by Darcy Burke
They looked even more dubious.
“I love him.” Caroline felt as though she would burst knowing it. She sighed. “If this were your chance to be with the one person you have always wanted to be with, the one person you were destined to be with, would you take that chance? Or would you walk away from it in fear of super…superficial respect…ability?” She couldn’t talk.
One by one those faces crumbled. Victoria sighed.
Caroline was thankful nothing more needed to be said.
***
Easing out of the hackney she’d hired, Caroline stepped into the misty dampness of the night which was already settling straight into her bones. Thick fog hovered, dimming the yellow glow of the gas lamps at the end of the narrow cobblestone road.
She swallowed at seeing a long line of black-lacquered carriages waiting for their masters who apparently were all inside. She paid the driver his due three shillings, which she was barely able to count out in the blur she was feeling. The wizened, bearded man eyed her, as if aware of the adventure she was about to embark upon. Snapping his reins, he clattered away, turning down a narrow side street, leaving her alone in the faintly lit, foggy square.
She drew the veil tighter around her shoulders and head, burying herself in it.
Fingering the well-folded missive Caldwell had given her, she shoved it into the safety of her bosom. Her heart pounded as she glanced about the looming shadows of townhouses within the square she did not recognize. She eyed the lavish, limestone townhome before her, whose shuttered windows had been drawn, filtering very little light out onto the street. A remaining group of veiled women quietly entered through a door being held open by a masked footman.
This was not how she’d planned to lose her virginity.
But then again, a woman couldn’t plan everything.
She followed the group of women, trying to keep her slippered feet steady against the wet stepping stones leading toward the entrance. She stumbled and fell onto the stone path. Wincing from the sharp impact against her knees and hands, she muttered, “Try to arrive in once piece.”
“Is this your first time in attendance?” a veiled lady drawled from beside her in the shadows. “Or is it your first time drinking?”
Startled, Caroline glanced up. “I slipped.”
The woman held out a gloved hand down toward her. “You needn’t worry about being nervous. I was nervous my first time, too. But those who organize it always take precautions in protecting the identity of everyone in attendance.”
“I am glad to hear it.” Caroline grabbed the gloved hand being offered and almost pulled the woman down onto the path in an effort to climb back up. She staggered up despite her corset and arranged her full skirts. “I appreciate your assistance.”
“The path is a touch slippery from the rain we had earlier. Ensure you walk slowly and enjoy your evening.” The veiled woman swept past and disappeared down the stone path. Pausing to hand something to the masked footman, the woman disappeared into the golden light through the open door.
Caroline brushed off her gown, thankful there were very few marks on it, and followed the darkness of the path. The seductive melody of violins floated in the distance through the open door where candlelight flickered warmly from within. Why did she feel like a moth floating toward a flame?
She walked up the wide stone stairs toward the candlelit entrance.
An incredibly tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired gentleman with a black velvet mask tied around his eyes and nose as if he were a highwayman, not a footman, sidestepped toward her, preventing her from entering through the door. Aside from a blood red, silk cravat and the elegant embroidered ivory waistcoat that peered out beneath his dark evening coat, he wore all black. “Your invitation, s’il vous plait.”
She blinked through the veil. Oh. “I burned it.”
He stepped closer toward her, towering a good two and half heads over her own and bumped her back out the door and to the stoop with his large frame. “How unfortunate,” he delivered in a gruff tone that had a subtle French accent, hinting he had been in London more years than he had been in France.
Her heart skittered as she peered up at his anything-but-pleased façade. It was a good thing she had practiced French with Ronan throughout the years. “Bonsoir, monsieur. C’est un…plaisir de…de vous…rencontre. I peut êtra donnée…d’entrée?”
Blue eyes blinked down at her from behind the slits of his black mask. “Your French is a murdering insult to my people, and this is a private gathering. So, no, you may not enter. Leave. Or I will ensure you do.” He stepped back and slammed the door shut, missing her toes by an inch.
