Cavern of Pleasures Boxset: Georgian Regency Romance

by EM BROWN

  “If you ever wish to have yourself a woman who can match your talents, you have but to call upon me,” she said to him as he passed her by.

  He stopped slowly in his tracks and looked at her, pinning her to her spot with his stare. Heart thumping, she lifted her chin.

  “You have not long been a patron of Madame Botreaux,” he noted, “yet have an assessment of my talents.”

  “I am a quick observer,” she replied.

  He continued to stare at her. She could not discern what he thought of her, but the fact that he had noticed she was a newer visitor to the Cavern was heartening.

  “You are brazen,” he corrected, “for surely you have been informed of the hierarchy here.”

  She knew the order at Madame Botreaux’s. A junior patron would not initiate a dialogue with a senior dominant.

  “Such defiance has consequences,” he continued.

  She gave him a sly half smile. “I would welcome any punishment you would administer. Strap and bind me as you wish. I should like nothing more than to be bound and whipped at your hand.”

  “Be careful of what you wish.”

  After holding her gaze for a prolonged minute, he turned and walked away, up the grand staircase to the balcony where Penelope Botreaux had a view of everyone in the Cavern. Only the most distinguished guests were ever invited to the balcony with Madame Botreaux. Abigail drank in the lingering aura of the Marquess and shivered. His tone, devoid of cheer or disdain, had relayed little of how he perceived her advances. One could interpret the intensity of his stare as a warning that she behave herself, but if he had completely disapproved of her, he would have made that known to her.

  But he would have to wait for her attention. For now, her aim was the Viscount Tremayne. She intended to hasten her plans with the Viscount, beginning with the Bennington ball. If she succeeded, she would have in hand a proposal of marriage within the month.

  Chapter Three

  “YOU HAVE ASSEMBLED quite the dossier on the Baroness,” remarked Latimer Holmes, putting down the sheafs of paper to watch his friend dress.

  Assisted by his valet, Montague shrugged into his coat of olive velvet. Cut by one of the finest tailors of Savile Row, the coat fit about his broad shoulders with every appearance of being too snug while actually allowing movement. The cutaway revealed plenty of the gold embroidered waistcoat and the tight fit of his breeches.

  “Twenty thousand pounds be at stake, my friend,” Montague reminded as he adjusted his snowy cravat. “I do not take this assignment lightly.”

  “And you think you can complete the task?”

  Montague looked himself in the mirror. With his dark brown hair clubbed smartly at the neck with a bow, not a hair out of place, his pointed shoes polished to shine in the dimmest setting, he felt, at the least, attired for the occasion.

  “I have little choice but to succeed,” he replied grimly.

  “I doubt not your abilities. I still marvel how you managed to bed that Austrian Comtesse. She were as frigid as a Russian winter. I imagine the Baroness to be an easier fox to hunt. Quite bourgeois, you know, baroness or no.”

  “A woman’s pedigree is no indicator of her receptiveness to being seduced.”

  He glanced over a sheet of paper listing all known lovers of the Baroness Debarlow. There were over a dozen names including the Viscount Tremayne and the Baron Debarlow – provided she had indeed consummated the marriage. She had been married to the Baron for two years, but Montague knew of husbands and wives who had not coupled for far more years. From what he could discern from sources other than Frotham, the marriage to Debarlow had shocked everyone in polite society. While her motives had been evident, those of the Baron could not be more baffling. Some speculated Debarlow to have had a lapse in reason, though Montague had found no evidence suggesting that the man was not in full possession of his faculties. Others speculated that Abigail had unearthed a dark secret in the Debarlow family and blackmailed him into marriage. No one believed that theirs was a union founded on affection. A few even suggested that the Baron met his early death as result of foul play.

