“Wasn’t she there?” Tarquin asked. “There’ll be other opportunities.”
His resolve hardened as his anger rekindled to a blaze. Yes, there would. He couldn’t expect victory the first time out.
Tarquin echoed his thoughts. “Persistence, remember?”
“Persistence I can manage. But there’s one other thing I need to consult you about. Or Cain. Once I’ve completed the persistent pursuit and captured the lady in question, what do I do with her?”
Tarquin stared at him. “You’re not asking me for advice about a marriage proposal, are you? I’ve no experience there. Besides, how hard can it be to choke out what a woman is so anxious to hear?”
“No, I’m not asking about marriage.”
“I’ve always wondered and haven’t liked to ask. You’ve never done it, have you?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“How the hell have you stood it all these years?”
He grimaced. “A strong right hand.”
“The schoolboy’s best friend. Am I to understand you mean to put an end to this unnatural state of virtue? Don’t worry. When it comes down to it you’ll know what to do. Men have an instinct for it.”
Of that Sebastian had no doubt. His “instinct” had been lately speaking to him with great urgency.
Before Tarquin and Cain had joked about widows, it hadn’t occurred to him that bedding Diana was an option. He’d always assumed, naïvely perhaps, there was a clear divide between ladies, whom one married if one was foolish enough to be caught, and women with conveniently loose morals. Now he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind.
“I’d like to do better than muddling through,” he said, remembering his first attempt at a kiss. If he ever got Diana Fanshawe into bed—and he still couldn’t believe it would ever happen—Sebastian wanted to do much better.
“It’s true, the first time tends to be fast,” Tarquin said. “I was so excited I lasted exactly half a minute. Of course I was only sixteen.”
“How did that come about?”
“My uncle took me to a brothel.”
“Uncle Hugo?”
“Good God, no. The Duke of Amesbury, my guardian. Always did his duty by me. In which your guardian apparently failed. But I suppose there wasn’t much scope for dalliance on the wild shores of Northumberland.”
“Wouldn’t have mattered if there was. My uncle never went near a woman. Hated them.”
“Why?”
“He never told me and I never asked, but I had the idea that he’d been betrayed by one in his youth.”
“And you never fell for that other traditional destroyer of unwanted male innocence, the buxom maid?”
“No. I did visit a bawdy house in London once, but I found the place repulsive.”
“Such places aren’t to my taste, either. I prefer the more exclusive regions of the demimonde.”
“Very exclusive, so I hear.”
“I never thought you listened when such topics arose.”
“Sometimes it’s hard not to.” Though he didn’t mind being frank with Tarquin in his search for information, Sebastian shied from admitting how trying his celibacy had been. The choice between avoiding the female sex and using one of its members for his own physical ease had not been an easy one.
“Do women enjoy it?” he asked.
“They certainly can.”
“Even ladies?”
“The sexual tastes of ladies are outside my area of expertise, but I don’t see why not. They are just women after all. I can give you a few suggestions, I suppose.”
Sebastian wasn’t sure he was up to such frankness in conversation, even with Tarquin. “Can I learn about it from a book? All those erotic rarities you buy must hold some useful information.”
“You are welcome to make use of my library. Just let me know if you need any help with French vocabulary of a specialized nature.”
Chapter 10
The premises of Mr. Sancho, bookseller,
South Molton Street, London.
Minerva Montrose was bored. Bad enough that Diana had taken it into her head to visit this very dull bookshop. A greater mystery was why she’d already spent a full half hour in the place and shown no sign of concluding her business. Not that Minerva had anything against bookshops. She’d already visited Hatchard’s and Diana let her buy all the latest volumes of memoirs by the people who’d peopled the stage of European politics for the past decades. Mr. Sancho stocked quaint old volumes, many in dead languages, and nothing Minerva had the least desire to read. How Diana came to have an interest in them she had no idea. Her sister’s normal shopping expeditions involved bonnets, not bibliography.
