by Kate Bateman
“I don’t want to do that,” Anya said firmly.
The woman sent her a speculative glance. “Are you sure? You’re a good-looking girl. I could recommend you to some of the better establishments.”
“Thank you, but no.”
The woman shrugged. Anya’s spirits dropped even further, but she pasted an enthusiastic smile on her face. Elizaveta was depending on her. “Perhaps I could learn a trade of some sort? I’m not afraid of hard work. I could be an apprentice.”
“You’re a bit old for that,” the woman said bluntly. “How old are you? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Hmmm. Seamstresses like young girls, to train up. So do milliners.” Seeing Anya’s crestfallen expression, the woman smiled. “Buck up, girl. I do have one position open. It’s companion to the Dowager Duchess of Winwick. I warn you, the woman’s a harridan. Eighty if she’s a day, and as eccentric as they come. She don’t suffer fools—she’s dismissed four secretaries this year already. But the salary is generous. If you can stay long enough to earn it.”
Anya tried not to wince. “It sounds perfect. What would I have to do?”
“The duchess requires you to visit her four days a week, to read to her, help her with correspondence, and generally do anything else she requires.”
“I’ll do it.”
In the end, it had been a perfect fit. Anya had liked the dowager duchess immediately. She was as sharp as a pin and keenly observant, with strong opinions—which were usually correct—and a love of scandal and gossip. Her scathing commentary on almost everyone in the ton was extremely amusing, and a friendship had developed between the two of them, despite the fifty-year age difference. Anya thought of the older woman as an additional grandmother.
On several occasions, the dowager had tried to coax her to move into the huge Grosvenor Square townhouse she inhabited, but Anya had refused, citing Elizaveta, and her need for independence. Recent events, however, had caused her to reconsider that option. Her roommate had gained a beau; a handsome, charmingly disorganized barrister by the name of Oliver Reynolds.
Elizaveta had found work as a seamstress for Ede and Ravenscroft, a tailor in Chancery Lane specializing in ceremonial robes; black cloaks for judges in court, gowns for university dons, and the ermine-trimmed capes worn by peers for the state opening of Parliament. They’d met when Oliver had come—in a great hurry—to buy a new set of court robes for an appearance at the Old Bailey. He’d set fire to his previous set by leaving them too close to the stove. Elizaveta had assisted him, and by the end of the encounter, they had both been equally smitten.
Elizaveta snipped off the end of her thread, smoothed her hand over the fur-edged cloak she’d been trimming, and glanced at the mantel clock Anya had purchased from the pawn shop down the road. Unlike the beautiful, hard-paste porcelain produced by the Russian factories, this was a cheap, soft-paste English piece that resembled a lump of cake icing that had melted in the sun. The gaudily painted, lopsided couple supporting the clockface looked permanently intoxicated. Anya loved it.
“I should go and get ready,” Elizaveta said.
“You’re meeting Oliver tonight?”
“Yes. He’s taking me to see Edmund Keane play Sir Giles Overreach at Drury Lane again.”
“I heard his first performance was so powerful that Mrs. Glover actually fainted on stage.”
Elizaveta giggled. “Oh yes, he’s quite terrifying. Which gives me the perfect excuse to clutch Oliver and for him to put his arm around me!”
Anya laughed approvingly. “You’re shameless.”
The sound of someone tripping on the stairs, and a muffled oath, interrupted them, and Elizaveta rolled her eyes fondly. “That will be him now.”
Anya shook her head. Oliver was tall and thin, with the air of a man who’d grown to adulthood without ever becoming accustomed to the additional size of his own body. He was always bumping into things and sporting interesting bruises on his person. If there was a runaway donkey, a pot of ink to spill, or a set of steps to trip up, Oliver would find them.
Luckily, his physical ineptness masked a mind as incisive as a razor. He was a formidable barrister, fiercely intelligent, though prone to going off on obscure tangents if distracted. Elizaveta, with her practical, organized nature, was the perfect complement to his haphazard style. Anya had no doubt the two of them would be blissfully happy together.
