Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  Sitting back, she blew out a breath and reached again for the royal blue silk fan that matched her dress, right down to the black ribbons trimming it. She was slightly dizzy. Was it the overheated room? The exhilarating volley of conversation they’d shared? The gentleman himself? She rather feared she was about to find out.

  Knowing he needn’t worry about performing should have made James Burnham less anxious. Given that conversation was exactly why he’d come this evening, it should have been a relief to meet a woman who didn’t want to have relations. Instead, as he followed Lady V up a winding staircase, he had to consciously tamp down a rising unease.

  He should have foreseen how emotions might complicate things. A logical, well-thought-out plan was one thing—a model in his mind for how the evening would unfold. Questions would be asked, observations made. But it was difficult to account for emotions in a model. The scientific method didn’t have much to say about nerves.

  The swishing of the woman’s skirts sounded like thunder to his oversensitive ears. He looked at her bare white shoulders, their blades undulating as she walked. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t nerves so much as attraction. He was not made anxious by much in this world, so, yes, he must conclude that the physical symptoms he was experiencing signaled attraction. It was to be expected, a rational response to a stimulus. The key was to remember his greater purpose and not let it be sabotaged by runaway feelings. Emotions were transitory, ephemeral, certainly not worth risking all his hard work for.

  He forced his legs to continue climbing the stairs behind the mysterious Lady V. The last flight of stairs, up to the top of the house, was narrow, steep, and lacked railings. No doubt the servants who slept at the top of the house had originally used it. The sharp incline meant his face was level with his hostess’s blue-silk-wrapped derriere—and a shapely backside it was. He watched it sway as she climbed, the swishing of her skirts still roaring in his head.

  At the top, she stopped in front of an unremarkable white door. There wasn’t enough room on the small landing for both of them, so he waited several stairs below, bracing his hands against the unadorned plaster walls on either side of him.

  She turned and smiled. Without preamble, she reached down, and in one fluid movement, hitched her skirts up almost to her waist, putting a leg clad only in the sheerest stocking, topped with an expanse of firm creamy thigh, mere inches from his face. His heart began to thud.

  “Madam!” His own voice sounded strained to him, prudish, even, and he regretted the outburst. He had to take care not to sound too judgmental. Thankful for the dim lighting and his position below her on the stairs, he turned slightly toward the wall to disguise the bulge in his breeches that had suddenly, mortifyingly, appeared.

  His beautiful companion, ever silent, leaned down and extracted a large golden key from her garter. Straightening, she shook her skirts back into place, unlocked the door, and preceded him inside.

  “Take off your coat,” she called over her shoulder. “And make yourself comfortable. There’s no need to observe formalities here.”

  Her voice was low, confident. He hadn’t heard it since they’d bantered earlier, before he’d purchased her time. Purchased her. The whole thing was so unseemly, degrading for all parties involved. However, the bulge in his drawers didn’t seem to be getting the message. Ordinarily, he would be loath to take off his coat. It felt like much-needed armor, a reminder that even in this immoral place, it was possible to display manners, to comport oneself with dignity. On the other hand, if he took it off he could use it as armor, a shield to disguise his excitement. And she was a doxy, or at least playing the part rather convincingly. It wasn’t as if the rules of polite society applied here. Besides, he’d already taken off his gloves downstairs, unceremoniously—and rudely—throwing them on her lap. At the time, he’d been overcome with a desire to mark her as his, to make sure none of the young dandies so obviously entranced with her would claim her.

  He couldn’t stand on the threshold, paralyzed by indecision. Now was not the time to indulge his habit of overthinking everything. Stripping off his coat, he held it in front of him as he bounded up the last few steps into Lady V’s room.