The most intriguing thing in the place was the proprietor himself. Minerva had never encountered a Negro before, those of exotic ancestry being rare in Shropshire. She’d enjoyed a most interesting talk with Mr. Sancho, learning that his father had been a slave in the Indies. Before she discovered how the son came to own a bookshop in the chillier clime of Mayfair, Sancho had been summoned to attend to a customer. Now the three of them—Diana, Sancho, and a little woman with fair hair—were engaged in deep discussion of a tedious nature about printing in the age of Elizabeth.
So Minerva turned her attention to the street, or as much of it as was visible from the window. She would have liked to go outside and explore the neighboring merchants, but Diana insisted it was neither safe nor proper to go out alone in London. At that moment Min would give anything to see something unsafe or improper, preferably both.
A man walked by in a hurry on the other side of the road. Something about the tall, bespectacled figure seemed familiar. Minerva opened the door and called out, doubtless breaking all sorts of rules, if not laws.
“Mr. Iverley!” she called.
The man ignored her cry. He’d already rapped on the knocker of a door a few yards up. It opened and he disappeared inside.
Tarquin Compton collected English poetry and French novels, novels euphemistically described in catalogues as being of special interest to gentlemen. Apart from congratulating his friend on the acquisition of a bawdy treasure, Sebastian had never attended much to the latter. After a couple of days reading he’d greatly improved his French and acquired rather a special interest, not to say painful need, of his own.
He decided to attend to the matter. Then he could forget about seducing Diana, an idea he regarded as faintly dishonorable, and return to his original plan of merely breaking her heart.
He didn’t know who had called out his name, though the voice was female and that was unusual. It hadn’t occurred to him that No. 59 South Molton Street was just across from Sancho’s establishment and there was a chance someone would recognize him. Whoever it was, Sebastian hoped she’d never learn the nature of the business conducted at No. 59, a narrow brick-faced house with a single window on each floor.
When a maid came to the door Sebastian almost knocked her over in his anxiety to get in off the street and out of sight. The young woman, little more than a child to his admittedly inexpert eyes, had a slatternly look and a developing sty over one eye. He found her unconvincing as the personal attendant to a lady of elevated French parentage, but had no trouble seeing her as doorkeeper to a prostitute.
“What?” she asked laconically.
Sebastian remembered he was supposed to practice articulacy in the presence of females. Not that this one would recognize a complete sentence if it bit her on the ankle.
“I’ve come to see Miss Grandville,” he said, “if she’s available.”
The girl flashed him a gap-toothed grin. “Mamzelle ain’t busy. I’ll show yer up.” The only part of her that moved, however, was her hand, palm upward. Sebastian gave her a small coin and followed her to the narrow staircase.
As they climbed the first flight he detected a noise behind the door on the landing, masculine groans punctuated by the occasional trill. The urgency arising from two days in Tarquin’s library seemed less desperate. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, the
girl was wrong and “Mamzelle” was otherwise engaged.
“She’s on the next floor.” He plodded on after her. “This one,” she said, swinging her thumb at the door.
Since the servant’s duties didn’t apparently extend to the ceremonial announcement of visitors, he knocked.
“Entrez,” bade a voice. He entrez-ed.
Whatever he’d expected of a courtesan’s parlor, it wasn’t an ordinary sitting room decorated in a style not out of place in a country manor. The only article of furniture remotely inviting lascivious thoughts or activities was a chaise longue, covered in a serviceable sage green cloth rather than decadent brocade or velvet. The upholstery looked stiff, not conducive to lounging. The room’s occupant rose to her feet from a straight chair. Aside from the fact that her gown revealed a good deal of breast, she might have been a daughter of that manor. Pretty enough and distinctly unlike any whore he’d seen in London’s streets. At first glance he could tell that, in one aspect at least, her description in the popular guide to females of a certain profession lied. Miss Elise Grandville hadn’t seen twenty for some years. This didn’t bother him since he’d selected her for another reason. A certain passage had seemed particularly apposite:
She is without doubt a most pleasing Pupil of Pleasure, and perfectly competent to the instruction of those who desire to be announced Students in the Mysteries of Venus.
