They both ascended a narrow row of stairs that creaked under their weight. The tenement was quiet. Most residents would be out by now, either to work in one of London’s many factories or to drink in one of London’s many taverns and gin palaces. These doors were all locked to them.
And only one remained ajar.
Alex’s hand shook as she pushed open the door and they went inside.
The place was empty. Not only was the woman Alex sought not there, it was as if no one lived in the place at all. All that remained in the small flat was a bare bed, a single table, and a stool. Millie, wherever she was, had vacated the premises.
Alex sat on the bed—the springs squeaking under her weight—and looked desolately out the window.
Thorne had a foolish notion to comfort her, but all that came out was, “She might have moved on. Rent was too high.”
His wife gave a dry laugh. “I paid her rent.”
Say something else, you idiot. “Perhaps she—”
“Please,” she said, shutting her eyes briefly. “You promised no more lies. Remember?”
Fuck. She had him there, didn’t she? “I’m sorry, Alex.”
They both fell quiet. Thorne wished he knew the perfect words to say. Figured some aristo in St. James’s would have told her something pretty to take that haunted look out of her gaze, but all Thorne had were lies, and she was right: he had promised the truth.
After a long moment, she let out a breath. “Do you know anything about opal mining?” she asked him.
It was a strange shift in topic, but as she stared out at the roofs of the other tenements in St Giles, Alex’s mind seemed to be working again. Perhaps it was a question to distract from her thoughts and worries. Something to renew her focus.
Nick shook his head. “Just seem the gems. Very pretty.”
“Very pretty,” she echoed with a gusty sound. “Quite so. Australia is vast and hot, and the sands that surround the opal mines are more effective than iron bars. The gems come from down in the earth, through narrow passages that go meters deep. Millie used to tell me it was difficult to breathe down there in that dark place, that you start to crave sight of an opal because finding one meant eating at the end of the day. Think of what she went through to survive that place, only to—” She made some soft noise and gripped her dress hard. “Can you imagine?”
The dark felt almost tactile. Closing in and suffocating. You learned to tell time by the space of your breaths, and would do almost anything to leave it: kill, maim, or steal. What matter? They took place in fresh air.
“Yes,” Thorne said, very quietly. “I can imagine.”
Alexandra’s shoulders tensed. “Is that right?” she asked.
The answer left him in a breath: “Ask me.”
Thorne watched as she drew her lip between her teeth, as if resisting the urge. But in the end, this action was not enough to quell her curiosity. “You have scars on the side of your torso,” she asked him. “Just under your arm. Eleven of them.” Her gloved fingertip settled on the fabric of her dress as she seemed to trace the lines there. “They look like notches. Deliberate.”
Thorne froze. “Yes.”
“Tell me about those.” She kept tracing with her finger. “In Gretna, they seemed . . . more recent. Less faded.”
“They were reminders,” he told her quietly. “I marked them myself before I left for Hampshire. When I was there, among riches I had never experienced before, I needed to remember why I went. What I was risking if I failed.”
“Reminders,” she echoed, breathing the word as if she struggled with it.
“They represent every friend I lost to Whelan.”
Alex’s hand stilled, her gloved fingers curling into her palm. “And he . . . put you all in a dark place? Like an opal mine?”
Rats scratching the walls. The stones press in, the stench of cheroot lingering in the air. His hand finds O’Sullivan’s shoulder in the blackness, presses there. They had to survive.
“A cellar in the Old Nichol.” Thorne’s voice sounded so calm; it had taken years of practice. “We were let out for tasks. Whatever Whelan needed.”
“Tasks?”
He had a knife in his hand, slick in his grip. Killing meant eating. Sustenance to survive the dark. To make him strong. One step closer to getting out.
“Killing,” Thorne said bluntly. “Stealing. Kids can get into tight spaces, hide more easily. They’re more eager to please, and none of us had family. No one to look for us, no one to miss us if we died. No one to give a shit. You start to learn what things you’re willing to do for a full belly, a hint of kindness, and the promise of fresh air.” Out the window, he could see the rooftops of the East End. He’d scaled so many of them, even when his body was weak and trembling. “We were let out of that cellar for good when we grew into men, and replaced by other children Whelan wished to train. But none of us forgot it. I didn’t, when I took your father’s offer.”
When her eyes rose to meet his, he felt as if he’d been knocked off balance. She had that look about her, back in Stratfield Saye, when she’d tempted him in the water. It was one that enticed sailors to the sea, that spoke of either passion or destruction—or, perhaps, both. When she rose from the bed and approached him, Thorne felt rooted to the floor, held in a trance. He watched as she removed one of her gloves.
She reached for him with a bare hand, nudged aside his jacket, pushed under his waistcoat to find the lawn of his shirt. With brisk movements, she untucked the fabric from his trousers.
There. The heat of her fingertips on his skin, sliding up his torso. Thorne didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak, lest she find some reason in both to stop touching him. She was that wild fey creature in the lake, holding his fate in her hands. Deciding to love him or drown him.
Alex found his scars, the eleven ridges he had carefully carved into his torso the night before he left London years ago. Names he thought of on the train during their journey to Gretna. Names he catalogued in his mind before every lie to her.
