Duchess of Seduction (Hearts in Hiding Book 3)

by Beverley Oakley

  “Speak to him? Why, if these are nothing but rumors, as you’re so sure is the case, you’ll not want to wound darling Justin’s sensibilities by suggesting you believe ill of him.”

  “Well, I can hardly don a disguise and start creeping after him at all hours of the night!” Cressida snapped.

  Catherine shrugged, her eyes glittering over the rim of the teacup she raised to her lips. “And why not? You must discover the truth for yourself and make the most of the power you have over him, Cressy. We women have little enough of it.”

  She might resent Catherine. She might think her brazen and insufferable. A bully.

  But Cressida could see the merit of her cousin’s outrageous, terrifying words. If she couldn’t simply return to offering her husband the full conjugal rights he was entitled to as per their marriage contract, and if she couldn’t find the courage to explain her fears, and question him directly, then she must find some other means of learning, exactly, Justin was doing. Only then could she decide how far she could tolerate the current situation.

  Madam Plumb’s Salon.

  Catherine had the address at her fingertips and now Cressida had no excuse, for once again Justin had chosen to spend the evening away from her.

  There was a distinct chill in the night air as she stepped out of her hired hackney and her hands felt cold and clammy in their York tan gloves as she fought for the courage to raise the polished brass door knocker of the unassuming, four square house in front of her. Everything seemed so alien, so frightening, without her husband or the children, or even a maid, beside her.

  But Cressida was not going to become an object of gossip or remain a miserable wife without first trying to discover the truth for herself. Several times during the past couple of days she’d caught Justin staring at her. Once, locking glances, he’d opened his mouth as if he would say something, his look meaningful. But a maid had entered the breakfast room and the conversation had then turned to the food—followed, as usual, by the children.

  Then, yesterday, after the pudding had been cleared away and Cressida and Justin were alone for a few moments in the dining room, battling, it seemed, with an oppressive silence, Cressida had been the one to initiate an exchange.

  But she’d got no further then, “Justin, I—” before words failed her.

  She closed her eyes and shuddered at the horror of ending that sentence. Justin, I want to know if you have a mistress. If she couldn’t even think it, then how could she say it to Justin? No, it couldn’t be true. And she did not have the fortitude for how disappointed Justin would be in her if he knew she seriously doubted his constancy when it wasn’t true.

  That was what she’d come to verify tonight—and didn’t it make her feel a thief in the night? Justin’s love, she knew she had in abundance, but his constancy...? If he had strayed, she had only herself to blame.

  With the door knocker still in her hand, she reflected on a boldness she’d not dreamed she possessed. All those things Catherine had accused her of returned like a shower of reproach. First she’d exhorted Cressida to learn the truth for herself. Then her cousin had become sneering and disdainful as she’d gone on to advise Cressida to accept the inevitable as Catherine had done years ago. It was true that Cressida was timid by nature, and certainly compared with Cousin Catherine, but she could not allow Catherine to brand Justin complacently as no better than any other man.

  The ring of the horses’ hooves as the hackney that had dropped her here now disappeared around the corner was the loneliest, most frightening noise she had ever heard. In her whole life, she’d never been alone or unaccompanied after dark. Nannies, governesses, Justin and then children had accompanied her everywhere.

  Adjusting the thick gauze veil over her face, Cressida took three deep breaths for courage and knocked loudly. She was trembling so much she thought she’d crumple upon the spot.

  She took a shaky breath. She had to follow through with this. Succumbing to her usual fear was not an option. She had to be able to inform Catherine that her husband had never set foot within the notorious—as she’d now learned Mrs. Plumb’s salon definitely was—den of vice and iniquity. Regardless of what she discovered, she’d tell Catherine that, anyway. No, Cressida had to know for herself.

  Within seconds of her knock, she was admitted into a dim, quiet passage lined with paintings of women in various states of undress, the heavy atmosphere overlaid by a strong scent of musk. She felt the thickness of her veil for reassurance as she battled to combat the nausea caused by the sudden surge of fear before pressing her hands briefly against the passage wall to steady herself .