  But more consequential to Montague than the views espoused by Frotham’s peers were those of the Debarlow servants. His own valet, Jonathan, a young man whose rugged countenance could win over men and women alike, had befriended a number of the maids at the Debarlow estate. Their accounts presented a different portrayal. While the maids did find the marriage rather mysterious, the Baroness was found in the Baron’s bed from time to time, or he in hers. The pair frequently went out together. If they parted ways afterwards, it was not plain for they arrived home together. Their servants did not profess there to be love but cited moments of laughter and affection between the two.

  “Then what markers do you seek?” asked Latimer as he flared his tailcoats and sat down. “Or do you prefer to say that seducing a woman were more art than science?”

  Edward took his gloves and allowed Jonathan to tie his cloak about him. “Your success would be limited if you attempted to formulate principles upon which to base your efforts. Each woman is singular. Each one unique.”

  “That were a bloody shame. Then you have nothing to teach?”

  Edward gave his friend a wry smile through the mirror.

  Refusing to relinquish hope, Latimer pursued, “But surely you can form some rubrics to apply to the majority? The older ones, for example, must be easier to seduce. Their beauty waning, they are more apt to long for admiration and the courtship of their youth.”

  “They are also wiser and more discerning. The young can be tempted by novelty, thrilled by a nascent lust they do not as yet fully comprehend.”

  “Then a virgin were more easy to seduce.”

  “It would depend upon her temperament. Fear can be quite the effective guard to a woman’s honor.”

  His friend knit his brows before perking at hopeful attention. “What of the homelier ones? Certainly they would perceive any effort to seduce them as flattery.”

  “Perhaps. I have been fortunate my experience with that set has been limited.”

  Latimer grinned at having discovered a positive theory but frowned when he realized he would have no interest in applying the newfound knowledge.

  Reading his friend’s thoughts, Mongague laughed and put a consoling grip upon Latimer’s shoulder. “When you have found a woman to woo, I give you leave to seek my consultation. I have no tenets to impart but may yet be of service.”

  Heartened, Latimer leaned back in his chair and eyed Montague through his quizzing glass. “I must say you cut a striking figure, Edwards, when in grand parure. The Bennington ball is no small affair. Will you attend sans powder?”

  “You know I bear no affinity for it.” Despite a studious attention to his appearance, he had no tolerance for sitting in a chair to have a hairdresser grease and starch his hair.

  “I have mine scented with lavender such that I walk in a garden wherever I roam.”

  “Perhaps a first lesson in the study of seduction is to scent your powder with her preferred fragrance.”

  “And know you the parfum of choice for the Baroness?”

  “Orange flower.”

  The answer came effortlessly enough but as Montague sat in his carriage to the Bennington ball, he wondered that seducing the Baroness would prove as easy. He knew not why, but he felt a rare unease. Perhaps it was the twenty thousand pounds at stake. Perhaps because the information he had collected about Abigail Debarlow did not paint a clear portrait of the woman. Why would a woman of her status favor a young man who seemed so different from her late husband? Was it for her vanity? Was she attempting to recapture her youth? Was the Viscount of such irresistible charms? He would have to know the answers.

  CHARLES DESCENDED THE wide marble stairs into the foyer, decorated by silk floral garlands and lighted by a gilded chandelier of candles. Perturbed by having had to listen to his aunt lament her various ailments while they waited behind at least twenty carriages before th
ey could alight from their own, he had no eye for his lavish surroundings. His gaze sought only one person. He could hardly wait to show the Baroness his devotion. Their last encounter at Madame Botreaux’s had him quaking with fear and reverence at what she might do if he did not follow her directives with the utmost diligence.

  “Who is that man standing with Mr. Henry?” asked Evalina, his sister and junior of four years.

  He gave a cursory glance at the tall gentleman of dark brown hair. After briefly admiring the cut of the man’s coat, he returned to searching for the Baroness.

  “I know not,” he mumbled as he veered to the left. Perhaps the Baroness awaited in the gardens. In his blue silk coat, rose colored waistcoat, and embroidered stockings, he expected Abigail to be taken by him.

  Her arm still laced through his, Evalina tightened her grip. “You’ve never seen him before?”

