Clarinda blinked several times before finally allowing a nod, her face having turned bright pink at hearing Adele’s words. “And, if by then, I’ve decided I don’t love him?” she asked carefully.
Adele sighed. “Then let us hope he’s gotten a child on you. Then you will have someone to love for the rest of your life.” Not that she knew this first-hand. Samuel Worthington had never gotten a child on her, but then, he hadn’t bedded her with the kind of fervor his brother employed in the bedchamber. Good thing Stephen uses French letters, she thought just then, for if she found herself with child, she didn’t know what she would do.
Moving to get up, Clarinda held out a hand to keep Adele from rising from hers. “I’ll let myself out. You get some sleep, and perhaps I’ll see you at the theatre tonight,” she suggested with an arched brow. “In the back of your box. Wearing all black.”
Rolling her eyes, Adele gave a nod. “You know me too well,” she said with an impish grin.
She watched as the younger woman took her leave of the salon, secretly jealous of Clarinda’s younger age and situation.
Time and the opportunity to be a mother had already passed her by, she was sure. But a life of independence—the life of a Merry Widow—might be an acceptable alternative. Nights with Stephen were certainly suggesting that was the case.
Adele took her leave of her salon—brandy in hand—and headed back to bed.
Chapter 5
A Terrifying Tale
Back in Westminster
Holding onto Poseidon’s reins with one gloved hand, the Duke of Huntington regarded the front door of The Elegant Courtesan. He wondered at the news that awaited him behind the white stone Palladian mansion. Having barely dismounted before a liveried stableboy ran up to take the Turk, he found he couldn’t give Poseidon the small apple he had in his pocket.
“Good morning, Yer Grace,” the boy said with a bow.
Octavius frowned before he tossed the boy a coin, wondering how the boy knew he was a duke. His horse didn’t sport any silks bearing his ducal colors, and he hadn’t patronized the exclusive palace of pleasure for nearly five years.
The duke wondered how much longer David Fitzwilliam would continue to operate the business. It was rather unseemly for an earl to even be engaged in trade—especially that of a brothel—although Octavius knew the man’s twin brother, Daniel, saw to the books and the business side of the brothel whilst David did whatever it was he did as the owner.
“Morning,” he answered, deciding not to take out his growing dislike of the day on the young stableboy. At least his headache had subsided. Poseidon had been most accommodating in getting him to The Elegant Courtesan in near-record time.
He walked up to stand on the top step between two Corinthian columns, thinking a butler would open the door before he would be forced to use the brass knocker. After a few seconds, he dared a quick glance around and simply used the handle to open the door.
Half-expecting to find several scantily clad females wandering about, he instead found himself regarding two fully-dressed young ladies, arm-in-arm, walking toward him. They looked as if they had been raised in the homes of gentlemen, their gowns and pelisses of the highest quality, and their bonnets quite fashionable.
“Ladies,” he said with a nod, removing his beaver as he stepped aside.
“Your Grace,” they said in unison as they each dipped a perfect curtsy. The two moved beyond him and took their leave of the house.
Octavius angled his head to one side and almost wondered if he had the wrong address. His arrival was obviously expected at the brothel, though, if both the stableboy and the two women who had just taken their leave knew he was a duke.
Glancing off to the side, he spotted the ornate hotel-like counter at which guests checked into The Elegant Courtesan. A young woman regarded him with an arched eyebrow.
“May I be of assistance, Your Grace?” she asked, her manner of speech suggesting that she, too, had been raised in a proper English home.
Perhaps she had.
“Is …” He started to say, “Norwick”, but changed his mind. “The proprietor available?” He had heard rumors the earl would be divesting himself of his brothel and a gaming hell down the street in anticipation of his marriage to Clarinda Anne Brotherton. For the five years since David Fitzwilliam had inherited the Norwick earldom, it was expected he would sell the businesses because it was unseemly for him to hold such properties, even if said properties did a great deal to line his already rich pockets. And, according to the rumors circulating at Brooks’s, the man no longer enjoyed any of the entertainments offered at his establishments. His involvement in both the brothel and the gaming hell were entirely professional.
