He gave a soft snort at the arrogant thought—so arrogant it might well have come out of Gideon’s mouth.
The steam shifted and swirled around Stephen, and Leather’s voice came from behind him, “May I proceed, sir?”
“Yes.” Stephen took a deep drink of almost scalding tea and then set down the cup before stretching his arms on the warmed copper rim of the tub.
Leather’s hands, when they touched him, were slick and warm, the smell of something astringent, but not unpleasant filling the air.
“Ahh,” Stephen groaned, his body going limp at Leather’s strong, massaging fingers. “That is pure magic,” he murmured. “What is that plant, again?”
“Eucalyptus, sir.”
“Are you coming down with a cold, Leather? Your voice sounds rather hoarse.”
The valet’s hands paused and he cleared his throat. “Just the wretched fog outside today, sir.” His fingers resumed their work.
Stephen grunted. “It was bloody nasty. I daresay it will be better in Glasgow,” he added on a yawn.
Thinking of Glasgow made him recall both Fanshawe’s and Gideon’s words earlier in the evening. He’d heard both men speak of the exclusive brothel in Glasgow several times. Apparently the clients often made themselves available to oher patrons, sometimes in private, sometimes in very public showings.
Stephen was intrigued by thought of watching something so public. When it came to his sexual encounters he’d always been intensely private, but he wondered if voyeurism might enhance an experience. Would he like being watched by other men while he got his cock sucked? He wasn’t so certain. Nor was he certain about fucking a woman in public, although the notion was titillating. He suspected he would only enjoy both activities if his identity were concealed.
His cock had begun to swell at the erotic thoughts and he spread his legs a little, enjoying the sensation of hot water caressing his engorged shaft. Leather’s hands were still working his shoulder, the fingers carefully pressing between the joints, prodding just enough to hurt—but it was a pain that was oddly pleasurable.
“Does this still ache?” Leather asked in a low voice, his thumb pressing against the spot that usually pained him the most.
“Not as much as before,” Stephen admitted, his voice husky with arousal or exhaustion or a combination of the two.
“I’m going to work on the other side a little.”
Stephen gave a sleepy grunt as Leather’s hand moved to his other shoulder, his own hand moving to his erection, which had begun to throb.
He gave himself a gentle stroke and yawned, thankful the room was too steamy for Leather to see his swollen prick or he might think Stephen had untoward designs on his virtue.
His lips twitched at the thought and his smile stretched into another yawn. God, he was so very tired. And Leather’s hands just felt . . .
❈❈❈
Jo had to concentrate hard on her breathing to keep it normal. These nights when he came home exhausted and let her massage his injured shoulder were the best nights of her entire life. And, yes, she was fully aware of just how pathetic that was.
He relaxed in his tub believing his valet was rubbing an ache out of his shoulder and all the while her arousal was sliding down her thighs, dampening her black woolen trousers, and providing masturbatory material for later tonight.
His body beneath her hands was like silk-covered steel. He was such a big man, but not bulky, his muscles long and toned from his rigorous daily exercise regimen.
She knew why he’d stayed still for so long and allowed her to work on his shoulder when she heard his deep, even breathing: he’d fallen asleep.
Jo smiled into the swirling steam and blew air out through pursed lips, the movement stirring the steam and allowing her a ghostly view of his long, hard body. And oh how very hard and long it was tonight.
Her mouth flooded with moisture at the sight of his thick rod, which one hand loosely cradled beneath the water.
What had he been thinking that made him hard? She knew it wasn’t her hands—he’d never gotten an erection from her shoulder rubs in the past. Jo would have noticed because she made bloody sure to snatch every opportunity to look at him: while handing him a towel, while bustling around the room under the guise of tidying up, or while drying his body or shaving him, but really staring and spying.
She allowed her hands to dip a little lower, to massage the sculpted muscles of his magnificent chest. Jo tilted her head enough that she could see his tiny nipples, which had puckered from either the cold or arousal or both.
