“He’s dead.”
Jane turned to the woman, meeting her nonchalant expression.
“The ram, of course. Do have a seat, Miss Goodwin,” she pointed to a chair in front of the desk.
Deciding it best not to press the question of Madam’s father, Jane nodded and perched on the edge of her seat. While she waited for Madam to look over a few papers, her eyes were drawn to a corner of the room where a large, ivory tusk stood upright, beside it miniature tribal pygmy. The statue seemed so real, Jane had trouble not blatantly staring at it.
“My father had the tribesman replicated in wax. He felt the medium lent itself to being more life-like, than marble.” The woman didn’t look up from her desk as she spoke.
The fact that Jane had neither asked about the ram or the tusk—that the woman seemed able to read her thoughts—caused Jane to feel claustrophobic. It was far too similar to her experience with Vladimir. She looked for a portal to the outside—a window, a door, anything. Finding nothing beyond the four walls, Jane’s throat tightened. She grew nauseated. “I noticed that the sky appeared to be clearing,” she said, hoping to inspire Madam McFarland to open the drapes behind her and afford a little light from the outdoors.
Madam McFarland glanced at Jane, then walked over and gave the drapery pull a solid yank. The heavy curtains parted, revealing not a window, but an enormous painting. Bile rose in her throat as she studied the massive canvas, which depicted various lascivious acts between men and women. And directly in the center, kneeling over the lap of an aroused man was a woman with bright red hair. There was no mistaking who she was. Madam glanced at Jane, her white teeth brilliant against her red lips.
“Do you like it? I had it commissioned after a recent trip to Germany where I accompanied several members of the Manor.” Her hand poised at her throat, she stroked it as though lost in her thoughts. “I’m still deciding where to display it to capture the best light.”
Captivated, Jane watched as madam’s hand slipped beneath her gown, blatantly fondling her breast. “My goddess, he was a glorious master,” she whispered in a reverent sigh.
Jane cleared her throat to remind the woman of her presence. “It is quite something.” The framed piece covered the entire wall. The gilded frame alone had to have been priceless.
“You’ve no idea,” Madam cooed. She took a deep breath, licked her lips, and faced Jane—returning, it seemed, from her reverie.
Though Jane spoke of the painting, she sensed Madam’s recollection was of something entirely different.
The head mistress returned to her seat, shuffling a few more papers until she tossed them to the floor with a heavy sigh, her eyes ablaze. “The hell of it was that he died during my climax!” She threw her hand in the air. They said later that his heart apparently gave out under the strain.” She chuckled low. “So there you have it. My last great climax immortalized with the man who died from it.”
Given her chilly recount, Jane wasn’t sure to whom she should offer condolences.
Madam McFarland’s hands rested on the desk. Her long red fingernails tapped impatiently on the wood. “What is it you want, Miss Goodwin? I’m a very busy woman.”
Jane straightened in her chair. “I am here to find the truth, Madam McFarland.”
“The truth?” She slumped back in her throne. “Of what? We are a private club and what I permit is at the discretionary agreement of its members. I have nothing to hide.”
“Of course,” Jane responded. “What I meant to say is that the artifacts, the statues, the paintings—all are priceless, rare pieces. It seems you live very lavishly in light of the current plight of the poor.”
Her green eyes rested on Jane. “My father always said there would be poor. He came from poverty. I came from poverty, Miss Goodwin. I watched my mother scratch out a living as a prostitute, discarded by my father when she became too old to physically appeal to any man. That’s when he took me in and began to groom me for the dream of having a sanctuary such as this. He taught me about people, introduced me to the whimsical deviance of wealthy men. His dream and that of several high-ranking aristocrats in this town started the first chapter of this club. They named it after my father, and he assured me that one day it would be mine.”
Jane had the feeling she was sitting on a goldmine of information, a story that could open the closets of many a well-to-do London family. Still, to get close enough to Vladimir she needed to make this woman believe that she understood the purpose of her club. “Perhaps there are those who have the wrong impression of what types of services you provide.”