  She could do this. She had to do this.

  Her courage was bolstered by the sound of a confident contralto issuing through the door that had been opened for her by a slip of a parlor maid. Italian opera... Excitement mingled with trepidation as the girl took her cloak and the distant sound of clapping carried through from the next room.

  However, by the time Cressida had settled herself on a blue brocade chair, she was dismayed to find a tall, balding young man offering the company—of about thirty, altogether—a passionate recitation of a passage from Ivanhoe. If only Cressida had timed her arrival a few minutes earlier, but Thomas had been fractious, and— She stopped mid-thought. The truth was that, although Justin was out, she had searched for just about every excuse not to come this evening and face her terrors.

  Now her usual prevarication, if not cowardice, had resulted in the loss of her prime opportunity for seeing for herself this Madame Zirelli—whom Catherine claimed had ensnared her husband, a theory Cressida was desperate to discount— before deciding how best to act.

  Casting around the room for a woman who fitted the vague description Catherine had given her of a dark-haired woman nearing forty, she decided Madame Zirelli had quit the scene of her rousing performance.

  Of course, no one with pretensions to respectability would be seen dead at Madam Plumb’s, which was why most of those assembled were in masquerade while another handful were, like herself, heavily veiled.

  Smoothing the skirts of her black silk gown, Cressida tried to swallow down her nervousness at seeing several gentlemen whom she knew were acquaintances of Justin. Of Justin, however, there was no sign, which made her vague, desperate plan seem all the more ill-conceived and not properly thought out. Was it any wonder her husband had grown tired of a wife who seemed capable of little more than nursing his children?

  Clapping dutifully as the current performer, the dome-headed orator, came to the end of his repertoire, her mind focused on her next move. What if someone addressed her? Asked her name? She had no idea how matters were conducted in a place like this, or indeed what went on other than music and conversation, though she could not plead complete ignorance. Catherine had taken such delight in telling Cressida about what kind of salon Mrs. Plumb ran. Cressida knew most wives would believe they had no choice but to turn a blind eye. They certainly wouldn’t venture out to visit such a salon as Cressida was doing right now. Perhaps most wives would consider Mrs. Plumb was doing a service, providing a meeting place for nefarious assignations in the dim chambers beyond if their husbands considered their amatory needs were not being met by their wives. Perhaps most wives considered that such discretion shown by their husbands, in avoiding bawdy houses or more public carte blanches, was acceptable. The idea sickened Cressida. It made her feel physically ill to think of what Catherine had said. That people like Justin—and even apparently well-connected, irreproachable women like herself—came here to meet a lover. If Catherine were with her, her cousin would no doubt claim that Justin and the Italian warbler she had heard on her arrival were closeted together at this moment, engaged in the very activities Cressida had once enjoyed so greatly but that now terrified her.

  Covering her face with her hands, she recalled Catherine’s gleeful revelations. She must not dwell on them. After all, it was only gossip, and Catherine thrived on gossip. It was to settle her doubts that she had c
ome here.

  Even as she tried to bolster herself with this, she acknowledged that as Justin was rarely home these days, she must assume he was seeking company more diverting than her own.

  She was only half aware of the emptying of the drawing room— the withdrawal of patrons into chambers beyond while those remaining made small talk around a table of glazed ham and plover’s eggs.

  Her misery enveloped her like a cloak of heavy, green slime. Could it be true? Could Justin be amongst those who’d silently slid into the shadows? Oh, she was certain she retained her husband’s heart and his regard, but what was a man to do when denied his physical needs? Cressida had barely let him do more than caress her in ten months.

  “Would you care for some refreshment, madam?”

  It was Mrs. Plumb, judging by the description Catherine had given her. Coarse, plump Mrs. Plumb, dressed like Cressida in respectable widow’s weeds, smiling unctuously at her as she offered her a fizzing champagne coupe. Glancing about her, Cressida realized she was alone amidst a sea of empty blue brocade chairs.