She winced. The port had butchered her French. She was quite sure of it. She sighed and patting her hand up the door, used the large knocker. Because she most certainly wasn’t going home without a kiss.
Within moments, the door opened. The same gentleman with the mask eyed her. “Was I not clear enough, mademoiselle? Or would you like me to say it in French? I can say it in German, too.”
She felt as if her passport wasn’t in order. “Please, monsieur. Lord Caldwell is expecting me. I have to see him.”
He paused and glanced down the path behind her. “He is expecting you?”
She nodded.
He shifted toward her and wagged his gloved fingers. “Lift your veil.”
She prayed he didn’t know her mother or her brother. Oh, how she prayed. Caroline grabbed the ends of the black lace and flopped it back away from her face.
The man lowered his shaven chin, perusing her features. “Joli. I certainly have not seen you before.” He lowered his gaze to her cleavage which was now on display given she had lifted her veil. He quirked a brow against his mask. “You were blessed.”
She awkwardly used a section of her veil to cover the low-laying décolletage she had worn for Ronan. Not…this man. “They are not yours to look at.”
Lifting his gaze to hers, he leaned against the side of the door and asked, “How much is he paying you? I will triple it. Unless you want more.”
Her eyes widened. “I can assure you, monsieur, I am not for sale. Nor am I here for you.”
“Your loss.” Eyeing her one last time, he pushed away from the door and yelled over his shoulder down the length of the foyer and corridor, “We have a coquin! Can someone please verify who she is?”
She pulled in her chin. Verify? What was this? A secret society of lecherous men?
He moved back, extending his gloved hand toward the hall behind him. “I cannot have the door open. I ask that you wait inside. Until someone can vouch for you.”
They were certainly serious about keeping people out. “Uh…of course.” Caroline entered the large hall, her heeled slippers clicking across the polished, white marble floors. An oversized chandelier glittered from above, all of its lit candles giving the illusion that the expensive crystal surrounding it was made of diamonds. The sweet sharp smell of champagne and musky cigars penetrated her nostrils as the haunting melody of alternating violins played somewhere in the distance.
The masked man shut the door, then glanced back at her as he methodically latched not one, not two, but three large bolts against the frame. “Unless we toss you, the doors will not be re-opening until four in the morning. No exceptions.”
Oh, no. It meant Alex was going to discover she was gone. It also meant she was locked in a house with a crowd she didn’t know until four in the morning. Oh, God. Oh, God. She tried to keep her hands from shaking and prayed Ronan was, in fact, here and that she hadn’t walked into a den of lusty men she didn’t know. “I understand.”
The masked gentleman gestured toward a blindfolded footman standing against the silk wall, holding a tray of glasses whose golden liquid contents bubbled. “Champagne?”
If the footmen had to be blindfolded, that meant things were expected to get out of hand. “No, thank you.” She’d swallowed enough spirits in one night. The room wasn’t swaying, thank goodness, but it c
ertainly wasn’t standing still, either. It was…floating.
Why did she have to go drink all that port? She was such an idiot.
The masked man snatched a glass of champagne for himself and tossed it back as if it were whiskey. Turning on his polished booted heel, he whipped it against the nearest wall, causing it to explode into shards that shattered the silence of the hall.
Caroline jumped and in her port-ridden haze stumbled back toward the curving mahogany stairwell that led up to an open landing above. She eyed the powder blue wall he had smashed the glass against, noting champagne was now glistening down its length.
Muted male voices met her ears from somewhere within the house.
The masked gentleman brazenly angled toward her. “How old are you?”
She knew it was best to lie. “Thirty.”
“Widowed?”
She was going to hell for this. “Two years now.”
“Lonely?”
She was really going to hell. “Why else would I be here?”
He wet his lips. “Unlike the rest of us, Caldwell does not pray to the whip. But I do. Maybe you and I can come to some sort of arrangement.”