Madam’s gaze held hers. “I couldn’t care less what the public thinks of my club. It’s none of their business.”
“I quite agree,” she countered. “But you cannot deny that the economy is suffering, and with the current rallies against those who oppress the poor—”
Madam’s hand slammed down on the pile of papers. “What I do, I do for the clients who choose to invest their money into our exclusive membership. Many come from the businesses right here in London. And when they are happy, Miss Goodwin, then even the poor benefit.”
“Perhaps I have the wrong impression of your club.” Jane played her cards close, hoping the woman would trust her. “I am a good writer and a few well-placed articles about the history of the club and its more charitable aspects might go far to enlighten the public and maybe serve to boost membership.”
Madam McFarland folded her hands on the desk. The smile she gave Jane sent a shiver down her spine. “I like you, Miss Goodwin. You seem to be a woman with a brain and one who isn’t afraid to use it. It’s refreshing to see a strong woman.” She eased back in her chair and picked up a strand of her fiery locks, twisting it thoughtfully between her fingers.
“It is quite true that the new generation of heirs to London’s wealth have a stilted view of our club. In its day, it was where a young man learned how to be a man. They came here on the heels of graduating from their university studies. Our older members can come here to find respite from the daily stress of their duties, comfort from our special staff. After all,” she said with a shrug, “isn’t that what we all seek? A place where one can indulge in one’s fantasies, delve into the passion deep inside of them, without fear of social repercussion?”
Jane’s eyes darted to the woman’s shrewd gaze. Vladimir had used the same words almost verbatim that afternoon at tea. Jane summoned her courage and considered an alternative to getting closer to Vladimir. “Perhaps I might take on a position here at the Manor? To get a firsthand look at your establishment, I mean.”
Madam McFarland cocked a brow, her gaze unabashedly dropping to Jane’s chest. “What type of position, exactly, did you have in mind?” she asked.
Jane considered her options. “Perhaps in the kitchen? As a maid?”
“Unfortunately, I have plenty of both.” Madam McFarland sighed. She pushed from the chair and closed the drapes over the painting.
Jane felt the ground slipping beneath her feet. She felt sure that if she could gain Madam’s trust, she might uncover a great deal more than she’d originally planned. “What if I became a member? I have an inheritance.”
Madam McFarland eyed her a moment, then shook her head. “Our membership is strictly male. Wives, though very few, and mistresses are welcome as long as they accompany a member. However, I’m afraid that a single female membership goes against the policy set forth in the by-laws established at the club’s founding. One hundred years of tradition are not likely to be broken at your request. I am the one and only exception to that rule.”
“I see,” Jane stated, not masking the challenge of her words. “A policy that I must admit seems rather archaic in light of the progress that women are making in society.”
“Oh, and this is because you are a woman unlike other women in our society, Miss Goodwin? Tell me, are you a woman who freely embraces her sexuality, who finds the quest for pleasure something as important as any other aspect of life? Be careful,
Miss Goodwin, for once tasted, the thirst for desire can become unquenchable.”
And there it was. She’d challenged everything Jane wrestled with deep inside, the very personal challenge that every failed experience with a man had brought to light.
“There may be one position,” Madam offered with a tilt of her head. “That is, if you’re ready to explore what lies deep inside you.”
Jane’s eyes lifted to meet Madam’s steady green gaze.
“That is, if you are truly interested in learning about us, in penning a piece that will offer an objective view of our membership. I may be willing to make a special exception.” She tapped her scarlet lips with her fingertip.
Jane leaned forward, drawn by her desire to have her first true investigative journalistic experience—a goal that she would be willing to do just about anything to achieve. “Go on.”
“You would have to follow my rules, of course. Anonymity of our members is an absolute priority. In addition, I would have to approve whatever you write.”
Jane nodded. “What would you have me do?”
“From the moment I saw you, my dear, I knew you would be perfect as one of my special escorts.”
