh so proper, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in hitching up her skirts. Or pulling down your trousers. I told you that battle-ax has been trying to get her hands on you all these years.”

  Alexander pinned Caldwell with a hard stare, trying not to think about what he’d endured in the name of their wager. “You still haven’t elaborated as to how she got into my house. Or into my bedchamber.”

  Caldwell slowly grinned, his dark brown eyes practically sparkling. “Women always find a way to get what they want. The fact that Lady Waverly not only entered your house but wanted to ride you all night long proves that your viewpoint about respectable women closing their gates after fifty is absurd. Some women, much like Lady Waverly—or your mother, for that matter—flourish rather splendidly after a certain age.”

  “Do not bring my mother into this,” Alexander warned, not in the least bit amused.

  “Oh, stop grouching about your losses. It’s been a good year since you and I have had any fun, and I for one mean to change that.” He paused, his grin somewhat fading. “In a way.”

  “Fun?” Alexander leaned far forward in his seat and poked a gloved finger toward Caldwell, missing his knee by an inch. “Whatever nonsense you have planned, remember that Caroline’s coming-out depends on me avoiding gossip. I’m trying not to scare off any of the men who might actually take her off my hands.”

  Caldwell’s grin now completely faded. “Does that mean you already have someone in mind for her?”

  Alexander paused, noting the change in his friend’s demeanor and the subject matter. “No. Not as of yet. Why?”

  Caldwell cleared his throat, shrugged, and looked out the window of the carriage. “No reason. I worry, is all. You know how miserable some of these arrangements can be.”

  Alexander blew out an exhausted breath. “Yes. I do know. Though as of late, finding Caroline a husband is the least of my worries. I don’t know how my father ever managed. Aside from my mother having lost whatever was left of her polite mind, Mary, Anne, Elizabeth, and Victoria have all up and turned into unbearable creatures, each vying for the attention that Caroline is getting. You should damn well see the lengths that Mary alone goes through. Why, just this week, she held a funeral. For a doll whose porcelain head shattered when it tumbled down the stairs. And do you know what she did? She up and invited all the neighbors and used my stationery to do it on. I about bloody—”

  Caldwell snapped up a gloved hand and held it there. “Cease and desist, man. You are terrifying me with your stories, and I for one need a reprieve.” Caldwell lowered his hand. “Now. Let us move on in our conversation.”

  Alexander fell back against the seat. He himself needed a reprieve from his own life. “So where are we going? You still haven’t told me what the wager is costing me.”

  Caldwell swiped a hand over his face, pushing back his top hat slightly with the movement. “We’ve known each other for a long time, you and I. Fifteen years, to be exact. We’ve endured quite a bit, what with my father’s antics before his death and your father’s antics before his—and that, of course, doesn’t include all of our antics.”

  Alexander eyed him. “Where are you going with this?”

  Caldwell feigned a laugh as the carriage slowed, then leaned forward and peered out the window to look at the row of townhouses that were coming into view. He sighed heavily, clasped his hands together, and turned back toward him.

  “Hawksford,” Caldwell said in an unusually serious tone. “I am about to take the first step toward a life I know nothing of. And in doing so, I hope that I shall gain both your trust and understanding in what may seem like a dire situation.”

  Oh shit. What sort of trouble was the man in?

  Wager or not, he should have known better than to come. He’d been hoping for time away from the madness back home, but, of course, he had forgotten that Caldwell was a different form of madness altogether.

  Alexander glanced toward the carriage door, wondering if now was the time to make a run for it, then paused and blinked in recognition at the approaching townhouse beyond the glass window.

  No. It couldn’t be. Could it? Alexander scrambled next to the carriage window and almost knocked his nose and the brim of his hat against the glass. His eyes widened as Miss Charlotte’s townhouse came into full view. Though clearly it had changed quite a bit since he’d la
st seen it.

  It was no longer a wretched and dilapidated place in need of paint. Somehow it had been magically transformed into a pristine, whitewashed little home. All of its shutters had been repainted black, rehinged, and perfectly set into place. The stone steps had been patched, swept, and washed. And a new black iron fence had been posted around it, tucking the entire house into a neat little bundle of respectability.

  The polished brass numbers beside the door glinted in the afternoon sunlight, almost mocking him, and he could still hear the scintillating manner in which Miss Charlotte had breathed out “11” to him in the darkness of the hackney.

  His jaw tightened as a vivid image of sultry black eyes, dark hair, and smooth, pale skin flashed within his memory. Indeed, this was her house. The same house he’d avoided riding past all these months for fear of losing all common sense and claiming her for his own mistress despite his vow to deny himself all female company until each of his sisters had been wed. Which he was seriously rethinking due to the fact that marrying them all off would take about eight years.

  At least now he knew why Miss Charlotte had turned away each and every delivery he’d sent to her door. Including the first. For apparently, he wasn’t the only man who cared about her welfare. And the very notion that there were others—namely Caldwell—who were not only seeing to her needs, but were doing things in return for those needs, made him want to rip apart a throat or two.

  As the carriage came to a complete halt directly before 11 Berwick Street, Alexander snapped toward Caldwell and gave him an icy stare. Should he give him time to explain himself? Or simply wallop the bollocks off of him? He really couldn’t decide. Yet.