Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  Four weeks! Her old life had stitched seamlessly into the new one; she waved goodbye to her parents every evening, and arrived back each morning as the sun rose. She had been paid, and plentifully. She had indeed written a great number of letters; who could ever have guessed how many gentlemen and ladies needed false evidence of being at theatres or balls, to avoid awkward questions… and yes, great quantities of oil had been bought, but Ellen had been very determined to avoid knowing why.

  Avoiding knowledge wasn’t something that she normally did. In many ways, working in this establishment had expanded her wisdom in a number of unexpected directions. Any reasonable woman would find themselves lingering to look at the unusual figurative art on the bedroom walls, or idly flicking through one of the illustrated pamphlets left on the tables in the waiting area… or standing outside a bedroom, pretending to sweep, her whole body tingling with forbidden thrills as she listened to the breathless, muttered instructions of an occupied gentleman to his chosen lady…

  ‘It is true, Miss Brooke. You do seem a little more occupied with the management side of things. Much like His Grace, in that respect.’ Sergio looked slyly at Matilda; Ellen pretended not to have seen the quick exchange of glances. Sergio took liberties, but never pressed uncomfortable subjects. ‘You seem immune to all the excitement.’

  ‘As well she should be.’ Matilda sniffed. ‘I can tell when a woman is set for better things, and Miss Brooke is one of them.’

  ‘Forgive me, Matilda, but what exactly would these better things be?’ Ellen laughed as she looked at Matilda. ‘Are there larger houses of pleasure that I will soon be running? Perhaps I should begin one of my own, and finish in a pillory with rotting fruit being pelted at me.’

  ‘One never knows one’s path in life. You are far too wise to end up in a pillory, and far too realistic not to know that selling flesh is one of the safest business interests this city has to offer. I have had far too many judges beneath my covers to ever get into trouble with the law.’ Matilda leaned forward with a glint in her pretty blue eyes. ‘Now—today’s news. Shall I tell you about what the baron wanted me to do with my feet?’

  Ellen, leaning guiltily forward, nodded. With new friends like Matilda, evidently a lady of some quality despite her unconventional career path, she didn’t need to search too much to make hair-raising discoveries on the nature of desire. And besides—a guest would be arriving before long. She could always excuse herself if she began to brood.

  If she kept busy, kept working and scheming and thinking of a hundred different solutions to even the smallest problems, then she could forget how utterly abnormal it all was. Not the establishment; a brothel, adequately run, displayed many of the same characteristics as a bookseller or a coffee-house. Supply needed to meet demand, books needed to be balanced, and so on… no, the strange thing, the unwise thing, was the rapport that had developed between her and her employer.

  Maldon. That was the first thing; he had told her to call him Maldon. What possible reason could there be for him to offer her that liberty—and what on earth had she been thinking, taking it? It made no sense for her to say Maldon, as if she were merely one step removed from being able to say his Christian name. It suggested a confidence, a relationship, that could under no circumstances exist.

  But it did exist. That was the confusing part. There was an undeniable thread between her and the duke; a shining, intangible thing that Ellen felt tugging at her whenever she talked to him, or looked at him, or thought of him. A thread that seemed to connect, however improperly, her innocent actions and words to the craven, forbidden things happening around them every night.

  It was something that Ellen knew she shouldn’t encourage. She wasn’t encouraging it—at least, not openly. But when she found herself imagining Maldon as she balanced the accounts, or wrote yet more forged letters, she found that her mind invented scenarios that were simply too pleasant to discourage.

  Heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor. Matilda, the filthiest part of the anecdote left thankfully unsaid, shot an oddly knowing look at Ellen as all three of them rose.

  Maldon came into the room, a cup of coffee clutched firmly in one hand. Sergio and Matilda exchanged what Ellen thought were uncomfortably significant looks, before making themselves scarce with hurried bows and curtseys.

  That was another problem that Ellen had no idea how to address. Not the problem of being alone with Maldon; if ladies and gentlemen really were kept as segregated as the grandmothers of the ton willed it, no business or household of any size would ever be run effectively. The problem, as Ellen quickly stood and curtseyed, was that Maldon was there at all.

