The Devil's Masquerade (Royal Pains Book 3)

by Nina Mason

  He gave her a sheepish grin. “Well, now you are. And, just to be clear, common prostitutes would never have satisfied my requirements.”

  “Are there brothels where you are taking me?”

  “Aye, Maggie. Quite a few of them. And in that part of town, they are referred to by assorted euphemisms, one of them being bagnios—an Italian word meaning ‘baths.’”

  “Will you take me to one?”

  He sputtered in surprise. “For what possible purpose?”

  “To advance my erotic education, of course.”

  “How exactly?”

  “I simply fancy seeing the inside of one of these dens of iniquity,” she said. “Merely to satisfy my curiosity.”

  He laughed and resumed walking. “Last I checked, Rosebud, the menu of services did not include guided tours for curious ladies of the royal court.”

  Hastening to catch up with him, she slipped her arm through his and lengthened her stride to keep pace. “In that case, tell me what these bagnios are like to visit and what the menu of services does entail.”

  “The brothels I frequented were devoted to my particular tastes.”

  “In other words, you paid whores to abuse you.”

  He cared not for the rebuke undergirding the statement. “The women I hired were called governesses, not whores.”

  “Did you not also have sex with them?”

  “If you must know, I refrained from intercourse for fear of catching the pox, as did poor Rochester and so many other poor sods of my acquaintance, but allowed other forms of sexual stimulation—as befitted my needs or befitted their script.”

  “Your needs or their script? Pray, do not deprive me of the details.”

  “Well, if you must know—and it seems you will not be easy until you do—my regular governess could be relied upon to birch, flog, fustigate, scourge, needle-prick, half-hang, curry-comb, or phlebotomize me to my heart’s content.”

  “I thought you disliked being scourged,” was all she said in response.

  “I do. Exceedingly. But you asked for a menu of services, and those were they at my regular haunt.”

  “And just how common are brothels catering to tastes such as yours?”

  “Flagellation cullies, is the name we are known by in the trade,” he explained. “And the brothels servicing such tastes grow more plentiful by the day. For, you must understand, prostitution is a profit-making enterprise. Thus, the houses are in competition with one another and must, therefore, appeal to as wide a range of customers as possible.”

  Saying no more, they walked another two blocks before he pulled up. “I have grown weary of walking, and we still have a goodly ways to go. What say you to my hiring a cab to carry us the rest of the way?” With a wry grin, he added, “If not to save our legs, then to prevent some audacious bawd from enlisting your services.”

  “I am all for a cab, but do tell me what the devil a bawd might be…so that I shall know what evil to be on guard against.”

  “A bawd is the owner of a brothel, dearest.” He hid his mirth behind his gloved hand as he added, “And with your beauty and skills in the erotic arts, you would make quite the feather in any such a one’s cap.”

  Robert burst out laughing and, after recovering himself, flagged down a hansom, gave the location of the shop to the driver, and helped Maggie into the cab’s forward-facing leather bench. No sooner had he claimed the seat beside her than the conveyance set off. Leaning very close, he pushed back her thick curtain of golden curls and nuzzled the susceptible spot beneath her earlobe.

  “Do you miss your visits to your favorite governess?”

  His lips stilled against her neck. “’Twould be dishonest of me to say I did not.”

  “Would you fancy paying her another visit?”

  He sat up, displeased, and heaved a sigh. “Dearest, I must know why you seem so eager all at once to palm me off on other females. Though you claim to still find me desirable, I begin to doubt your word.”

  She stroked his cheek. “I do still find you desirable, my love. Very much so. But our time in this world is precious—and cruelly short. And there is no need to deny yourself the dark pleasures you so enjoy when your wife is willing to be part and parcel to your vices.”

  “I fail to take your meaning,” he said, eyes narrowing.

  She took a breath and licked her lips. “Could we not go see your governess together?”

  “For what possible purpose?”

  “I thought I might watch,” she said, smiling sweetly, “or receive instruction…or be punished alongside you—or all three, if permissible.”

