My Lady of Misrule: Wicked Winter Nights, Book One

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Delilah Lacey gave a haughty sniff as she approached the fireside. A tall, slender woman—her pale pink silk robe, only loosely tied about the waist, left little to the imagination—Minerva noted she moved with grace even if her manner was less than inviting.

  Claiming a nearby sofa covered in cherry-red damask the courtesan said just as coolly, “You didn’t leave a card and my housekeeper didn’t catch your name.”

  Minerva faced her squarely. “Mrs. Persephone.”

  Miss Lacey gave a short bark of laughter. “Oh, I like it,” she said, relaxing back against the silk cushions. The robe slipped open a little revealing the curve of one of her full breasts and the ivory flesh of one bare, slender leg. “Very mysterious.” Twirling a loose curl about one of her fingers she added, “So, Mrs. Persephone, what can I do for you this fine day?”

  Minerva lifted her chin. “I have a few questions for you, Miss Lacey. Questions about your past.”

  The young woman’s green eyes narrowed and her gaze grew harder. “Do you now?”

  “Yes.” Minerva reached inside her reticule, withdrew several pound notes, and placed them on the low mahogany table between them.

  The courtesan’s gaze shifted to her housekeeper who still hovered on the other side of the room. “Dolores, I’d like a pot of coffee. Please close the door on your way out.”

  The housekeeper bobbed a quick curtsy. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now,” Miss Lacey leaned forward and picked up the pound notes with long, elegant fingers, “I’ll answer to the best of my ability, Mrs. Persephone. Although sometimes,” she tapped a fingernail against her temple, “my memory does slip a little.”

  “I see.” Minerva was unable to disguise the note of sarcasm in her voice. It was a good thing she’d trusted her intuition and had brought a substantial roll of pound notes with her to help loosen the cyprian’s tongue. She placed another note on the table. “Perhaps this will help, Miss Lacey.”

  “Perhaps...” Miss Lacey’s wide mouth curved into a feline smile as she tucked the money into the sleeve of her robe. “And please, call me, Delilah.”

  Minerva pressed her lips together. Considering that was the name David would have used when he was with her, there was no way in Hades she was going to say it. Instead she said, “I’d like to know where you worked before you came here. To this house.”

  Again that short laugh. “Good heavens, is that all you want to know?” Miss Lacey said with a toss of her red curls. “I was employed at Pimpernel House. A brothel in Covent Garden. And a very fine time I had there too.”

  “And that’s where you met Lord Harlow, the protector who purchased this house for you,” Minerva said flatly. Her attempt to use a neutral tone of voice had failed miserably as Miss Lacey’s expression immediately grew guarded.

  Nevertheless, she responded to Minerva’s statement. “Yes. I did.”

  Minerva placed five more pound notes on the mahogany tabletop. “And did you .. did you ever liaise with other gentlemen of the ton there? Perhaps they might have been acquaintances or even friends of Lord Harlow’s?”

  Miss Lacey cast Minerva a sly look as she took the money. “Yes. But I don’t recall all their names. It was some time ago and frankly, there were too many men to count.”

  Thank goodness she was wearing a veil as Minerva’s face burned with a hot red blush. Too many men to count or remember? She could scarcely fathom it.

  The housekeeper’s return gave Minerva a much needed opportunity to regroup. As the courtesan poured herself a coffee from an ivory pot—Minerva declined a cup as she knew it wouldn’t sit well in her churning stomach—she steeled herself to ask her next question.

  Another pound note slid across the table. “Miss Lacey, did you ever encounter a man by the name of Sir Tristan King?”

  Miss Lacey dropped a lump of sugar in her cup then licked her fingertips. “Ah yes, Sir Tristan.” That feline smile of hers returned as she stirred her coffee with a silver teaspoon. “Now he’s one of the most delicious men I’ve ever seen.” Her knowing gaze lifted to Minerva’s. “Want him for yourself, do you?”

  Minerva blushed again. Was she that transparent? She licked dry lips. “Please answer the question, Miss Lacey. So Sir Tristan King definitely frequented this establishment—Pimpernel House—when you worked there?”

