The man named Charles—a smarmy, handsome bastard who was an assistant of sorts to Madame Tosca—greeted them in the foyer.
“Ah, Mr. Fanshawe, what a pleasure.” Humor glinted in his sky blue eyes and Edward realized all the whores probably knew of his offer and rejection by now. He clenched his jaws, refusing to exhibit his anger like a spurned lover.
“I’ve brought a business associate with me,” he said rather foolishly, especially as Charles’s attention had already turned to the other man. “This is Mr. Smith.”
“My, what a coincidence,” Charles splayed the fingers of one hand over the snug black waistcoat he wore without a coat and cooed in a way that raised Edward’s hackles, “Smith is my surname, too.”
“No?” Mr. Smith said with a look of faux wide-eyed wonder. “But that’s astonishing. It’s such an unusual name.”
Both men snickered at their foolishness and Edward rolled his eyes. Just his luck: two clever, snide arseholes.
Charles led them into the sitting room where a handful of women—all clothed in the demure yet oddly sexual garb every woman here wore: a thin white muslin gown with only a chemise beneath it.
Mr. Smith grinned widely as he looked around the room. “Good evening, ladies.”
The women giggled and called out a variety of responses. Edward knew after only a glance that Nora wasn’t in the group.
Charles turned to Smith and eyed him up and down, his expression thoughtful. “I believe I have just the person for you, Mr. Smith. She’s one of our favorites and you are lucky that her normal appointment cancelled and she’s free for the evening.”
Edward had a bad feeling in his gut—and it was amplified when Charles cut him a sly little smile. “You can recommend her services yourself, Mr. Fanshawe, having gone to her quite often. Her name is Nora,” he told Smith, his taunting eyes never leaving Edward’s face.
“Nora,” Smith repeated musingly. “It seems I’ve heard that name somewhere recently.”
Edward felt every bloody eye in the room on him. Each and every one of these fuckers knew he’d been rejected by a little chit of a whore and now they were waiting for him to cry and rant for their entertainment.
They could go sod themselves.
He had to reach deep inside himself to find the energy necessary to fix a bored smile on his face and shrug. “Nora’s a good girl, Smith. You’ll enjoy her.”
Edward couldn’t help enjoying the flicker of disappointment that chased across Charles’s handsome features at his failure to rise to such tasty bait. Edward turned toward the assembled girls. “Now,” he said, forcing himself to smile in a way that promised debauchery and pleasure. “Which of you two ladies should I take upstairs with me tonight?”
❈❈❈
Nora looked up at the knock on the door.
Maddy, one of the housemaids, stood in the opening. “You’re wanted in the Silesia immediately.”
Nora frowned. “But my appointment for tonight cancelled.”
“This is a new one—some gent sent by Mr. Fanshawe for you.” The girl gave her a saucy grin before shutting the door with a click.
Nora sighed; she would be getting such looks from everyone after this. Mr. Fanshawe, a customer many of the other girls had envied her, had finally thrown her over. She knew many of the others thought her quiet and reclusive ways were simply her way of putting on airs. They would be glad to see her brought down.
Mr. Fanshawe would have known that—he would have anticipated the humiliation she’d receive at her coworker’s hands.
He would know that she would know. And he would know how his actions would cause a frisson of sexual arousal to shoot through her body and settle in her sex. It would amuse him to know he could control her body even when sending another man to use her.
Nora put down her brush. It was still fresh as she’d only a few minutes ago decided to splurge on five candles and finish the last bits of this portrait now that Mr. Lombard, her usual visitor the second Tuesday of every month, had cancelled. Nora liked Mr. Lombard, who was her oldest customer. She’d met him when she was only sixteen and had been browsing his bookstore on Bond Street. He was in his mid-forties and trim and fit. He was short of stature and not much taller than Nora, his hair a non-descript brown and his soft gray eyes magnified and distorted behind his thick lenses. Although he was excessively shy they’d gotten to know each other through the art books he occasionally ordered for her. One thing had led to another and they’d had tea. Nora had told him the truth about herself before agreeing to meet with him, assuming he’d reject her then and there. But he hadn’t. Indeed, he’d seemed more eager than before so they’d gone to tea. And then gone again and again, until, one day, he’d asked her to marry him.
Nora had been heartbroken by his request. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him—she liked him very much—but she could never marry any man—or so she’d believed back then. He’d been deeply hurt and she’d avoided his shop for several months. And then, one day, he’d shown up at Tosca’s.
He was not a rich man, so she knew he’d had to scrimp to afford to come to her. He was gentle and sweet and could usually only afford an hour. Madame had chastised Nora more than once for staying with him longer. They never had intercourse more than once, and that only lasted a few minutes, but Mr. Lombard talked and talked about himself, his past, his first wife—who’d died in childbirth—his family, who lived in Southeast London, and such things. Each time he came, he brought her a book. She’d tried to pay him—either in coin or services—but he’d never let her.
Her mind raced as she removed her painting smock and went to the mirror. She’d just gotten herself ready for Mr. Lombard an hour ago so she was still tidy but her hair was not braided. Her hands rose to take down the heavy chignon and braid it. But then she recalled it was Mr. Fanshawe’s friend.