“An escort?” Jane hesitated, though she tried not to show her concern. Madam McFarland seemed very clinical in her beliefs. Jane wanted her to think she was the same. “What exactly would that entail?”
Madam cocked her brow. “Respect for our exclusive members, for their privacy and for any of their, how shall I put it so you’ll understand.” The corner of her mouth lifted, as did her brow. “Quirks.”
“Would I be required to, I mean...would I have to…?” Jane held Madam McFarland’s steady gaze.
She responded to Jane with a quizzical look. “Service the client?”
Madam supplied what Jane had been thinking, though not precisely in those terms.
“That depends, of course, on the client—and how much he is willing to pay. Our policy is to please the client, and that may not necessarily involve sexual favors. It could be a night of companionship—listening to music, reading to him, drinking wine, playing cards—or it could mean tying him up at his request and using the leathers on him.”
Jane pressed her lips together.
Madam gave her a pointed look. “Are you having second thoughts?”
Jane thought of Frederick. As much as she despised his behavior, she secretly envied his belief that he could do whatever he pleased without condemnation. At least there was honesty in the club rules. No betrayal, no surprises, only consenting adults. Jane’s heart thrummed against her chest. Could she do this? Was it worth the risk of scalding her reputation? Then there was Aunt Cornelia and Lady Hampton to think of. She’d already made her life in Boston a social nightmare. Her aunt might well disown her if Lady Hampton sent her home on the heels of another social scandal. Then again, this might be her chance to write something of purpose, and, if her instincts were correct, to uncover Vladimir’s devious ways. Jane looked at madam. “Would I also have anonymity?”
“But of course. One of the prerequisites here is to wear a mask. It protects everyone.” Madam straightened, her fingertips resting on the edge of the table as she waited for Jane to make up her mind. “Well, Lizbeth, what is your answer?”
Jane swallowed, then nodded. “I accept.”
Madam McFarland moved quickly around the desk and looped her arm through Jane’s. Her pleased smile gave Jane pause to think twice about what she’d done.
“I think this is something you need, Jane. Perhaps more than you realize. I do so like a woman with a mind of her own.” Madam McFarland stopped at the door and placed a kiss on her cheek.
Jane prayed she’d not made a mistake, but it was too late to back out now.
“Be here on Thursday at four sharp. Our social hour begins at six. I will have your attire ready when you arrive and will apprise you of the evening’s activities.”
She tugged on a bell. “Jarrod will show you out. See you Thursday.” She stroked Jane’s cheek with the back of her hand. “I can tell that you and I are going to be good friends, Lizzy. You don’t mind me calling you Lizzy, do you? I think it suits you.”
Jane pushed out a smile and shook her head.
Chapter Thirteen
The tiny hole-in-the-wall pub, once a popular haunt for theatergoers, was now, more often than not, very quiet. That’s what appealed to Randolph. There were no crowds, no raucous laughter, and no drunks asking him questions, or blaming him for the unrest in London. It was tucked away, hardly noticeable to crowds with the addition of other, more spacious pubs in the theater district. He’d never seen more than the two men who were there now, sitting by the stone fireplace, drinking their pints and playing chess.
Tonight, it was a welcome haven from the nightmares that, as of late, plagued his sleep. He grabbed his ale, nodding his thanks as he dropped a coin on the bar. The old man, with his stained apron tied around his bulging middle, never asked his name.
Blessed relief.
Randolph sauntered wearily to his favorite chair, its back where he could prop it against the weather plank wall and watch the front door. The lighting was dim from the amber hue of the kerosene lanterns that hung from the marred, aging rafters. Randolph liked that, too. It allowed him to blend into the shadows should a stray group of stage crew or out-of-work actors happen in. Most kept to themselves, blissfully unaware of anyone else save the man who could dole out their drinks.