The young woman behind the counter nodded. “I’ve informed Lord Norwick of your arrival. Would you like a brandy? Or a glass of whisky whilst you wait?”
Although he was sorely tempted to accept the offer of a whisky—he was fairly sure it was from Devonville’s distillery just north of the border—he had a feeling he would need all his faculties for whatever awaited him. “No, but I do appreciate the offer.”
When the woman merely nodded but made no move to leave her station, Octavius was about to ask that she fetch the earl when he realized she had probably already summoned him with a flick of her wrist beneath the counter. A series of wires were evident on the wall behind her, each one connected to a different room in the house. The things you forget, Octavius thought with a shake of his head.
This wasn’t his first visit to the high-end brothel, of course. As a younger man, he had taken a great interest in spending time with one of its courtesans, a raven-haired woman named Ava who was especially beautiful and ever so patient while she taught him how to pleasure her. You’ll never keep your wife happy if you don’t please her in bed, she was fond of saying, as if her sole purpose in life was to see to his future wife’s pleasure.
And she had. Although far too nervous at first, Octavius’ late wife had finally taken a modest liking to the marriage bed, although she would never admit such a thing. At times, he refused to allow her to leave his bedchamber in the hopes he might be favored with yet another tumble before the dawn lightened the skies. Sometimes Jane even allowed it, although she did so grudgingly.
He had to push the memory aside lest he lose himself in his thoughts again. His memories of the brothel came unbidden, though.
The Elegant Courtesan.
Expensive, exclusive, and ever so satisfying, his nights at the Courtesan had proved as educational as they were pleasurable. The resident courtesans were each employed for a different reason, a different proclivity. His choice of Ava hadn’t been because he sought to improve his lovemaking skills but merely because he desired a beautiful woman with whom to enjoy a tumble until it was time he take his childhood friend as his wife.
At the time, he thought Ava’s instructions misplaced. He was a good enough bedmate, he always thought—and he was paying a pretty pence for the privilege of having her exclusively for those weekly appointments—but after his visits increased in frequency, he found her requests to please her more challenging, more of a game he found he wanted to win every time they played. And then, one night, he arrived for his regular visit only to discover she was no longer in residence.
Married? he had repeated when the madame whispered the reason he would no longer be able to spend the night with Ava.
She left our employ a few days ago, the woman had said with a wan smile, her expression managing to display just how much she regretted having to disappoint the duke.
I do hope she married well, he remembered saying, deciding he couldn’t feel too terribly upset about the loss of his favorite harlot. His only harlot.
A baronet, the woman had replied with a shrug. I do hope you’ll afford her all the courtesies should you come upon her at a ton event, she added in a whisper.
Octavius blinked at that, wondering what the madame expected he might do should he come across Ava at a ball
or soirée. Did she think he would give Ava the cut direct?
Or course he would not!
He had never seen Ava again, though, which suggested the baronet had her sequestered in his country estate or in a hunting lodge, probably concerned her former clients would seek her out if he kept her anywhere near London.
Well, life as a baronet’s wife had to be more respectable, he supposed.
The loss of a regular tumble, as well as turning eight-and-twenty, had him proposing to the woman who would be his wife only a week later. He had married her a few months after that.
Two years later, he buried her.
Silently chastising himself for once again becoming lost in his thoughts, Octavius sighed and wondered again about his reason for being at The Elegant Courtesan on a Saturday morning at almost ten o’ clock.
“Huntington. Good of you to come so quickly,” David Fitzwilliam, Earl of Norwick, said as he entered the large vestibule from a wide hallway.
Despite having been a regular customer for over two years, Octavius had never paid witness to the earl actually being on the premises before. The duke regarded the proprietor of The Elegant Courtesan with a nod. “You look like hell,” he murmured.
