The Royal Occult Bureau

by Barbara Russell

  “No.” He gripped my wrists and stopped me. “Shirt on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I say so.”

  I eyed a small triangle of golden skin that appeared on the top of the opening of his shirt. The rest of him had to be magnificent, but I had to swallow my itching wish to see him naked. Odd that such a man was so prudish though.

  I ran a hand on the taut muscles, and a shot of desire heated me. Something rare in my profession. Now and then, I might experience real pleasure, no point in lying, but rarely a man aroused my interest without even touching me.

  The waistcoat swished off his smooth shoulders and arms easily.

  Lord, all those muscles. Even through the fabric of his shirt, they stood out. I was wrong. He didn’t look like an angel but like a Greek god.

  “Do you want anything special? Do you want to tie me down?” My voice sounded more husky than I meant.

  He shook his head. Those emerald eyes glowed with an inner fire.

  I took him by the waist and led him to the bed. He heaved another breath that fanned against my cheek. The velvet quilt felt soft under my body as I stretched on it, dragging him with me. He propped on his elbows, looming over me. I pressed my thighs together to ease the throb starting between them.

  If he didn’t turn out to be a violent man or a pervert, I might enjoy this. His hips nestled between my spread legs, and a shock shuddered through me when his erection touched my heated core. The sounds of the buttons of his trousers being popped open came, and a new thrill of anticipation slithered up my neck.

  I arched my back and waited for him to bunch my skirt up and thrust inside me. Lord, I was all hot and bothered, and he hadn’t even kissed me.

  But nothing happened. He stayed there. His strands of hair fell over his sharp cheeks as he remained still. I clasped his biceps, urging him, but he rolled off me and sat at the edge of the bed. Cold air hit my body when he moved.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No.” He raked a hand through his hair, then he buttoned his trousers with shaking fingers.

  “Is it your first time?” It sounded ridiculous, given his looks and age. He had to be thirty and didn’t have the air of a virginal lad, although the whole ‘shirt on’ affair sounded suspicious, but who knew?

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve never been in a pleasure house.”

  “And?” Would he still pay me if he didn’t want to have sex?

  “It feels wrong. It feels like I’m forcing you, and I don’t like it.” He stood up and snatched his waistcoat from the floor.

  “I . . .” What could I say? A client with moral scruples was another first. Men came here to have sex, regardless of the fact that we liked it or not. “I find you very attractive, if this can help ease your conscience.”

  He barked a laugh, a low, rich sound that caressed my skin. “I’m sure you say that to every man.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m telling the truth.” I jumped off the bed and ran my hands over his arm. “You’re one fine male specimen.” I grimaced inwardly. How well phrased of me. Really classy.

  He gripped my wrists. His fingers were strong enough to crush a skull.

  I tilted my head up, meeting that eerie emerald gaze. “Do you want me to do something special for you?” My voice had a rough edge.

  He gently shoved me back until my legs touched the bed. Then he sat me down and released my wrists. “Sit here.”

  Oh, a dominant. I knew the type. Men who liked to be in total control of the situation. Well, I didn’t mind, actually. Less to do for me.

  He sat across from me in the armchair, finished buttoning his waistcoat, and stretched his long legs, but I wasn’t fooled. It might pass for a relaxed pose, except for the hard cast of his shoulders and neck.

  I gripped the edge of the bed, waiting again. Anticipation coiled in my abdomen, and an illicit frisson started between my thighs despite the fear lurking in the back of my mind.

  Minutes passed. Giggles sounded from the room next to mine, feminine moans and masculine grunts resounded, and Mr Blond didn’t move. He just sat there, gaze roaming the room, elbows propped on the knees.

  The muscles in my back burned from the effort of keeping me straight and poised.

  I cleared my throat. “Would you like me to peel off my clothes?”

  “Stay quiet.” The tone wasn’t unkind, but it sounded like an order, as if my presence here annoyed him.

