Obsession Wears Opals

by Renee Bernard

  I only asked my mother once for help. And I was so terrified to name the details of my situation—if she misunderstood, then I may already have the resources I need to resolve this quickly. I can spare Darius the nightmare of blackmailing Richard and stand up for myself.

  I can prove myself Darius’s equal and demonstrate that I’m not just a porcelain doll to sit by while others make sacrifices on my behalf.

  “It is time for me to make a move of my own,” she whispered and began to write.

  Chapter

  22

  Red purple velvet brocade wallpaper and overly ornate furniture created an atmosphere of opulence and overt strangeness that jarred Darius’s sensibilities. Men in evening coats relaxed at card tables in a large room on the ground floor, surrounded by young women in garishly bright silk dresses who fawned over them and encouraged each bid. The theatrical touches of their feathered costumes and immodest cut and fit of their dresses turned them into exaggerated versions of their respectable counterparts—a mockery of the Victorian ladies Darius had long idealized.

  A chill trickled down Darius’s spine. The idea had seemed so straightforward. He’d felt so brave confronting Harold to get the names of Netherton’s haunts. But faced with the reality, his confidence faltered. Under the smell of cigar smoke and perfume, there were traces of sweat and sex, unwashed linens and wine.

  Darius forced himself to simply exhale and focus on the task at hand.

  “What may we do for you, sir?” a woman purred as she approached him, wearing the brightest red dress he had ever seen. “Name your pleasure and let the Velvet House provide.”

  “I have . . . an unusual request.”

  The woman barely reacted to his words. “We specialize in the unusual here.”

  “May we speak privately?” he asked, shifting his weight as he assessed that in the foyer there were at least a dozen interested audience members at this point.

  Her expression became smug as she dropped a shoulder in a practiced gesture that allowed the beaded strap of her gown to slide down one creamy bare arm. She waved a fan toward another set of ornate doors almost hidden by red velvet drapes. “If you desire it.”

  She left the door open, and a man whose neck was as wide as his skull moved to stand at the curtains to shield them from the foyer. And lend a hand if I prove to be an unruly or an unwanted guest.

  It was the moment of truth.

  Darius had never been a good liar and so he’d decided on a very risky strategy that skirted as close to the truth as he dared.

  “Well?” she prompted him, a small sign of impatience alerting him to the seconds he had left to make his case.

  “I take it you’re familiar with certain books on the subject of sexuality? Ancient texts that some enjoy a great deal? The Kama Sutra? The erotic tales of the Arabian nights?” he asked. “Some of your clients may seek out interesting pictures or books that hold a special appeal?”

  She nodded. “Naturally.”

  “Well, I’ve been commissioned by one of your patrons to write such an illustrated book. An anonymous piece, of course, of his adventures, and he has challenged me to see what I can make of his thrilling tastes.”

  “Challenged you?” Her expression flashed with interest. “Is it a wager?”

  And there it is. The lady has a weakness for gambling and there’s my midgame.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “There’s a purse to win if I can astonish him. But of what I know of the man, he’ll be difficult to awe.”

  “A bit world-weary, your employer?” she asked. “But he’s put up a bounty?”

  “On his own story.” Darius nodded, smiling as she openly warmed to the idea. “I think it’s a bit of personal pride and a dash of patriotism that makes him resent that all the best erotic works of literature seem to come from outside of the country.”

  She smiled. “That’s because English men are more busy having a go than wishing to sit back and write about having a go, in my opinion!”

  “Which is what brings me here.”

  She crossed her arms. “If this is some ruse to get you a bit of free access to my girls without paying in the name of ‘research’ for some pamphlet, then you’ve mistaken me for a fool, sir.”

  “You’re no fool. And I’ll pay for the time I spend interviewing your girls. And please understand that no names will be used and there is no threat of exposure of your wonderful establishment.”

  She arched one eyebrow at him, openly skeptical but still engaged. “A proper book?”

  “A masterpiece, if I complete the commission as promised. You see, my employer’s ego would demand nothing less, so this isn’t going to be a penny-novel slapabout. I’m to uncover the tales of his exploits and document his . . . tastes. He is convinced that he is unique and that his mastery of the arts of these secret houses will cause a very profitable sensation.”

  She uncrossed her arms. “Profitable, you say?”

  He nodded. “You of all people have a grasp of the demand for certain ‘entertainments.’ And for every man who cannot afford or does not have the right connections to gain entrance to the Velvet House, a book like this would give them a glimpse of another world.”

  “I’m not sure I like the idea of the world peeking in my windows,” she said.

  “I would not name your establishment, madam, unless you desired the notoriety,” he offered. Darius reached in his wallet and pulled out some folded notes. “Here, for the inconvenience.”

  She took the money smoothly from his hand, pocketing it in one graceful practiced maneuver. “What you do with the girls is your business. You’ll pay for their time and I’ll not forbid them to speak, but you must understand that . . . discretion is at a premium. What you can win out of them, I leave to you.”

  “Then I wish to see the women that Lord Netherton prefers.”