The looming possibility of their engagement, however, had forced her to question her own future. She loved her job with the dowager duchess, but it didn’t give her much opportunity to mingle with many men her own age.
Unlike Elizaveta, who was firmly entrenched in the working classes, Anya had found herself in a strange subset of society reserved for governesses and penniless-yet-genteel poor relations. She featured somewhere above servants and tradeswomen, but below the landed gentry and aristocracy, who lived off the income from tenants, property, and investments.
She had all of those things back in Russia, of course. And despite her disappearance, she had no fear that her property would have been dispersed among the remaining members of her family. A few weeks after they’d arrived in London, she’d written to her trusted man of business in St. Petersburg, informing him that she was taking an extended tour of Eastern Europe. She’d been sure to request that should anyone—especially one Vasili Petrov—inquire about her, that Mr. Lermontov feign complete ignorance of her whereabouts. Since Lermontov’s family had served as financial advisors to the Denisovs for well over a hundred years, Anya was confident of his discretion.
Oliver’s arrival interrupted her recollections.
“Good evening, Miss Anna,” he said, removing his cap to reveal a thatch of mussed, sandy hair. His smile widened as his gaze found Elizaveta. “And good evening, Lizzie. Sorry I’m late. There was a rat on the steps of my office, but when I went to chase it away, it turned out to be a kitten. The poor little mite was soaking. Some cruel bugger had tried to drown it, I think.”
His brows drew together in a disapproving line. “Of course, I couldn’t just leave it there to die. I had to get it some milk and find someone to look after it, and”—he extended his arms to the sides in a hapless gesture—“well, the end result is that I’m late. Are you ready? We’ll have to hurry if you want to catch the opening act.”
Elizaveta shot Anya a laughing look at her beloved’s habitual tardiness and sent him a dazzling smile. “You’re a good man, Oliver Reynolds. Not everyone would have been as kind as you.”
Oliver’s neck reddened at her praise.
“Let me just get my hat and my gloves, and we can be on our way.”
Elizaveta took the few steps needed to cross the room and enter her bedchamber and reappeared moments later, tying the laces of her cloak. “There. All ready. Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Her last comment was addressed to Anya.
Anya nodded, amused by her friend’s concern. She refrained from saying that if anyone accosted her, she’d be sure to hit them over the head with a vase. Elizaveta still didn’t like to joke about their near miss with Petrov.
“I won’t be here for long,” Anya said. “I’m going next door. I promised Charlotte I’d continue the girls’ lessons. You two have a wonderful evening.”
Chapter 5.
Half an hour later, Anya slipped through the back door of London’s most exclusive brothel and smiled at the owner, her friend and neighbor, Charlotte Haye. The infamous madam was dressed in the height of fashion, her naturally blond hair arranged in an elaborate style, her voluptuous figure displayed to its best advantage in a gown of lavender silk.
Anya divested herself of her gloves and bonnet. “Are the girls ready?”
“They are indeed. Tess is looking forward to reading a whole chapter on her own. And Jenny’s been practicing her penmanship all week. Amy’s with a customer, but she’ll be down as soon as she’s free.”
Anya’s smile dimmed a little. When she’d first realized that the h
ouse next to the modest apartment she and Elizaveta had rented in Covent Garden was a brothel, she’d been dismayed. But a chance encounter with Charlotte on the front steps had led to an invitation to tea, and Anya had discovered that the notorious Mrs. Haye was one of the kindest, wittiest women she’d ever met.
The interior of the brothel was as tastefully appointed as an ambassador’s residence. Charlotte had spared no expense to make her rooms as luxurious and appealing as possible, and the strategy had clearly worked, because the place was frequented by only the wealthiest and most aristocratic of clients.
Despite her stunning good looks, Charlotte herself did not entertain clients, although she received no shortage of offers. Anya had never asked how she’d ended up as one of London’s greatest procuresses, but from a few things Charlotte had let slip, she’d deduced that an unfortunate incident with a duplicitous fiancé had set her on the path to what most people would regard as ruination. There was, and never had been, a Mr. Haye.