“If you had told me everything back in Stratfield Saye before we married, I would have been furious,” she said to him.
“That’s why I—”
Her fingertips pressed to his scars harder. “I would have been furious,” she repeated, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I don’t know how long it would have taken me to forgive you. I truly don’t. But you need to understand something.” Her eyes were fierce now, almost angry. “I still would have gone with you to the anvil.”
Those words settled like a stone inside him, nudging the blade deeper. For the last four years, he had gone to bed every night wishing he’d told her everything when she asked him on the train. Cursing his own stupidity for not telling her then.
“I couldn’t take that risk,” he said. The excuse rang so hollow now. Fool. You fucking fool.
Ever so slowly, Alex slid her hand out of his shirt. When she looked at him now, it was with sadness. “The problem wasn’t the risk, Nick. It wasn’t those lives marked into your skin. It wasn’t even Whelan. It was that you didn’t trust me.”
Chapter 19
Their journey to Mayfair was quiet.
It was a relief after their discussion in Millie’s flat, but Alexandra was also uneasy. All these years, Nick had carried the responsibility for those in the East End, and he hadn’t trusted her enough to share it.
Knowing this had opened up Alexandra’s old wounds, ones she thought had healed over. She was reminded once more of his newspaper articles, criticisms of her work that said, in so many words, Stay away. I have no further need of you. More than that—they were warnings, too: We are fundamentally different. We are unfixable.
And yet . . . how could she fault him for feeling that way? His upbringing left so little room for trust.
But that did not make it hurt less.
She would do well to remember the words he wrote and take them to heart. The ocean liner in her future was another chance for her; it left open so many possibi
lities away from him. Where she could experience new things. Meet new people. Begin to mend.
But first, she had someone to warn.
The hack rolled to a stop in front of the bricked Mayfair building. Nick offered Alexandra a hand to help her down, and she kept that moment of contact brief. She felt his warmth even with her glove in place.
“Should we be entering a nunnery in the middle of the afternoon, in clear view of everyone?” Nick asked after he paid the driver.
Nunnery was an old canting word for a brothel, where prostitutes were referred to as nuns. “It’s a club,” she reminded him as they approached the solid wood door at the back of the Masquerade. “And this is the servants’ entrance. I have my own knock.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t club just a fancy word for a bawdy house?”
“No.” She gave three series of three knocks in quick succession. “Membership is purchased, company is not. Do you plan to use every term in your vocabulary for a brothel?”
Her husband smiled slowly. “Cavaulting school.”
“Dear lord,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. It was difficult to hold onto her earlier ire when he smiled at her like that.
“Smuggling ken,” he continued with a grin. “Nugging house. Buttocking shop.”
The panel slid open. “Yes?” said the male voice within.
Her cheeks burning, Alexandra nudged Nick out of the way. “Morning, Charlie,” Alexandra said with a smile, praying the man had not heard her husband say the words buttocking shop. “Is the Madame in?”
The heavy door opened, and Charlie ushered them inside the dark foyer lit with low gas lamps. The Masquerade’s doorman was built like a mountain. Though he wore a pressed and expensive suit, Charlie’s craggy features, broad frame, and accent belied an upbringing outside of the genteel streets of Mayfair. Aside from manning the door, he ensured the protection of the exclusive club’s occupants. From Alexandra’s understanding, he was an effective guard: she had never seen a member forcibly removed.
Charlie raised an interested eyebrow at Nick—recognition for the King of the East End flashing in his features. “Afternoon, Mr. Thorne.” He returned his attention to Alexandra. “Is th’ mistress expecting ye today, miss?”
His question meant the Madame was still alive. Alexandra loosed a relieved breath. “I’m afraid not, but I must speak with her. Please tell her it’s urgent.”
“Of course. If ye’ll but wait a moment.” Charlie gave a short bow and left down the main hallway.
Nick scanned the room, his keen gaze taking in the dark wallpaper of the back foyer, the wall sconces that flickered with candlelight. The resonant melody of a harp drifted down the hall from another room. Even in the middle of the day, appearances at the Masquerade remained upheld. Though the formal gatherings occurred only every sennight, lovers let rooms during the week for prearranged assignations. Their every whim was catered to by an army of servants who paid a high sum for their discretion.
“So what sort of clientele comes to this club?” Nick asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Anyone I know?”
Alexandra narrowed her gaze. “Don’t be coy with me, Nicholas. You are asking for information you can use for political extortion, aren’t you?”
“Potentially use,” he murmured, strolling to a stop before one of the paintings—a nude meant to depict the Greek god Apollo framed in the sunlight. “You never know when those shitebags in Parliament need a nudge to pass a decent bill.”
Fair enough, Alexandra thought. Nick and her brother Richard often worked together to whip progressive bills. It took a great deal of effort and work to pass reforms in chambers occupied by a social elite who were more preoccupied with lining their own pockets.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Alexandra said. “Masks are a requirement. The identities of every member here are known only to the Madame. She guards her secrets very well.”
Charlie returned, his buffed black shoes clacking along the marble. He gave a short bow. “My lady, if you go through the east wing, the mistress will see you in her chambers now.”