If “student” meant wholly inexperienced, then she was his woman. She seemed reasonably appealing. Not equal to Diana Fanshawe when it came to looks, but who was?
“My dear mademoiselle. I am honored and enchanted to make your acquaintance,” he said in slow, careful French. There. That sounded polite, if not eloquent.
He didn’t understand a single word of her reply. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Though I studied your language for many years, I haven’t spoken it much, and hardly ever with a native.”
Following his lead, she switched to English, of a kind. An improbable kind. “Zee Englishmen zay do not speak well zee français.” Sebastian, who occasionally attended the theater, was put in mind of a comic French character in a cheap farce.
“Excuse me, mademoiselle,” he asked, “but I thought you had been in England for some years, since your father was a nobleman who escaped the guillotine.”
Mademoiselle revealed good teeth in a wide smile and dropped her French accent. “Oh, that book! They just make that stuff up, you know. I wanted to be the vicar’s daughter seduced by a wicked rake, but there’s already one of them in this house. But I quite fancy being the daughter of a marquee who sold herself to save her family from starving. How d’you like my French?”
“I couldn’t understand a word of it.”
“And I didn’t understand a word of yours.” She sat on the couch and patted the seat next to her. “Here,” she said. “Sit down. What’s your name?”
“Jack,” he said on impulse. “Call me Jack.”
“Jack, eh? I can keep a secret, love, but if you want to be a Jack, I won’t argue with you. So, Jack, tell me about yourself.”
Sebastian hadn’t bargained on having to talk so much. That’s why he’d decided not to ask Tarquin for an introduction to one of the better class of courtesan. Harriette Wilson and her sisterhood expected to be wooed as well as paid, which sounded like too much trouble. Discreet inquiries at one of his clubs had steered him to The Handbook to the Ladies of Covent Garden (Covent Garden in this case describing a state of mind rather than geography), a volume that offered glowing descriptions of dozens of accommodating ladies.
He wondered if anything on which he’d based his careful selection of Miss Grandville was true. The episode was indeed beginning to resemble a farce, whether a cheap one remained to be seen.
Gingerly he took his place beside her, sitting straight up on the firm chaise, elbows hugged to his sides and hands placed awkwardly on his thighs. “Er, Miss Grandville …”
“Call me Ellie,” she said in a throaty voice.
“Ellie. If you are neither the daughter of a clergyman nor an aristocrat, who are you?”
She examined his face shrewdly. “I could give you another story, but you look like man who’d as soon hear the truth.”
“Yes,” he said.
“It won’t take long,” she said, “but we might as well get comfy.” And she took his hand and held it against her bosom. Though Sebastian felt silly and a little embarrassed, he kept it there, wishing he were enjoying himself more.
“My father was an ostler,” Ellie said. “I was serving at the same inn when I caught a gentleman’s eye. I didn’t want to spend all my life in service, or marry a man like my father and work just as hard. My gent took me to London and set me up in rooms, quite proper.”
“Was he a wicked rake?”
“Oh no! A good sort. When he had enough of me he treated me decent. I have some money put away. I just need to work a few more years and I’ll have enough to get a little cottage somewhere and turn respectable. I’ve been lucky, I reckon. There’s not many girls that have choices in life.”
Sebastian felt a noise ascending his throat and quickly swallowed it. Lord, he missed “the grunt” as the all-purpose comment. A half-strangled “that sounds nice,” was the only response he could manage to this oddly dignified confession.
“I’ve always been clean, so you don’t have to worry about that. And I’ve kept myself out of the family way, except the once.” A barely perceptible quaver ran through the last three words, doubtless an intimation of a longer and perhaps sadder tale. He didn’t want to hear it. The woman had already become an individual to him, instead of a nameless member of a despised sex on whom he could unleash his poorly controlled desire. If he started feeling sorry for her, he’d never get the business done.