  “Room” didn’t seem to be the right word to describe the sanctum, though. It both did and did not accord with how he’d imagined the setting. On the one hand, a fire blazed, surrounded by opulent cream silk chairs. On the other side of the room, an enormous bed stood on a raised platform. He had imagined scarlet, purple, perhaps a royal blue to match the deep tone of her attire. But the room was done almost entirely in shades of white and cream: the bedclothes, the counterpane, the upholstery. Bathed in candlelight, the room was cozy, it being late and the cold autumn having recently moved into London.

  It was a room to put one at ease. He would be able to do this, after all. Or at least get started, find out enough to know if further investigation was merited. Lady V, who had been moving around the room lighting branches of candles, turned toward him with a smile, a genuine smile. Gone was the half leer he’d seen on the stairway.

  “May I take your coat, Mr…?”

  “Burnham. Dr. James Burnham.” He saw no need to give a false name. A highborn lady amusing herself by playing the role of a courtesan wouldn’t have heard of him. Indeed, most of the beau monde wouldn’t know his name. Other men, more prominent than he, drew attention to their cause. And, yes, he could indeed surrender his coat now, everything having settled back into a less…embarrassing state.

  She cocked her head as he handed over the garment. “James Burnham of Society for the Comfort and Elevation of the Poor and the Betterment of Their Children? Author of Vanquishing Vice? And of Crushing Contagion?”

  His stomach dropped. She knew him? It should have been impossible! While one part of his mind began churning, assessing escape routes, another recognized the importance of carrying on. “Don’t forget Eradicating Idleness. Although I admit that the alliterative qualities of the latter are, strictly speaking, somewhat lacking.”

  She laid his coat on a nearby chair and clasped his hands between hers, drawing him toward the fire. “I always assumed pamphleteers weren’t real people, that they were only names affixed to publications, false identities created to house the collected opinions of gentlemen who preferred to remain anonymous.” Positioning him in front of a settee that faced the fire, she unceremoniously pushed him back into it before joining him, sitting close as she curled her legs up under her gown and turned toward him, eyes shining through the holes in her feathered mask. The jaded siren he’d seen downstairs was gone, replaced by a completely different woman.

  He cleared his throat. This was not unfolding as he’d imagined. He was supposed to be the one asking the questions. “Yes, well, here I am. In the flesh.”

  She pressed a palm against her heart, drawing his attention to the porcelain skin of her exposed chest, to the heavy golden chain that rested on it, to her elegant collarbones, to the deep V between her breasts. Whatever hung on the end of her chain disappeared into that dark V. Was that the inspiration for her pseudonym?

  She leaned so close he felt her breath on his face, and his senses were flooded by the rose-scented perfume she wore. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  He made an effort not to shrink from her. “Thank you. I hope I won’t offend if I confess to being slightly surprised that my reputation precedes me.” He glanced around the airy room. “Here.”

  “In a whorehouse?” She leaned back a little, providing some much-needed breathing room.

  “That’s not what I—”

  “It is, though. It is what you meant. And it’s what you said earlier.” She moved again, putting a few more inches between them. “You don’t think a whore can be well-read enough to know of you, can have enough Christian charity in her heart to know of the work of your Society.”

  “It’s a moot question, isn’t it, as I am given to understand that you’re not really a…”

  “Whore?”

 
; He could do nothing but incline his head. The fire, which a moment ago had seemed to impart a warm, cozy glow now cast a heavy, oppressive glare on the room.

  “I keep company with whores, so what’s the difference?”

  “For the gentlemen downstairs being informed of the rules, I gather the difference is quite substantial.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Then, in a swoosh of silk, she stood and moved to a small sideboard near the hearth and began pouring dark liquid into crystal glasses. “Forgive me, Dr. Burnham. I seem to have forgotten myself. A good whore understands the importance of separating business from pleasure.” She handed him a glass and sat back down. “And I imagine even social reformers get lonely.” With that, she raised her glass, clinked it against his, and threw her head back, drinking deeply. He could trace the path the brandy made down her throat as she swallowed. Truly, she was beautiful. Pale, almost ethereal skin, delicate chin. Pale blue eyes nearly obscured by the riot of many-colored feathers affixed to the mask she wore. The bright red-orange wig wasn’t the right color for her, and it irked him not to know what her hair really looked like, but still, against her fair skin, it made quite a statement. Draining her drink in a final swallow, she met his eyes, issuing a silent challenge. He quickly threw back his own drink, seeking the calming trail of fire it would bring.