  Robert shook his head—in surprise, not discontentment. “Once again, you astonish me, Rosebud. And delight me exceedingly. If you truly mean what you say, I shall dispatch a note on the morrow to arrange a couple’s session with Mistress Leslie.”

  “I do mean it, dearest. For I want you to be happy in our marriage.”

  Turning his head, he seized her hand and pressed a kiss to the heel of her palm. “How could I not be happy? For I have a wife who is not only beautiful, but also devoted, selfless, and accommodating. And no man alive could ask for more than that.”

  Moving her hand into his hair, she ran her fingers through his soft waves. “I feel equally blessed in my choice of husband.”

  As his gaze, heavy-lidded and heated, locked with hers, his hand came up and touched her face. “Rosebud,” he whispered. “Do you know how much I adore you?”

  “The feeling is mutual, dear heart.”

  He removed his right glove before claiming her mouth in a fervent, tongue-sucking kiss. Lost in a sea of carnal sensation, he twined his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer, smashing his lips against hers, and catching her tongue in the trap of his lips. Groaning with pleasure, he pulled her onto his lap, being mindful of his sword, and flexed his pelvis against hers.

  “Robert,” she gasped, freeing her mouth. “Have we time enough to do the deed?”

  He drew back and looked into her eyes, which were as ablaze with desire as his own. “I fear not, but no matter. For I shall take great pleasure in the knowledge you long for my cock whilst you shop for a rival.”

  She tilted her head and grinned at him salaciously. “I would much rather partake of your real one than an imposter.”

  “And you shall, my darling. I promise.” He kissed her cheek and smoothed her curls. “At the first opportunity.”

  As she relaxed against him, he nibbled her neck, relishing the feel of her various points of contact. Her pulse against his mouth, her firm thighs and hot sex atop his, the bones of her bodice gouging his chest, the golden curls softly tickling his cheek. She smelled of roses and arousal—the headiest perfume in all of existence.

  He slipped his hand beneath the hem of her skirts and glided his fingers up the length of her stockings. Reaching higher, he skimmed his fingertips ever-so-lightly along the silken smoothness of her inner thigh.

  She groaned. “You are torturing me, dear heart.”

  “Not as much as I intend to,” he said against her swanlike neck.

  Advancing again, he located her sweet spot and began to play. Releasing a tiny moan, she pressed her sex into his caressing fingers as she tightened her grip on his shoulders. She was always so wet, so ready, so willing, which he adored about her. Would that he had time to see to her properly.

  But alas, he did not. For they had reached their destination.

  The cab stopped and she climbed off him. As she straightened her clothes, he climbed out. Whilst waiting for her to emerge, he pulled on the glove he’d removed. When she was ready, he lifted her down, drew her against his chest and kissed her shamelessly before setting her firmly on her feet.

  “We’d best see to our errand before the nuns swarm the streets.”

  After appearing to puzzle for a moment, she said, “I cannot imagine any brides of Jesus behaving in such a manner. What convent do they come from?”

  He presented her with a devilish smile
. “Do you remember that I told you houses of ill-repute were known by many names in this part of London?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, in Covent Garden, they are called ‘convents’ or ‘abbeys’—and the women who sell their bodies are known as ‘nuns.’”

  He paid the driver and sent the cab on its way. When he turned back to her, she said, “Is not equating whores with nuns a sacrilege?”

  “Blasphemous acts are the favorite pastime in post-Cromwellian London.” He offered her his arm. “As you are about to discover.”

  Sidestepping a suspicious puddle, he led her into the Rising Sun, as the godemiché seller’s had been wittily named. The interior was laid out in similar fashion to Mrs. Crosse’s apothecary, except that, instead of liniments, potions, powders, and pills, these shelves displayed an impressive assortment of replicas of the aroused male sexual organ.

