Madame lifted her glass. “Bonjour, mes amis!” A general rumbling of acknowledgment ran through the ranks of the assembled gentlemen. “Welcome to my humble home.” A hint of a French accent tinged her speech when she switched into English, though Madame didn’t have a foreign bone in her body. Blackstone said she was the daughter of a blacksmith from one of the home counties.
“We have some new guests today.” Madame turned to nod at the dark gentleman whose arm she still held and at the cluster of younger men Catharine had noticed earlier. “So allow me to acquaint everyone with the traditions that govern our establishment.
“We gather three times an evening, at ten o’clock, midnight, and two o’clock. I invite you to mingle with my dear ladies at any or all of these gatherings.” She gestured around the room at Catharine and the others. “And what fine ladies they are, are they not?” Turning to the tall stranger, she patted his arm before dropping it, not waiting for a response. There was that smile again, but this time he tempered it and dipped his head slightly as if to signal his agreement that, yes, they were fine ladies indeed.
Madame moved to stand near the hearth. “Should you come to an agreement with one of them, please visit one of my associates to arrange your visit.” A trio of elegant, liveried, and extremely large men entered the room on cue and stood, faces blank, against the far wall. It was difficult to discern—by design—if they were footmen or something else entirely.
“You are welcome to make arrangements for two hours and to join us again at midnight. Or you’re free to arrange a longer interlude. And of course, please feel free to make use of our gaming, dining, or billiards rooms at any time.”
Catharine cleared her throat as delicately as she could, trying to catch Madame’s eye. The older woman often “forgot” to remind the guests about the special rules that governed an encounter with Lady V.
“Yes,” Madame said, eyes narrowing slightly. “There is one more thing.” She glided over and laid a hand on Catharine’s shoulder. “This, my friends, is Lady V, a genuine Mayfair lady. Highborn.” She lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “She very likely knows you.” A few of the younger men shifted uncomfortably. “Not to worry, my dears, Lady V is sworn to secrecy. It’s not in her interest to reveal how she finds her evening entertainment. She would be ruined if her true identity came to light.” Madame began to stroke Catharine’s neck with the back of one hand. “I have tried and tried to convince her to change her stance on this matter, but she remains adamant. Your time with Lady V will include only…” Tension mounted in the room as Madame deliberately trailed off, building anticipation.
“Conversation.”
The crowd, which had grown silent, erupted in exclamations and good-natured jeers. The overdressed Amelia sighed theatrically as Madame Cherie, enjoying the drama, continued. “Yes, my dears, you pay for Lady V’s company, but not, alas, her body. If you want her, you’d better act quickly, as she’s fast becoming my most popular girl.” The neck stroking had turned to rather insistent tapping. “Inexplicably so.”
Disengaging herself from Catharine with a final tap, Madame seated herself on a chair near the fire. “Please enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.” She nodded toward the pianoforte, and the young girl seated in front of it launched into a waltz. A shopgirl with a gift for music, she played in exchange for lessons from one of London’s most highly regarded music masters, a personal client of Madame’s.
So, to work. Catharine was fairly certain none of the new clients would be of interest, but that wouldn’t prevent Blackstone from quizzing her later.
Catharine felt the dark gentleman’s regard, but one of the young men approached before she could decide on her first move. Perching on an arm of her chair, the boy filled the frame of her vision with his youthful, golden presence. Ironically, this was exactly the sort of man she collected as Lady Cranbrook. Young, enthusiastic, not looking for a serious entanglement. A month ago, in another setting, she would have enjoyed the boy’s attentions.
“That’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing.” She smiled blandly and fingered the long, heavy gold chain she always wore around her neck here, feeling the comforting heft of the hidden ruby that hung from the end of it, nestled between her breasts. “I’d like to see what’s hanging from that chain.” He reached a hand out, as if to tug the necklace out.
She swatted his hand. “Then you shall be disappointed.” She produced a smile to temper her annoyance.