  Sergio and Matilda had made any number of comments about the duke’s sudden frequency of presence. The man certainly didn’t need to be here as much as he did, let alone from dusk until sun-up. Ellen couldn’t decide what was worse; the fact that he was constantly at her side, or the fact that she liked it very much.

  She had to hold back a sigh as she looked at Maldon, stubbled and sleepless. Worse wasn’t the word; his presence, as unsettling as it was, was infinitely better than his absence.

  ‘Miss Brooke.’ Maldon bowed, perfectly correct; Ellen curtseyed. Then, with a look from Maldon that Ellen could never quite interpret, they relaxed into the rapport that had grown between them.

  ‘Did the ladies get their ribbons?’ Maldon stood, hands on hips; Ellen took in the height of him, his presence, and felt a small but important part of her quiver. ‘I thought there was going to be a riot.’

  ‘Ribbons in every colour. And silk scraps, and a large quantity of seed pearls, and as much tulle as the man would give me.’ Ellen smiled. ‘Madame Duballe will have much work to occupy her.’

  ‘And the women will have nightgowns that put summer meadows to shame. Riots of colour.’ Maldon sighed. ‘I believe you shall have to talk to some of them about the enduring attractions of simplicity.’

  ‘I would, but the ladies are far more abreast of current fashions than I am.’ Ellen remembered the meeting with Matilda earlier in the week, full of admiration for the business sense of those young women. ‘Apparently gentlemen have been requesting brighter colours. It makes the atmosphere more festive.’

  ‘Festive.’ Maldon mused. ‘Is festive something we should strive for?’

  ‘If the money wants festive, then festive we shall be.’ Ellen sank back into her chair, picking up her cup of tea with real relish. ‘And given the trouble we had at the beginning of the month, I am grateful to report that we have received no further complaints, no exaggerations, and no quibbling over prices. The introduction of the price list seems to have had something of an impact.’

  ‘I never would have assumed that gentlemen would adapt so easily to such fiscal-mindedness.’ Maldon threw himself gratefully into the chair closest to the range, rummaging around for a newspaper in the debris that Matilda and Sergio had left on the table. ‘A real stroke of genius on your part.’

  Ellen bowed her head, not knowing quite how to accept the compliment. ‘It just seemed silly to give a fixed price to each individual worker, when one client could ask all manner of unusual things while another could request something straightforward.’

  ‘True.’ Maldon’s gaze met hers, a flash of something approaching mischief in his eyes. ‘But with the correct person, even the most workaday acts can seem outlandishly pleasurable.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you not think so?’

  ‘I… I hardly know what to think.’ Ellen took a long sip of her tea, embarrassed beyond words.

  ‘Of—of course.’ Maldon rapidly retreated behind his newspaper; Ellen caught a flash of regret in his eyes. ‘Excuse me, Miss Brooke.’

  Ellen, still looking down at her teacup, was silent.

  That was the other unwise thing. Despite the free nature of their conversation, the ease of their rapport, there were… knots. Moments in which she, or Maldon, would say something so far outside the bounds of what constituted a professional relationship that
the other was left speechless. Maldon’s teasing question was one of the least egregious examples; Ellen, to her eternal shame, had found herself asking Maldon what exactly a discipline mistress was before she had remembered her place.

  But he had told her. Thoroughly. And listening to him explain it, in his low voice, with his eyes staring into hers… well, Ellen hadn’t exactly learned her lesson.

  ‘There should be a guest soon. Lady Morden.’ As usual, it was as if the comment hadn’t happened; Maldon looked at Ellen over the top of the newspaper. ‘Did Sergio inform you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen put down her teacup. Sergio had been most vocal about Lady Morden; apparently the woman was somewhat demanding, leaving half of the most strapping men in the pleasure-house in a state of nervous exhaustion. ‘He also told me that she requires a letter from the charity next door, thanking her for her attendance at a non-existent tea.’

  ‘Goodness. She didn’t even have the decency to claim a theatre performance, or a ball.’ Maldon smiled, shaking his head. ‘Her husband must keep her in a very stifling environment.’