  “There now. Let us start over. You have, after all, paid handsomely for my time. You should use it as you see fit.” She sprawled back on the velvet settee and lifted her legs onto his lap, exposing a pair of slender, elegant ankles. Somewhere along the way she had removed her shoes.

  It was a relaxed pose, not a seductive one, even though it was highly improper. But once again, the interpretation offered by his brain was not registering in other areas of his anatomy. How humiliating. She noticed and flashed him a smirk, eyes sparkling. He wished he could see the rest of her face so he might decipher her intent. Was she mock-scolding him? Trying to debauch him? He felt the need for an excuse. “A logical response to being in close proximity to a beautiful woman.”

  The smirk disappeared. “How flattering.”

  He had been trying to gave an excuse for his…obvious enthusiasm, but was it not needed? Did she expect that they would be intimate? “I thought you offered only conversation. Was I mistaken?”

  She pulled away, slowly. The sensation of her legs sliding against his thighs was torture, exquisite agony that made him harden even more. Folding her limbs back underneath her, she shrugged. “Let’s say I could be persuaded to be somewhat flexible for the right gentleman. But if it’s conversation you want, by all means, let us converse.”

  He could only stare at her mutely, unsure how to explain that conversation was what he wanted, just not of the sort she probably imagined. How could he possibly have believed this a good idea? Why had he ever thought this worldly, flame-haired beauty could tell him anything of use? He was so far from what he wanted to know that he might as well end this charade now.

  He stood. “Lady V, you will forgive me, but I must go.”

  “You must go?” Her mouth formed into the most alluring pink O. “But it can’t have been more than a quarter hour since we arrived. You’ve paid for two hours.”

  He paused, uncertain, glancing around the room for his coat. He didn’t want to offend, but he didn’t want to remain here, either. Sitting in front of a warm fire in a comfortable room with a beautiful—and well-read—lady masquerading as a courtesan wasn’t right. This had been a mistake. He would have to concede that Mr. Phillips and the others had been correct all along. Admitting defeat seemed a small price to pay to get out of here.

  “Please, Dr. Burnham.” She’d risen to join him, and a small hand slipped into one of his. Tugging him away from the fire, she pointed him toward an armchair near the bed. “It’s so warm by the fire, don’t you think? Let’s move over there. Lie on the bed and make yourself comfortable. I think it’s possible that you’ve had a trying evening thus far. You’ll forgive me. I sometimes get caught up in playing my role. It’s something that most of my…companions enjoy. If you would be so kind as to position this chair so that it faces the bed, I’ll seat myself there. You shall be quite safe.” She squeezed his hand. “And we shall spend the next hour and three quarters conversing, as advertised.”

  Though it took him by surprise, her change in demeanor made him think perhaps something of the evening could be salvaged. He moved the chair as she asked, and she settled herself into it, pulling the counterpane off the bed and wrapping it around herself. Seeing her covered up, curled in the chair like a girl, made the situation seem less threatening. She was right: he’d paid for her time. He’d paid a small fortune, in fact, for answers he wouldn’t get if he left. Happily, the counterpane covered Lady V’s lovely bosom, obscuring the mysterious golden chain and making it easier to focus on his thoughts. Yes, this he could manage.

  “There now.” She smiled as he sank back into the feather bed and extended his legs, which reached all the way to the foot. “What shall we talk about?”

  “You.”

  She turned her head and waved a hand at him, as if rejecting the idea.

  “Yes,” he said, dismissing her objection. “Let’s start with how you came to be familiar with my work.”