  The courtesan shrugged a slender shoulder and her robe slipped a little, revealing a glimpse of one rosy nipple. “Often. But I never got the chance to fuck him, more’s the pity.”

  “And does he still visit?”

  She studied her nails. “I’m not sure ...”

  Minerva sighed and tossed a few more pound notes onto the table.

  “I don’t work there any more, but as far as I know. Yes.”

  Minerva released a small sigh of relief. Yes. She’d found out one of the things she’d wanted to know. “I have just one more question, Miss Lacey. Who currently runs Pimpernel House? I need to speak with the proprietor.”

  “Hmmm. Let me see...” The prostitute tapped the side of her forehead with a slender finger. “I used to know... but for the life of me, the name suddenly escapes—”

  Minerva withdrew her last pound note and passed it to Delilah Lacey.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she exclaimed. “It’s Madame Heloise Bertrand.”

  Minerva inclined her head. “Thank you.” Tugging on her gloves, she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you now, Miss Lacey.”

  “Are you sure?” Delilah Lacey trailed a finger around her exposed nipple and it immediately puckered. “I don’t fuck women all that often Mrs. Persephone, but for you I’d be willing to make an exception. Even your widow’s weeds can’t hide your luscious figure. I’d wager you have a very lovely set of titties.”

  Minerva sucked in a startled breath. Was the brazen woman joking or was she serious?

  Serious judging by Delilah Lacey’s heavy-lidded, lascivious gaze. Despite the fact she was shrouded by several layers of somber clothing, Minerva suddenly felt like she was stark naked.

  “I’m quite sure,” she snipped, gathering up her reticule and the last vestiges of her dignity. “Good day.”

  As she stalked across the carpet, Delilah Lacey ventured one last, disturbing question. “You’re Lord Harlow’s widow, aren’t you?”

  Minerva grasped the door handle with shaking fingers. It seemed she was that transparent. The courtesan’s lewd proposition suddenly made her feel sick to the pit of her stomach.

  Her tongue curled around a bitter retort but she resisted the urge to launch it at the horrible, grasping woman. Instead, she pushed through the door then slammed it shut.

  She owed Delilah Lacey nothing. Nothing at all.

  She didn’t even want to waste the breath she’d need to hurl an insult.

  But if David had still been alive and in good health—Minerva stormed down the stairs and out of the house—well, she’d have told him that not only did he have very poor taste, he could also go and fuck himself.

  Chapter 4

  Pimpernel House, Covent Garden, London

  3rd January, 1819

  * * *

  Minerva climbed down from the hired hackney cab and inhaled the bracing, cold night air deep into her lungs as she examined the traffic rattling by on Brydges Street. Even though it was almost eleven o’clock, and a miserable, mizzling rain was falling, Covent Garden was abuzz with activity. She didn’t know if she was quite ready to set out on this mad course she’d plotted for herself, but with Twelfth Night and the Earl of Preston’s wicked masquerade ball at Richmond only two days away, tonight was the night she had to act. It was definitely now or never.

  Holding her top hat—or technically David’s old top hat—firmly on her head, she lengthened her stride as she crossed the busy thoroughfare, heading straight for the entrance of Pimpernel House. She was surprised at the warmth afforded by David’s woolen greatcoat and how comfortable pantaloons and Hessian boots actually were—even if they were a little big for her. She was c
ertain she could walk for miles in them.

  The ham-fisted, heavy-browed guard at the Pimpernel’s front door gave her a grunt and barely a second glance as she greased his palm with a few crowns in order to gain quick and easy entry to the brothel. Not that she was envisaging any trouble; she was expected by the establishment’s madam, Heloise Bertrand. But in Minerva’s mind, it was best to avoid a scene on the street—and a scandal—if the guard took exception to her unconventional masculine appearance.

  Madame Heloise had actually been quite forthcoming when Minerva had paid her a visit in the early afternoon. Like Delilah Lacey, she was a pragmatic woman and had been quite happy to trade her knowledge for money. Although she also took great pains to explain to Minerva that Pimpernel House was more than ‘a brothel’. It was an exclusive gentlemen’s—and sometimes ladies’—club which excelled in providing a tailored, high-quality service to its well-heeled clientele.

