Edith Layton
Authors: The Challenge
Edith Layton
For Reneé Ritter—
stalwart friend and constant reader
It was a peculiar bordello. The English gentleman was in…
What did he say?” Harmony insisted. “No, what did he…
The weather cleared to a bright, brittle day, winter still…
They stood around the piano and sang an old song…
Odd,” Wycoff commented to Lucy, as they sat together in…
The Swallow, in Richmond, was a fine inn. The richness…
It’s so?” Lucy whispered in shock, not looking at anyone…
Lucy had gone to the library. Wycoff knew she would.
But if he’s not a bad man,” Jamie asked, “why…
A mild morning blossomed into another fragrant spring day. The…
The two men stood at the rail of the Sarabeth,…
The captain’s table was lavishly set, with flowers, good china,…
Before Lucy could take in air to scream it out,…
Wycoff closed the door and turned to her, taking in…
I’d like a room, please, for my son and myself,”…
Lucy was wearing the celestial blue gown Madame Celeste had…
Sukey will be here,” Lucy told Jamie nervously. “You’re not…
We’re so pleased you accepted our invitation, especially after what…
But a man can change,” Gilly insisted again, striking her…
And they have a boy-sized curricle, Uncle said though he…
Wycoff always took care to dress correctly, but tonight he’d…
She wore a long cloak with a voluminous hood that…
Jamie arrived with the chocolate Sukey brought to Lucy’s room…
The shot went through, taking some flesh. It’s in the…
The hackney tore through the streets and barreled into the…
It was a small wedding reception held at a huge…
I
t was a peculiar bordello. The English gentleman was in a position to know. He was well traveled and famous for being broad-minded and so had seen all sorts of brothels: tawdry, exotic, and downright dangerous ones, too. Yet in some ways they were all the same. A man could be aroused simply recognizing their signature scent of heavy perfumes and cigarillo smoke, or by glimpsing peeks of dazzling female flesh in the low light, or from hearing the sultry laughter coming from the shadows. This place smelled of cooking and furniture polish. The lamps were brightly lit. The sound was all guffawing and giggles. And the only female flesh to be seen was on hands and faces.
It seemed too homey to be a house of joy. But it was certainly a successful one.
“Here we are,” his American friend Geoff announced, rubbing his hands together after he slipped off his greatcoat and gloves and gave them to the maid who met them in the hall. Geoff raised his head, sighting someone he knew. “Ho!
There’s
my friend Mary!” he said, hurrying to the side of a plump middle-aged woman directing the maidservant where to put the coats.
As Geoff chatted with the mistress of the house, the English gentleman gravitated from the hall to the blazing hearth in the front parlor. He warmed his hands as he eyed the overstuffed settees, the rag rags on the wooden floors, the porcelain dogs on the mantle, and the framed pictures of England on the flowered walls. The place looked more suited to treating a man to a cozy cup of tea than any kind of carnal ecstasy.
There were seven other men crowded in the room with him, dallying with the four available females he could see. Yet none of the men seemed eager to go upstairs, though the hour was growing late and the weather outside was worsening. He couldn’t blame them. The women looked like they’d be better at feeding a fellow’s appetite for pot pies than his deepest sexual desires.
They weren’t much more exciting than the cabbage roses on the wallpaper. They wore simple high-waisted gowns, in the current style. But they didn’t rise above it. Such gowns might show high, firm breasts, if the lady dared wear her neckline low enough. A woman who wasn’t a lady certainly
would. These women wore their necklines to their chins. Sensible in such weather, but sensibility wasn’t what a man looked for in a whorehouse. The shawls round their shoulders hid whatever else might be interesting. Their faces weren’t. They were young, plain, and unpainted.
Still, even wrapped in their shawls, buttoned to their noses, as innocent of rouge and powder as they were of enticements, they each had at least one fellow listening to their every utterance and another trying to make them smile. The English gentleman was amused. He’d visited the most glittering cities here and on the Continent, and at home in England. This was only a little town on a mighty river in the New World. A brave new world indeed. He smiled in silent salute to the hardihood of American men, who could be so charmed and titillated by the mere thought of what they’d soon pay to do.
But he’d seen stranger things, and wasn’t particularly interested in anything the house had to offer but the simplest bodily comforts. So he availed himself of them. He edged closer to the fire and sighed with pleasure as some of the numbness left his toes. It mightn’t be exciting, but it was a good place to be on a miserable night. Icy drizzle had changed to freezing sleet that tapped on the windowpanes and rattled down the chimney, sending up puffs of steam as it hit the glowing hearth. He’d spoken only truth when he’d said he was cold to the bone and weary, and wanted nothing so much as a clean, soft bed for the night.