“Is it a gem? Perhaps a key?”
Shrugging coyly, she contemplated sending her young admirer on an errand. The refreshment table wasn’t far enough away, though.
He lowered his voice. “Whatever it is, I wager it will look spectacular lying on the sheets beside you, cast aside.”
This happened sometimes. A man, having heard the rules, decided to regard her as a challenge, flattering himself into thinking he would be the one to break them. “Ah, but I never remove it.”
“Not ever? Not even when you bathe?”
“Not that it’s any of your affair, but no.”
“Why not?”
“It was a gift from my husband.” She amused herself sometimes by doling out little bits of the truth. But she’d alarmed her poor admirer quite a bit more than she’d intended, judging by the startled look on his face. “My late husband,” she added with a chuckle.
He recovered quickly. “How long have you been widowed?”
“Nearly two years.”
“And you’ve worn that necklace every day since then?”
“That is correct.”
“What would your late husband think of you being here?”
He would be proud of me. Proud that I was doing something important, something for England. But of course she couldn’t say any of that so settled instead for, “I am enjoying widowhood.” It wasn’t a lie. She mourned Charles, of course, but she loved being a widow, adored the liberty that came with it. It was the first time in her life she had been free to make her own choices, to do more than be swept along by the actions of the men around her.
The boy leaned over to speak in her ear. “Are you sure we can’t come to some sort of private arrangement? I could pay you directly.”
She widened her eyes, playing innocent. “A private arrangement?”
“Yes, for more than, ah, conversation.”
She raised her fan, creating a barrier between them. “No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, but I do thank you for your interest. I’m quite flattered.”
“It’s just that…”
My, he was a persistent one. She summoned her best icy look and lifted her brows as high as they would go—an instinctive response that was, of course, lost behind her mask.
“I cannot help but think that perhaps you have been waiting for the right gentleman to come along. Perhaps you have not had the opportunity—”
“Not had the opportunity?” A deep voice cut in, and a dark presence inserted itself into their small circle, contrasting dramatically with the golden boy. It was the green-eyed gentleman. “The lady passes her evenings in a whorehouse, so one would imagine she contends with a nearly unlimited supply of…opportunities.”
The younger man sat close to her, so the newcomer must have been near in order to overhear their conversation. She smiled brightly at him. “Don’t let Madame Cherie hear you calling this a whorehouse, sir. She’ll take offense and have you thrown out.”
Unamused, he frowned. “Isn’t it, though?”
“What? A whorehouse?”
“Yes.”
“Of course, but as a patron, you of all people should understand the importance of euphemism in these sorts of situations.”
The golden boy watched their exchange as if he were taking in a game of badminton. Though it was rude, she ignored him, keeping her eyes fixed on the intriguing dark gentleman.
He cocked his head slightly. “I don’t believe in euphemism.”
“Oh? And what do you believe in?”
“Precisi
on. Authenticity. Exactitude.”
“Perhaps, then, sir, you find yourself in the wrong place this evening.”
“No, I think not.” He glanced around until his gaze settled on one of Madame’s oversized footmen. “I shall make arrangements and return presently.”
The golden boy leaped from his perch.
“Unless,” said the mystery gentleman, “you feel you have a prior claim? It did rather sound as if perhaps you’re in search of more than the lady is prepared to offer this evening.” He fixed the younger man with an icy stare that caused the boy to bow and hurry off.
Her new client watched the boy retreat, then turned toward her and nodded. He stripped off his kidskin gloves, deposited them on her lap, and turned on his heel.
Sitting back, she blew out a breath and reached again for the royal blue silk fan that matched her dress, right down to the black ribbons trimming it. She was slightly dizzy. Was it the overheated room? The exhilarating volley of conversation they’d shared? The gentleman himself? She rather feared she was about to find out.