Alexandra thanked Charlie and approached the painting of Apollo. A hidden latch beneath the frame swung a portion of the wall open. She came here often enough that the Madame had given her permission to traverse the club’s hidden halls without an escort. The Madame’s private rooms were reached only by a series of concealed doors and hallways, and Alexandra was one of the few who knew the path. The Madame, after all, never mingled with her club’s guests. She remained a secretive figure, speaking with no one, not even her members.
The only people she revealed herself to were Charlie and Alexandra.
With a soft whistle, Nick followed Alexandra through the hidden passage. “So how did you come to meet this Madame?”
“She invited me after reading my work,” Alexandra said, climbing the narrow stairwell. “I don’t know what life she leads outside this building, but she would put your knowledge of political secrets to shame, I suspect.”
“Aristocrat?”
“It’s possible.” She glanced at him with a smile. “But I shan’t tell you my suspicions.”
He tsked. “You afraid I’ll blackmail her?”
“I think it more likely she’ll blackmail you.”
Nick gave a surprised laugh. A strand of hair fell across his forehead, and Alexandra felt a keen urge to push it back. Touching him in Millie’s flat had brought back so many memories. His touch, yes, that was something she had thought of often over the years, in the quiet of her bedchamber. But . . . he had let her glide her fingers across his skin as if he wanted to commit the sensation to memory. And she, for a brief, wild moment, had considered giving more of herself. More of her touch. Her lips. Her hands.
More.
Alexandra cleared her throat, cheeks flushing. She mentally thanked the dim candlelight for hiding the direction of her thoughts. “Through here,” she said. They turned down another passageway.
Nick strolled alongside her, studying the paintings lit by the wall sconces. They were beautiful moments of intimacy—some couples caught in nude embrace, others held hands as they wandered through fields of flowers. In every painting, they wore elaborate masks—the Madame had commissioned these for her club.
Nick shook his head in amusement. “Toffs have such strange habits,” he murmured, moving on to the next painting. “I’d want to know who I took to bed.”
“It’s a matter of choice,” Alexandra told him. “Women of my station rarely have their desires catered to. Here, every decision belongs to them. All members must agree to become lovers, and to each other’s fantasies.”
Nick was quiet as they continued up another flight of stairs. The Madame’s private suite was on the highest floor. “And your desires?” he asked her quietly. “Have they been seen to here?”
She raised her chin. “If they had?”
Nick’s gaze met hers. Such a tangible look he had. It reminded her of his fingertips tracing the curve of her hip, sliding between her thighs. It reminded her of all the things he whispered in bed so long ago, things she’d never forget.
“I might ask how they’ve changed since I last fucked you,” he murmured. “And if he made you come, or if that only happened with me.”
Alexandra’s skin was hot. She had some primitive impulse to press him to the wall of the corridor, unbutton his jacket, set her teeth to his skin. She’d confide that the last time she reached climax without the aid of her hand, it had been on the train from Gretna. That when she pleasured herself at night, she only ever came when she thought of Nick inside her, touching her, tasting her, licking her.
Alexandra leaned away, fighting against her desires. “The Madame’s suite is at the landing.” Her words sounded hoarse. “Please wait here until I’m through.”
Nick smiled, as if sensing her unease, and leaned back against the wall to wait.
The Madame had crafted her suite for comfort rather than seduction. Her sofas and chairs were pat
ched and worn, with one particular wingback piled with cushions, indicating a great deal of time spent there. Beside it, a stack of books had pages dogeared and tea-stained. At the far end of the room sat a writing desk that Alexandra had coveted for many long months, made of carved mahogany and a gleaming surface that was currently littered with pamphlets.
The Madame was secretive—her identity hidden even from Alexandra—but it was clear she had a keen interest in literature, philosophy, even mathematics. Everything in this room spoke of a woman well-read and curious about the world in which she lived.
A creaking floorboard drew Alexandra’s attention.
“Alexandra,” the Madame said as she came through the door from her bedroom. “How wonderful to see you.”
The Madame wore a veil to obscure her features. What Alexandra did see was a woman of average height who wore dresses that showed off a lean figure. Her voice was lovely, her German clearly accented with an English lilt—no doubt to hide her voice from detection. Alexandra had little doubt this woman was a member of the aristocracy, one she had met before. But she had no means of telling the Madame’s age.
Alexandra lifted the books off the wingback—astronomy, calculus, botany—and settled into her usual seat. She had interviewed the Madame over many months, making certain to arrive after most members selected their rooms. Sneaking out was difficult to explain—her friend Emma once asked if Alexandra were meeting a lover at night. The truth was far less pleasurable: the Madame fed Alexandra information about Lord Seymour’s smuggling operation.
“I apologize for the unexpected visit,” Alexandra said. “But the matter is urgent.”
The Madame was quiet as she sat across from Alexandra. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“No.” Alexandra leaned forward and clasped her hands. She did not mince words: “My work has been compromised.”
The Madame went still. Alexandra would have given anything to see the other woman’s face, to know her identity. How could she protect an alias? “Has it?”
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 17