An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

She bit her bottom lip. “I think you misunderstand why—”

  “She’ll need a walking dress, too, and a good pair of half boots.”

  “Actually, I don’t need any of—”

  “Four sets of night rails and matching dressing gowns, two for winter and two for…not winter.”

  Madame’s lips curled into a smile, and not just at the sexual innuendo. Every time Veronica attempted to interrupt her and decline the dresses, Madame added more to the list, which Madame Barnaud dutifully listed in her little account book.

  Oh, that woman! Veronica didn’t know whether to shake her at the trouble she’d cause for her with Merritt…or hug her for it.

  “And all the accessories she’ll need for each outfit—gloves, reticules, hats, parasols, wraps, shoes, stockings…everything you can think of. Oh, and fur muffs.”

  “Muffs?” Veronica choked out in disbelief.

  “Of course.” Madame blinked as if the answer were obvious. “Winter is coming.”

  “Of course,” Veronica repeated in a stunned mumble.

  “Charge Mr. Rivers for payment,” Madame ordered. “He keeps a small town house at the west end of Red Lion Square. Send the accounting for everything there.”

  He used to have a town house, Veronica amended silently with trepidation. Once the tally was delivered, he’d have to sell it to settle the debt.

  Madame Barnaud smiled like the cat who’d gotten into the cream. “Everything will be finished within the fortnight. I’ll assign extra seamstresses to work on it.”

  And undoubtedly charge Merritt double for the additional expense. Despite a prick of guilt, Veronica knew not to argue or the two women might just decide that she also needed a riding habit. With a matching horse as an accessory.

  Madame Barnaud paused with the pencil tip resting against the page and glanced up at Veronica. “And the direction where the finished goods should be sent?”

  Veronica hesitated. A swift sting of shame pierced her, so strongly that the blood drained from her face.

  She couldn’t—simply couldn’t—admit that she lived at the Court of Miracles! Not after the way the two women had fussed over her as if she were a real lady, as if she deserved satin ball gowns and fur-lined wraps. She couldn’t bear to think of how they would look at her if they knew the truth about her current life, if they ever discovered what she’d done in her past—

  “Have them sent here,” Madame Noir interjected. She crossed to Veronica, nudged her over in front of the dressing table, and turned her toward the mirror. “That way, she can try them all on and have any last-minute alterations done right here.” She gathered Veronica’s hair and lifted it onto the crown of her head, then pulled loose a few tendrils to frame her face. Madame studied the style as if trying it out for the ball. “Don’t you agree, Miss Chase?”

  She looked at her reflection in the mirror. A stranger in pretty muslin and upswept hair stared back. No, not a stranger—the woman she wanted to be. The woman she once thought she would be until her life all went so horribly wrong. Sophisticated, urbane, feminine, cultured…someone who had worth and measure. Someone who mattered to the world, rather than one of the fleas it seemed always to be trying to shake off.

  For a few precious moments, she could reject the unwanted existence fate had thrust her into. She could let herself believe a new life was possible…

  “Yes,” she answered a bit breathlessly. Then she added more boldly, as if daring the woman in the mirror to contradict her, “I think that would be lovely.”

  “Perfect.” With a knowing smile, Madame released Veronica’s hair and stepped back to show Madame Barnaud from the room.

  The modiste departed with a flurry of air kisses and goodbyes in French that came from the streets of Marseilles and not the Parisian courts where the woman claimed to have been employed before fleeing the revolution. She might have fled France, but it wasn’t from the Louvre. And it wasn’t to escape the guillotine.

  “Thank you for all that,” Veronica told Madame Noir once the woman had left.

  “It’s nothing. A little gift for you, that’s all.”

  One at Merritt’s expense. “Mr. Rivers won’t be amused when he sees the tally.”

  She smiled wickedly. “And that is my gift to myself.” She turned her back to Veronica and gestured at the row of tiny buttons that kept her tight bodice in place. “You can repay me by unfastening me. But no straying hands,” she warned over her shoulder, “or I’ll have to charge you extra for the pleasure. I like you, but business is business after all.”