David Norwick was usually well-dressed, well-groomed, and possessed of a confident air that served him well at the gaming tables at Brooks’s as well as in Parliament. Although his manner of dress was appropriate, he looked a bit rumpled, and his face appeared rather haggard.
“I feel like it,” David replied, not the least bit offended by the duke’s remark. “I need you to meet someone, Your Grace,” he added as he turned and led the duke down the hallway from which he had come.
“Is business always this slow on a Saturday morning?” Octavius wondered as he glanced around, not seeing any evidence of the resident courtesans or their clients.
“It is,” David replied as he stopped in front of one of the last doors lining the hallway. Unlike the others along the Turkish carpeted corridor, there wasn’t a painting of a doxy hanging above the door. Octavius surreptitiously glanced toward Ava’s old room, knowing the painting of her had long ago been replaced with that of another woman, this one sporting blonde hair and not much else. A quick second glance had him realizing he had passed the young woman when he had first arrived.
How different women looked when they were fully dressed!
“We’re closed until eight o’clock in the evening,” David explained with an arched eyebrow. “Which gives us some time to sort this situation.” He knocked twice on the door before letting himself into the room.
As with all the bedchambers in The Elegant Courtesan, the room featured a large bed, a floor covered with Aubusson carpeting, heavy drapes that blocked any light from the room’s only window, and decor specific to whomever called the room their own. Noting the lack of accoutrements in this one, Octavius thought at first it was empty. But in the dim light of a lamp set on the bedchamber’s only nightstand, he spied a young woman as she quickly stood up from the bed. Her riding habit suggested she had been riding just that morning, and at a great deal of speed. In the low light of the room, the velvet fabric appeared discolored, and most of her hair had escaped its pins and now fell in long, curly locks about her shoulders.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, my lady,” David said with a bow.
My lady? Octavius had to resist the urge to admonish the earl until he heard the young woman’s response.
“You did not, my lord,” she said before she curtsied. “I was afraid I might fall asleep, is all.”
David reached over and turned up the gas on a lamp near the door. The room brightened to reveal the object of his attention.
“Octavius, Duke of Huntington, this is Lady Isabella,” David said quietly. He turned his attention to the young woman. “He’ll know what to do.”
Dipping a curtsy to the duke’s nod, Isabella murmured, “How do you do, Your Grace?”
What the hell? Octavius was about to say before he realized he had to keep his head about him. He was a duke now, even if he had only been one for a couple of years. It wouldn’t be seemly to go about cursing in front of a gently bred young woman. He had barely finished that thought when he wondered why a gently bred woman would be in The Elegant Courtesan.
And then he remembered Norwick’s missive.
It seems there’s been a murder.
“Lady Isabella,” he said with a nod, trying with all his might to remember if he had ever met her before. She still looked as if she should be in the schoolroom!
“Tolson,” she offered, when she realized he was attempting to sort the rest of her name.
With a surname of Tolson, she might have been related to Maxwell Tolson, Earl of Craythorne. “What’s this about?” Octavius asked as he moved closer to where she stood.
‘Stood’ might be giving her too much credit, he realized when he noticed how she seemed to require the support of the bed in order to remain upright.
He glanced around, deciding they should hold their conversation in the comfort of upholstered chairs. There were two near the fireplace, where a small fire provided heat and a bit more light.
“Come. Sit down before you fall down,” he said as he indicated the wing chairs, noting how she seemed to be shivering despite the otherwise warm room.
Isabella quickly moved to one of the chairs, gripping the pull strings of her rather worn reticule between her gloved hands. She seemed to hesitate before sitting down, as if she feared her dirty riding habit would ruin the furniture. Meanwhile, Octavius glanced over at David, hoping the earl would provide a bit of context.
“I’ll be in my office,” David said before taking a step back and closing the door behind him.
