The hack stopped where she asked, and Florence took to the side entrance to the building and was let in without question. The noise of rowdy voices and music greeted her as it always did at this hour. She stood in the warm kitchen and waited for a maid to go and get her sister. The maid returned with Margaret on her heels.
The moment Margaret saw Florence, her eyes warmed. Florence crossed the room to give her sister a hug.
“Little lamb,” Margaret purred. “How are you?” She leaned away, and her tawny eyes glittered with happiness. She had the Crew coloring. Her blond strands were in an elaborate tangle of curls and the crimson dress showed her figure off perfectly. Madam Margaret was a London businesswoman who ran one of the best brothels in England if you asked her. “How was Scotland?”
“Colder than here,” Florence told her. “How are you?”
Margaret lifted her hands to indicate the building. “I’m well.” And she meant it. She loved what she did, and Florence had ceased trying to sway her older sister into doing anything else. This was Margaret’s life and she loved it, which was more than Florence could say about her own work.
Scotland had been a draining experience and when she’d arrived at Lord Nolwell’s house, any illusion that things would go back to normal vanished when Elipha’s father pulled his daughter into the study for a long talk. Florence didn’t know what would come of it but knew she’d have to deal with it in the morning. For now, a friend of Florence’s would be taking her place that evening and assist Elipha into bed, a job the other maid had all but jumped to do. Most lower servants wished to move up and that meant practice.
“Did you get my note?” Margaret asked.
Florence nodded and placed a hand on the small pouch that she took nearly everywhere with her. Inside it were her drawing supplies and the book she never left far out of reach.
“The pair is here tonight. They told me they’d be ready whenever you were.”
Florence swallowed. “Pair?”
Margaret laughed. “You’ll only be painting the woman. The man simply wishes to watch. He’s a high-paying customer. If you do well, he might wish you to paint the other girls for him.”
Florence nodded. She never had a set amount for her paintings, but there had been times when one painting had fetched her just as much as her salary as a lady’s maid and although she’d rather paint anything else, this was what brought in the money she needed to help her mother.
She followed Margaret deeper into the brothel. The piano played a lively tune and there was laughter… along with some other well-defined noises. They walked down a dark hall and up a flight of stairs. Moans and grunts slipped from beneath the doors they passed until they came to Margaret’s private sitting room.
The wallpaper, rug, and cushions matched her red dress. Lamplight gave the golden outlining, stitching, and weaves an orange glow.
Florence averted her eyes as she noticed the couple in the corner of the room. A man had a woman pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, and their hands tangled in their clothes. They thumped the wall with each of his hard drives, their labored breathing stifled by their kissing.
Florence felt perspiration break over her brow and warmth pull in her like it never had before. She’d been coming to Margaret’s for years, but where one saw sexual gratification, Florence had seen a passionate act that could produce love instead of cold payment.
Until Rollo.
Now, just the quick glance at the couple made her wonder what it would have been like if she’d allowed Rollo to have his way with her that night in the library. It seemed like a dream, though it had happened only weeks ago. She wondered if he were in the city and then banished the thought. It didn’t matter. He was not a part of her life, no matter what she’d said, no matter what she’d allowed her mind to picture during the long journey home.
When the excessive activity calmed and turned into sensual laughter and whispers, Margaret had two servants bring in the easel and chair Florence usually used. Usually, she painted in one of the nicer rooms on the third floor. This was the first time she’d ever seen Margaret allow someone to use her private quarters.
“Lord Lawton, I present to you my sister, Mrs. Crew.”
Lawton turned, and Florence was surprised to find a young and beautiful brown-haired gentleman gazing back at her. Margaret’s wealthy clients were usually much older than the man who stood before her. He wore a smile easily and even from across the room, she could tell his eyes were beautiful, a celestial blue that seemed to dance with stars. When he looked her over, she looked down.
“Does your sister work here?” Lawton asked. He was not the first to inquire.
The courtesan beside him, whom Florence remembered to be named Abigail, laughed seductively. “Oh, Lord Lawton, surely I’ve satisfied your needs.” Her voice went low and she began to whisper while her body moved, but Florence didn’t dare look to see what the well-trained woman did. The girls at Margaret’s knew how to keep their patrons happy.
He chuckled. “Of course. I’m only teasing, Abigail.”
“My sister only paints, my lord, and only for me,” Margaret said as she had the couple move to the couch. “Though I promise you she does have a mastery of the talent. I’d be pleased if she did it all the time.”
Florence placed her bag on the table and smiled at her sister. “I’m happy to simply paint when I can.”
“What else do you do?” Lawton asked as he began to undress Abigail.
Florence moved to her canvas as she spoke. “I’m a maid.”
“For what house?”
Florence froze, her heart racing.
“Never mind that. What’s important is that she will make you a masterpiece that any admirer of Francisco de Goya would think divine,” Margaret said, coming to her rescue. She didn’t reveal her identity when she came to the brothel.
