by Lilia Birney
“I don’t mean that you act that way. But you have more experience of the world. Your writing, the wide circle of your acquaintance—you have a much more cosmopolitan existence than I do.”
Jane sat back, puffing thoughtfully. “You will need help to pull this off. But I can only help so much. There’s an acquaintance of mine—I met her at one of Lady Isabella’s literary salons—who is a courtesan. Oh hell, what was her name? Clarice, I believe. She would be able to instruct you in all the finer points.”
A real courtesan? Excitement surged through Penelope. “How astonishing. Do you think she would talk to me?”
“She would, I suppose, if you explained the situation.” Jane drew again on the cheroot. “And, of course, if you approach her with respect, rather than any kind of disgust. She’s an intelligent woman. Had fantastic ideas about Milton.”
“Can you arrange it?”
Jane grinned around the cheroot. “Consider it done. What is your other problem?”
“Someone called Pierce by the name of Howland. Why does that sound so familiar?”
“Isn’t that the name of a family in Yorkshire? The Howlands? Something awful connected with that family. I don’t remember the particulars, but the name brings a shudder.” Jane squinted at the ceiling. “Is Pierce really a Howland?”
“He must be.” Perhaps that’s why he was ready to pay a forfeit rather than tell the truth. If something dreadful happened to his family, he probably wanted to keep it hidden. “How can we discover the truth?”
“You meet with Clarice and learn how to be a whore. I will make discreet inquiries about the Howland name. Between the two of us, we will run this mystery to the ground.”
Penelope smiled. Of course Jane could help her. That’s why she came to Jane before anyone else. “Excellent.”
Chapter Thirteen
Clarice Dupont made her home in a lovely terraced apartment in Upper Brook Street, just around the corner from Penelope’s home in Grosvenor Square. How extraordinary. One had a whore next door and never knew it. “Clarice is being kept by the Duke of Clarence,” Jane had told her when she slipped her the address for Clarice’s flat. “He finds her combination of wit and beauty irresistible.”
A balding butler answered Penelope’s knock. “Come in,” he assured her graciously. “Madame Dupont is expecting you.” He showed her into a cozy, book-lined room. A fire crackled in the grate, and a large vase of irises—priceless, and most likely from the duke’s own hot-house—wafted attar of dusky scent through the room.
“Madame will be with you in a moment,” the butler said as he closed the French doors with nary a sound.
Left alone, Penelope prowled around the bookshelves. They were stuffed with leather bound volumes that would make Jane drool. And all of them were well-worn. Some even had broken spines, tied together with red string. So not only did Madame Dupont collect books, she read them as well. Penelope gave a small inward smile. She was no intellectual, but she valued women like Jane, who were. And Mme. Dupont was definitely intriguing. She liked Clarice already.
The doors clicked open. “Studying my bookshelf?”
Penelope spun around at the sound of Clarice’s dulcet tones. She was dressed simply, in a gown of heavy garnet silk, her hennaed hair piled loosely on her head. She was lovely—a bit bold, perhaps, in such a bright gown and with such bright hair, but she carried herself with such style and grace that Penelope was instantly charmed. She cast a smile at Clarice and bobbed a curtsy.
“Madame Dupont. It was so good of you to see me. You have a broad taste in books, I see.”
“Yes.” Clarice gave her a dazzling smile. “When I first met the Duke, I could not even read. He taught me how, and with his help, I began devouring the classics. Now, I fear, we converse about books more than we do…ahem…anything else.”
So…Madame Dupont did more than just, well, service the Duke? How intriguing. “How long ago did you learn to read, if you don’t mind me asking, Madame Dupont?”
Clarice sank onto the setting, patting the cushion beside her with a graceful, be-ringed hand. “The Duke met me when I was nothing more than a scrawny little slip of a thing, working in a brothel. I was seventeen at the time. That was five years ago.” She stretched her hands towards the blaze. “You must think me quite shocking, your ladyship. But then, any friend of Jane’s must be a unique sort of person. Not the type to cast judgment, I expect.”