  “If you’re one of those who like to watch, I don’t mind.” I started to pull down the straps of my dress, but his sharp glare stopped me.

  “Don’t. Be quiet.” His teeth flashed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Which part?” A golden eyebrow arched.

  “Why did you come here if you don’t want my services?” A hint of anger slipped through. I couldn’t help it.

  “I believe I paid for your time, and I’m not going to ask my money back. As I said, it feels wrong to me, and I’m free to do whatever I want.”

  Including sitting in my room and doing nothing. Why was I so flustered? “There’s a brothel in Cleveland Street, if you prefer boys—”

  “I do not prefer boys,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Those emerald eyes flashed dangerously. The air was charged like before a storm.

  I shivered and rubbed my goose-bumped arms. He could be scary when he wanted.

  His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I can’t do it. I can’t take you.”

  “You’re free to go then, search for another girl if you wish.”

  “I want to stay here, thank you very much.”

  This man was a riddle. He didn’t want to bed me and didn’t want to leave.

  “You said it’s your first time with a whore,” I said.

  The muscles in his neck hardened again. “I have never paid a woman before.”

  It was easy to believe. I bet any tart here would do him for free. “Then why did you start now?”

  He rasped a hand over his stubble. “Just stay there and relax. I’d think a woman of your profession—”

  “You can call me a whore. I won’t be offended.” My tone matched his clipped one.

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Don’t you appreciate a good night’s sleep with a full pay without unwanted hands on you?”

  The problem was that a tiny part of me wondered how his hands would feel on me, but the more he talked, the less I was interested. If he didn’t want me, then I wasn’t going to beg.

  I shrugged. “Fine. Do as you wish.”

  “I usually do. Thank you.”

  Insufferable man. I stood up, smoothed my gown, and walked around the bed to reach my stack of books.

  Charlotte always said that books were a girl’s best friends. How right she was.

  He peered at me from the armchair, and I bent over on purpose to offer him a prime view of my derriere, just to tease him. There was a swish of fabric. I peeked over my shoulder. He was shifting his position on the armchair. I bet that massive erection was thumping against his trousers in a painful way.

  Well, it’d serve him right. I’d offered. He’d refused. End of the story.

  Guy Fawkes’s fireworks shook the window, and red and green light lit the night sky. Well, there wouldn’t be any firework in my room.

  The armchair where he was sitting squeaked under his weight. With his elbows propped on his knees, he cupped his chin and followed my movements.

  I pulled out a book on French poetry and dropped on the bed with my favourite pillow behind my back. Courtesy of my client Jean-Pierre, I could speak French. Not like a native, but I could have a conversation in French. He gifted me books on French grammar, loved starting the evening listening to me reading French poetry to him, and encouraged me to murmur in French while he was in bed with me. And Lord, the man could kiss. He made his Frenchmen fellows proud, really, and wasn’
t half bad in bed too. He always asked me how I was faring, was very careful to not hurt me, and left generous tips. Better than whining Mr Sorrow.

  I moved closer to the light. Mr Blond didn’t stir, but his intense gaze was on me.

  I lowered the book. “What are you staring at?”

  “French poetry?”

  Ignoring the fact that his eyesight had to be spectacular if he could read the title on a worn cover from across a dimly lit room, I glowered. “Why? Can’t a whore read?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Again, that angry note in his voice.

  A shiver glided up my back. If living in the streets had taught me anything was how to figure out people. I didn’t want to cross this man. He could break my neck with a squeeze of his hand.

  Still . . .

  I tipped my chin up. “And what did you mean then? Enlighten me.”

  He waved a hand towards my Chinese screen. “I smell French perfumes in the room, and your dress comes from Paris if the way the silk has been cut is any indication. Even your hair is styled according to French fashion. I personally believe that French goods are overrated.”

  I snuggled closer to my pillows. “Well, I have a French client, and he’s true to the French’s reputation in bed. He loves doting upon me, and he’s the best kisser I’ve ever met. The way he turns his tongue—”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Pity. You might learn something.”