  “Of course.” Her lips twisted wryly. Veronica could see beneath the woman’s surface now. All bluster and conceit…the toughness she showed the world was nothing but a façade.

  Oh, Madame was mysterious, certainly. There was no doubt of that. Or how carefully she must have crafted that pretense over the years, as carefully as she’d decorated both the room around them and herself to create the perfect image of exotic sensuality.

  But she also wasn’t the woman she claimed to be. Veronica could see that as easily as her own reflection in the mirror. Merritt—and, apparently, most of English society—had been hoodwinked. She was no more a former courtesan to the emperor than a nun.

  A knock rapped softly at the door.

  “That will be my maid with the breakfast tray.” The last button slipped free, and Madame walked into her bedroom. “Let her in, and help yourself.”

  Veronica did as requested. The maid set the tray onto the tea table in front of the settee and arranged small plates of food around a silver chocolate pot, bowl of strawberries, and rack of toast.

  Heavens, Madame must have thought she was feeding an army…or expected Merritt to return and join them for breakfast. She could have saved herself the trouble. Merritt wouldn’t be returning any time soon, Veronica knew. Not until dusk at the earliest, and then only to check on the progress of her lessons. Or, more likely, to see if she’d fled.

  “Will that be all, my lady?” the maid asked.

  My lady. A warm sensation spun low in her belly. Veronica wasn’t a lady, not by any means. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to correct the maid because she enjoyed the sound of it too much. Just as she’d enjoyed being fussed over by Madame Barnaud and dressed in fine silks and velvets.

  “Is there anything else you’d like?”

  Not to be woken from this dream. Veronica smiled her gratitude. “This is fine, thank you.”

  Madame swept back into the room and settled onto the stool in front of her dressing table. She’d changed into a peacock-print silk dressing gown, cinched at her slender waist.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” The maid began to take the pins out of Madame’s hair, letting it down carefully. “Cook sent up strawberry tartlets for you. She knows they’re your favorite.”

  “How thoughtful of you both.”

  Veronica pretended to study the breakfast dishes as she surreptitiously watched from the corner of her eye as Madame interacted with her maid. Gone was the hard façade she’d shown Merritt earlier. So was the steel-spined businesswoman she’d been with Madame Barnaud. Now, she looked like any other Mayfair society woman going through her morning routine and overseeing her household. Except that her household was a brothel.

  “I’ll wear the yellow day dress when I wake this afternoon,” Madame instructed. “And the blue-and-gold velvet gown this evening.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid removed the last pin and set them onto the dressing table.

  As she rose gracefully to her feet, Madame combed her fingers through her hair to shake it loose over her shoulders. She nodded at Veronica. “Miss Chase will be our guest for the next two days. Have a room prepared for her, and please see that all her needs are met.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” A curious glance in Veronica’s direction followed, but the maid knew not to ask who she was or why she was
here. Questions were dangerous in a brothel.

  “That will be all, thank you.” Madame dismissed her by reaching for the chocolate pot and giving the molinet a quick twirl to whip up the chocolate. “I’ll send for you in a few hours when I’m done napping. You may come for Miss Chase when her room is ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The maid drew the heavy drapes in the adjoining bedroom so Madame could sleep away her morning, as she most likely did every day. She sketched a curtsy to both women and left.

  “You seem surprised,” Madame commented, holding out the cup of chocolate toward Veronica. “Didn’t you think I have a maid?”

  She accepted the chocolate with a sting of chagrin. “I didn’t expect uniformed servants.”

  “I keep a full staff here.” Madame reached for one of the strawberry tartlets. “Maids, footmen, housekeeper, butler.” She took a bite of the tartlet and gave an appreciative sound. “And the best cook this side of Piccadilly.”

  Prodded by Madame, Veronica helped herself to one of the berries. The tartness of the berry followed by the sweet velvet of the chocolate—divine. Luxuries she never would have expected to find in a brothel.