Jo would have given all the money she kept hidden in the lining of her mattress to put her mouth on one of those little pink disks and suck until he squirmed with pleasure. She knew for a fact he enjoyed nipple stimulation.
Her hands brazenly slid lower, kneading and prodding, and she dared a feather-light touch on his nipple; his body jolted as though she’d passed a bold of electricity through him.
“Wha—?” he mumbled, slipping slightly in the tub before grasping at the sides and sitting up.
Jo immediately removed her hands from his body. “I’m sorry Mr. Chatham, did I hurt you?”
“Huh? Uh, no,” he lifted a dripping hand to shove his thick chestnut hair from his eyes. It had curled in the steam and made him look younger, more vulnerable. “I must’ve fallen asleep,” he said, sounding exhausted. He laid his big hands on the copper rim and pushed himself up.
All the moisture that had just filled her mouth drained away as she looked up at him. He’d turned to the side to step out of the tub and she had a perfect view of his softening, but still jutting shaft, the thick blue line visible from this angle, his sac heavy and pendulous.
“Fetch me a towel, Leather.” Mr. Chatham’s tone was slightly impatient and Jo shot to her feet. Shame that she’d been gawking rather than doing her job overpowered arousal and she scurried to grab one of the towels she’d laid over the warming bar in front of the fire.
She knew it was beyond pitiful, but it was a matter of pride to always have what her master wanted before he wanted it—before even he knew that he wanted it. So even this slight slip in her duties was mortifying.
“Here you are, sir.”
He took the cloth and she stole a glimpse at him in the steam-shrouded mirror: dark smudges below his heavy-lidded eyes as he wrapped the large towel snugly around his muscular hips.
“I’ll dry myself and you can shave me in the morning,” he said on a yawn, padding toward his bed chamber. “I’m dead on my feet.”
Jo stared down at the trail of large, wet footprints he left in his wake, her own body humming from touching his. She wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon.
Chapter Three
Jo waited until after she’d shaved and dressed Mr. Chatham to remind him that she would be taking her day off today.
“That’s fine,” he said, looking at something in the paper, his expression distracted.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning rather than afternoon, sir. That will give me an entire day to prepare for the trip north.”
“Mmm,” he shook his head and she knew it wasn’t at her, but at whatever he was reading. “Make sure you pick up my new suit—the gray one you returned to the tailor for adjustment.”
“It’s already done, sir.”
Thinking about that suit reminded her of the excessively enjoyable experience of adjusting Mr. Chatham’s inseam.
Yes, she most certainly needed her day off.
“I shall see you tomorrow, then,” Mr. Chatham said dismissively, never looking up from the paper.
Jo closed his door soundlessly behind her and paid a visit to the kitchen. She spent very little time socializing with the servants and knew they thought her aloof. She was aloof, but not for the reasons they suspected.
Mrs. Dane was giving instructions to one of the maids when Jo entered. She immediately stopped and turned to Jo. “Ah, good morning Mr. Leather. What can I do for you?”
“I’ll be
taking my day early this month. Please tell Charles he is to valet the master while I am gone tonight, but I’ll return tomorrow morning.”
“Very good, Mr. Leather. I hope you enjoy your day off.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dane.” Jo nodded to the other servants milling around the room and left, aware they’d enjoy talking about her once she’d gone. She knew speculation was rife about where she came from and what she did on her mysterious days off. God willing they would never know more than she’d begun her service in the household of a duke. That piece of information was usually enough to maintain distance and quell any friendly overtures.
Up in her room she took out her small overnight case, which she kept packed and ready and locked. Jo allowed the chambermaids into her room, but only when she was in the house. She kept anything that might incriminate her—there was pitifully little—under lock and key: she didn’t take foolish risks. Some people might say keeping hundreds of pounds sewed up in one’s mattress was pretty foolish, but after what had happened, she always kept enough money on hand to leave quickly, should she need to.