  That shut him up. He scowled, and I lifted my book again, kicked off my shoes, and enjoyed my Les Fleurs du Mal, pretending that a gorgeous blond warrior wasn’t staring at me in my bedroom.

  Three

  AN INSISTENT RATTLING woke me up. I blinked in the semidarkness of my bedroom. My book was closed on the nightstand, and my silk gown was all creased for having slept in it. Someone had covered me with a quilt and tucked me into the bed. A hint of disappointment stung me at the empty armchair.

  Mr Blond was nowhere to be seen.

  Sunlight limned the curtains. It wasn’t often that I could sleep through the night and wake up well-rested. Usually, I went to bed at dawn, sore and exhausted, and with the last clients’ shouts echoing in my mind.

  I sat up and raked a hand through my tangled strands of hair, wondering if Mr Blond had been real. Perhaps it was a dream.

  No, if it’d been a dream, I would’ve made him less brusque and more active. He was real.

  While I put a bucket of water to warm on the stove, I caught a sniff of his scent, something musky and male that made my toes curl. I shook my head. The man wasn’t interested in me, and today was Sunday, Jean-Pierre’s day, and I might have time for someone else.

  Don’t you appreciate a good night’s sleep without unwanted hands on you?

  His words replayed in my head and taunted me. Yes, I did appreciate a night where I didn’t have to pretend I was enjoying myself, and I didn’t have to feel eager hands grabbing and touching me and treating my body as a meal.

  But lingering on those thoughts wasn’t good for my sanity. De Luna House was my life. I worked there. One day, when I had enough money aside, I might retire to a nice cottage in the country and teach French or literature to children. Granted that their parents didn’t know my past. It was all right if the gentlemen came here and paid us to do dirty things with us, but it wasn’t all right if we wanted to be treated like normal members of the society.

  I splashed warm water on my face and changed into a plain brown dress. During the day, any dress that was different from the scanty garments I wore for work made me feel more . . . normal. I could be anyone with this simple woollen skirt and matching shirt.

  The scraping noise came again, causing me to gasp.

  Something was scratching the wood out of my window, a constant, raspy sound that grated my skin. On my tiptoes, I crept towards the window and pushed aside the curtain. Sunlight that was braving the English winter blinded me for a moment. When my eyes adjusted, all I could see was a blurry black thing with an oval shape that disappeared when I leaned closer to the glass.

  I opened the window and gazed around.

  Where did it go? And what was that thing? A raven?

  A black drop like ink stained the ledge, and on my left, scratches marred the wooden frame of the window. I traced the deep ruts that had peeled off the white paint and scarred the wood. They formed a symbol, a circle cut in half by a line. It was the first time I saw a bird, if it was a bird, scratching the wood like that, or my imagination was playing tricks on me.

  “I need coffee.” After closing the window, I clunked downstairs but paused midway down.

  The other girls were probably asleep. They didn’t have the luxury to stay in bed to read French poetry while a sulking, handsome man watched over them. I climbed down the stairs silently and breathed in the smell of freshly brewed coffee and tea.

  At night, the house sparked with the light of scented candles, and crimson silk shawls were draped over vases and chairs to add colour. But during the day, with the sunlight flooding the plain wooden floor of the kitchen and the hearty smells of butter and tea, it was cosy and snug.

  Felicity was pouring a cup of tea on a tray. Surely, the cup was for Violet.

  “You’re up early this morning,” she said, studying me with a sharp eye. It was her ‘let me check you’re all right’ stare.

  “I had a quiet night.” I snatched a scone from the plate on the table and helped myself to a large cup of coffee. Just the aroma could bring the dead back to life.

  “How was last night?” Felicity asked.

  “I want to know as well,” Katy said, sauntering in. “You lucky vixen.”

  Her dressing gown was half open on the front, showing bite marks on her breasts. She smacked her still rouged lips. Black kohl was smeared on the side of her eyes.

