His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  The woman—Sharon—was impressively coordinated. She was fingering him in rhythmic thrusts while her mouth accepted every inch of his gorgeous shaft. He was built like a bloody horse and Jo had seen his cock gag more than one woman—but not Sharon. Jo tried to decipher her technique, but it was difficult from this distance. Not that it mattered; she’d never get a chance to employ this technique or any other on Mr. Chatham’s body.

  He grunted and began to thrust, his powerful hips pumping. Sharon absorbed his brutal thrusts, taking him deeply. When his movements became jerky and uncontrolled he slid a massive hand around her skull and pulled her lower.

  There was the briefest instant of resistance in the woman’s body before her training took over and she submitted, her soft, luscious form becoming pliable as she opened completely to his invasion.

  Jo’s eyes threatened to cross at the intoxicating sight of the woman’s throat distending with each vicious thrust. Mr. Chatham wasn’t just thick, he was long and he pummeled her without mercy. Jo imagined her own throat being stretched and savaged and it was the last straw. Somehow her hand had worked its way south without her permission and a second orgasm ripped through her just as Mr. Chatham sheathed himself to the balls, his body jerking violently as he spent.

  Jo shuddered silently along with her master, the contractions of pleasure wringing her out like a dish cloth, until she was limp. Until all she wanted to do was crawl to him and fall asleep at his feet.

  But of course she did nothing of the sort.

  Instead, she took one last look at the slack muscles of his face and shut the door with infinite care, not making even the whisper of a click.

  And then she sagged against the wall and closed her eyes. Behind her lids she relived the scene she’d just witnessed, but with another woman kneeling before him.

  Why can’t it be me?

  Jo knew the answer to that pitiful plea even in her sex-dazed state. It could never be her—not only because she wasn’t the type of woman he favored, but, more importantly, because Stephen Chatham believed Jo to be Joseph Edward Leather, his valet of almost two years And if he ever found out the deception she’d played on him there would be no crevice deep enough or cave dark enough to hide her from his wrath.

  Chapter Two

  It was past two in the morning when Stephen returned home from Number 14, the gambling club he owned with the other three men who belonged to the syndicate.

  As ever, Leather was awake and waiting for him when he entered his chambers.

  “Good evening, Mr. Chatham.”

  “You should have gone to bed,” Stephen said—which is what he always said.

  “I was awake, sir.” Which is what Leather always said.

  Stephen had serious doubts the man ever slept—or was even human, for that matter. With the exception of only one day every month, the first Monday, Leather was always waiting for Stephen whenever he returned home. Two o’clock in the afternoon or two o’clock the morning, Leather was there, impeccably groomed and dressed, his face an impassive mask. He was the ultimate servant, a man who seemed to live only for his job. That was fine with Stephen; he was the best damned valet he’d ever had.

  Leather was a tall, bone thin man who didn’t have to stand on his toes to help Stephen in and out of coats or waistcoats as his last valet had. He moved with quiet efficiency, helping him slip out of his coat, but leaving Stephen to pull off his cravat. Leather had known, without Stephen having to tell him, that Stephen didn’t like anyone’s hands except his own near his throat.

  He was remarkably adept at anticipating Stephen’s every need, want, or desire before Stephen did. He certainly knew as much about Stephen’s likes and dislikes as Stephen himself.

  But, most importantly, Leather was discrete and reserved and demonstrated an unprecedented degree of devotion to his job. Although Stephen didn’t trust him completely, he trusted him a great deal more than anyone other than his three business partners.

  “Will you be engaging in your usual routine in the morning, sir?”

  Stephen’s usual routine was to wake at five and spend an hour and a half in his private gymnasium, which he’d equipped according to the principles of MacLaren, although with more emphasis on solitary exercises.

  “I’ll have a lie-in tomorrow, Leather. Wake me at half six.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Also, we’ll leave two days hence on the six-fifteen from Paddington Station. You’ll need to pack enough for a stay of two weeks, although we may be back sooner.”