  The woman leaned closer, and her smile was conspiratorial. “Or perhaps there is a certain gentleman, known or otherwise, to whom you seek an introduction. Madame Plumb prides herself on ensuring the pleasure of her patrons.” She thrust out her hand and gripped Cressida’s wrist. “Madam, are you all right?”

  The woman’s vulgar words brought the bile rushing up Cressida’s throat. Pushing away, she hurried toward the door, past a knot of people gathered near the supper table, to find herself in a darkened passage. What on earth had possessed her to come to such a place? She was out of her mind. Without doubt, she was out of her depth.

  In the gloom, she observed a gentleman walking down the corridor, head bent, but when he raised it, as he drew almost level, he was smiling at her. And there was invitation implicit in the sweep of his speculative gaze.

  Fear and horror propelled Cressida through the first door she came to, hoping wildly it would offer an escape route to the street outside. She had to get as far away as she could from Mrs. Plumb, her patrons and their odious assumptions. Who knew what the woman was going to suggest for Cressida’s entertainment? A quick fumble with that man who looked like he was treading the corridors in search of conquest? He’d been handsome enough, but not so young that there wasn’t someone at home waiting for him?

  Madam Plumb’s establishment was not a place for a gently reared female, and the sooner Cressida was back home where she belonged, the better. It was time to admit defeat. With relief, she decided that this was definitely a place Justin would never visit.

  Closing the door behind her, she closed her eyes as she sank against it, waiting for the drumming in her mind to abate. Blessed relief it was to be alone, though she wouldn’t rest until she’d found her way onto the street and freedom. Her hand were clammy with fear and her mouth was dry, but a calming scent of rosewater dissipated her nausea. After a moment, she became conscious of a faint singing in the background—soft, gentle, harmonious voices.

  Disoriented, Cressida opened her eyes and gazed upon the countenance of the most angelic creature she’d ever seen.

  “Have you come to join us?” asked the young woman, who smiled when Cressida jerked back in fear.

  Dressed in flowing, diaphanous robes, her long, fair hair rippled from a high Madonna forehead, and her eyes were blue and guileless. “My name is Ariane.” There was something mesmerizing about her gaze and, as if she had no will of her own, Cressida stretched out her hands as Ariane whispered, “You look as if you have lost your way and don’t know how to find it again.” She squeezed Cressida’s hand unleashing a powerful sense of comfort and hope. “I think I understand, for I was once like you—fearful. But there’s nothing to be afraid of in this house. Not if you are looking for love.”

  Oh, she was looking for love but not the kind that could be found in a house like this.

  Strangely, though, the young woman’s gaze was compelling enough to keep Cressida rooted to the spot. What could be the harm if she stayed a little? There were only women in this room, after all, for she could see several in the background through the strange mist-like substance that seemed to have been part of their performance.

  Cressida glanced from her severe garments of disguise to the young woman before her. Everyone tonight had been dressed in masquerade but this young woman looked as if she had nothing to hide, as if she’d stepped straight from a mythical painting, adding to Cressida’s sense of unreality that she should be in such a place. Ariane was the most beautiful woman Cressida had ever laid eyes upon. She was also the most undressed, with her gossamer robes leaving little to the imagination.

  Blushing, Cressida realised their hands were now linked, while this young woman, Ariane, was one of four similarly dressed ‘goddesses’ in the room. All smiled kindly at her with understanding in their eyes. Suddenly, she felt emboldened.

  “I don’t know why I came,” she blurted out. “I heard men and women meet lovers in this house. But that’s not why I came. I haven’t come to meet a lover.” Fearful, suddenly, of being misconstrued, she pulled away her hands and backed toward the door. “I’m not like that.” She tried to steady her breathing. “I saw a man in the corridor just now who looked at me as if I were like—”

  “Like one of us?” Ariane supplied with a smile. She’d followed and now began to stroke Cressida’s arm, her soft, ungloved touch searing sensation through her. “A Vestal Virgin? That’s what we’re called, you know.” Ariane’s laugh was a more sensual than Cressida would have expected. “If he was dark and handsome with a piratical leer, then he was probably my husband.”