  Too tired to clean herself before going to bed, she would say. Too drunk to keep her hand still enough to wipe the make-up, I’d say. Katy often broke the ‘no drinks’ rule.

  “Lucky?” I popped a piece of scone in my mouth, my stomach rumbling in appreciation.

  The rich taste of butter teased my tongue. For years, I hadn’t had enough money to buy butter, and even though I’d been living in De Luna House for seven years, the taste of butter still made my toes curl.

  Katy helped herself to a scone. “That chap of last night, the one with those green eyes was so handsome, almost better than Bertie.” A lapel of Katy’s dressing gown slipped, revealing more scratches and bruises.

  A phantom pain stung my skin, for many times I had those marks on my body too. “I don’t understand why everyone here is so charmed by darn Bertie. That man is cold and menacing, and his eyes are eerily pale. They’re scary.”

  “Bertie is the most ravishing man this house has ever seen.” Katy pronounced each word clearly, as if I were dumb and couldn’t follow her. “I don’t understand how you could’ve turned him down.”

  The memory of Bertie’s vicious stare on me when he’d asked me to be my jockey made me shiver.

  Felicity chuckled and patted my shoulder. “You know I don’t like men, but Bertie is really handsome. I was shocked when you refused him.”

  They both sighed, dreamy gazes staring far away.

  Was I the only normal girl in De Luna House? I hid my scowl behind my cup.

  “Whom you were with last night, Katy?” Felicity asked, frowning at Katy’s bruises.

  “A valet who worked for a noble family. Not handsome, to be honest. Long nose, and his front tooth was missing.” She yawned loudly. “He started decently though, but was so clumsy he kept rolling in and out of me. In fact, he couldn’t raise his cock for more than two seconds. He needed a good meal, if you ask me, but he bit and scratched me true, and his hands were strong. Then he asked me if I wanted to join his master who was waiting outside in a carriage for a threesome. I refused. How ridiculous was that? And he left in a hurry.” A tremor coursed through her, and some of her tea sp
illed. “That’s all.”

  “Odd behaviour.” Felicity balled a fist on her hip.

  “Odd?” Coffee sloshed in my cup when I put it down. “Odd is Mr York who asks me to dress like a man with a beard and all, and then wants me to flog him until he comes. That’s odd.”

  Katy laughed, but not a smile tugged at Felicity’s lips.

  “Your turn.” Katy tipped her chin towards me. “What did that blond God do to you? And I want to know all the juicy details, including the size of his cock.”

  I pondered whether I should keep the truth about what happened for myself. For some reason, I didn’t want to share my night with Mr Blond. “Usual things. Nothing I didn’t see.”

  Katy shot me a glare from the rim of her cup. “I didn’t hear any sound coming from your room.”

  “He’s a quiet one.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “Was he any good?”

  “He was all right.”

  “Good for you then.” Felicity lifted the tray and opened the kitchen’s door with a kick. “I’ll bring you something for those bruises later, Katy.”

  “Thank you.” Katy sipped her tea. “Even Charlotte’s room was quiet last night.”

  “Was it now?” I’d see how she was faring after breakfast.

  Felicity yelled something I didn’t catch, and quick footsteps pounded.

  “There has been another one!” Fanny burst inside, her plump cheeks reddening. She slammed a copy of The Herald on the scarred table and tapped a finger on a nine-line article in a corner of a page. “Another bint. Dead.”

  Katy and I gathered around her to read the newspaper. It didn’t say much, just that an unidentified woman of about thirty had been found in an alley between Belgravia and St. James’s Park. Numerous wounds had lacerated her body. The death happened between one and two o’clock in the morning.

  The scone turned into ash in my mouth.

  “He’s getting closer.” Fanny nodded, huddling her dressing gown.

  “Who?” Katy asked.

  “The murderer, of course! He struck in Whitechapel first, then close to Clerkenwell, then he went south, and now he’s moving towards us.”