  “Very good, sir.” The other man’s eyes—so distorted by spectacles it gave Stephen a headache just looking at him—caught his in the mirror as he draped Stephen’s coat over the wooden clothes horse.

  The brief glance reminded Stephen of something. “We shall be out of town on your first Monday. You may either take tomorrow or have your day while we are away.”

  “May I enquire where we are going, Mr. Chatham?”

  Stephen finished the last button on his waistcoat and Leather helped him out of it. “Glasgow.”

  “Very good, sir. I shall take tomorrow off, if that serves.” His face remained as impassive as ever, but Stephen thought he saw something in his eyes.

  “Have you been to Scotland before?” Stephen asked.

  Leather’s full mouth—the only generous feature on a face that was spare and angular—twitched into something that approached a smile but did not quite make it. “I have, sir, but not for many years.”

  Stephen thought about asking where and when, but then decided he didn’t want to breech the wall of reserve between them. Although they often spoke about his business dealings or news items of interest, Stephen had tried to avoid personal questions.

  His last valet had chattered so incessantly about his family, his sweetheart, his bloody butterfly collection, and half a hundred other subjects that Stephen had finally needed to discharge him just to get a moment’s peace.

  Although he doubted Leather would be such a blatherer, it was best not to open that door.

  Stephen lowered his long body into the well-padded chair just outside the dressing room and Leather dropped to his knees and unlaced his ankle boots with the same deft, efficient motions he did everything. Stephen idly studied the man’s bowed head as he worked. Leather’s hair was a mousy brown that he kept cropped so closely Stephen could see the pink of his scalp through the short, spiky hairs. It was a severe style that suited his rather austere person.

  Joseph Leather had the sort of average, non-descript build and looks a person always forgot. Even though Stephen saw his face every day, he was always slightly surprised when he’d been away a few hours and saw him again.

  Indeed, Leather would make an excellent spy.

  Stephen’s mouth pulled into a slight smile at the thought of his mild-mannered valet getting up to political hijinks for the government or getting up to hijinks of any kind.

  It wasn’t just his face that was bland, it was his temperament. He’d never seen the man exhibit anger, happiness, sadness, joy, discomfort, or anything other than a nod of satisfaction when Stephen praised some aspect of his work.

  Stephen believed he was an easy master to serve as far as valeting. He was particular about his clothing and how he dressed, but he was not a dandy. And while he had the occasional late night—as he had this evening—he otherwise he kept early hours.

  All in all, Leather had plenty of time on his own, not that he ever went anywhere except on his one day off a month. Stephen had wondered more than once what he did on those Mondays.

  Did he visit family? A lover? A wife and children? He supposed any of those things was possible, although the idea of Leather with a sweetheart stretched Stephen’s imagination to the breaking point.

  Although Stephen had been raised in a household with servants until age six—when his parents sent him away—he’d done without live-in servants of any kind for most of his adult life, until he’d suddenly woken up one day and noticed that he w
as living in cramped lodgings on the east side of London when he was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.

  Since that time, his household increased with every year that passed: valet, butler, housekeeper, footmen, countless maids, grooms, and a host of other strangers. How amazing that he could live cheek by jowl with all these people and know nothing about them, when they knew so much about him.

  And nobody knew more about him than Leather. The man knew even the most intimate details of Stephen’s life. Somewhere along the line Leather had even taken charge of arranging Stephen’s amorous entertainment at times.

  His face heated at the thought; he simply could not recall how such a thing had come about. It wasn’t that he employed Leather in that capacity all the time, only on those evenings when Stephen needed release and couldn’t find the time or energy to go to one of the houses he favored—those places that catered to very wealthy men like him, where any fantasy could be made real.

  Stephen certainly hadn’t intended to make his valet his procurer but the man managed the selecting and fetching and dispatching of whores with the same detached efficiency he employed choosing his clothing. Although he appeared not to mind, or even notice, his ever-increasing list of responsibilities, Stephen couldn’t help wondering what the man thought about him. To Leather, Stephen’s sexual tastes appeared to be just another preference to be memorized—the same as Stephen’s predilection for rare beef.