“Well, you’ve never led me astray, Margaret, and you know how I enjoy new talent,” the young lord said.
“I do,” her sister replied.
Once Abigail was positioned, Florence began to draw, and she did so quickly, knowing the woman would not hold her position for long. It was the same with most of her drawings. Many times, she’d only had to look at someone once to memorize their face. It was the same with the facts of history she’d learned from her brother.
She found art relaxing and had even visited the British Museum a time or two when it was her off day.
“You’ve become better.”
Margaret’s voice made her glance over her shoulder, and she froze as she found her sister to be flipping through her book of drawings. With a deep sigh, she turned back to the canvas. It wasn’t the first time Margaret had done it, rifled through her things as though everything that came through the door of her house immediately belonged to her.
She tried to concentrate even as she heard the pages flipping.
“Oh, my, who is this?” Margaret asked.
Florence knew who she’d found. Rollo. She’d drawn him with so much detail that his picture nearly leapt from the page. She heard footsteps and noticed Lord Lawton go to stand by her sister, his expression one of surprise just before something else flickered in his eyes right before he looked at Florence.
“You are very talented.”
“Thank you.” Florence snatched the book from her sister and put it back in her bag before returning to Abigail.
“Margaret is right. You should pursue this talent.” Lawton moved to stand by Abigail once more.
Florence glanced over to see the pair smile at one another.
“She is very good,” Abigail agreed. “Do you think she could be famous?”
“I’ve no doubt. She’s wasting her time as a lady’s maid.”
Florence smiled in spite of herself. She had no ambitions to have her work seen. She painted because it brought her pleasure and ensured her mother’s health. Nothing more.
Perhaps there had been a time when she’d dreamed of such a life, bu
t if her time in Scotland had taught her anything, it was that dreams were simply that: dreams, something she could enjoy in sleep but not something to pursue, like that day she’d kissed Rollo and had been rejected.
She took the compliment for what it was and returned her concentration to her work. If anything came from the night, it would be simple coin and not fame.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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Rollo pinned his cravat in the mirror and tried a few smiles as he straightened his jacket. He’d dressed with care that morning. His plan was to see Florence and though he still had two weeks of friendship before he could make a more serious move on her, he still wanted to make a good impression. After a moment of looking in the mirror, he took the diamond pin out and changed it for a pearl. She was a lady’s maid. He didn’t want to offend her by wearing too much, though if she were any other woman, he suspected the jewelry would be a lure. Still, Florence didn’t strike him as that sort. He didn’t know why he believed so, yet he did. He smiled at his reflection and thought the pearl better before leaving the bedroom he usually occupied whenever he stayed late at the Valdeston Manor in London, as did most of the brotherhood when in town, though he suspected that would change swiftly. Already, he’d been informed that Emmett had moved into Lorena’s house next door and Genie was living on the top floor, which she and Francis made their personal residence with one wing set aside for their friends. The second floor housed more rooms while last summer the first floor had been turned into a gentlemen’s club. Nashwood London was overseen by Calvin and, more recently, Hugh’s younger brother Raymond Vance.
He entered the stairway and was greeted by the sounds of the boisterous voices of the patrons. When the club had first opened, it had been done as a means for Francis to earn more money when he’d had no other option and men from all walks of life had come, wanting to have their name associated with the brotherhood while enjoying the intricate building that was Valdeston Manor.
Built by a previous Valdeston Francis claimed had been a madman, the house was a labyrinth of luxury that didn’t need decor to make it shine. The rooms were designed with slopes and bends that could make some spaces cozy while others left you in awe of majestic painted ceilings and painted glass.
Though now that Francis had come into his own fortune, he could return the house back to its old self, a simple residence.
He made it to the first floor and grinned at the men who were standing by the door waiting for him. William and Julius looked up with guarded expressions.
Rollo stopped before them and looked from one to the other. “What’s the matter? Is it Hugh? The girls?”
“No,” Julius quickly said. “I’m sure he and the girls are fine, but I think we should change our plans for the day.”
William nodded. “Yes, perhaps we could go somewhere dark or just stay inside.”
Rollo frowned. “What are you not telling me?”
They’d arrived in London last evening and since neither of them had stuck around for the final meeting with Helsby’s solicitor, the men were going over to find out what they’d missed. It was there that he hoped to see Florence, though there was a possibility she wouldn’t be there. He had no idea what she’d been up to since his quick departure from Gretna Green. He had wanted to say goodbye but hadn’t been able to find her in any of the common rooms and hadn’t dared to follow her into her own room. His only chance to see her would be at Aaron’s. Once he spent an hour or two in her company, his friends had then agreed to accompany Rollo to the British Museum to see what he could discover about the other artifacts that had come with his father’s ring.
“Do you not wish to visit Aaron?” he asked.
Julius’ eyes widened. “Oh, visiting Aaron is a grand idea. We should stay the day even.”