Jo put on her hat and picked up her case, taking the servant stairs, not because Mr. Chatham made her use them, but because they were faster.
She never took a carriage to Bernina’s directly from the house. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, but she didn’t want anyone at Mr. Chatham’s to ever ask a driver where he dropped Mr. Leather.
Yesterday’s nasty brown fog had cleared slightly and she walked longer than she usually would before hailing a handsome. The jarvey’s smile at the address told Jo he knew the location was an exclusive brothel.
Jo seated herself and stared out the grimy window. The driver might know it was a brothel, but he likely wouldn’t know just how unusual its services were. Few people did, except those who employed said services: people like Jo.
Bernina’s had once been called Madam Cecile’s but had needed to close its doors in a hurry after word leaked out that Madam Cecile’s catered to sodomites. It had taken Cecile two years before she could open again elsewhere. She now made an effort to disguise the true purpose of her business and Bernina’s offered services for regular patrons.
Jo had discovered the place—inadvertently—from her last master, a retired, highly decorated colonel whose tastes had run along unconventional lines. Colonel Whitby had been Jo’s second gentleman after she’d left the Duke of Tarland’s employment and she’d stayed with him for almost four years, until his death.
The Colonel had been ill and had sent Jo to Bernina’s to cancel his appointment. The first time Jo walked into the brothel and met Madam Cecile she felt as though she’d come home.
Jo had always wondered if the sharp-eyed old officer knew her secret, but he’d never spoken of it. If he’d known she was a female, he must have received some enjoyment from her impersonation because he’d left her a very handsome bequest in his will: for excellent services rendered.
Jo smiled at the euphemistic phrase; yes, she’d given good service to the old gentleman and had been grateful to do it. Back then—before she’d discovered Bernina’s—she’d thought there was something wrong with her for becoming aroused by both men and women.
Not until she’d walked into Bernina’s did Jo understood that she wasn’t alone—that there were other people like her.
Cecile had taken one look at her and smiled, seeing beyond her exterior to the person who inhabited Jo’s somber black suit. It had taken Jo a little longer to see past Cecile’s lovely exterior, but then she didn’t have the other woman’s wealth of experience in such matters.
The carriage stopped in front of the nondescript gray building and Jo paid the grinning driver.
“’Ave a nice day, sir.”
She ignored him and mounted the stairs. This early in the day she had to knock. A liveried footman answered the door, his stern expression breaking into a smile when he saw her.
“Jo—what a pleasant surprise.”
“Hello Daniel, how are you?” she asked as she stepped into the handsome entry hall and handed him her hat and cane while she stripped off her gloves.
“Ship shape, sir. Would you like to see Madam first?”
“I’d better, since I know you weren’t expecting me.” Jo smiled and handed him her gloves. It was probably the first genuine smile to grace her face since the last time she’d been to Bernina’s. Sometimes she wondered how she’d survived before she discovered this special place.
“Don’t wake her if she’s sleeping,” Jo said.
“I don’t think she ever sleeps,” Daniel said in a stage whisper.
“I heard that, Daniel.”
Jo glanced up and saw Cecile at the top of the stairs.
“Did I sleep through the week, Jo? Is it already Monday?” Cecile asked in a teasing voice as Jo mounted the elegant marble steps.
“It’s good to see you,” Cecile said when Jo reached the top, taking her into a welcoming embrace and squeezing her tight. Until meeting Cecile, the last time Jo had embraced another person was her father, many years ago.
Jo had once attempted to hug Benjamin, when she left the duke’s employ, and would never attempt to embrace her brother again.
Cecile held her at arms’ length and tilted her head. “How about we have something a bit stronger than tea before I send you on your way?”
“Ah, yes—some of that fine brandy?” Jo said, her hopeful tone making the other woman laugh.
The brothel was an old mansion and Cecile used what had probably been the library for her office. It was an elegantly decorated room where the madam often met clients. Cecile called it whore-décor, but Jo thought it was elegant and understated, muted greens and browns with only hints of gold. Lots of leather furniture, just like the guest rooms.