  “Your husband?”

  Ariane nodded. “You sound shocked. Yet Mrs. Plumb’s Salon of Sin is for everyone like us—star-crossed lovers or those burdened by unhappy marriages.” She began to stroke Cressida’s forearm as she led her around the room. “My husband and I eloped five years ago, but it’s a secret we must keep until he turns five-and-twenty and can therefore claim his inheritance.” She sighed. “So we meet here, where I survive by dancing for the entertainment of others. We all have a different story, and—see?—I have told you, a stranger, mine within a moment of meeting you. Unburdening oneself can be great catharsis, as my friends will attest.” She indicated the three other young women, whose mouths all turned up in a sympathy that shone from their eyes.

  Cressida stared. In harmony, they’d seemed as one, but now that they’d drawn closer and the candlelight flickered across their features, she saw the tallest was crowned with a cascade of jet black hair as glossy as a raven’s wing, her sharp, pretty little face viewing Cressida with fixed interest. The other two were fair, the youngest of them rubbing swollen eyes, suggesting she’d just been crying.

  “If you heard our stories,” Ariane said softly, “you’d realize you were little different from the rest of us and that we are here, like you, looking for the same thing — love.”

  “I have love,” Cressida said woodenly, looking from their four earnest faces to the dim, ordinary room beyond. “I have a loving husband at home.”

  The women exchanged looks which made Cressida cringe inside though she fought the urge to add emphasis to her statement.

  “Except that you think he’s here, and that’s why you’ve bravely set out to search for him. You think he’s been taking pleasure in a house like this,” Ariane paused meaningfully, adding, “with women like us.”

  Cressida shook her head. “No, I’m sure he’d never—”

  “Nor would we, for we are not lightskirts who sell our bodies for the pleasure of men,” said the youngest woman fiercely, dabbing her eyes with her chiffon scarf as she broke away from the comfort of her companions to confront Cressida. “Though often one’s body is the only commodity we have, and selling it is the only way to stop from starving when a woman has no man to support her.” Her voice trembled. “So we dance, and while we are young and still have our looks, men pay for the pleasure of watching us. We
’re not forced to do anything we don’t want to do at Madam Plumb’s salon, for she is not like some women who run houses of ill repute and profit from defenseless women and who are just as wicked and depraved as the men who frequent these establishments. We’ve come to this house because Mrs. Plumb protects those who have been ruined by such men and women, but we are not”—she gulped—“cyprians or jades.”

  “You’ve explained that more than thoroughly enough, Minna,” Ariane said, her voice sharper than Cressida had heard it as Minna started to cry and was comforted by the two other ‘Vestal Virgins’.

  Ariane tilted her head and said, conspiratorially, “Minna has been here nearly two years and is happy enough after the horrors she endured before. Tonight it’s been a great shock for her to see the young man who once courted her and to whom she lost her heart when she was a parson’s daughter in her first season out,” Ariane explained. “Unlike me, who’s only been taught how to play a lady when expedient, she grew up privileged in a fine house with a horse and carriage. Her fall from grace has been hard for her.”

  Cressida pressed her hand to her throat. She’d never met women like this. ‘Ruined’ women were contagious, their sin likely to contaminate the rarified purity of well-born women like Cressida. But now she was talking to them, her own subterfuge and disguise lessening the chasm between them and blurring the lines of distinction. She was shocked to find how drawn she was to them.

  “Then why is she here?” she whispered.

  “Because she was ruined on her first visit to the capital to stay with her godmother in Mayfair,” said the red-haired Vestal Virgin sadly, extricating herself from Minna’s side and draping an arm around Cressida’s shoulders. “During a shopping expedition, she lost her way when she paused to look into a street window and then found her godmother gone. Being such an innocent, she had no idea of the danger she courted when she accepted the invitation of a seemingly kind and elderly woman to take refreshment while a boy was supposedly dispatched to take a message to Minna’s aunt. This woman happened to procure girls for Mrs. Saville’s brothel in Soho. Now Minna is ruined and she can never go home.”