  “Why such an interest in a friend of Richard’s?” he responded with an impatient huff.

  She looked the stranger from head to toe with obvious interest. “Let us pay our respects to Mr. Henry.”

  He supposed he should be assisting his sister, who had had her come-out the year before, with her marital prospects, but he had no interest at the moment.

  “Perhaps later.”

  “You mean to look for the Baroness,” she hissed in a low breath. “How am I to make a proper match if you insist upon making a fool of yourself with that woman?”

  He snorted. “With your dowry, it matters little what I choose to do. Ah, I see that Aunt Louisa is returned. I leave you in her good company.”

  Evalina sucked in her breath. He felt her glaring into his back as he walked away, but he felt no misgiving. His sister was perfectly capable of handling herself. When they were children, she always managed to bring some castigation upon his head with their governess and their father. Even when she had instigated the mischief, he bore the brunt of the punishment. How often he had wished for a brother instead! If he had had a brother instead of a sister, the pressure upon him to marry well and produce an heir would surely not be as great. In truth, he had no great aspirations to be an earl. The responsibilities of his father were extraordinarily mundane. It was most unfair that he should limit himself simply because he was the first and only son.

  At the preceding ball he had thought to quiet his father’s protestations by dancing with Elisabeth Worsely, but he had not thought it would upset Abigail as much as it did. He had been careless and deserved the punishment she had bestowed upon him at Madame Botreaux’s. He had to make amends. Fortunately, his father had had another flare of the gout and could not bring himself to attend the ball tonight. No doubt the old friend and banker of the family, Richard Henry, would be the eyes and ears for the Earl tonight, but Charles felt emboldened. The more his father objected, the less he attended what was said. The old man cared only for the earldom. He had no appreciation for the desires of a young man. He could not appreciate all that the Baroness offered.

  Tremayne felt his body tingle with the mere thought. Tonight Lady Debarlow would be convinced of his commitment to her.

  “IF YOU FAIL TO BE DISCREET or if you disgrace the Frotham name, you will have to contend with me.”

  Montague looked down at the stout banker who barely stood taller than half the women in the room. If not for his wig with its prodigious front sweep, the man would not reach even the center of Montague’s chest. With his rounded belly, Richard Henry reminded Montague of the Cornish game hens that the man perhaps had consumed one too many of. Many of his features tended towards the large from his bulbous nose to ears that protruded from his head like unfurled wings, save for his narrow eyes set close to one another.

  “I appreciate the warning,” Montague replied drily, “but you need have no fear of me. I have no cause to make public my arrangement with his lordship.”

  “Even so, I have arranged for an insurance on the matter.”

  Montague raised his brows. The glint in the little man’s eyes was not promising.

  “I have secured the notes upon Chelton. It cost me more than I would have wanted. Your estate apparently has some value, quite surprisingly, so that it was not so poor a business deal in the end. The notes will mature presently. If there is the slightest scandal, Chelton is forfeit to me. And I promise we shall not stop with your estate. We will claim anything of value to you. If you had children, we would arrange to possess your firstborn. We are not men to be trifled with.”

  His back straightening, Montague quelled the desire to drive a fist into the man’s face. Perhaps he should not have accepted the Earl’s offer so readily.

  “We hold all the cards,” Henry added with a smug grin.

  “Then why make your threats to me?” Montague returned coolly. “Had you best not direct them to the Baroness?”

  Henry shifted his body about as if his clothes had suddenly tightened about him. “I have spoken to the woman, but she lacks the barest sense of decency. She had the audacity to laugh in my face.”

  Montague smiled to himself, feeling an unexpected shred of respect for the Baroness. From what he had gathered, there was naught to commend the Baroness saver her accomplishment of marrying a man of great wealth. Her present choice of lovers was, in Montague’s estimation, adequate at best. Even those who considered themselves good friends of the Frotham family admitted that the Viscount was often vain and self-indulgent.