“I too have led a rather unconventional life, despite being married to a viscount.” She wasn’t ready to reveal all her secrets to Madame Dupont—not just yet. Long-ingrained loyalty and well-trained secrecy made her hold her tongue. “And I am most grateful that you agreed to meet with me today, even though we have never met.”
“Of course.” They were interrupted by Clarice’s butler, who discreetly and quickly laid out a tea table filled with all sorts of tempting delicacies. When he withdrew, Clarice poured tea into a delicate china cup, so thin that Penelope could discern the outline of her fingertips around the bowl. “Now, Lady Annand, how may I help you?”
How to begin? Essentially, she needed to know how to act the part of a whore. That would be her role if Pierce could secure an invitation to that notorious house party. And yet, sitting in front of Clarice, whom she already liked, whom she already admired, and then asking such a bold question seemed impossible. Perhaps if she explained the reason why they launched the investigation to begin with…
“I need to find my maid, Cicely,” she began, and launched into the whole sordid tale. How she hired Pierce, and how they decided to work together, and how they had tracked down the Barclay Agency. And then, of course, their trip to the Gilded Lily. Clarice broke into a merry peal of laughter, her eyes sparkling.
“And you dressed as a maid, your ladyship? And actually went into the brothel to interview those two whores? I was right in my assessment of you. You are quite an extraordinary woman.”
“Please, don’t call me your ladyship any longer. I am just Penelope.”
“And I am just Clarice. Well, really, my name is Clara Dunley, but Clarice Dupont is much more in keeping with my, er, profession.” Clarice refilled Penelope’s teacup. “So if you have tracked down this connection with a house party that the Barclay Agency has sent girls to, then what do you propose to do now?”
“Well, Pierce has decided he can fish an invitation for this house party, and if he does, I will be accompanying him. I suppose, as uncouth as it may sound, I have come to you for advice on how to act this part. I don’t know what to expect at a house party of this nature, and I do not know how I am to behave.”
If Clarice was shocked, no trace of her surprise crossed her lovely features. “Well, Penelope, I went to one such Christmas party with the duke shortly after we began seeing each other. It was our only chance to be together, you know, without half the city knowing about it.” She shrugged. “It will seem rather shocking to you, I am afraid. Men go to these parties to misbehave with women who are not their wives. There are some rather obvious acts of intimacy going on, often where others can see or hear them. These gentlemen are there to have a good time, and the women they bring along are there to see to it that they do.”
Penelope’s heart skipped a beat. She knew, of course, that there would be a great deal of activity going on, but she assumed it would all be very discreet. She was now having second thoughts about accompanying Pierce. On the other hand, she didn’t really want him there without her, eyeing all the pretty little maids who were all too eager to service him. Her mind flashed back to the Gilded Lily and the two whores who had flirted so openly with Pierce. Her jaw clenched. No, Pierce was hers. Even if it meant following him to such an extraordinary place.
Clarice was staring at her, an absorbed expression on her face. “You know, Pierce will likely protect you from all that. It sounds like he has done so anyway as you work together.” She cleared her throat delicately. “If I may say so, it would be an opportunity for you two to spend time together. U
nless my powers of intuition are off—and they rarely are—I would say that you have developed a tendre for Mr. Howe.”
“I have.” There was no use denying it.
“Well, then, you could think of it as a lovely chance to, ahem, be together openly, without others passing judgment or even really paying attention.” Clarice arched one eyebrow and leaned forward. “The only problem I foresee is that you must be very recognizable, Penelope, especially to the class of gentlemen who will be attending this party. One look at you and they will recognize Lady Annand and wonder what you are about. After all, while it’s perfectly acceptable for gentlemen to attend these parties, gentlewomen are not permitted to do so.”
Drat, she hadn’t thought of that. She nibbled her thumbnail, wracking her brain for a solution. “I don’t know what to do…I must come up with some sort of disguise, I suppose.”
Clarice squinted at her critically, and then touched her own coiffure. “Well, you could henna your hair.”
“I suppose I could, but all of the women at the house party are blondes, specially ordered. Would it be too strange for me to show up with hennaed hair?”
