by Jean Wilde
The Baroness Affair
Jean Wilde
Copyright © 2019 Jean Wilde
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
To my grandmother, whose very "Englishness" inspired the voices of many of my characters
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Chapter 1
London, March 1820
Piers Benson leaned forward on the railing of his balcony as he watched the busy scene below him. In spite of the early hour, the streets were teeming with harried maids, tradesmen, and urchins all bustling to earn their keep and survive in the pitiless, overcrowded city of London. Piers was, unfortunately, all too familiar with the struggles of working for a living. He might have been born a gentleman, but he was most definitely a member of the working class. Except his profession was not strictly legal, and his business was always conducted in secret behind closed doors.
“Piers, come back to bed,” a voice called from behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the figure in his bed without making a move to join him. The man between the sheets was one of his favorite clients. The Honorable John Willoughby was a handsome young man with a quick smile and the good fortune of being the heir to a viscountcy. Willoughby was in town throughout the London season and was a familiar face at The Scarlet Salon—the high-end brothel Piers grudgingly called home.
Piers was only mildly interested in returning to the bed and its occupant. Truth be told, he was bored. He felt all of his thirty-four years, and nothing had seemed to stir his passions of late. The gaming tables he’d been addicted to since his youth had lost their appeal, he’d long since given up drinking as a pastime, and the men who climbed into his bed all seemed to blend in with one another. He was growing tired of simply existing. Perhaps he needed a change in his jaded life. Or perhaps I need a break from the Salon, he thought sardonically.
“Piers?” Willoughby called again.
Stifling a weary sigh, he turned away from the balcony and entered his bedchamber.
An hour later, when he was finally alone, Piers tugged on the bell rope to request warm water. He proceeded to bathe, washing the remnants of the night’s activities away, and shave. Without the assistance of a valet, he dressed in light brown buckskins, a white muslin shirt, and a cream-colored waistcoat. His clothes were expertly tailored and in the first stare of fashion. Maintaining his extensive wardrobe was a considerable expense, but appearing like a member of the nobility was crucial in his line of business. The Scarlet Salon was an elite brothel, and its clientele were among the cream of society and some of the richest and most influential men in the country. They were used to the finer things in life, and that included their lovers.
Piers studied his reflection as he expertly twisted a starched neckcloth into a Napoleon Cravat. He had no illusions as to why his wealthy patrons returned to his bed over and over again. It wasn’t precisely his winning personality but his looks. Piers was an exceedingly handsome man, and he knew it. He’d been often described—by both men and women—as a ‘handsome devil.’ He had golden brown eyes set above high cheekbones, a straight aristocratic nose, and a full mouth with even white teeth. His wavy, light brown hair was longer than what was considered fashionable—long enough for a bed partner to grab a good fistful, that was. A bit of playful hair tugging never hurt anybody!
While Piers was aware of his finer assets, it was his body that he took the most pride in. He worked diligently on keeping his tall, lean body toned with a daily regimen of riding and walking. He took his sportsmanship very seriously and constantly worked on improving his skills at boxing, fencing, racing, and shooting. He was also a crack whip and an expert on horseflesh. If he had been a member of the nobility, he would’ve been labeled a Corinthian and might have even been granted membership to the exclusive Four Horse club.
He pulled on his polished Hessians and struggled slightly to shrug on his formfitting blue coat. He took one more look in the mirror; pleased with the figure he cut, he strode toward the door, intent on his morning ride. He stopped mid-stride when a knock sounded followed by the butler, Mr. Whitson’s, muffled voice. “Mr. Benson?”
He closed the distance and pulled open the door. “Good morning, Whitson. Rather early, is it not?”
The large imposing figure of the butler filled his doorway. The former pugilist smiled apologetically at Piers before speaking, “Please excuse the inconvenience—I know you’re having Titus saddled up for your morning gallop—but Madam Sophie has asked that you stop by her rooms before you head to the stables.”
Piers felt both curious and irritated by the early summons. Since the brothel madam rarely rose before noon, curiosity won out. With a nod, he headed out of his room and down the hallway toward Madam Sophie’s suite. He knocked and let himself in without waiting for a reply.
The proprietress of The Scarlet Salon reclined elegantly on a chaise wearing a purple negligee which did little to hide her naked curves. Sophie might have been in her fifth decade, but she could easily pass for a woman fifteen years her junior. Her silver-streaked golden hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her sharp gray gaze missed nothing as she took in every inch of his appearance. “You look tired this morning. Demanding client?”
“Quite an insatiable one,” he drawled. “But he did leave a good tip.”
“Which you’ll undoubtedly gamble away the first opportunity you get.”
Piers frowned at her. “As it so happens, I’m steering clear of gaming hells for the time being.”