  Minerva trusted that tonight she would at last gain unique insights into Tristan’s deepest desires. Indeed, perhaps she might discover what she liked too. She refused to be the unworldly, demure, and decidedly dull Dowager Countess of Harlow any longer. Instead, she would transform into a sexually confident woman.

  A woman who wasn’t afraid of her own desires or feared pursuing the man she wanted in her bed.

  At least that’s what Minerva told herself as Heloise Bertrand emerged from the dark velvet shadows and discreetly greeted her in the lavishly decorated vestibule of Pimpernel House.

  Heloise, a tall, elegantly-dressed French woman of indeterminate age, smiled her approval as Minerva removed her hat and greatcoat and passed them to a waiting footman.

  Flipping up the black wool collar of her evening coat, Minerva prayed it would help disguise the fact she’d clubbed her hair at the nape and pushed the long, thick, very feminine tresses down the back of her stock into her linen shirt. She also kept her black kid gloves on; it wouldn’t do to reveal her very ladylike hands.

  “J’adore your attire, Monsieur Persephone,” Heloise murmured by her ear. Taking Minerva’s arm, she escorted her past two disinterested ton bucks sprawled upon a chaise-longue upholstered in burgundy-red silk. “You make a very handsome gentleman. And the touch of soot on your jaw and upper lip, that is very inspired.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Minerva as they brushed past the fronds of a potted palm then entered a gallery. Wall sconces at regular intervals threw just enough light to reveal dark wood paneling, dark green flocked wallpaper, and gilt-framed paintings of frolicking nymphs in pastoral scenes. A plush Turkish hall runner ran down the center of the passage, muffling their footfalls.

  The tinkling sounds of feminine laughter and a pianoforte drifted through an open doorway and when Minerva glanced through to the parlor beyond, she caught a fleeting glimpse of near naked women serving glasses of spirits and red wine to a group of fully clothed men.

  Madame Heloise laughed at her sharp intake of breath and squeezed her arm. “Are you ready for a night you will never forget?”

  Even though a swarm of butterflies had taken flight in her belly and her pulse skittered through her veins, Minerva nodded. She had no idea what she was about to witness. But there was no turning back now.

  At the end of the hall, the madam escorted her down a short flight of carpeted stairs to another gallery around the corner. All the doors were closed in this area but Heloise paused before the second door to the right. A young, flaxen-haired woman dressed in nothing but a black lace robe, stockings, and red satin pumps sauntered past, and after winking at Heloise, she disappeared into one of the rooms a little farther along.

  None of the women seemed the least bit embarrassed about being so scantily clad. Minerva could scarcely fathom such a concept. How liberating it must be to feel so self-assured and unashamed.

  Heloise rapped gently on the gleaming wooden door and when it was opened by a masked, liveried footman, Minerva was ushered into what appeared to be a tiny parlor.

  “Voila, here is your private viewing room, Monsieur Persephone.” Madame Heloise gestured at a brown leather wingchair facing a sheer black curtain; another dimly lit, larger chamber lay beyond. An oak occasional table stood to the side of the wingchair and on top sat a single candle in a polished silver candlestick, a crystal glass, and a decanter of red wine. “I trust the arrangements are to your satisfaction. But if you need anything else,” she inclined her head toward the footman who waited in the deep shadows by the door, “please do not hesitate to ask Gaston here. Your every wish is his command.”

  Minerva nodded, not wishing to speak in front of the manservant in case he noticed her voice wasn’t in the slightest bit masculine. As she took her seat, she tried to affect the pose of a gentleman by leaning back and stretching her legs out in front of her. She folded her gloved hands together over her belly as she’d seen other men do countless times.

  “I trust you are comfortable, monsieur?” Madame Heloise brushed light fingertips across Minerva’s shoulder. “If you snuff out the candle as the performance begins, no one will be able to see you. Gaston will escort you upstairs and to your carriage when you wish to leave.” Leaning closer, she whispered in Minerva’s ear, “Enjoy the show, ma cherie.”

  The door snicked shut and Gaston stepped forward. “Monsieur, would you care for a glass of claret?” he inquired with a heavy French accent.