“Hmmm. Well, since you are coming as Pierce’s guest, you wouldn’t necessarily have to conform to their criteria. You could also wear a mask, at least during the times in which you would be around the other people in the house. You could change the style of your dress, and even the way you speak.”
Penelope stopped biting her thumbnail. These were all excellent suggestions, and there was something rather exciting about the thought of taking on an entirely new persona. Why, she could wear the most extraordinary frocks, and speak with a Cockney accent, and dye her hair black…she chuckled as she contemplated the possibilities. “I love it, Clarice.”
“I have some dresses you can borrow if you wish, and I can assist with your hair,” Clarice suggested helpfully. “And as for an accent, you would just need to attune your ears to your household staff—try to catch the cadence of their tones. I had my accent ironed out a few years ago. The duke worked with me forever to get me to pronounce my h’s and I’s just so. If I taught you the incorrect way to speak, I might suffer a relapse.”
Penelope grinned. “I appreciate your help. And I appreciate your willingness to help me when you barely know me at all.” She hesitated. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “Why, pray, are you so willing to help me in this mission?”
“I don’t know, really.” Clarice busied herself with collecting their empty cups, her eyes cast down. “I-I don’t have a chance to talk to other women much, certainly not ladies like yourself. And I don’t associate with my old friends. Once I became exclusively the duke’s, they stopped speaking to me. They think I am better than them, I suppose. So I occupy this strange place in society, too high for the company of my old friends, and too low to associate with the duke’s class. It gets rather lonely.” She sighed deeply, a sigh that seemed to emanate from her very slippers. “And yet, I find myself enjoying your company immensely. I hope it’s not too forward of me to say that.”
“No, of course not.” Penelope caught Clarice’s wrist and pressed it warmly. “Jane told me you were an extraordinary person, and we both wanted to get to know you better. But we were worried about approaching you, especially with this problem. Afraid we would offend you. In truth, I should very much like to call you my friend. Jane and I have an informal club called the Liberated Ladies—I think you would make an excellent member, frankly.”
“Really?” Clarice’s eyes were wide and sparkling with unshed tears. “That would be quite lovely, actually. Thank you for asking me.”
“Of course. And thank you for not giving me the boot when I came around asking a lot of impertinent questions,” Penelope responded. “Well, shall we get started? Do you have time to henna my hair and all that today?”
Clarice flicked a glance at the elaborate ormolu clock on her mantelpiece. “Yes. The duke is coming to see me this evening, but we have all afternoon to begin our work.” She offered Penelope her elbow. “Shall we?”
Penelope linked her arm through Clarice’s. “We shall.”
***
Pierce paced the floor of Penelope’s study once more. She was late. They were supposed to have tea this afternoon together and discuss their plans for the house party. He had secured his invitation just that very morning, and like a little boy ready to boast of turning the perfect cartwheel, he was ready to crow to Penelope. But she wasn’t here. And she was an hour late. Her butler had made him comfortable but the old fellow admitted he had no idea where her ladyship was.
She wasn’t with anyone, was she? There were plenty of men in the ton who would be only too happy to squire Lady Annand about. Her reputation as the Ice Goddess made her quite an enigma to the young bucks. Many of them had boasted in the betting books of possible exploits with the Ice Goddess…many were quite intrigued with her, well, melting point. Surely one of those blackguards wasn’t with Penelope now, perhaps taking a carriage ride together in the park, and turning off on a secluded trail for a few hasty moments of intimacy…
“Damnation,” he swore, and poured himself a scotch from the decanter the butler had brought in. Pierce was past the point of needing a spot of tea. He needed strong spirits. He needed Penelope.
“Pierce? What on earth?” Penelope bustled in, her fine brows knitted together. At least, he thought it was Penelope. This creature still had her same musical lilting voice, her same graceful figure. But this creature had hennaed hair, quite a bit of rouge, and a very scanty gown covering said graceful figure. “Isn’t it a bit early in the day for spirits?”