“But that’s simple enough—too simple, in fact!” Geoff had protested when he’d told him that earlier in the evening. “You think we’re so provincial here in Virginia? Well, so we are, compared to you. But we’ve more to offer than that. Today I showed you the best acreage in the district. Tomorrow we’ll see the finest horseflesh. Tonight, let me show you the best accommodations—and female company,” he added with a wink, “that we have to offer a gentleman of your distinction! Fetching young things well worth making the acquaintance of,
that
I promise you.”
So he’d let Geoff drive him to this house at the edge of the quaint little town instead of the inn he’d seen when he’d arrived. The man had been helpful, after all, treating him as a friend on the basis of a written introduction, spending the day showing him properties, promising a look at some of the fine horses the district was most famous for. It wouldn’t do to insult him. But they’d spent the raw afternoon in an open carriage, only getting out to pace frozen acres.
Now he found himself in the parlor of a bordello, wanting warmth and rest more than the temporary heat and exertion he’d find in the arms of any of the women he saw entertaining the other men.
Getting old
, he told himself, and smiled, remembering when he wouldn’t have wanted to crawl into any bed by himself—even if it was his deathbed—no matter what his bedmate looked like.
He grew drowsy from the heat. But he wouldn’t allow himself the luxury of sleep until he got a room
to himself, a bolt across its door, his pistol under his pillow. He was too experienced a traveler to let down his guard till then. As always, he was alert to everything that was going on in spite of his weariness. And however cozy it looked, there was something odd here that kept his eyes open, and puzzled him.
The women didn’t come near him.
He wasn’t a vain man. But he knew his worth. He wasn’t foolish enough to advertise it in strange lands, but some things were unavoidable. His accent announced his birth. His appearance, his background. He tried to be inconspicuous, but saw no need to travel in disguise. Besides, he was more comfortable when well washed and dressed. In this backwater, that and his quiet elegance shouted his quality.
His hair was neatly barbered. He was clean shaven and conservatively dressed in a blue jacket, spotless neckcloth, maroon and mustard waistcoat over a white shirt, buff pantaloons, and shining half boots. Every stitch was set by a trained hand, each garment so immaculate it was clear they were carefully cared for by another man. Face and form, every inch of his lean six foot frame proclaimed he was a man of substance.
But he was also a man who had so far attracted nothing but shy glances from the females in the room, and those quickly concealed. That would be strange for him, anywhere. But almost bizarre in a bawdy house. He was only curious about it. He didn’t regret their lack of interest. But someone else did.
“You mustn’t think we’re neglecting you!” his host said as he joined the Englishman again. “It’s only that I had some catching up to do, old friends and neighbors, you know. Wycoff, I give you Mrs. Mary Ames, mistress of this fine establishment.”
Wycoff bowed to the rotund madam as his host went on, “Mary, here’s my new friend Wycoff, a visitor from London town. Friend, and client. Just today he bought a parcel upriver—Carlisle’s land.”
“Oh my!” she said excitedly, “Here’s news indeed! We were so vexed when Mr. Carlisle gave up the place and went back to England, for it was nice to have new neighbors, wasn’t it? But he had no feel for the land, and not a scrap of initiative. He complained about the weather and the food; why, he was even forever going on about how hard it was to get a newspaper, when we have a perfectly good one, but it was the
London Times
no less he was talking about. Are you going to take over his house? Or is your family big enough to need more room, for he’d only three children…
“Oh my!” she gasped as Wycoff brought her plump hand to his lips, manfully not backing away at the scent of onions rising from it. “Now here’s a thing, Geoff,” she rattled on to the man at her side as her cheeks grew pink. “Not many gents take a lady’s hand these days, do they?” She took back her hand and looked at it as though it had just grown there at the end of her arm. Then she beamed at her guest. “But sit down, Mr. Wycoff, please do. You must make yourself comfortable in my establishment, for
it is our home, whatever use we have been forced to put to it. Not that what we do isn’t a pleasure for all concerned, I assure you.
“Would you like some brandy?” she asked, as Wycoff bit back a grin at her plain speaking, “
Lucy!
” she trilled over her shoulder. “Do bring in the tray again, if you please. There’s someone here in need of your bracing spirits!”
Wycoff smiled. A mystery solved. So it was Lucy she wanted to pair him with. Which was why she’d kept the other girls away. He hoped Lucy was worthy of the distinction the madam clearly felt she deserved. Having been raised properly, he could probably rise to the occasion even if she didn’t, he thought with another interior smile. But he’d rather not. Though he enjoyed such sport, he didn’t care for the kind he had to buy. And he was so tired.
But he didn’t worry. Such females appreciated the coin they got more than the act itself, and so whatever happened, this Lucy would be content. And in truth, he didn’t know what would happen, because anything that got him to bed faster would be the truest pleasure for him tonight.