Charlotte, in turn, had never pried into Anya’s past, although Anya had no doubt that she was burning with curiosity. Anya had introduced herself as “Anna Brown,” and Charlotte had never questioned it.
Anya’s feelings on the world’s oldest profession were mixed. There was no doubt that the young women who lived with Charlotte were well cared for. Charlotte protected them like a mother hen, scooping them off the streets and settling them in the house whenever she had a vacancy. She provided them with their own room, food, and clothing, not to mention contraception and regular visits from the doctor. She personally vetted any gentleman who wished to visit “her girls,” and encouraged the women to only accept the “jobs” they fancied, and refuse the rest. Being selective only added to their appeal.
Anya had never heard any of the women complain about their life—indeed, most seemed grateful that Charlotte had saved them from destitution, violence, and starvation on the streets—but Anya was sure many of them would prefer an alternative means of earning a living if it were offered to them. One afternoon, over tea and cakes with Charlotte, Anya had suggested that the girls might benefit from learning skills that would aid them in leaving a life of prostitution if they wished. Charlotte had agreed, and that was how, on the evenings Anya wasn’t with the dowager duchess, she’d begun to teach them to read, write, and solve basic arithmetic.
“You’ll have to use the front parlor this evening.” Charlotte’s distinctive, throaty voice was entirely unfeigned. “I’m having the study repapered. I’ll tell Winslow to direct any visitors to the red salon. You shouldn’t be disturbed.”
Anya nodded and made her way to the front of the house to find her charges. She stepped into the room in time to hear Tess say, “Well, that’s a right load of old bollocks, Jen.”
“It is more polite to say, ‘I’m afraid I disagree with your assessment, Jenny,’” Anya said dryly.
Tess’s sweet, freckled face turned pink in embarrassment, and the two girls dropped into hasty curtseys, talking all the while. “Oh, Miss Anna, I’m so sorry. I ’ad no idea you was there.”
“It’s quite all right, Tess. I’ve heard far worse. But still, do consider modifying your language. As a milliner’s assistant, you’ll need to be polite to the customers.”
Anya had to hide a smile at the irony of chiding anyone on their vocabulary. Elizaveta still frowned at her in private for “profanities unbecoming a princess.” Her English had certainly expanded to include an impressive number of curse words during their months in Covent Garden.
Jenny went over to the desk in one corner, and Anya gestured to Tess to open the book of fairy tales from which she’d been learning to read. “Tess, you read, and Jenny, you write down what she says.”
Both girls nodded obediently.
“Little … Red … Ri—ding … Hood,” Tess said slowly, her finger following the words as she went along. Anya sent her an encouraging smile.
“Excellent, Tess! Keep going.”
“Once … up—on … a … time—”
The door opened. Anya glanced up, expecting to see Charlotte with a tea tray, but instead, a man she’d never seen before appeared in the doorway, and for one ridiculous moment, she thought Tess had summoned the wolf from the storybook.
He was tall and lean, with a lithe vitality that made the very air vibrate. His skin was tanned, his hair a black windblown mass around his face. His dark eyes swept the room and settled on Anya, and for the first time in her entire life, she lost her train of thought on account of a man.
He stilled, his hand resting on the doorknob, and his mouth curved into a smile that made her flash hot and cold at once.
“Good evening, ladies. I’m sorry to interrupt. I was looking for Mrs. Haye.”
Something odd fluttered in Anya’s stomach. His voice was like sandpaper and velvet.
Jenny and Tess jumped to their feet, rushed forward, and stopped a few inches away from him, both of them talking at once.
“Mrs. ’Aye is in the back parlor, my lord,” Jenny said breathlessly.
Tess sent him a shamelessly provocative glance. “It’s a pleasure to see you ’ere, my lord. Is there something I can ’elp you with?”
Jenny batted her eyelashes. “Or me?”