“Penelope? Good God, what happened to you?” He placed the scotch on a nearby table. ‘Twould do no good to drop it and have it smash all to pieces.
“Don’t you like it?” Her voice quavered, and she touched her hair with an uncertain gesture. “I changed my appearance so that I could attend the house party without being recognized.”
“No, I like it,” he recovered hastily. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting you to alter your appearance so dramatically.”
“Well, then, be honest.” She removed a black mask from her reticule and tied it on. “Do you think anyone else will recognize me? Madame Dupont assured me that she could not.”
He swallowed. The sight of Penelope in a black mask much like the girls at the Gilded Lily made his mouth water. Her hennaed hair was piled high atop her head, giving an unhampered view of her breasts, which were very much on display in a filmy dark green gown. He took a step closer, hooking his forefinger over her bodice. He dragged the fragile material down, releasing one rosy nipple.
Penelope gasped. “Pierce, you are too forward.” But she did not move away from him. Good. He’d take that as a sign of interest, then.
“Perhaps.” He bent down and nuzzled her nipple with his lips until it stiffened into a peak. “But then, you are not the Ice Goddess when you are dressed like that. You are playing a part, are you not? I am merely complimenting you on how well you’ve done.” He dragged her bodice down over the other breast. “I am quite overcome.”
He froze, in anticipation of being slapped across the face, and hard. After all, Penelope was hardly used to any romantic attentions from men, much less anything like he was doing now. She would likely order him to leave, affronted at being so boldly touched…a soft moan halted his thoughts. Ah, her ladyship liked it too.
“‘At’s me favorite, luv,” she whispered in his ear. “Do it again.”
He uttered a short bark of laughter at her effected Cockney accent. “My God, Penelope, you are the most fantastic woman,” he breathed, leaning away from her to loosen his trousers.
“Penelope? ‘Oos this Penelope, then, luv? Me name’s Nancy, and I’m a good girl, I am.” She was giggling now, an enchanting sound that was fast driving him to the edge of his control. He grabbed her around the waist and dragged her over to the desk, pushing her forwards so that her breasts touched the blotter.
“You’re not a good girl,” he ground out as he tugged down his trousers. “Thank heavens for that.” He pushed her skirts up over her backside and plunged forward into her tight channel, taking her from behind and glorying in the feel of her. Devil take it, she was already ready, warm and wet for him. He had found the perfect woman. He wasn’t attracted to Cockney wenches, whom he could have by the dozen, but by this enchantress who could become any part—maid, whore, ice goddess—and drive him to distraction as each.
Penelope moaned as he pushed forward again and again. “That’s it, luv,” she whispered. “Me tits isn’t getting ‘alf inky from rubbing all over yer blotter.”
That did it. He lost all control, thrusting forward one last time and spilling himself with a hoarse shout. As he drifted back to awareness, Penelope cried out her release.
“Damnation, Penelope,” he whispered. “I lose all control around you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Hastily, Pierce withdrew and tugged Penelope’s gown back into place. Embarrassment burned through him like a hot poker. He grasped his trousers and pulled them back up, buttoning them securely. Then, shaking, he propped himself against the stout support of Penelope’s mahogany desk.
“Pierce? Is anything wrong?” Penelope’s fine brow was puckered, her hennaed hair tumbling down about her shoulders. “Are you quite all right?”
“I am fine, I assure you.” He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “But I need to sit down.”
Penelope grasped him by the elbow and drew him over to one of the needlepoint chairs near the hearth. Then she brought him the brimful glass of Scotch, pressing it into his hand.
“Drink this,” she murmured. “You seem quite unwell. Did I hurt you?”
He gave her a crooked, rueful grin. “Not at all, sweetest. Quite the opposite, in fact. You pleasured me so much I think I forgot to breathe.”
She chuckled and sank into the chair opposite him. “I feel the need to rest a moment, myself.” She kicked off her slippers and held her small, delicate feet towards the blazing hearth. “Goodness, Pierce. When I first walked into the room and you spied me, the expression on your face certainly gave me pause. I thought you despised this new costume of mine.”