  “I’ve read all your pamphlets.”

  “So I gather, but how did you learn of them to begin with?”

  “A friend of mine is a patroness of the Society.”

  “Truly?”

  “You will recall that I’m not actually a courtesan.”

  “And who is your friend?”

  “Her name is Daisy. I’m sure you don’t—”

  “Daisy Watson? Mrs. Robert Watson?”

  She sucked in a breath and frowned. He could almost imagine creases appearing between her eyebrows, underneath her mask.

  “I shan’t tell her I met you here,” he said quickly, wanting to put her at ease.

  “I would appreciate that very much, Dr. Burnham. I wouldn’t want her to know that I…”

  “Consider us even. I wouldn’t want her to know that I…either.”

  She nodded, and graced him with a genuine smile. “Then I shan’t tell her I met you here. I admire your work too much to endanger it.”

  “Then why don’t you join us? Your friend Mrs. Watson has been enormously helpful. We can publish any number of pamphlets, but having patrons among the ton is the surest way to advance our causes in Parliament.”

  A corner of her perfectly pink mouth curled up, and her eyes twinkled. “Well, let’s just say that my interests have taken a different turn than Mrs. Watson’s.”

  He laughed, despite himself. “Why do you do it?”

  “Entertainment.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. One can only attend so many balls, receive so many callers, have the same insipid conversations over and over again before one begins to lose one’s mind a little.”

  “Haven’t you a family? A husband?” He knew the answer to the latter question, having overheard her telling that annoying young cub as much earlier in the evening, but he didn’t want to admit to eavesdropping.

  “I haven’t had a husband for two years now.” She stared at him, issuing a silent warning to probe no further.

  He obeyed, but marveled over the enormous risk she was taking, being here like this. If she really was a highborn lady, even a widowed one, discovery would mean ruin.

  “And what of you?” she asked. “What brings you here? It can’t merely be a desire to converse.”

  He tried to make a jest of her question. “You said it yourself. Even social reformers get lonely.”

  “I would imagine especially social reformers get lonely. Holding oneself to the impossible standards you suggest we should hold the poor to must grow tiring.”

  Her words, and the sharp tone they were delivered in, stung.

  “I thought you said you admired my work.” He tried not to sound defensive.

  “I do
, but that’s not the same as saying I agree with all of it.”

  Maybe she could help him. “Tell me about your life.”

  “What’s there to tell? I live in a large house with lots of servants. I have many friends and admirers. I go to parties. I invite the occasional gentleman over for…conversation.” She smiled and glanced around the room. “And two nights a week I come here.”

  “How much money do you make?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I paid eight pounds to be here. It’s an outrageous sum. How much of it do you see?”

  “Why does it matter? I’m already rich.”

  “Not you, then. The others. How much do they make? Do they have children? Does Madame Cherie treat them well? Do they work here because they haven’t anywhere else to go? To what extent do they choose this life?”

  She stood. “I think I will have another drink.”

  Damn it. He’d pushed too hard, barraging her with questions. She paused at the sideboard, neither moving nor speaking. He shifted, uncomfortable, unsure if he should apologize. But then she began moving again, pouring from the crystal decanter.

  When she returned her eyes were blank, cold. She handed him a drink he hadn’t asked for. He sat up and set it on the bedside table. One had been enough; he needed to keep his wits about him.

  “You’re writing another pamphlet, aren’t you? What’s this one to be called? Plotting Against Prostitution? Withdrawing from Whoredom?” She took a sip. “No pun intended.”

  “No, of course not. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

  “The women who work here are human beings, you know. Not problems to be solved, vices to be suppressed.”

  He’d offended her, apparently quite deeply. “I know. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. If you’ll allow me to explain—”

  Still standing, she pulled him up to join her, pressing a finger against his lips. “No. Social reform isn’t on the conversational agenda this evening. In fact, I find I don’t want to converse any more at all, and yet I feel that you should get your money’s worth.”