  “Fortune can be a capricious nymph,” Henry continued, “and has bestowed upon the Baroness far too much wealth to make any monetary inducement compelling to her. One cannot appeal to her morality for she possesses none. And out threats to have her shunned from all of polite society fall upon deaf ears. ‘You cannot make me more despised than I already am’ were her words. She asked if I were not aware that she was considered a jezebel and murderess? I left my meeting with her convinced that she has not all her wits about her.”

  Perhaps the Baroness would prove somewhat intriguing afterall, Montague considered to himself.

  “Mr. Henry, how good to see you. When last you came to see my father, I had not the pleasure to greet you for you did not stay for supper.”

  A familiar young woman stood before them, her pale smooth skin a striking contrast to the wrinkles of her chaperone. Wearing a pink silk gown edged with white lace at the sleeves and hem, her lips colored with rouge, a blush upon her high cheekbones, she appeared a lovely flower waiting to be plucked. Estimating her age to be no more than eight and ten years of age, Montague realized where he had seen her before – in a painting hanging in the Frotham residence. She possessed the same violet eyes as the Viscount Tremayne.

  “Lady Evalina, how delightful a sight you are,” Henry blustered. “Your brother must need guard you with great care for surely your loveliness will have all the young men in a row.”

  Frotham’s daughter received the compliment with a broad smile. “You are far too kind, Mr. Henry.”

  She turned her sapphire eyes to Montague and waited to be introduced.

  “Ah, my cousin – distant cousin,” Henry provided. “Montague Edwards, may I present Lady Evalina and her aunt, Lady Louisa.”

  Montague bowed over Lady Evalina’s hand. She allowed it to linger in his grasp until he relinquished it a second longer than might have been deemed proper. A smile hovered about her lips.

  “How is it we have never met your cousin before?” she asked, her gaze still upon Montague.

  “I prefer the countryside, madam,” Montague supplied. He had seen the sparkle in her youthful eyes many a time before. Her interest in him was obvious, and though he found it ironic that the Earl’s daughter should take an interest in him, he had no intention to veer from his assignment.

  At least not yet.

  “Then what brings you to town, sir?”

  Montague glanced at Henry. “I could hardly refuse an invitation from Richard.”

  “Do you know London well, Mr. Edwards?” Lady Evalina inquired. “If not, you must have someone show you
the sights. There is much to see and do here.”

  “I have few friends in London,” Montague replied.

  “Indeed? We shall have to change that, shall we not, Mr. Henry? You may be assured that any cousin of Mr. Henry is rightway a good friend of ours.”

  Montague smiled at the idea of being considered a friend of the Earl. He bowed. “You are generous, madam.”

  “A cousin?” Lady Louisa inquired as she eyed him more closely. “Which side of the family?”

  “Er, my mother’s side,” answered Henry.

  “Hm. I see no resemblance. I am sure your mother and all her family possessed fair hair.”

  “You might say that I am the black sheep of the family,” Montague said. “I only recently discovered our relation.”

  Lady Louisa took no further interest in him and proceeded to detail to Henry her latest search for a balm to ease her aching joints.

  “If you were to escort me to dinner,” Lady Evalina said, “I could elaborate upon my favorite places. There is a menagerie at Ranalegh Gardens. I recommend it. They have an Indian tiger. Have you ever seen one? Quite frightful and ferocious beasts they are.”

  “Come, Evalina,” Lady Louisa said, “I see that Mrs. Notting is here. I must have the name of her apothecary. She swears they make a most helpful remedy for the headache.”

  Lady Evalina parted with a forced smile but the air of someone confident that she would see him soon enough, a hauteur Montague was beginning to find characteristic of the Pettingtons. No doubt she had men enough wanting to be her suitors, but it was not the first time a virginal maid had shunned lads closer in age to pursue a man of greater maturity. Though a young woman’s foray into the art of coquetry often amused him, he ought to disregard her advances as she was the daughter of the Earl. He would be wise to stay his distance from her, but wisdom was not a quality he always possessed in great quantity.