She rose from the chaise and moved closer to him, an annoyed expression on her face. “You seem to have a penchant for hells of one form or another. Tell me, Piers, do you have a death wish?”
He stiffened. “Not particularly.”
“Then please explain to me why you were so stupid as to go venturing into a slum and spending the evening in a molly-house.”
Anger and resentment welled inside his chest. It was hardly his first time inside a molly-house, although it had been a novelty to seek one out in Whitechapel. He’d heard of The Lion’s Den tavern in passing but never thought much of it. He had, however, been particularly restless a few nights back and on a whim had decided to venture into the shady East End neighborhood. His information had been good, and he’d found the tavern easily enough. Once he’d been admitted into the private rooms, he’d seen that it was crowded with men whose sexual preferences matched his own. He hated the term sodomites, but that’s exactly what society labeled men of his ilk. Unlike a brothel, a molly-house was a place for men who preferred men to socialize and drink—a place to be free to be themselves. Piers enjoyed the camaraderie of gatherings where he wasn’t obligated to service anyone—he could simply talk and flirt harmlessly. These establishments were illegal, of course. The last constable raid of a pub
in Drury Lane had led to several arrests and public hangings. Buggery was a serious crime, punishable by death. The risks had yet to deter him, however…a courtesan and a sodomite to boot!
“What I do in my own time does not concern you, Madam,” Piers stated. “While I’m at the Salon you have the right to decide who I bed, but once I’m out that door, you have no control over me…and you certainly have no right to spy on me.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes at him. “You still owe me far more than you bring in. Have you forgotten all those gaming debts I’ve paid for you or the stacks of bills from your tailor and bootmaker? You haven’t even paid off that thoroughbred stallion you’re so fond of.”
“My dear Sophie, if all the courtesans in this establishment were free from debt, you wouldn’t have any employees left.” He moved a step closer to her and wrapped a hand around her slim waist pulling her toward him. “Besides, if my debts have grown so tiresome, I’m sure we can work something out to lessen the burden placed on you,” he added softly, kissing the column of her smooth neck.
“Not this time,” she said, twisting out of his embrace. “Your recklessness has gone too far. You’re no value to me if you end up swinging or imprisoned.”
“I’m touched that you care so much, Madam,” he replied drily.
“You’re growing to be a liability, and I dislike poor investments. You took an entire week off during the Christmas season and have been absent twice so far this week. Your regulars are growing irritated, and you’re behind with all of your creditors.”
“You can always send the clients to Robbie. I’m sure he’d be glad of the extra work.”
Robert Smith was the other male courtesan employed at The Scarlet Salon. He was over a decade younger than Piers, exceedingly handsome, but without the education or refinement of his colleague. Piers had worked diligently with him to help lose his cockney accent and improve his taste in clothing without much luck. It seemed that this particular dog was incapable of learning new tricks.
Sophie scrunched her nose in displeasure. “You know your regulars don’t want him. He’s far too amenable and easy to push around. They want to be dominated by someone they consider their equal. If you continue to be unavailable, they’ll start taking their business elsewhere, which would be completely unacceptable.”
Piers sighed in exasperation. “What do you want, then?”
“No more nights off until you’ve paid back every penny you owe me. I don’t care if you have to schedule clients during the day to accommodate their needs. I want your cock and arse to be so sore from all the hours you work that you won’t even think of frequenting another molly-house.”
“You can go to the Devil, Madam,” he exclaimed furiously.
Unperturbed by his language, she smiled placidly. “I’ll fill out the appointment book and have a copy ready for you this evening. I’m not bluffing, Piers! If you refuse me, I have no qualms sending you to debtors’ prison. It would be a mercy, in a way, saving you from yourself. I would rather it didn’t come to that, however. Losing your services would be a gross inconvenience. Go for your ride now and think about it. Given how popular you are, I’m confident you can pay me back within two months if you set your mind to it.”
She turned her back to him and headed for her dressing room clearly dismissing him. Writhing in anger, Piers stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind him.
* * * *
Forty-five minutes of rough riding eventually soothed the anger burning in Piers’s breast. His head had finally cleared enough to accommodate some rational thought. He slowed his horse to a canter as he approached the busier section of Hyde Park.
If he was completely honest with himself, he’d admit that he was, in fact, being reckless. He suspected that the constables Madam Sophie bribed to turn a blind eye to the Salon’s affairs knew who, and what, he was. They might even arrest him if they were clever enough to find him in a compromising position.
But for the past few months, Piers hadn’t been able to shake off this feeling of restlessness. He felt like there was something missing in his life. And again, if he was being completely honest with himself, he knew exactly what that something was. He wanted a relationship, someone to love and settle down with in a place he could call home. God, but he missed his home. Bitter thoughts, shrouded in nostalgia and loneliness, threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled Titus to a halt and just sat staring unseeingly at the park around him. It had been sixteen years since he’d last seen his family, and the aching loss he felt now was just as keen as it had been back then. One mistake, one single ill-timed indiscretion had cost him everything.