“I don’t know what we’d do without our dear Lucy,” Mrs. Ames commented comfortably. “A help in everything, and to everyone. She sets a fine stitch, cooks like an angel—and sings like one, too! And looks like one, as you’ll soon see. She’s a dear girl, a real treasure, though I should never say so to her face for she’d certainly be embarrassed and so turn it into a jest. She has such a sense of humor—
but never fear! She’d never step out of her place for a second, she’s not a bit rowdy or bawdy. She has such sensitivity, though she tries to hide it, but who can hide such a fine upbringing? And why should she want to? But she always wants to put everyone at their ease, it’s her way, and shows what a lady she is. She’s originally from England, too. Why, you two should have so much in common. I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”
Wycoff nodded, though his lips twitched. She was extolling the girl for a lot more than she was offering her for tonight. But who knew? Maybe that was how they found husbands for women in this part of the world. He’d seen odder things in his travels. There were more men than women here, after all, and it was a raw new land, and lonely in the countryside, too. They said Americans did things at a faster clip. He smiled at the thought of the same thing being done in London, of dowagers and chaperones offering young women to their suitors at the end of each night at Almack’s. The thought tickled him; it mightn’t be such a bad idea at that.
But still…something fastidious in him cringed at the thought of this homey little woman trying to tout her whore as his possible lifemate. Then something realistic in him sneered for such scruples, reminding him who he was, why he was here, and what he’d been and done. He was no one to cast stones. “Thank you, ma’am,” he drawled. “I’m sure I’ll find her charming, as well as entertaining.”
He was sure he’d find her available, and nothing
more. But he was a gentleman, compliments came easily to his lips, and his face seldom showed more than he wanted it to. Which was why his reaction was surprising, even to him, when the woman with the tray of bottles and glasses came to them. He blinked, and frankly stared as she put her burden down on a nearby tabletop.
As she straightened, she looked at him and paused for a second, too. Her face lit with a certain sudden gladness. Her eyes kindled. But she seemed to recall herself and the look in them was quickly quenched. She lowered her gaze to a bottle on her tray. “Some of this brandy, sir?” she asked him calmly in a well bred voice. “Although many of the men here tonight prefer the home-brewed sort, I recommend this. It’s come all the way from France and is the best we have.”
He was glib and practiced, and so his words came automatically. His lips answered while his astonished eyes wandered over her, assessing her, coveting her, as pleasant surprise suffused him. “All the way from France, you say? Since I come all the way from England, I think yes, thank you, I’d like a taste of a fellow traveler. After all, you come from afar, too, don’t you, my dear?”
It was her turn to blink. A pretty process, he mused, watching her recover her composure. But anything she did would be. She was lovely. Not as young as the other women, nor nearly as old as her employer. Not a dewy miss, nor a matron. He judged her to be over thirty, but not by much. A per
fect age for him, wise enough to know her mind as well as her trade, not old enough to be jaded or disgusted with it. She’d have conversation as well as expertise. He was suddenly delighted he’d been talked into coming here tonight. He could hardly wait until they were alone and the night was theirs to do with as they wished. In fact, he found himself wishing he’d met her a year ago. Then, remembering her profession, he was very glad he had not. But for tonight? Perfection.
He eyed her appreciatively. She was in the full flower of her womanhood. And a glorious one it was.
She had long, dark eyelashes over those amazingly dark blue eyes. Streamers of curling chestnut hair threatened to escape from the ribbon holding it high on her head, keeping it clear of her slender neck. White skin, unlined except for some traces of remembered laughter at the corners of her tilted eyes and rosy mouth, unblemished, fine grained and pure, except for a dash of pale freckles over that delightfully straight little nose—which only served to save it from looking too severe. As though she could be with those sumptuous, plush lips of hers. Her mouth fascinated him. Her lower lip was almost ridiculously succulent, the upper bow, surely shaped by the hand of an angel.
She was so vividly attractive it took him a moment to canvas her form. A bit more than average height, with much more than average delights. Slender, yet bountiful where he most wished a
woman’s figure to be, her form made a mockery of the modesty of her proper blue woolen gown. He couldn’t wait to have it off so he could discover more. He stood straighter, wide awake now.
But she was staring at him as though she couldn’t quite believe she’d heard him right. The back of his neck prickled. He felt oddly self-conscious, as though he’d misspoken. That in itself was a rarity; in a place like this, bizarre. But Americans were said to be puritanical. He hadn’t seen it himself in his travels, but he’d only just arrived in this district; maybe it was so here. Or maybe it was false gentility. Whatever it was, the entrancing Lucy had been taken aback, and he felt like a salacious fool. He shuddered at seeming to be one of those sniggering, clumsy, hot-eyed men who made women squirm. He never enjoyed insulting a female, whatever class she was. He especially didn’t want to upset this one. His comment about his taste, or rather, about the possibility of tasting her, had clearly startled her.