She gave him a withered look. “After what you did to that champagne glass? Not likely.”
Another gentleman appeared in their midst and paused.
She froze, realizing it was Ronan’s uncle. Though a part of her was relieved to see a man she actually knew, she prayed he wouldn’t throw her out.
Lord Hughes hurried toward her with eyes wide. “By God, does your mother know you are here?”
She flinched. “No.”
He glanced up the stairwell, adjusting his evening coat and stared. “I think we have a problem.”
The gentleman with the mask edged in. “She did not have an invitation, Hughes, but she did mention Caldwell. How would she have known he was here?”
Lord Hughes quickly leaned in toward Caroline and lowered his voice. “How did you know where to come?”
Apparently, this party was illegal. “I didn’t know I was supposed to bring it, but I can assure you, I did receive an invitation.”
“That isn’t possible. I approve of where the invitations go. These sort of events, after all, can get a man arrested. Who gave you yours?”
Arrested? “Ronan.”
He pulled in his chin. “Did he now?” He shifted toward her, squinting. “I’m a little concerned. Because I can’t very well ask him if he invited you or not, given all of the men have already gathered for the night and have been officially quarantined from seeing others. There are unbreakable rules that apply to this house and what goes on in it. And one of those rules is that the names of every woman in attendance are never to be whispered. It’s for your protection and theirs. You wouldn’t want society taking an ax to your door.”
She rapidly blinked. “Oh. No. I wouldn’t. And I appreciate your concern. Believe me. I do. But I…I can prove that he invited me.” She frantically retrieved his note which she had tucked within the décolletage of her gown. Before the man tossed her. She was so glad she’d brought it. So glad. “He sent it along with this.” Unfolding the missive, she held it out for proof.
Hughes leaned back to better read it, lowering his chin. His brows popped up as he let out a low whistle. “I didn’t think he had it in him.” He slowly grinned, his brown eyes brightening. “Not that I’m objecting. It’s about damn time after all the years I’ve spent listening to him babble on about you and your glorious ways.” Adjusting his evening coat, he eyed her. “I do, however, still feel it is my responsibility to warn you. The women in attendance are here to do incredibly devious things, and you are about to subject yourself to the same. Are you certain this is what you want? Are you certain you wish me to give Luc permission to invite you in?”
She folded the letter, tucking it away again with trembling hands. If that was his way of saying she was about to join the ranks of fallen women, she was more than prepared to face the consequences to be with Ronan. Because something whispered to her that Ronan had a plan. One she was wholeheartedly giving herself over to once and for all. “Yes. I ask that you permit me to stay. I know what I want.”
A gruff laugh escaped him. “And I thought I was a rebel.” He patted her cheek and pointed rigidly at the masked gentleman, his grin fading to a hardened façade. “Luc. Listen well. I am enforcing parlay. This one belongs to Caldwell and no other. So don’t even breathe on her, much less touch her, or your neck and this house becomes mine with a swing of a fist. Do you understand? Get her upstairs and inform her of the rules.” Hughes stalked down the corridor.
Rules? There were rules to getting debauched?
The masked gentleman veered in close. He widened his stance, his gaze penetrating hers. “You must be quite the treasure for Hughes to be enforcing parlay. You would be the first. And he has been hosting these events with many others who are part of the Whipping Society since 1822.”
She leaned back. Why did she feel like she had just boarded a pirate ship?
He gestured toward the stairwell. “Come with me.” He rounded her and mounted the stairs, his body movements calculated and precise, as if stairs weren’t the only thing he mounted on a regular basis.
Caroline felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand beneath her pinned curls. “When do I get to see Lord Caldwell?”
He paused midway up the winding staircase and glanced back at her. “When all the blindfolds have been administered.”
“Blindfolds?” she echoed, almost stumbling on her own feet as she moved toward him and the staircase. “People will be wearing blindfolds? Whatever for?”
He lowered his chin. “I trust you are not familiar with these parties.”