  ‘You are kind to the married women who come here.’ Ellen kept her eyes firmly on her tea, determined not to look at Maldon. Gentlemen were not meant to have their personality picked at in such a way, especially from women like herself. ‘Even though you do not have to be.’

  ‘Why should I be hateful to them? Most of them are here on the recommendation of their husbands.’ Ellen looked up, shocked; Maldon’s gentle smile at her surprise made her curl with embarrassment. ‘Do not be too alarmed. Many ladies have… well… more spirit than their husbands. Quite a lot more spirit, in fact. And so the gentlemen, tired from estate management and the various demands of an aristocratic life, insist their excess spirit be exercised at an establishment such as this one.’

  Ellen swallowed. ‘I see.’

  She sipped her tea, knowing that Maldon was looking at her. He looked at her often, though never in an open, blatant manner. Ellen half-wished she could tell him to stop; not because she didn’t like it, but because she liked it decidedly too much.

  They were already involved in a conversation that went far, far beyond the bounds of what was acceptable. Ellen, taking another sip of her tea to control her suddenly dry mouth, decided to advance a little further.

  ‘I think many women have more… spirit… than their husbands.’ She thought of her friend Alice, whose smiling dark-haired child bore very little resemblance to her placid, fair-haired husband. ‘I think it can get them into all sorts of trouble, if they are not given leave to come to places such as these. And…’

  She stopped. Some thoughts were too private to be said aloud.

  ‘... Yes?’ Maldon put down his newspaper. His questioning tone was so determinedly, deliberately light that Ellen knew her defences were useless.

  ‘And I wonder about the husbands of these women.’ Ellen said it all in a rush, looking down at her teacup as her hands trembled slightly. ‘I wonder why their level of spirit is so decidedly mismatched to that of their wives.’

  ‘Well…’ Maldon was clearly considering the problem; Ellen hadn’t been expecting that he take her comment seriously. ‘As wonderful as the state of matrimony is, the opportunity to… examine respective levels of spirit, as it were, is not provided for. That is, if one obeys the rules.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ellen reached for the teapot, pouring a little more tea into her cup. The scalding liquid splashed the sides of the china; Ellen wondered if pouring it over her open palm would convince her to stop saying such illicit things. ‘Quite.’

  There was a pause. That was another problem, the pauses; there were more and more of them now whenever she and Maldon spoke. Pauses that seemed to lengthen into deep, meaningful silences without any deliberate nurturing on either side.

  Maldon spoke again. ‘I sometime wonder about the husbands, too.’ He shifted a little in his chair, turning his head away from Ellen as if what he was about to say could shock her. ‘Not all of them, of course. The ones who seem angry about the arrangement, or hostile to the very thought of it, and yet send their wives here anyway.’ He softly shook his head. ‘A more ridiculous state of affairs, I cannot imagine.’

  Ellen’s cup trembled in her hand. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because… because if I had a wife of such prodigious spirit, a spirit so expansive and all-consuming that even I was powerless to match it… well, it would be the most entrancing gift.’ Maldon’s voice was lower; Ellen couldn’t stop herself leaning forward, aching for his words. ‘A gift to marvel at, and treasure, and… and explore. Together.’

  Together. Ellen took a quick gulp of tea, the liquid burning her throat. ‘You… you believe that the husbands should attend as well? To watch?’

  ‘Watch. Learn.’ Maldon’s eyes darted to meet Ellen’s gaze, before moving away just as quickly. ‘Take pleasure in it.’

  As if acting on some unseen signal, they both began to busy themselves with the objects around them; Maldon with his papers, Ellen with the teapot and cups. Air seemed to enter the room by slow degrees, cooling the atmosphere to something approaching normality, until the sound of the bell from the Blue Bedroom brought Ellen abruptly back to reality.

  ‘That will be Lady Morden.’ She stood hurriedly, smoothing her skirts. ‘I will tell Sally to bring her champagne.’

  ‘Quite right, Miss Brooke.’ Maldon’s eyes met hers again; there is was, the feeling of being pulled into a groundless, infinite space. ‘As always.’

  Oh, Lord. Ellen exited the room as quickly as she could, not daring to look back.