But the man’s gaze was still fixed on Anya. Heat rose in her cheeks at his boldly appraising scrutiny. She pressed her lips into a disapproving line.
His features had a Mediterranean look, all dark sophistication, a corsair masquerading as a gentleman. She’d never seen anyone so uncompromisingly handsome. What was a man like this doing in a brothel? Surely he could get any woman he wanted with the crook of his finger?
A nervous sensation coiled in her belly. The thought of him doing things—the kind of things a man did with a woman in a brothel—made her feel quite hot and bothered. Still, she certainly wasn’t going to be the one who provided whatever service he’d come here for. No matter how ridiculously good looking he was.
She cleared her throat, intending to excuse herself, but the gentleman spoke first, sending a charming smile that somehow conveyed sincere regret to the two women in front of him.
“Would you two ladies mind going to fetch her for me?”
Tess and Jenny both sagged in disappointment at the subtle dismissal. Tess shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder at Anya. “We’ll all go,” she said, clearly trying to save Anya from being left alone with the visitor.
The gentleman shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He stepped aside and held the door wide for Tess and Jenny to leave.
With no other option, they scurried out, and Anya’s heart thumped in her chest as the man closed the door behind them with a click. Half the room still separated them, but a fizzle of something—not quite fear, more like awareness—prickled under her skin.
Anya held her ground as he prowled toward her. His gaze travelled down her body and back up in a slow, simmering appraisal, lingering for a long moment on her lips, and he let out a short, almost surprised laugh of disbelief.
“Well. I must admit I was skeptical when I heard men swear that Mrs. Haye offered the finest girls in London. But now I see it was nothing short of the truth.”
He took another step closer, and Anya caught a hint of a subtle, masculine scent that made her stomach do another little flip.
His dark eyes met hers. “I’m not a man who wavers over a decision. And considering where we are, I know you don’t need pretty words or meaningless platitudes. Name your price.”
Chapter 6.
Anya was momentarily rendered speechless. She drew herself up, noting that this man was a good head and shoulders taller than herself. Her eyes were level with the diamond pin that sparkled in the folds of his cravat.
“I’m afraid you are mistaken, sir. There’s no amount of money that would induce me to entertain you.”
A flash of something that could have been annoyance, or merely amusement, flared in his eyes. “Oh, come now. There’s no need for games. Just tell me how much. I
’ll pay Mrs. Haye, and we’ll both go upstairs.”
Anya could scarcely believe her ears. The part of her that wasn’t rooted to the spot with amazement and irritation was, paradoxically, rather flattered that he seemed so determined to engage her services. A wicked, impish impulse compelled her to say, “And what if I said a night with me would cost you five hundred pounds?”
“Then I would pay it.”
She jerked her shocked gaze to his—and realized he was entirely serious.
Who was this man? Jenny had called him “my lord.” He must be both as rich as Croesus, and out of his senses, to squander such an exorbitant sum on one night with a stranger.
This close, she could see the sensual fullness of his lips, the faint hint of dark stubble on his jaw. Her pulse pounded in her throat.
The corner of his mouth quirked up as he leaned closer, as if to impart some choice piece of gossip. “I feel compelled to point out that I don’t actually require your company for the whole night.” His gaze flicked over her features like a caress. “A couple of rather intense hours should accomplish everything I have in mind.”
Anya’s corset seemed inordinately tight. Even the most forward of rakes in the Russian court hadn’t been so direct.
“I’m sure we’ll find ourselves compatible,” he murmured. “But perhaps we should check?”
He stepped closer. It was a matter of pride that she didn’t step back. Soon, barely an inch separated them and the air seemed to thicken, to hum. His dark gaze held hers in challenge as he lifted his hand and stroked his fingers lightly across her cheek.
He’d removed his gloves. Hot and cold prickled where he touched, like snow crystals landing on her skin.
He spread his fingers and slid them along her jaw, his thumb tilting her chin a little higher, and Anya had no doubt she was being seduced by an expert. Her breath was coming in shallow pants, and she didn’t have an ounce of willpower to resist.