He’d just left the Yard after finishing his reports that the director expected on his desk by morning. It was after midnight, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep yet for hours. He’d walked for some time, shrouded in the mist of the quiet streets, plagued by the tensions swirling inside him. He hadn’t yet made time to visit McFarland Manor. He knew there he would find a way to alleviate his stress, yet at the same time, he feared the intensity of his emotions once given free rein. His recent conversations with Miss Goodwin had not helped matters. Her bull-headed stubbornness coupled with her exquisite beauty was an intoxicating combination. Thoughts of her had seeped slowly beneath his skin, heating his blood, driving him to the brink.
Randolph sipped his ale, eyeing the dartboard on the wall. He’d never seen anyone play the damn game. Rising from his seat, he picked up the darts, took a healthy swallow of his drink, and narrowed his gaze at the board. He held the dart steady, but his mind was not at ease. Over the past few months, they’d collected over a dozen body parts—all of them waiting at the morgue.
He let go, the force carrying the dart to the outermost ring.
“Good shot, lad,” one of the old men said with an encouraging smile.
Randolph ground his teeth, determined to make his mark—somehow hoping that if he could, he’d know who this bloody fiend was who had managed to elude over six hundred detective and constables of the Yard and the CID. The queen grew more agitated with each grisly find and the pressure—the insistence for answers—eventually wound up in his lap. Hell, more than anyone, more than her majesty, he wanted to wrap up this case and have this monster behind bars.
The second dart sailed through the air, landing with precision in the bull’s-eye.
“Huzzah!” The two old men lifted their glasses to him. Randolph dropped the remaining darts and swallowed the rest of his pint, wishing he felt like celebrating. Dropping into his chair, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and stifled a yawn. He stared bleary-eyed at the bell over the door.
“Another pint, sir?” the barkeep asked.
“Scotch,” Randolph replied. The ale wasn’t working fast enough. He raked his hand through his hair. What should I do with Jane Goodwin? The thought appeared from his subconscious, yet even as he toyed with it, cold reason mocked him, telling him he had nothing at all in common with the American woman. She came from a place of social status and wealth, while he was the product of an obscure past filled with secrets and lies. It was macabre, this masquerade—dedicated to law by day, living his dark fantasies at ni
ght, like a merry-go-round he could not escape.
“’Ere you go, inspector.”
Randolph tipped the glass over his lips, letting the liquid heat slide down his throat.
The bell above the door tinkled merrily as the door opened and two women entered. He gave the pair a cursory glance.
Until they started towards his table.
Clarice? He’d know those violet eyes anywhere, though he didn’t immediately recognize her companion. Upon closer inspection, he realized the other woman was Jonesy. Both were dressed in gowns meant for an evening at the theater. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Jonesy wearing a dress.
“Inspector, imagine us bumping into you this fine evening.” Clarice peeled off her white lace gloves and tucked them in her small purse. “May we join you?” Without waiting for his response, Clarice pulled out a chair, seated herself, and motioned for Jonesy to do the same. Clarice’s gaze was steady on him as she unbuttoned her form-fitting blue velvet jacket, revealing a sheer blouse beneath. He noted the soft pink flesh seen easily through the translucent material. He blinked, averting his eyes as he leaned forward. “Perhaps it would be best to leave your jacket on.”
She tipped her head, shrugged, and refastened the buttons.
Jonesy cleared her throat, and Randolph’s attention swerved to her. There was no question of Jonesy’s possessive feelings toward Clarice. And Randolph had no designs on her. They had little more in common than a basic trust in that whatever Clarice wants, Clarice gets. When first they’d met at the manor, her bisexual preferences were strangely arousing. Though awkward at first, Clarice made the experience indeed pleasurable by allowing him first to watch. Jonesy, with her dominant tendencies, insisted she would prepare Clarice. Once accomplished, she brought him in to complete what Clarice needed from him as a man. No complications, no emotions—it suited everyone.
They’d managed to remain amiable friends even after Jonesy had convinced Clarice to resign her position at the manor.
The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane Page 13