She swallowed. “I have only heard rumors.”
He leisurely swept a gaze toward her cleavage again, wistfully tilting his head. “Rumors do not give it justice.” He returned his gaze to her face as if he were trying to be respectable and leaned back against the railing, crossing booted feet. “The blindfolds, my dearest veuve, are only for the men. They are implemented for your protection. Because unless you have a certain arrangement with someone prior to coming here, you do not want any of these bastards knowing who you are. Believe me.” He eyed her. “Did you bring a sheath? Or shall I provide you with one? I have some in my room.”
Her eyes widened. If she hadn’t grown up in the family she had, she probably would have hit the floor. Her mother hadn’t really acquainted her with the art of understanding sheaths. All she knew was that they had pink ribbons on them and a man yanked it up on his…ehm. “I’m well equipped with what I need, thank you.”
He uncrossed his legs and pushed away from the railing. “Good. Follow me.”
Caroline let out a shaky breath and gathered her gown from around her feet, moving up the winding stairs until she reached the landing.
Veering toward the left of the landing, she followed him down the length of a wide, ornate corridor. The violins grew more distant. She nervously glanced toward an oversized oil-portrait of a beautiful young woman dressed in a stunning, sky-blue, brocaded gown frilled with pink lace. Her large gray-blue eyes longingly stared back at her. Her pale skin and sweeping bouffant powdered hair gave her a regal, elegant air.
Caroline paused in astonishment and came to a complete halt. There was no doubt who it was. After all, she had seen many sketches of the woman in books and newspapers before. It was none other than the glorious Marie Antoinette who had been tragically beheaded.
Caroline eyed the walls, noting a few other portraits of the French queen scattered across their length. The candles set within wall sconces emitted enough light to cast a glow upon the queen’s face, shadowing the rest of her body. “There are so many portraits of the last Queen of France,” she couldn’t help but say aloud.
“Oui,” the man called out to her from up ahead. “They are all originals and were brought over during the Revolution. Before they could be destroyed.”
How f
ascinating. She glanced around. “Might I ask who owns this house?”
“I do.”
She froze. And she thought he was a footman. Realizing she had fallen behind, she hurried down the passageway after him, passing countless rooms. Gad, but the house was massive. “I’m intrigued. Are you part of the ton?”
He glanced toward her. “My family’s title was stripped during the Revolution. I am but a gentleman now.”
Yet he was better situated than most aristocrats. “Might I ask who you are?”
“No.” He paused outside double doors that led to a crowded room of veiled, morbidly silent women who were indulging in champagne.
Her eyes widened at seeing Lord Whittle’s own wife flop back her veil and arrange her wig, before flopping it back down. It would seem the aristocracy had a lot more whores in its midst than they let on.
Caroline peered into what appeared to be a bedchamber with no bed.
She cautiously edged in.
A veiled woman crossed the room and brushed past Caroline, glancing toward her through the shrouded lace that hid her features. She silently departed.
The masked gentleman leaned in toward Caroline. “Cover your face. The veil stays on until you are alone with your paramour.”
Oh. Right. Caroline gathered her veil and quickly did just that, shrouding her vision of him in black lace.
Leaning in closer, he said, “You are not allowed to speak to anyone from this moment on. All forms of communication happen through touch and only touch. It is an old French tradition. As they say, if the silence is broken, so is your name. Within a half hour, you and all of the women gathered will be led downstairs to collect your paramour, after which you are free to seize any room in the house that is not occupied. If you get bored with the man you have chosen, you may exchange him at any time with another by knocking on any of the closed doors. If no one opens the door to you, that is their signal to you that they are not interested in exchanging and you are expected to move on. The blindfold of your chosen paramour will remain in place as will the silence until all women leave in unison at four in the morning, when the doors reopen. The men will follow an hour later. Those are the rules. Abide by them, or as the keeper, I will find you, have my way with you against every wall of this house and throw you out. And if you think I am being playful, wait until I do it.”
