Lady of Pleasure (17 page)

The man lowered his shaven chin, perusing her features. “
Joli
. I certainly I have not seen you before.” He lowered his gaze to her cleavage which was now on display given she had lifted her veil, and lifted 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 casually 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 quickly 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.

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. Oh dear God. “No, thank you.” She’d swallowed enough spirits in one night. The room wasn’t swaying, thank goodness, but it certainly wasn’t standing still, either. It was…
floating
.

Why did she have to go drink all that port?

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 casually 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 deep 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 in bed. 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 also 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 at her. “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. He let out a low whistle. “I didn’t think he had it in him.” Glancing up, 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 one last time. 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 for a chance 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 swung away and stalked down the corridor.

Rules? There were
rules
to getting debauched?

The masked gentleman veered in close. He slowly 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. They have not been.”

“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 champagne 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 and noticed 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 fascinating. 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 none other than 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 hesitated and peered into what appeared to be a bedchamber with no bed.

She cautiously edged in, wondering if she should be concerned.

A veiled woman suddenly 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. Be they male or female, blindfolded or not. 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 here 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.”

She swallowed.

He leaned in closer, the heavy scent of champagne floating from his breath. “Lift your veil one last time. ’Tis customary to let the owner of the house suckle your tongue before the revelry begins.”

She scrambled back. “Parlay.”

He stared. “I will try not to be offended.” He sensuously tapped at his full lips. “Silence from this moment on. Or I will find your voice and parlay be damned.” He pointed at her in warning, turned and strode down the corridor with lethal ease.

She didn’t even want to know who that mad man was.