Cecile poured them both drinks in crystal that was every bit as fine as Mr. Chatham’s and brought a glass over, lowering her tall, slender body onto the settee beside Jo.
“Confusion to the enemy,” Cecile said, the same toast as always.
They clinked glasses and Jo sipped, savoring the expensive liquor. She rarely drank and made it a point to limit her intake when she came to Bernina’s: she didn’t want to dull her senses while she enjoyed her one luxury.
“Is everything all right, Josie, my dear?”
Jo smiled at the pet name. “We’re off to Glasgow for two weeks so I took my day early this month.”
“Ahh. We meaning you and your delicious employer?”
Jo had been surprised to learn Mr. Chatham had come to Bernina’s a time or two, but not since Jo had worked for him.
“Yes, it’s a business trip.”
“And how do you feel about going back to Scotland?” Cecile asked, ever the perceptive one—sometimes too perceptive.
“Where I’ll be going is a world away from where I grew up.” Cecile was one of only a handful of people who knew about Jo’s unusual childhood.
“It never fails to amaze me that you’re Scottish: you have absolutely no trace of an accent.”
“That was my father’s doing. He was a stickler about eradicating all trace of a brogue. He said getting a position anywhere but Scotland would be twice as difficult if I spoke like an Aberdonian farm laddie.” Jo pronounced the last few words using said accent and Cecile laughed.
“Before I forget,” Cecile said “You did say Glasgow?”
Jo nodded.
Cecile’s wicked red lips curved. “Ah, well, you’ll regret you took your day off in London.” Cecile stood and went to her desk where she leaned over and wrote something before returning. “But if you do find yourself with free time, this place is quiet unusual.”
Jo looked at what she’d written and then glanced up. “Frau Meisen’s? A house of pleasure, I take it.”
“Oh, and a most unusual one at that. The gent who started up the Birch Palace used to be her lover—or business partner, to hear him tell it. What makes the place so unusual is that Frau Meisen often allows clients to behave as em
ployees.” She gave a throaty laugh. “Quite bloody clever when you think about it. Rich twists come to her with their fantasies and then they pay her to sell them to either another client—who also pays. Naturally she employs plenty of her own people, too.”
“How does that work? If the clients are rich, aren’t they worried they’ll be recognized?”
“Masks, my dear. They always wear masks. We have several clients here who’ve never showed their faces. Wearing masks is not at all unusual. And some of them can look quite charming.”
“That’s . . . intriguing.”
“If you get an opportunity you should go take a look.”
Jo didn’t see that happening. “Is it difficult to get in?”
“Not if you tell them I sent you—you need a referral. She’s dreadfully expensive.”
“Oh?”
“As much as £50 for one night.”
Jo’s jaw dropped and Cecile nodded. “Makes me feel like a right fool for not starting that here, although I suspect the need for discretion is why she has to charge all that money. You know how whores like to talk—she’d need to ensure her employee’s silence. Still, it sounds intriguing to visit, if not to run a place like it.”
It did sound intriguing. But that was an unheard-of amount of money! What Jo was about to enjoy at Cecile’s cost a tiny fraction of that.
She suspected that Cecile gave her some rather special deals as she felt a sense of camaraderie with servants like herself. Jo knew she was extremely fortunate in having found Bernina’s. It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had, which was so sad she didn’t even want to think about it.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your employer sought out Frau Meisen’s while he was there.”
“How do you know that—not that I’m doubting you, since you seem to know everything.”
Cecile chuckled. “It’s not mysterious. We often see one of his partners, Gideon Banks, here. And he’s been there, so I’m sure he told his partners.”
Jo squinted at the other woman. “Are you blushing?”
“I probably am,” she admitted with a rueful chuckle. “Gideon will do that to people—even old whores like me. The man is—” she shook her head. “Well, I’ve not seen his equal, that’s for sure.”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 37