  I am in danger. She shook her head, her face pale. I am in danger, and I do not want to be saved.

  Some days later, Maldon stood distractedly in the study. The room seemed unaccountably cold; Maldon wondered if he should call for the fire to be stacked higher, despite the heat coming from the glowing red of the coals.

  ‘Sympathy.’ He spoke to himself as he looked at his own reflection, standing in front of the study fireplace. Sun streamed into the room; he shivered at what it did to his face, making him look tired and perplexed in equal measure. ‘We are constantly tripping over one another’s feet. Of course we have developed a sympathy.’

  It was normal. Wasn’t it? Maldon racked his brains for evidence that he had shared such sympathies in the past; with his valets, perhaps, or the men in charge of his stables. There were some parallels; there had been the same easy rapport, the ready exchange of humour that made even the dreariest tasks amusing… but he had never invented excuses to spend time with his valet, or go to the stables. He had never spent much longer than necessary forking hay, or choosing cravats, just so he could speak to those men for a little longer than usual.

  He was spending a lot of time with Ellen Brooke. Too much time. So much time, in fact, that he was beginning to think of her as Ellen instead of Miss Brooke.

  ‘Well. She’s better company than a valet, or a stableman. That’s hardly saying much.’ He muttered to himself as he tried combing his hair a different way, his fingers clumsy, before sighing and giving up. ‘Hard not to be sympathetic to someone who is—oh, sod it. I don’t know. Pleasant.’

  Pleasant. Ellen Brooke was very pleasant. Pleasant, and cool, and cheerful, and sharp, and witty, and even more attractive than she had been the first day they had met. Pleasant, cool, cheerful, sharp, witty, attractive… and still, for want of a better word, confined.

  She was unfurling, though. Exploring. Maldon had seen and hungrily noted the way her eyes lingered on the clients as they entered and exited the bedrooms. Sometimes she paused in the middle of the corridor, evidently listening to the passionate sounds that came from behind closed doors. She had made particular friends with Sergio and Matilda; Maldon, lurking in dark corners like a perfect idiot, had seen her listening with rapt attention as his two workers had described their erotic exploits.

  It was agonising. The woman was flourishing, growing into herself, and he could do absolutely bugger-all about it.r />
  It was hard not to develop a deep sympathy with Ellen Brooke. Nigh-on impossible, in fact. Just as it had gradually become impossible not to store up interesting things to say to her over the course of the day, or think of her hair whenever he passed hat-shops on the street, or choose his own clothes with an eye to what colours she had expressed a preference for. Just as every room in the Mayfair place now seemed to hold a memory of her, or an object; a book she had read, a discarded coffee cup, one of the grey pencils from the study that she seemed to have adopted as her personal items of stationery. Just as the idea of running the pleasure-house without her—doing anything without her, really—was becoming more and more unthinkable by the day.

  But he wasn’t in danger. Was he? He was still in complete mastery of himself, his faculties; even if his heart leapt at the sight of her, even if his cock strained to attention at even the flimsiest excuse, he certainly wouldn’t act on it. Acting on it would be the worst kind of vice; Maldon, a connoisseur of vices, knew which ones were and weren’t forgiveable…

  Some days, admittedly, were harder than others. Today was going to be exceedingly difficult, Maldon realised with a quiet sigh, as Ellen ran into the study without knocking.

  ‘A morning-coat covered in feathers!’ Her eyes were shining, her expression irresistibly scandalised. Irresistible in general, Maldon thought with a tug of want. ‘I believe I heard clucking! How am I meant to keep composure when a man in chicken-garb walks along the corridor?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Lord Winchester.’ Maldon looked at her, his eyes guiltily tracing the curve of her lip as a tremor ran through him. ‘From what I have gathered over our years of long association, he had a somewhat formative experience in a hen-house with a farmer’s wife. Ever since then, he has sought to recreate the sentiment.’

  ‘Poor man. How specific.’ Ellen smiled as she settled herself into the chair that Maldon had already begun to mentally refer to as hers. She picked up a ledger and pencil.‘I’m afraid I did not tell him that dinner was to be served. It seemed churlish to inform him that Cook is making coddled eggs.’