  The friendly expression on her face grew distant. “Netherton? He wants a book of it?”

  Darius nodded. “Apparently, he does.”

  She shook her head. “You’re on the devil’s errands, sir. But if it’s a big enough purse he’s promised you that you would consider such a thing—who am I to argue against it?”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly as she stepped away and led him back out to the foyer.

  “It’s Nell you’d want. But she’s occupied at the moment.” The madam waved her fan toward another girl standing on the stairs, signaling for her to come down. “Charlotte’s another of his choices, so perhaps you can start with her.”

  Darius held his place as a girl no more than fifteen or sixteen approached, wearing nothing more than a corset and sheer petticoats.

  “Charlotte, take the nice man upstairs for a bit of conversation,” the madam said with a sly smile.

  Charlotte took his arm without a hint of reluctance, and Darius realized that no matter what he said, they didn’t expect him to keep his hands in his pockets.

  No matter.

  He allowed himself to be taken up the stairs and into a small bedchamber halfway down the hall. Charlotte’s flirtations were practiced but sweet, and Darius did his best to keep his eyes set on her face alone.

  “What’s your pleasure? A pretty and proper man like you . . . I bet you’d like to forgo the niceties, eh? Shall I give you a French kiss, then? To get you started?” She began to reach for the buttons of his trousers, kneeling between his legs, but Darius sidestepped her quickly and started to help her back onto her feet.

  “Charlotte,” Darius said, taking a deep breath. “I just wished to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise but then took on a knowing look. “I can sit on your lap and whisper all the filthy words I know, Professor, if that’s your fancy. Or you can teach me what you’d like to hear.” She leaned forward to whisper, giving him a wicked look through her darkened lashes. “I’ve a bit of Latin, sir.”

  “How enterprising of you,” he said, biting the inside of
his cheek to keep from smiling and inadvertently encouraging her. “No, please, if you’ll just sit there and I’ll take a seat over there and we can—chat for a time.”

  She bit her lip in confusion but sat where he directed her, a strange imitation of a lady with her bare knees showing but her hands neatly folded in her lap. “Well, I’ll say it first. When Mrs. Scarlett said you wanted conversation, I was fully expecting to be on my back for it.”

  Darius lost the battle and smiled. “Would you like something to drink? Or eat?”

  She sat up, instantly alert. “I’m famished! There’s hardly time to eat once the evening starts and . . . even if a man orders himself a plate, well, they don’t share, do they?”

  He nodded and then stood to ring the bell, summoning a footman and ordering a plate of food and a bottle of wine.

  “That’s awful kind of you,” Charlotte said.

  “It’s a small thing.” Darius shook his head and returned to his chair. “While we’re waiting, I must tell you the reason I’m here. I’m trying to learn a bit about a certain man’s tastes and I understand you may have kept him company more than once.”

  “We aren’t to talk about our customers,” she responded quickly. “The house has firm rules on the matter.”

  “I spoke to Mrs. Scarlett and she gave me permission to talk to you on this very topic.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then, but I’m not sure I’ll be much help,” she said. “One bloke blends into another in my mind, and no offense, but one poke is as much like any after a while.”

  Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. . . .

  “Perhaps this man would be different. Lord Richard Netherton?”

  Charlotte held her place but grew a little less animated. “You are friends with Lord Netherton, are you?”

  He hesitated and then went with his instincts. “No, not at all.”

  She tipped her head to one side, openly assessing him. “But you’re asking after him?”

  “I am.” He didn’t want to say more. He didn’t want to lie about masterpieces of erotica and wagers of ruin.

  For long minutes, she didn’t say anything and then there was a knock at the door. Darius opened the door for the footman, who set down the large plate of meat, cheese, and bread and then left behind an opened bottle of wine with two glasses. Once the door was closed, Darius waved his hand to invite her to partake.

  Charlotte lunged at the food with the gusto of a child, her hunger omitting manners. He simply poured them both a glass of wine and then sipped his thoughtfully while she ate. Her age was impossible to know, her painted cheeks and lips disguising her natural beauty, and she was extremely well-endowed, but her bones showed at her shoulders, and whatever baby fat she’d possessed had grown lean by the lifestyle and the trade.

  Sixteen? Are you even sixteen?

  She looked up with a mouthful of meat and caught him midstudy. Charlotte blushed and finished her bite. “Sorry. I guess I was hungrier than I’d imagined. The gin takes the edge off but I don’t like the taste of it really. This wine is nice though,” she said and lifted a glass in a jaunty toast.

  He lifted his own glass in reply. “No need to apologize. You should eat your fill and we can order more if you’d like.”

  She pushed her plate away. “No one is this kind.”

  He laughed. “Why do all the women I know say that?”

  “Because it’s true,” Charlotte said, then took a long draw from her glass. “I’d think you were just putting me on to get what you wanted, but for some reason I think you’d sit there, keep your hands to yourself, and feed me until dawn without complaint.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “If you’d like.”

  She leaned back. “All right. Ask.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Darius’s smile faded. For a fleeting moment, it had been a light game, ordering chicken and seeing her content. But this—this was bound to get ugly. Darius retrieved a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket.