Staying the day with Florence didn’t seem at all like a bad idea. He had a feeling there was so much to learn about her and when he’d told Julius and William the same, they’d agreed. However, Julius wished nothing to do with Lady Elipha, who he claimed to have been fine company for dinner and cards in Scotland but didn’t wish to give her false hope for any sort of future.
“Off to Aaron’s and then return here straight away,” William said.
“But not the museum.” Julius shook his head and made a face of distaste. “Too many people about.”
“Yes.” William rearranged the hat on his head. “Far too many people, especially women.”
Rollo lifted a brow. They were acting more than odd, especially since William was never afraid of women. If women were a sea, he’d dive into it so long as their mothers weren’t around to chaperone. Ladies, he avoided, but everyone else was fair pickings and the museum was open to the public. “What aren’t you telling me?”
There was a sound from behind them and the men turned just as Mr. Thorn strolled into the foyer from the sitting room. He was a large older man with a protruding gut and thin legs. He’d also been one of the first to join the club. Him being a graduate of Oxford made his application all the better. A cup of coffee was in his hand. He looked at the three men before his blue eyes settled on Rollo and he grinned. “King Kerry.” He laughed. “Not a woman alive who doesn’t know your face now.”
Rollo frowned at the comment, not understanding what the old man meant.
Julius groaned.
William said, “I didn’t know we allowed gossip rags in here.”
Rollo turned to his friends. “What’s going on? What’s this about a gossip rag?”
William and Julius shared another look and he realized then that Julius had his hands behind his back.
Rollo held out his hand, his heart racing. What in heaven’s name had happened? “Give it to me.”
Julius handed over British Babbler, a ladies’ magazine. Rollo was about to open it when the front caught his eyes and he found himself staring at an image that looked too familiar. It was like looking at himself in a mirror, only the image was simply a sketch. Except there was nothing simple about the sketch. The detail left him dumbstruck. Looking into his own eyes made him feel uncomfortable, as though the eyes saw things he didn’t.
He looked away and blinked. “I didn’t pose for this. Who arranged this? Sophia?”
“I doubt it,” William said. “She writes for the paper. The piece on you was obviously done by someone who didn’t know you well. There are no details except for the ones in the drawing.”
“However,” Julius began, “I think the person who drew you knows you very well.”
Rollo dared to look at the drawing again and agreed. He started for the door and was assaulted by the cold February air, though compared to the Scottish winter, London was mild. He climbed into the waiting coach and immediately looked at the drawing again before reading the details on the inside. It mentioned his missing parents, his fortune, and his association with many of the ton’s most powerful houses. It was obviously not done by Sophia, he realized. When Sophia wrote about the men, there was always a personal touch that made them smile. There was none of that. “She called me the catch of the coming Season?” It was the worst sort of advertisement there ever was. He looked at Julius. “It’s just gossip. No one actually believes anything that’s printed in these magazines.”
William lifted his brow. “That never stopped a woman from buying them and with your pretty face on the cover, it will probably become the magazine’s most sold issue.”
“We need to track down who did this,” Rollo said, scanning the paper again as his anger grew. The paper didn’t mention who drew the picture or the author of the article.
“Good luck with that,” Julius said. “You know papers never reveal their writers.”
“My name is in here.” He waved the magazine in the air. “This is not one of those pieces were they simply say ‘Mr. S’. I will find o
ut who did this.”
His friends said nothing for the rest of the ride, and Rollo stared at the picture of himself as he searched for clues. It looked as though his body was twisted though his face looked out at the reader. Who’d drawn him? How one could make his black eyes shine like gems was beyond him. He immediately thought it an admirer, and the worst sort, the kind that imagined him to be someone he wasn’t. It was why the picture left him uneasy. There was something warm in his expression, but those moments had been few and far between in the last few years and the artist had definitely drawn him from recent memory.
The coach came to stop outside of Aaron’s residence, and Rollo put aside his worry and prepared to focus his attention on his friend.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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“I knew it! I knew you’d done it.”
Florence covered her face and groaned as Elipha paced the nursery. Since beginning Abigail’s painting three nights ago, she’d not had time to work on anything else, much less look through her book of drawings, so she’d not discovered that one of her many sketches of Rollo was missing until Elipha had shown her the morning’s gossip rag. Her only saving grace was that the paper had not included her name, though whomever had submitted the drawing had to have known who she was. She always kept her book on her person, only putting it down when she was sure she was in a safe place. The suspects for whomever was behind giving the drawing to the rag were numerous. Since she lived in Elipha’s house, it could be any of the servants who’d snuck in her room.
“Florence, why are you pouting? This is glorious. I must say I’ve been trying to find a way to get in the Spinsters’ Society and this is as good as in reason. Surely, they’ll be wishing to know who drew the image of King Kerry.”
Florence’s Stupendous Spinster’s Society Page 12