  “This place is my business, but it’s also my home and the home of the other women who work here.” Madame finished the tartlet, her lips nearly as red as the strawberry filling. She delicately brushed the crumbs from her fingertips, then reached for the chocolate pot to pour a cup for herself. “I keep it just as I would any other house in Mayfair, including making certain I have the staff necessary to run it properly and ensure it remains a safe haven for everyone who lives here.”

  “Other brothels don’t do that.”

  “Other brothels don’t cater to the same level of clientele that I do.” Pride laced her voice.

  “Is that why Merritt keeps threatening to shut you down?” Veronica cast a glance out the window at the row of buildings lining the opposite side of the street, one of which housed Almack’s. “You’re awfully close to their world.”

  “Mr. Rivers is a mere nuisance, although he certainly has the power to do exactly as he threatens.” She warned quietly, her gaze intense, “Do not underestimate that man.”

  Veronica had already learned that lesson.

  “I do as he asks because it’s in my best interests to remain on the favorable side of a barrister, not because of his threats.” Madame’s red lips curled slowly. “And he’s very entertaining.”

  Yes. Veronica had learned that lesson, too. Quite well.

  “London is full of women who have no choice but to sell their bodies to survive. Here, I provide a place for them.” Madame gestured a hand to indicate the house around them. “But make no mistake—I am first and always a businesswoman. But my business also helps the dozen or so women I’m able to hire, women who would still be forced to sell themselves but otherwise not have anyone to offer support. In exchange for a portion of their earnings, I let them live here in comfortable rooms and ensure they have everything they need, including security, clothing, food, and servants to take care of them and the house.”

  Veronica thought of the Court of Miracles, how she and Filipe worked to provide the same for the people who lived there. “So they’re family to you?”

  “Of course not.” Madame sent her a bemused look. “They’re my employees. They’re business assets, and a woman in my business always takes care of her assets.”

  “Yes,” she mumbled against the rim of the cup as she took a sip of chocolate, hiding her amusement. “I suppose she does.”

  “It’s quite simple. I offer them protection, and in return, they offer me their loyalty.”

  In that, Madame was no different from Filipe. He had made his way through the world by constructing a web of favors and opportunities that allowed him to profit from others as they profited, just as she had. He’d also carefully crafted a persona that allowed him to hide the truth of his past, just as she had.

  Veronica stared down into the dark puddle inside the cup. “Merritt said you were at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor.”

  “I was. Vienna before 1806 was simply amazing.” Madame’s eyes brightened with a faraway gleam. “Such grand palaces, gardens, fountains—music everywhere, even drifting from open windows as you walked past on the avenues below. Ladies wore wide dresses of shimmering satins, and distinguished gentlemen donned their red heels, all vying to be noticed at court.”

  “How lovely.” Veronica paused as she traced a fingertip around the rim of her cup. “But while you might have been at the Viennese court, you weren’t a high-ranking courtesan.”

  She raised her eyes in time to see a stunned expression flash across Madame’s face. Caught.

  “I’m not judging or accusing,” she amended. “It doesn’t matter to me what you did in your past. We all have our secrets.” The surprise in Madame’s eyes darkened inscrutably. “But I would like to know how you came to be here, how you created a better life for yourself than the one fate gave you.”

  “Tit for tat,” Madame purred, having corralled her surprise behind the mysterious air she cultivated. Then she attacked—“Who are you?”

  “I told you.” She carefully sipped the chocolate, more to hide any stray emotions that might be visible on her face than because she wanted a drink. “I’m a thief-taker.” Of sorts.

  “Hmm.” The disbelief in that single sound resonated as loudly as cannon fire. “And where do you live? It isn’t Mayfair.”

  “Saffron Hill. At the Court of Miracles.” Setting the unwanted chocolate aside, she summoned what shredded dignity she possessed and lifted her chin to boldly meet the woman’s gaze. “I’m certain you’ve heard of it.”