Nora’s hands shook slightly and even this small sign of weakness angered her. It was just as well that he’d shown his disinterest in her so plainly. His effect on her would lessen over time. At least he’d not come to the house himself in weeks. As long as he stayed away—and took his commerce to some other house—she’d get over him eventually.
She made her way to the Silesia, a room she’d not been in since her last time with Mr. Fanshawe. Was that a coincidence? Or had he—
“Nora!”
She jumped and turned at the sound of Madam’s voice.
“Yes, Madam?”
The older woman’s mouth twisted with scorn. “I hope you are happy,” she said, although with her accent it sounded like, ‘I ‘ope you are ‘appy.’’
Nora had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.
“Mr. Fanshawe is finished with you.”
Nora’s heart stuttered. “He came to tell you that?”
“Don’t be a stupid girl! Of course he didn’t. But he has come with his friend and recommended you while taking Louise and Franka for himself.”
Nora tried to hide her pain at this disclosure but Madam was too sharp-eyed. “Yes, you have made yourself a nest and now you will sleep in it,” she said, butchering the idiom. “This new man is a wealthy businessman friend of his and could bring much money to the house. Try to please him as I should like to pull him away from Cecile Bernina.”
“Yes, Madam.”
The older woman shrugged away her thanks. “Now, hurry! He is waiting.”
Bernina’s was a house that offered unusual entertainments. She’d always been curious that Mr. Fanshawe didn’t favor Bernina’s but she knew two of the girls who worked there and they’d never heard of him.
Nora’s feet seemed to become heavier as she approached the Silesia, but, inevitably she reached the heavy oak door.
She took a deep breath and raised her hand to knock.
Before her knuckles touched the wood a movement caught her eyes. She turned; it was Mr. Fanshawe, and he was just about to enter the Dordogne Room. He would have come up the main stairs rather than the servant stairs as she had.
Nora’s brain performed a lock down of sorts—the type of thing the defenders of castles must have once done—her reaction to any situation which required more mental attention than she could currently spare.
Later. I can muse and mull and agonize over all of this later.
It took only seconds before she was safely locked inside herself, safe from the slings and arrows of a world that was so far beyond her control.
Her features composed into her mask of bland submission, she knocked on the door and entered the room.
Chapter Five
Mr. Smith
Smith hadn’t been so diverted in ages. It was dangerous to provoke Edward Fanshawe—a man who was as pitiless as a cobra when roused—but he simply couldn’t resist. Besides, he really had wagered with their other two partners—the loser getting the privilege of discovering what the hell was going on with Fanshawe—and lost.
The wager had only been partly in jest. The truth was, he, Chatham, and Banks had tolerated enough of Fanshawe’s unbearable temper and none of them wanted to work with him for fear of inadvertently pushing him over the edge and finding themselves holding a pistol at dawn.
It hadn’t taken much poking around since Smith had kept close tabs on all his partners for years—a fact that would doubtless make them all furious if they found out. Although he was fairly certain that at least Chatham—a man whose past was almost as murky as Smith’s—knew all his partners’ business holdings down to the last farthing. But the reclusive loner could search for the rest of his life and learn nothing about Smith’s past—not even his name. Smith was certain of that.
In any case, it hadn’t taken long to track the source of all their—and Fanshawe’s—current problems to this elegant little brothel.
And it had taken less than any time for Smith to pinpoint the delicious young Charles as an excellent—and most pleasurable—source of information.
Of all the investigative work Smith had done over the years he believed his two evenings with Charles Smith might have been the most enjoyable.
Like most other men who engaged in sodomy Smith usually kept his personal business extremely private and didn’t flit from bed to bed. Such flitting could make a wealthy sod vulnerable and the victim of blackmailers. And even though the last few people who’d attempted to bribe Smith could only be found during extremely low tides, he still didn’t like to encourage such behavior.
Not only was Charles Smith a prime fuck with a throat like hot velvet, he was a clever young man who’d guessed exactly what Smith wanted after just one question about Fanshawe.
As a result of their entertaining pillow talk the visit here tonight hadn’t really been Fanshawe’s idea. Smith had played with the man’s overflowing sexual frustration for hours so he’d not been surprised when Fanshawe had insisted on Tosca’s as a destination. No doubt he’d felt a familiar place would help him regain his bearings.
Smith grinned at that thought. For all Fanshawe’s acumen in the boardroom, the poor bastard hadn’t stood a chance against the machinations of Smith’s Machiavellian mind.
And the best part? It hadn’t mattered to Smith whether they’d ended up here or Bernina’s as either place would have offered up amusing distractions that would have caused Fanshawe’s head to ache.
Although, he admitted to himself as he stripped off his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, until he was garbed only in black trousers, black linen, and glossy black shoes, he had rather hoped Fanshawe would simply choose the girl for himself and leave Smith free to spend the evening balls-deep inside Charles Smith’s tight little arse.