  Minerva nodded once more. The wine would be most welcome; it might restore moisture to her dry mouth and ease the constriction in her throat and chest. Although, she suspected some of her discomfort wasn’t only attributable to her nervous state. The elaborately tied cravat at her neck and the tight half-stays crushing her breasts weren’t helping matters.

  The footman poured the wine and as he passed the glass to her, his silk-gloved fingers brushed hers in a suggestive manner. Cheeky devil. Did he fancy men?

  Minerva had heard whispers of such things but had always dismissed it as ton gossip. But anything seemed possible at Pimpernel House. She threw the footman a sharp look, but he had retreated several paces to his post by the door.

  As Minerva sipped her claret, the chamber beyond her private parlor slowly brightened; a pair of liveried and masked footmen were in the process of lighting the strategically placed candles in their gilt wall sconces. Although she couldn’t see a pianoforte, someone began to play an ethereal, flowing piece like a nocturne.

  In the muted, golden glow, Minerva could discern a jewel-hued Persian rug in the center of the chamber. Upon it sat a wide divan draped in swathes of bright green silk and strewn with plump ivory and gold cushions. Red and white rose petals were scattered all about the chair and the air was heavy with an exotic, musky perfume she couldn’t quite place. There were also at least half a dozen other alcoves just like her own, save for the fact the curtains were tied back. All were occupied by other gentlemen sipping wine or brandy. One chap shared a hookah pipe with a male friend so perhaps that accounted for the strange scent.

  It appeared that watching a ‘show’ was a regular occurrence at Pimpernel House.

  Madame Heloise had assured Minerva that what she’d witness tonight would give her a very good insight into Tristan’s particular sexual preferences... and Minerva was both horrified and intrigued by the prospect. Did he come here often and watch harlots perform lewd public acts?

  She had no idea and she really shouldn’t judge him. Especially now that the morbidly curious side of her was alight with excitement.

  All of a sudden, Gaston stepped forward again and snuffed out her candle. “The show is about to begin, monsieur,” he murmured in his deep baritone, a voice which Minerva found oddly appealing. “Madame mentioned you did not wish to be seen here.”

  “Ye—” Minerva broke off and sipped her claret. She mustn’t forget herself. Even though she would never encounter Gaston or anyone else here again, it was best she kept her guard up. She would die from mortification if anyone recognized her and tattled to the gossip rags about what she’d bee
n up to.

  Sitting up a little straighter, she held her breath as two young, curvaceous women—one blonde and the other a brunette—pushed through a dark green velvet curtain and made a slow circuit of the room.

  Dressed as dairymaids, their snow-white, almost transparent muslin skirts swayed gently with the exaggerated movements of their hips. Between them, they carried a steel pail of what appeared to be milk. Tight crimson corsets laced with black ribbon pushed up their busts; indeed, their breasts almost spilled from their sheer linen chemises.

  Pausing by the divan, the women put down the pail. Then as the blonde maid made a show of releasing her long tresses from its elaborate crown of braids, the other lass claimed an unused glass from the nearest alcove. When the gentleman she’d taken it from gave her derriere a quick sharp slap, she winked at him over her bare shoulder before sashaying away.

  Returning to the divan, the brunette maid dipped the wine glass into the bucket of milk, took a delicate sip, then poured it all over her décolletage, soaking the linen so that the fabric clung to the curve of her ample breasts and erect, dusky nipples.

  Her blonde friend gave an exaggerated gasp and then proceeded to untie the black ribbon fastening the dark-haired maid’s chemise, exposing her damp, milky breasts in the process.

  When the blonde maid bent down and began licking and sucking her partner’s nipples, Minerva had to stifle her own gasp.

  In all her life, she’d never seen anything quite so wicked and erotic. Her quim began to pulse with need and she squirmed in her seat, pressing her thighs together to try to relieve the pressure. Beneath her tight stays, her own nipples chafed and ached.

  She should look away from this debauched spectacle, yet for the life of her, she couldn’t. Instead she sipped her wine and continued to watch the maids pour more milk over each other's bodies as they stripped down to nothing but their stockings and neat red leather half boots.