  “And what can you tell me about Richard Netherton?”

  ***

  It was only his first interview, and in the nights that followed, Darius received a quick education in the dark underbelly of Victorian society, and acquired new respect for what Isabel had endured at her husband’s hands. It was houses of sadism that the man frequented, and anything exotic or “forbidden” was apparently in demand by Lord Netherton’s appetite.

  Charlotte had calmly told him of her encounters with Richard, describing in graphic detail what made it clear that, while most of her clients melted into a pool of forgettable couplings, Netherton had made an impression with his use of leather straps and his gift for humiliation.

  He’d put linen sachets full of salt and herbs inside of a fourteen-year-old to make her channel drier and tighter for his purposes. Netherton had deliberately made that child bleed to increase his own pleasure. . . . God . . . what have I gotten myself into?

  Charlotte had mentioned another couple of girls in the Velvet House with an even better understanding of him, Nell and Laura, and Darius had been forced to realize that he would be spending more than one night in the Velvet House if he was to be thorough.

  Every night afterward became what he dubbed “the worst night of his life”—as he talked to girls less than half his age about atrocities he’d never envisioned. Their stories were told with such emotionless calm that Darius was sickened at the damage their spirits had suffered. Even the most sporting of women shivered at the mention of Netherton, and when they pulled out the tools and toys he preferred or revealed the scars he’d gifted them with, it was almost too much.

  After less than two weeks of it, it was harder and harder to return to Blackwell’s home and face his queen. Isabel was all that was beautiful and good in the world, and Darius began to order scalding hot baths before he would head up the stairs and touch her. As if he could cleanse himself of the knowledge that corroded his sense of place and justice. As if until he scrubbed his own skin off, he wouldn’t be clean enough to approach her.

  Hell, and I’m just listening. . . . There are men that participate in it and cheerfully ride home to their wives and sleep like babies. What kind of man is that?

  Netherton is twisting in my mind into something other than a human being, and it’s clouding my judgment. I’ve never hated anyone so much that I couldn’t see my way past it.

  Darius poured himself a glass of brandy as the clock struck midnight and wondered if he had the courage to look at his own notes and make a run at looking for any usable threads.

  I’d rather scrape my eyes out of my head, God help me.

  “Darius?”

  He turned to see her there, in her nightgown, standing in the doorway of the sitting room. “Yes, my love.”

  “I heard the carriage but then you didn’t come up.” She came toward him, apparently unaware of the picture she presented with her hair down and her sensual curves undisguised by the angelic white of her nightdress. “Are you all right?”

  He started to nod and make light denials but something stopped him. She’d endured the worst and given him her trust. The least he could do was repay her with honesty.

  “I’ve filled two notebooks with interviews of the most vile sexual deeds on this earth.” He tossed back the brandy in one swallow, savoring the heat of it and the soothing fire that coursed through his veins. “It’s a wonder some of the girls survived his patronage.”

  “Is it enough?”

  “No. It’s twisted and sick but . . . what proof do I have of any of it? I can threaten him with scandal, but without leverage, he’ll shake it off and I’ll be exposed for having far too much interest in his wife’s well-being for an ordinary outsider.”

  Her hands were clasped so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. “It’s as he said. Hurting women is a sport. His friends will see nothing in it.”

  “It isn’t a sport!”

  “Isn’t it?” she
stood, openly upset and trembling. “Th-there are clubs that cater to it! And you said the other night how busy the girls were kept. You said none of the gentlemen there seemed concerned! What if all his sins are ordinary? Abandon this course, Darius. There is nothing but the agony of facing the worst of nature and I don’t see his downfall—but yours!”

  “I’m not at risk of finding anything appealing in this, Isabel. It evokes too many memories of my mother’s suffering and I loathe—”

  “Don’t you see? It scars you. It has already wounded you. You’ve spent a lifetime separating yourself from the nightmares of your childhood. What will you do to erase the things that you’re exposing yourself to? How can I see you deliberately destroy your peace of mind all for me?” She began to pace frantically. “Even if you win, what victory is there if you cannot sleep at night?”

  He stepped into her path, her momentum carrying her into his arms. “Isabel. Look at me.”

  She tipped her head back, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I am not worth this.”

  “No. You’re worth more.” He kissed her slowly and tenderly on her cheeks, tasting her tears. “I’ll go back out and interview every whore in London if I need to, and I won’t stop until I find the lever it takes to move this mountain.”

  “Darius, I don’t know if I want to see you hurt in this way. This isn’t right.” She reached up to mold her palm to the strong curve of his jaw, caressing his face. “Would it not have been better for all those poor men on the battlefield if Helen had seen reason and sacrificed herself, returned to her husband and allowed Paris to live out his days?”

  He caught her hand in his and kissed her palm, the contact of his lips to the indent of her hand sending sparks of desire up across her skin. “No. For one, they’d already burned their ships and gone too far, and more importantly . . .”

  “Yes?” she whispered, leaning against him more heavily as her joints grew weak with wanting.