Giving himself a mental shake, Piers nudged his mount and started to ride back. He couldn’t control the past, but he could certainly dictate his future. His first order of business: extricate himself entirely from The Scarlet Salon.
When Piers entered the brothel, Whitson silently appraised him before handing him his mail. Ignoring the meddlesome butler, he began climbing the stairs to his bedchamber, sifting through the envelopes, which were undoubtedly more invoices he couldn’t pay. His hand paused as he picked up a letter with his name scrawled elegantly across the back. He smiled, recognizing his friend’s handwriting instantly. Piers didn’t have many close friends. Acquaintances were easy enough to come by, but finding people whose character complimented his own, people who understood and accepted him, faults and all, were harder to come by. Fortunately, he had been able to foster a handful of friendships over the years, and due to the nature of his profession, they tended to be either current or former residents of the Salon. The writer of this particular missive was of the latter variety.
He jogged up the remainder of the steps and tore open the envelope as he shut his bedroom door behind him.
Dear Piers,
I hope you’re doing well and that the Salon hasn’t become impossibly dreary without me. Francis and I arrived in London last week, and now that we’re all settled in town, I would very much like to see you. Cancel any previous engagements you have, and present yourself at the Digby townhouse tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. I’ve slipped you one of Francis’s calling cards with our address in Mayfair. Do try not to be late; I have a surprise for you, which I believe you’ll appreciate.
Sincerely,
Isabelle Gilbert, Countess of Digby
Piers folded the letter and reached into the envelope he’d torn open to find the calling card. He wondered if the Earl of Digby was aware that his wife was inviting a former colleague to his pristine London home. Then he wished Isabelle hadn’t told Digby so that he’d have the pleasure of doing so himself. Baiting the straitlaced earl was a favorite pastime of Piers’s. Either way, he was more interested in the surprise Isabelle had in store for him than in instigating mischief. As a general rule, he hated surprises, but then again something unexpected might just be the thing he needed to quell his restless spirit.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Piers untangled himself from his bed partner and dressed hurriedly. He disliked customers who lingered beyond dawn—really, did they have no consideration for one’s schedule? He had an early boxing appointment he was loath to miss, and he wanted to make it back in time to ready himself for his visit to Mayfair. He spent an hour at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon sparring good-naturedly with other enthusiastic sportsmen. The club was exceedingly popular with the young bucks of the ton but luckily not exclusive. It was open to the public if one could pay the admission fee. Having worked off most of his nervous energy, Piers returned to the Salon and was relieved to find that his client had removed himself. He couldn’t even recall the man’s name!
Shrugging with indifference, Piers quickly bathed and dressed for his next appointment. Half an hour later, garbed in a pair of beige pantaloons, a gold and maroon embroidered waistcoat, and a tailcoat of the same burgundy color, he left the Salon. He headed on foot for Mayfair drawing several appreciative glances from both the ladies and dandies he passed along the way
. He doubted any of the noblemen he walked by could present such a modish, immaculate appearance without the help of a gentleman’s gentleman. Piers took an active interest in male fashion and was particularly proud of his skill at creating complicated designs with his neckcloth. The popular Mail Coach style he was sporting that morning was a particular favorite.
He arrived promptly at the Earl of Digby’s townhome at eleven o’clock. A dour-faced butler led him to a fashionable drawing room where Lady Isabelle Gilbert rose to greet him. She was dressed in a pink muslin gown, her blonde hair pulled back into a chignon and her blue eyes warm with welcome.
Ignoring all formalities, he pulled her in for a hug before releasing her to study her more closely. “You look well, Izzy. Marriage to your earl suits you, I think.”
She chuckled. “I can’t argue with that. I thoroughly enjoy being married to Francis.”
He raised a brow. “And being a wealthy countess has nothing to do with the matter, I suppose.”
“Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt!”
He smiled at that. He was pleased, if not somewhat envious, of his friend who’d gone from notorious courtesan to beloved wife. They sat on a couch and promptly lost track of time as they caught up with each other’s news, including the madam’s ultimatum.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Piers, but I think Madam Sophie has a point.”
“And how would you know?”
Isabelle shrugged. “I still have eyes and ears in the Salon, and they all say the same thing: you’ve grown reckless. It’s only a matter of time before you orchestrate your own demise.”
Piers looked away angrily, hating that others could see just how unbalanced he’d become. “You said you had a surprise for me,” he replied curtly, changing the subject. “Well, what is it, then?”
Isabelle glanced at the longcase clock in the corner of the room. “You’ll see in about five minutes.”