Knowing he needn’t worry about performing should have made James Burnham less anxious. Given that conversation was exactly why he’d come this evening, it should have been a relief to meet a woman who didn’t expect him to want any more from their time together. Instead, as he followed Lady V up a winding staircase, he had to consciously tamp down a rising unease.
He should have foreseen how emotions might complicate things. A logical, well-thought-out plan was one thing—a model in his mind for how the evening would unfold. Questions would be asked, observations made. But it was difficult to account for emotions in a model. The scientific method didn’t have much to say about nerves.
The swishing of the woman’s skirts sounded like thunder to his oversensitive ears. He looked at her bare, white shoulders, their blades undulating as she walked. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t nerves so much as attraction. He was not made anxious by much in this world, so, yes, he must conclude that the physical symptoms he was experiencing signaled attraction. It was to be expected, a rational response to a stimulus. The key was to remember his greater purpose and not let it be sabotaged by runaway feelings. Emotions were transitory, ephemeral, certainly not worth risking all his hard work.
He forced his legs to continue climbing the stairs behind the mysterious Lady V. The last flight of stairs, up to the top of the house, was narrow, steep, and lacked railings. No doubt this floor had originally been home to the servants who would have slept at the top of the house. The sharp incline meant his face was level with his hostess’s blue-silk-wrapped derriere. He watched it sway as she climbed, the swishing of her skirts still roaring in his head.
At the top, she stopped in front of an unremarkable white door. There wasn’t enough room on the small landing for both of them, so he waited several stairs below, bracing his hands against the unadorned plaster walls on either side.
She turned and smiled. Without preamble, she reached down, and in one fluid movement, hitched her skirts up almost to her waist, putting a leg clad only in the sheerest stocking, topped with an expanse of firm, creamy thigh, mere inches from his face. His heart began to thud.
“Madam!” His own voice sounded strained to him, prudish, even, and he regretted the outburst. He had to take care not to sound too judgmental. Thankful for the dim lighting and his position below her on the stairs, he turned slightly toward the wall to disguise the bulge in his breeches that had suddenly, mortifyingly, appeared.
His beautiful companion, ever silent, leaned down and extracted a large golden key from her garter. Straightening, she shook her skirts back into place, unlocked the door, and preceded him inside.
“Take off your coat,” she called over her shoulder. “And make yourself comfortable. There’s no need to observe formalities here.”
Her voice was low, confident. He hadn’t heard it since they’d bantered earlier, before he’d purchased her time. Purchased her. The whole thing was so unseemly, degrading for all parties involved. However, the bulge in his drawers didn’t seem to be getting the message. Ordinarily, he would be loath to take off his coat. It felt like much-needed armor, a reminder that even in this immoral place, it was possible to display manners, to comport oneself with dignity. On the other hand, if he took it off he could use it as armor, a shield to disguise his excitement. And she was a doxy, or at least playing the part rather convincingly. It wasn’t as if the rules of polite society applied here. Besides, he’d already taken off his gloves downstairs, unceremoniously—and rudely—throwing them on her lap. At the time, he’d been overcome with a desire to mark her as his, to make sure none of the young dandies so obviously entranced with her would claim her.
He couldn’t stand on the threshold, paralyzed by indecision. Now was not the time to indulge his habit of overthinking everything. Stripping off his coat, he held it in front of him as he bounded up the last few steps into Lady V’s room.
“Room” didn’t seem to be the right word to describe the sanctum, though. It both did and did not accord with how he’d imagined the setting. On the one hand, a fire blazed, surrounded by opulent cream silk chairs. On the other side of the room, an enormous bed stood on a raised platform. He had imagined scarlet, purple, perhaps a royal blue to match the jewel tone of her attire. But the room was done almost entirely in shades of white and cream: the bedclothes, the counterpane, the upholstery. Bathed in candlelight, the room was also cozy, it being late and the cold autumn having recently moved into London.