  Leather stood up, stockings in one hand and shoes in the other. “Will you be going straight to bed, sir, or should I run you a bath?

  Stephen stretched and groaned as his various joints popped. “A soak is exactly what I need.”

  “Very good, sir.” Leather disappeared and Stephen heard the sound of water splashing in the bathroom adjacent to the dressing room. Leather returned just in time to crouch and retrieve Stephen’s drawers and trousers as he stepped out of them.

  “Is your shoulder paining you again, sir?”

  Stephen realized he was rolling his right shoulder, which had never been the same since it had been pulled out of the socket. “It’s stiff. I think it must be the cold weather.”

  “I’ll fetch the warming liniment and apply it while you soak.”

  Stephen opened his mouth to tell the other man he needn’t bother, but then closed it and nodded. Leather, for all his apparent subservience, always seemed to carry through on anything he suggested. No matter how diffident he looked or sounded, he possessed a quiet will of iron on some subjects, especially those concerning Stephen’s person.

  Stephen padded in bare feet toward the bathroom, which was already deliciously warm and steamy. Leather had filled the tub with almost-too-hot water, which Stephen found perfect.

  Stephen had purchased the townhouse from a barrister who’d also been a bachelor. He’d done very little to anything other than his own bed chambers and the study after moving in. But the one change he had made was to bring in a custom bathtub to suit his extra tall person, so when he slipped into the hot water he could stretch out to his full six feet six inches.

  It was bloody heaven and he laid his head against the sloped tub and considered the meeting earlier tonight.

  “It’s your turn to go up to Glasgow and deal with these bloody shipbuilders,” Gideon Banks reminded him—for at least the third time. “Edward and I went last time and Smith before that.” He shrugged. “I’d go again but I’ve got a bit of personal business to take care of.”

  Stephen knew that Banks wanted one of them to ask him what personal business he had to take care of, but the rest of them knew Gideon would tell them without any encouragement.

  The others began to gather their possessions while Stephen finished up with the evening’s notes. He was the syndicate’s unofficial secretary, mainly by virtue of his meticulous—some would say obsessive—organizational skills.

  “Is he going to answer me?” Banks asked nobody in particular.

  “I think he’s ignoring you,” Fanshawe said as he straightened the scattered papers in front of him.

  Edward Fanshawe had been the one to suggest they needed to increase their shipping fleet. This time, rather than build new ships, Edward proposed they look at older ships in dry dock, most of which needed serious repairs but could be picked up at a substantial discount.

  “Are you pouting, Chatham?” Gideon asked.

  Stephen cut him a cool, dismissive look. It was almost impossible not to smile at Gideon Banks’s petulant tone, but Stephen managed it.

  “I told you, Banks, he’s ignoring you,” Fashawe said again, tucking the fat stack of documents and drawings into a worn leather satchel. “I wish I could ignore you even half as well.”

  Stephen and Smith—and even Banks himself—laughed at that.

  “I’ll take my own rail car,” Stephen said, more to himself.

  “It speaks!” Banks said.

  Everyone ignored him.

  “Ah,” Smith said, “that’s right, Chatham. I recall you just had your car redone.”

  Stephen grunted and Smith pulled out his silver scrolled case and extracted one of his vile cigars—which was usually Stephen’s cue to leave the room. He abhorred smoking of all types. It reminded him of that summer.

  “I think he’s pouting,” Banks said again. When nobody responded he added, “Cheer up, Chatham, you’ll get to visit one of my favorite places.” He turned to Fanshawe with a lascivious smile. “You recall Glasgow, don’t you Edward?”

  “Shut up, Gideon,” Edward said, but his words lacked heat. He buckled the last of the straps on his satchel and stood. “Have a good trip, Chatham.” He paused, a curious expression on his harsh face. “As much as I hate to agree with anything Gideon says, I do recommend the place in Glasgow—Frau Meisen’s in the Possilpark area. It’s a very . . . unusual establishment.” He gave an abrupt nod. “Good night gentlemen.”