He could—and likely would—come back for that particular entertainment another night. Tonight would be devoted to business. Besides, he was more than a little curious to finally see the woman who’d been driving poor old Fanshawe batty this past six months. Indeed, if Fanshawe had chosen Bernina’s tonight Smith would have called on Nora Hudson eventually, although not necessarily in a business capacity.
But now that Fanshawe had opened this particular door . . . well, perhaps he might use this opportunity to their mutual advantage.
Smith’s cock stirred at the possibility of sex and mental games and he grinned before taking a deep drink of the very fine brandy Fanshawe had ordered for both rooms. Right this moment the other man would likely be climbing the walls—if only inside his head—wondering what Smith was doing with his Nora.
Like the rest of his partners Fanshawe had no idea which way the wind blew for Smith. He didn’t hide his proclivities from the other men because he thought they’d care—he happened to know from his investigations that all three of his partners were more than slightly bent when it came to their preferences in the bedchamber—but simply out of habit. The only men who knew what Smith liked in the bedroom were those he’d fucked, and they had their own reasons to worry about discretion. While he generally preferred male bed partners he certainly wasn’t averse to bedding what he thought of as the right kind of female on occasion. That meant he preferred his women to occupy that amorphous zone between the masculine and the feminine. He liked women who might be men, and men who could pass for women. Young Charles, with his fine bone structure and guinea gold curls was a prime example of the type of man he craved. Painted and laced into a corset Charles represented the most erotic elements of both genders. Smith began to stiffen at the memory of their last encounter, which had—
A light knock on the door made him turn.
“Enter,” he called out, a pulse of anticipation in his groin.
The door swung open and the woman who’d been tearing Fanshawe in two stepped into the room. “Good evening, Mr. Smith,” the woman said in low, almost gravelly voice. “I’m Nora.”
Smith swept her slender, almost boyish person with a hungry look and chuckled. “You certainly are.”
Tonight, he decided, might prove to be very enjoyable after all.
Chapter Six
Edward hated the entire world: himself for being an arrogant fool and suggesting Nora, Smith for accepting her, and Nora for—well, for being Nora.
He’d left Tosca’s not long after dawn. Rather than stride down the hall and rip the door to the Silesia Room—his room—off the hinges, he’d dressed, paid the whores, and left without even looking in that direction. Down in the sitting room he asked the sleepy whore if Smith had left before him. He’d been unable to hide his fury at her answer, and had stalked toward the foyer, where he’d rammed his arms so hard into the coat the footman held out for him that he’d almost knocked the poor man to the floor.
Smith was still up in that room. With. Nora.
His vision wavered and his head felt as if it might blow off his bloody shoulders. Just what the hell had happened in that room mere feet from where he’d spent an utterly miserable night? What?
He waved away the offer of a carriage. His town house was almost two miles away but Edward knew that wouldn’t be far enough for him to walk off his rage; rage that was heavily adulterated by envy and jealousy and a host of other unsavory emotions as his brain staged a veritable festival of debauchery in his head: the main actors being a naked Nora and Smith, complete with whips, leather bindings, and plenty of sweat.
“You bloody fool,” he grated, his words creating gouts of steam in the frigid morning air. It was all Edward’s fault for insisting on going to Tosca’s. And then insisting on taunting Nora at the expense of his own sanity. Besides, if you’d have asked Edward about the mysterious Smith’s sexual tendencies, he would have pegged him for a sod.
He very well could be a sod—knowing Smith he would have sniffed out the situation somehow and had eagerly agreed with Edward’s suggestion of Nora simply because he knew it would irk Edward.
Irk. Ha! Dr
ive him bloody mad was more like it.
The only consolation was knowing Smith was a mere slip of a man compared to Edward and he knew Nora loved his size and strength because it had been the one piece of information she’d offered up without him having to beat or fuck it out of her.
So, no matter what astonishing technique Smith might have when it came to bed sport, he could never change the size of his body.
Edward’s face heated at the image that flashed through his mind: Smith’s huge bloody prick, which the man had insisted on sharing.
“Fucking hell!” How the devil was he supposed to scour that image from his brain?
It did occur to Edward as he strode through the frosty morning, that Nora might say such complimentary things to every customer and perhaps she’d told Smith he was precisely her type of build. After all, she was quiet, but not at all stupid. And Edward knew she was remarkably in demand for a woman who wasn’t a beauty. It bothered him to think that other men had recognized that spark inside her—that others were even now—Smith!—plumbing her fascinating depths and trying to deconstruct her many, subtle parts to find the real Nora.
“Goddammit,” he yelled, his sudden outburst scaring the hell out of a passing maidservant who scuttled across the empty street to avoid walking near him.
Edward could not rid his mind of the image of their two naked, flushed, slender—but wiry and strong—bodies writhing together.
His own evening had been an agony of wondering and mental suffering that had only been made worse by the need to put on a believable display for the whores he’d engaged. He’d cursed himself immediately upon speaking. Why had he needed to invite four instead of two eyes to observe him—two mouths to repeat their findings to the other whores? Yes, he’d wanted Nora to hear about the things he’d done—in great detail—but what if one of these far-too-clever whores spotted something amiss in his act? He’d end up a laughingstock.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 6