“It sounds like you know what you are doing,” he said and ventured to slide his fingers beneath the edge of her gown. He found a nipple. Rather like a soft raisin. Interesting, but not particularly arousing. “Is it true you are competent in instruction? Was that part of your description accurate?”
She gave him rather a sweet smile. “I guessed you didn’t know much. Is this your first time then?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you right. And since the first time doesn’t usually last long, I’ll only charge you a guinea. If you want to do it again it’ll be two more. And I go up to five for anything unusual.”
Thanks to Tarquin’s library, Sebastian had a notion what she meant by “unusual.” On the page he’d found some of the ideas exciting. In Elise Grandville’s room they seemed unnerving.
“You’ll probably just want the ordinary,” she said. “I can tell you’re a bit anxious. Don’t you worry, you’re in good hands.” And she wasn’t speaking metaphorically. He found himself firmly clasped and discovered that his physical and mental reactions could be completely divorced from each other.
While his cock sprang to interested attention, his brain was telling him to run. He tried not to think with his head. Elise indeed knew her trade and plied it with clever hands until he feared for the seams of his fashionably snug trousers.
“Shall we?” she asked finally. She hadn’t attempted to unbutton him. For the bargain rate of a guinea he apparently had to take care of that task himself. “Let me get comfortable here and you come to me when you’re ready.”
He stood up and she arranged herself against the backrest and raised her skirts to reveal her legs, one stretched out straight along the seat of the couch, the other bent with one foot on the floor. His fingers stopped without unfastening a single button.
Suddenly he knew he couldn’t do it. It was the sight of Ellie’s legs. There was nothing wrong with them. No doubt they were perfectly good, shapely female legs, clad in white stockings.
Not pink, white. And they didn’t look like silk.
And the legs weren’t hers. Diana’s.
He groped in the pocket of his coat and extracted a handful of gold coins. “Here,” he said.
&
nbsp; “That’s too much. And you can pay me after.”
“No, take it. I’m sorry. I have to leave.” He dropped the guineas into her hand, fled for the door, and took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the street he stood for a minute or two, breathing heavily.
His eye caught the swinging sign of the bookshop across the way. It had been months since he’d been there and Sancho might have interesting new stock.
But his contrary brain, now it had removed him from the source of relief, was no longer arguing with his physical exigency. Sebastian was, to put it bluntly, hard, aching, and desperate. And only one woman could assuage it.
To hell with notions of honor that were doubtless antiquated. Diana Fanshawe had aroused a sleeping monster and she would have to pay the price.
Minerva had been looking out of the window while Diana conversed with the bookseller and her new acquaintance, a small blonde lady with untidy hair. Diana knew her sister was bored. She kept a wary eye on the girl. She didn’t trust her not to wander back to Bond Street, hoping to find something interesting, like an errant MP escaped from Westminster.
As though on cue, Min opened the door and went onto the street, calling out to a passerby. Before Diana could retrieve her and read her a lecture on proper London behavior, Min was back.
“I just saw Mr. Iverley,” she announced.
“Iverley!” the blonde lady said in a tone of disgust. “Is he coming in here?”
“No, he went into a house across the street with a red door.”
“I’m sure it can’t have been Mr. Iverley,” Mr. Sancho said. “He wouldn’t be visiting that house. He hasn’t been in this shop for some months though he is, of course, a valued customer.”
“Of course,” murmured the blonde with a derisive air.
“I’m sure it was him,” Min insisted. “Tall and thin with spectacles. Though he looked different. More elegant. I suppose his dress is more à la mode when he’s in town.”
This time the lady unmistakably snorted. “Sebastian Iverley has never, to my certain knowledge, looked either elegant or fashionable. It cannot possibly have been him.”
The Dangerous Viscount Page 9