  Gideon barely waited until the door closed to say, “Edward’s no fun now that he’s married.”

  “Edward was rarely any fun before he was married,” Smith pointed out.

  “That’s true. But at least he could be counted on to be adventurous on occasion.”

  Stephen knew where this was going before Gideon spoke.

  “I’m going to the Birch Palace,” Gideon announced. “Either of you want to join me?”

  “I’m for home, my dear Gideon,” Smith said, standing with a groan. “These old bones need their beauty sleep.”

  “What about you, Stephen?” Gideon asked.

  Although he tried to sound casual, Stephen had detected a strain of desperation Gideon’s voice lately. The younger man was a whoremonger of monumental proportions but he appeared to be getting even worse these past months, as if even the depths of debauchery he wallowed in were no longer enough to satiate his needs.

  Stephen had once, years ago and in a moment of weakness and foolishness, accompanied Gideon to a brothel and had almost immediately regretted becoming ensnared in the man’s extravagant, out-of-control whoring. He’d never gone with any of his partners after that, although he suspected Fanshawe and Smith behaved with more decorum.

  No, he preferred to whore in private.

  “He’s ignoring you,” Smith said, his hand on the door handle. “I shall see you in two days Gideon, and you in two weeks, Chatham.”

  Stephen grunted.

  “Wait,” Gideon said, getting to his feet. “Will you drop me at Tosca’s?”

  “I thought you just said you were going to the Birch Palace?”

  “I was, but Tosca’s is on your way and I sent my carriage home earlier.”

  “I’ll drop you off at Tosca’s, you young reprobate.” It amused Smith to call Gideon young even though there was barely five years of difference between the men. Of course Gideon behaved like he was twenty. Or twelve, even.

  Gideon winked at Stephen and gave him a grin that was supposed to be charming. “You could learn a thing or two from me, Stephen: you see how adaptable I am when it comes to my amores?”
<
br />   Stephen barked a laugh at that. “Adaptable? You’d fuck a knothole in a fence, Banks.”

  Gideon was rendered speechless—a rarity—but Smith roared.

  “Come on,” Smith said, brushing actual tears from the corner of one eye as he grabbed Gideon’s arm and dragged him out the door. “You should know better than to prod the lion. The next time you do he might take off your entire bloody arm, not just your hand.” He winked at Stephen. “Ta, Chatham, see you in a few.”

  Stephen snorted as the door closed on Gideon’s complaining. The man was a perennial juvenile who carried none of the tools of a successful businessman: no bag or satchel or even a pen. He never took notes or did anything that even remotely resembled work. Yet he possessed a bloody brilliant mind that could recall any detail, no matter how minor or from how long ago. He was a walking, talking compendium of every piece of information he’d ever absorbed. It was one hell of a gift when coupled with Gideon’s engineering skills. It was too bad he was so distracted by whoring that he was driving himself—and everyone else around him—mad.

  Somebody cleared their throat and Stephen jolted, sending hot bathwater sloshing over the sides of the big tub.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Leather said. “I didn’t know you were sleeping.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping, just thinking over the day’s business.”

  “I thought you might like some tea while you soaked.”

  Stephen saw that a tea cart had miraculously appeared on the right side of the tub. On it was a cup and saucer, pot, and a plate of Stephen’s favorite butter biscuits. He picked up the cup, took a sip, and then sighed with genuine happiness.

  “I don’t know what you do, Leather, but you make the best tea I’ve ever tasted.”

  “It is my pleasure, sir.”

  Stephen could hear the truth beneath his words—unusual in the man’s generally toneless voice—and he marveled anew that Leather took so much pleasure in his job.

  Leather was his fourth—and hopefully final—valet and Stephen did not want another. Especially when Leather seemed to have been put on Earth just to serve Stephen’s needs.