It was a room to put one at ease. He would be able to do this, after all. Or at least get started, find out enough to know if further investigation was merited. Lady V, who had been moving around the room lighting branches of candles, turned toward him with a smile, a genuine smile. Gone was the half leer he’d seen on the stairway.
“May I take your coat, Mr…?”
“Burnham. Dr. James Burnham.” He saw no need to give a false name. A highborn lady amusing herself by playing the role of a courtesan wouldn’t have heard of him. Indeed, most of the beau monde wouldn’t know his name. Other men, more prominent than he, drew attention to their cause. And, yes, he could indeed surrender his coat now, everything having settled back into a less…embarrassing state.
She cocked her head as he handed over the garment. “James Burnham of Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children? Author of Vanquishing Vice? And of Crushing Contagion?”
His stomach dropped. She knew him? It should have been impossible. While one part of his mind began churning, assessing escape routes, another recognized the importance of carrying on. “Don’t forget Eradicating Idleness. Although I admit that the alliterative qualities of the latter are, strictly speaking, somewhat lacking.”
She laid his coat on a nearby chair and clasped his hands between hers, drawing him toward the fire. “I always assumed pamphleteers weren’t real people, that they were only names affixed to publications, false identities created to house the collected opinions of gentlemen who preferred to remain anonymous.” Positioning him in front of a settee that faced the fire, she unceremoniously pushed him back into it before joining him, sitting close as she curled her legs up under her gown and turned toward him, eyes shining through the holes in her feathered mask. The jaded siren he’d seen downstairs was gone, replaced by a completely different woman.
He cleared his throat. This was not unfolding as he’d imagined. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions. “Yes, well, here I am. In the flesh.”
She pressed a palm against her heart, drawing his attention to the porcelain skin of her exposed chest, to the heavy golden chain that rested on it, to her elegant collarbones, to the deep V between her breasts. Whatever hung on the end of her chain disappeared into that dark V. Was that the inspiration for her pseudonym?
She leaned so close he felt her breath on his face, and his senses were flooded by the rose-scented perfume she wore. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.
”
He made an effort not to shrink from her. “Thank you. I hope I won’t offend if I confess to being slightly surprised that my reputation precedes me.” He glanced around the airy room. “Here.”
“In a whorehouse?” She leaned back a little, providing some much-needed breathing room.
“That’s not what I—”
“It is, though. It is what you meant. And it’s what you said earlier.” She moved again, putting a few more inches between them. “You don’t think a whore can be well-read enough to know of you, can have enough Christian charity in her heart to know of the work of your society.”
“It’s a moot question, isn’t it, as I am given to understand that you’re not really a…”
“Whore?”
He could do nothing but incline his head. The fire, which a moment ago had seemed to impart a warm, cozy glow, now cast a heavy, oppressive glare on the room.
“I keep company with whores, so what’s the difference?”
“For the gentlemen downstairs being informed of the rules, I gather the difference is quite substantial.”
She stared at him for a moment. Then, in a swoosh of silk, she stood and moved to a small sideboard near the hearth and began pouring dark liquid into crystal glasses. “Forgive me, Dr. Burnham. I seem to have forgotten myself. A good whore understands the importance of separating business from pleasure.” She handed him a glass and sat down again. “And I imagine even social reformers get lonely.” With that, she raised her glass, clinked it against his, and threw her head back, drinking deeply. He could trace the path the brandy made down her throat as she swallowed. Truly, she was beautiful. Pale, almost ethereal skin, delicate chin. Light blue eyes nearly obscured by the riot of many-colored feathers affixed to the mask she wore. The bright red-orange wig wasn’t the right color for her, and it irked him not to know what her hair really looked like, but still, against her fair skin, it made quite a statement. Draining her drink in a final swallow, she met his eyes, issuing a silent challenge. He quickly threw back his own drink, seeking the calming trail of fire it would bring.
The Likelihood of Lucy (Regency Reformers Book 2) Page 31