  There were long ones, short ones, stout ones, and thin ones. The majority were carved—of ivory, tortoise, bone, wood, marble, or jade. Others were forged from brass and silver. Although most replicated just the shaft of the male reproductive organ, several models also comprised the testicles. Some had plungers to simulate ejaculation or do double duty as douches. One featured a key-wound clockworks mechanism to make the apparatus rotate. Another sported heads at both ends—a dildol built for two, he thought drolly.

  The proprietress, a stout, dark-haired woman somewhere around forty, was engaged at the back of the shop with two ladies he guessed by their improper attire to be prostitutes. Leaving his wife to explore for herself, he gravitated toward the two-headed dildol. Removing his right glove, he fingered the object whilst conjuring a picture of both Maggie and Gemma partaking of its features in tandem. The cock betwixt his legs, which had begun to soften, immediately reasserted itself. Fortunately, his waistcoat was so long, anyone who saw him would be none the wiser.

  Tiring of the display, he turned to look for Maggie, curious which of the selections she might gravitate toward. Nothing too large, he hoped, for he would hate to be outshone by an imposter. He found her a few feet away, entranced by a display of “love birds”—dildols carved to resemble phallic-headed birds.

  Moving to her side, he leaned very close and mischievously whispered, “Tweet, tweet. Or would twat, twat be more apropos?”

  She blushed scarlet, to his delight, and fingered the necklace encircling her throat—the string of pearls he’d gifted her on their wedding night. They and the pearl rosary he’d lost when attacked by a mob of Catholic-hating Whigs were the only of his mother’s possessions he’d kept. Both items had been as precious to him as had been their owner. He still felt a pang of regret whenever he thought upon the stolen article.

  Spirits deflated by the memory, Robert stepped away from Maggie to have a look at a kid-leather lined travel box containing a matched pair of rosewood phalluses. The smaller, measuring roughly ten inches, included testicles, whilst the other, even longer, had none. The fleur de lis embellishments around the bases of both told him their country of origin.

  Not wishing to draw his wife’s notice to the items, he moved on. Though expertly carved, they were too large. Were she to grow accustomed to aught of such magnitude, his natural eight inches would pale in comparison.

  No sooner did the “nuns” take their leave than the shopkeeper took an interest in Maggie, having deduced no doubt by her fine mode of dress that she was a personage of consequence. “The mechanism on this one is most ingenious, My Lady,” the woman said of one of the models with a plunger. “For the device can be blown up and filled with milk or any other liquid, which heats up after prolonged contact with the body. At the moment of climax, you simply depress the lever and voila!—out will flow the warm liquid to create the proper illusion.”

  “Back home in Scotland, I have a glass one I can tie on with ribbons,” Maggie said rather bluntly. “Might you carry something of that sort?”

  “By all means, My Lady. They are right over here.”

  As the shopkeeper led the way, Robert followed.

  “We get few ladies of your quality in here, I must say.” The proprietress opened a deep drawer. “Most of my customers are working girls, if you take my meaning.”

  Maggie withdrew a hollow glass godemiché very like the one they’d left behind at Balloch Castle. As she took the object to the window for a better look, his mind jumped back to the night she’d buggered him. Angry over an assignation she’d observed at court, she’d tied him to the cross in his flagellation chamber and left him there, naked and shivering, whilst she leisurely explored the contents of his cabinet of sexual curiosities. Later, she’d birched him, which he’d thoroughly enjoyed, before sodomizing him with the glass dildol, which he’d relished a good deal less.

  “Should you see naught to your taste,” said the proprietress, bringing him back to the shop, “I can have one made up in silver or gold—as I’ve done for some of my more discerning clientele.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Maggie returned, “but have no doubt we shall find something suitable among your wares.”

  Picking up one of the leather dildos, Robert ran his bare fingers down its tapered length, taking his prospective rival’s measure. Whilst he approved the realistic size and feel of this example, the choice was ultimately Maggie’s—within reason, of course.

  “Rosebud?” He held up the diletto, as the devices were known in Italy, so she might have a look at it. “What do you think of this one?”

  “You have excellent taste, My Lord,” the shopkeeper cooed. “For that one is of the highest quality.”