Rather surprised at the earl’s sudden departure—there was no lady’s maid nor an older woman to act as a chaperone—Octavius once again turned his attention to the young woman. Although her riding habit was obviously of good quality—the cut and fabric suggested she was from a family with money—it now reeked of horse, and what he had first thought was discolored fabric was instead a good deal of nearly-dried mud splatters. What little he could see of her riding boots suggested they had suffered the same fate.
By continuing to stand, he realized the poor girl was probably as frightened of him as she seemed to be of whatever had her seeking refuge at the brothel. Octavius quickly took the other chair. Stunned by its comfortable upholstery, he thought to just sit a moment and think of what he should ask first.
Certainly something about why an aristocrat’s daughter would come to a brothel. And he was about to ask just that when he discovered he didn’t have to say a thing.
“I watched as my father killed my mother,” Isabella said suddenly, as if she could read his thoughts.
Octavius blinked and nearly opened his mouth in shock. “When?” was all he could think to ask just then. Not ‘who?’ or ‘how?’ or ‘where?’ Any of those queries were probably the more logical questions with which to start such an inquiry.
Isabella glanced about the bedchamber, as if she were in search of something. “What time is it?” she countered. “Is it still … Saturday? Still morning?”
Rather alarmed at her response, Octavius pulled his chronometer from his waistcoat pocket. “It’s nearly ten-thirty in the morning. And, yes, it is still Saturday,” he replied carefully.
“Then, just yesterday. About four … four-thirty in the afternoon,” Isabella said as her body rocked a bit in the chair.
The duke frowned, wondering too many things all at once. “Who is your father?” he asked before he shook his head. Tolson, she had said.
“The Earl of Craythorne,” she whispered, barely able to get the words out.
Octavius did his best not to hiss. Craythorne had married one of the Brotherton females. Isabella’s mother was probably a sister or aunt to Norwick’s future wife, Lady Clarinda.
I suppose that explains why she’s come to Norwick, Octavius figured. “Tell me everything. From the beg
inning,” he ordered.
Isabella stopped rocking, well aware of the duke’s sudden impatience. “My mother is … was Lady Arabella. Lady Craythorne,” she added with too much emphasis on the ‘was’.
Jesus! The Duke of Craythorne killed his wife?
Octavius inhaled sharply, but realized his expression must have startled the poor girl. “Go on,” he murmured as he considered the character in her tale.
Arabella Brotherton.
That would be the sister of Albert Brotherton, Earl of Heath, he realized. Before he could think more on the victim’s relatives, he realized he needed to concentrate on Isabella’s story. For the first time that day, his inner thoughts weren’t of his own tragic life, but of hers.
“I was about to go for a ride, but I realized I had forgotten my gloves, so I returned to Craythorne Castle intending to go to my bedchamber,” Isabella explained. She gestured at her habit, wincing at the splatter patterns of dried dirt. “The stableboy took my horse, and I went into the house through the back door nearest the stables. I heard my father’s voice—he was ... yelling. Shouting. Quite loudly. My only thought—two thoughts, actually,” she quickly amended, “Were ‘what had him so angry?’ and ‘where were the servants?’ There were none about the halls. It’s as if they had all taken a holiday or... or fled the house. I followed the sound of my father’s voice until I found him in his bedchamber, his hands …” She stopped, her eyes suddenly closing as tears escaped.
“His hands?” Octavius prodded, rather enthralled by the young woman’s tale.
“They were around my mother’s neck, and he was yelling. Something about her disobedience. Her strong will,” she whispered. Isabella’s body once again rocked in the chair. “Her eyes were … white, her lips were blue. She was on the floor, and he knelt over her as if he was proud of what he had done,” she managed to get out before a sob interrupted her words. “He has always had a temper,” she whispered, her head shaking from side to side. “But I truly believed he felt affection for her.”
The Dream of a Duchess Page 3