  Madame’s eyes narrowed as she studied Veronica, the rim of the cup poised at her lips. “You might very well be a female thief-taker. After all, I’ve also heard rumors that fairies exist.” She lowered the cup and reached for a piece of toast. “You might live in Saffron Hill now, too, but you certainly didn’t come from there.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You possess a continental accent beneath flawless English, and I didn’t teach you about society manners so much as simply provide reminders of what you’d already been taught.” She waved the toast at Veronica. “The way you talk and move, how you know how to dance and curtsy and hold yourself—how you know French. Oh yes.” Her eyes sparkled at Veronica’s surprise. “Your facial expressions were quite clear whenever Madame Barnaud spoke. You understood perfectly everything she said.”

  There was no point in denying it. “Every word.” Veronica paused before adding, “She’s not from royal Paris, you know. She’s lying about her past.”

  “So are you. But she makes fine dresses, so I’m willing to live with her lies.” Madame nibbled at the toast, but the tone of her voice was deadly serious. “Why should I be willing to live with yours?”

  “Because I make fine dresses,” she quipped.

  Madame’s lips curled in amusement.

  “And because neither of us seems to have a choice.”

  Madame’s smile faded. “Who are you?”

  “No one important.”

  Madame set the unfinished toast onto her plate. “Ah, but Mr. Rivers seems to think you are.” She reached for the chocolate pot to refill her cup and mused, “I wonder what he knows about your past.”

  Very little. And I intend to keep it that way. “About as much as he knows about yours.”

  Madame paused in midpour. The threat was subtle but clear.

  Veronica was done sparring. Now she went for the heart. “You see, I’ve known courtesans my whole life. I know how they move through daily life and society, how they conduct their business. I would assume one would have to be good—very good—to succeed in Vienna, in the presence of the emperor himself, no less.” She paused for emphasis, the beat of a sword thrust. “And the good ones never end up in b
rothels. Not even running them.” Touché. She selected a coveted strawberry tartlet from the plate. “Who are you?”

  Madame brought the cup to her lips and smiled against the rim, her cat-like eyes gleaming as she repeated, “No one important.”

  “Well then. It would be a shame if Merritt’s time was wasted by learning the truth about the pasts of two women who aren’t at all important.” Veronica popped the tartlet into her mouth. “Don’t you think?”

  Madame’s smile widened against her cup, and their gazes met for a long moment, each recognizing the other’s power to inflict damage and knowing they were both on equal ground. Oddly enough, respect blossomed between them because of it.

  “I agree,” Madame finally answered.

  The tension eased from her shoulders, and Veronica pressed, “I don’t want to know the truth about your past, and I don’t really care who you were then.” But she was desperate for other information she could use to pull herself out of the hell her life had become. “What I’d like to know is how you ended up here, a place I’m assuming is far better than wherever you came from.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, almost pleadingly, “How did you do it? How did you take control of your life?”

  “Very carefully.” The enigmatic answer carried a finality with it. Apparently, the mysterious woman had no intention of disclosing anything about her past, including that.

  Madame turned away from the breakfast tray to sit at her dressing table. She set down the cup of chocolate and picked up a bottle of lotion, poured out a dollop on her palm, and rubbed her hands together.

  She looked at Veronica in the mirror. “Mr. Rivers isn’t the kind of gentleman who takes a mistress. Certainly not one from Saffron Hill.”

  That stung, more than she wanted to admit. But then, didn’t the truth often hurt?

  Madame didn’t lower her gaze as she rubbed the lotion over her face and neck. “How did you become involved with him?”

  “Very carefully,” Veronica repeated dryly.

  A knowing smile stretched tightly across Madame’s face. “A barrister with a thief-taker…yes, I’d wager so.” She sensuously rubbed the lotion down her neck and beneath her dressing gown. “Mr. Rivers is a young bachelor of the ton, so God only knows what kinds of idiotic ideas are passing through his head about you.” Then she rubbed the lotion over both forearms, and Veronica was struck by how porcelain her skin was. But then, Madame obviously didn’t spend a lot of time outside during sunlit hours. “You, though, have a tendre for him.” Her eyes gleamed with wicked amusement. “Or for parts of him, anyway.”