  Maggie came over and handed the glass model to the proprietress. “I wish to purchase them both—and the ribbons to go with the glass one.”

  “What color do you fancy, My Lady?”

  “Red, I should think. Should your stores offer such a choice.”

  “They do indeed,” the woman said, leaving them.

  “This is a good choice for you.” He handed his wife the leather dildol. Then, with a devilish grin, he added, “But you must promise to name it Signore Dildo—after a poem by my old friend the Earl of Rochester.”

  Maggie gaped at him, looking half-amused, half-incredulous. “He penned an ode to false phalluses?”

  “He did indeed.” Robert’s grin broadened. “And a whole play about them as well.”

  She laughed. “What a colorful character he must have been.”

  “Aye, colorful he most certainly was.” Leaning closer and lowering his voice, he said, “He also was a bitter enemy of your friend, Lord Mulgrave, and wrote several unflattering verses about the man, calling him Lord All-Pride, among other slurs. One told of Mulgrave’s affair with Mall Kirk, a former maid of honor of your stepmother’s. The ‘midnight ambush’ memorialized in the verse took place about ten years ago, when the Duke of Monmouth, a rival for the lady’s affections, had Numps—another of Mulgrave’s nicknames—apprehended by the guard as he emerged from her palace lodgings. When nine months later, the lady gave birth to a son, her brother challenged the suspected father to a duel. In the fight, Mulgrave was badly injured, but recovered—to the disappointment of many.”

  “Indeed,” she said, brow rutted, “but do promise never to fight a duel with the odious man yourself—whatever wrong he may do.”

  “I can make no such promise. For I would lose face were I to shrink from a challenge—or fail to issue one myself to avenge your honor or my own. Once, a few years back, Mulgrave challenged Rochester, whom Lord All-Pride claimed refused to fight, claiming himself too ill. Rochester denied the tale, but to no avail. Thereafter, he was known far and wide as a coward.”

  “Merciful heavens.” She touched her chest. “What ribald times those must have been.” Stepping up to him, she met his gaze with an expression of concern. “Or perhaps you found them exhilarating. Pray, be truthful with me, husband. Do you ever long to return to your life as a foot-loose courtier?”

  “Not at all,” he said in earnest. “Though I’ll admit
to sometimes missing how carefree I felt back then, I have never fancied in the least to be free of the bonds of matrimony. For I mainly drank and womanized to forget the angel I hoped to wed once I came into my inheritance.”

  She beamed at him in a way that warmed him to the cockles. “But all your wicked ways were in vain.”

  “That they were.” He bent to kiss the tip of her perfect nose. “For I never forgot my darling Rosebud. And thank the Lord each and every day that you accepted my offer of marriage.”

  Chapter Eight

  Upon returning to the apartment, Maggie set down her parcels and hung her cloak on a peg beside the door before checking the silver tray on the foyer table. There, among the calling cards and bills, was an un-posted letter. She picked up the note and squinted down at the address, which simply read, “To the Duke and Duchess of Dunwoody.” Believing she recognized the handwriting, she turned the folded sheet over to examine the seal. Sure enough, the royal insignia was debossed upon the red wax button affixed to the back of the folded sheet.

  Eager to know what tidings her father might feel compelled to communicate in writing, Maggie broke the seal and unfurled the watermarked sheet of parchment. Robert, coming up behind her, positioned himself to read over her shoulder.

  My Lord and Lady Dunwoody,

  When word reached me of the duke’s recovery, I hastened to your apartments in the hope of confirming the report. Finding neither of you at home told me what my eyes could not—that my son-in-law was indeed in the pink of health once again.

  This happy turn of events should have come as no surprise. For God is good and looks with a favorable eye upon the House of Stuart. I believe with all of my heart and soul that it was His unseen hand that struck down the myriad evils perpetrated to deprive me of my birthright. And now that I have at last been made king, the Good Lord would not work against his own aims by claiming a servant as faithful to me as My Lord Dunwoody has proven to be. Especially so early in my reign.