Fudge simply grinned and didn’t even attempt to raise his gaze from her exposed décolletage. “Lady of quality or not, wif tits that big, I’m sure you could get a job ’ere if you wanted to, miss. I could put in a good word wif the manager when I see him later tonight.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Charlie said stiffly. While it was true that her bust was decidedly generous—especially after all the cakes and sweetmeats she’d eaten since Christmastide (and even during Lent)—that didn’t mean the man had to make such a crude remark. “As I keep saying, I just need to have a word with Lord Rochfort, then I’ll be on my way.”
Gathering the last remnants of her failing courage about herself, Charlie followed Frank up the stairs at the end of the corridor. When they reached the landing, he paused by a baize-covered door. “We’re about to enter the club’s gaming area,” he explained in a hushed tone. “I must return to the hazard table, so you’re on your own from here on in.”
Charlie nodded. “I understand. But perhaps you could tell me how to find Madame Erato’s chamber. I’d rather not waste time looking for it.” She’d locate the baron, take back that which belonged to her while he was “busy” with the courtesan, and then all would be fine.
Simple. What could possibly go wrong?
Armed with the croupier’s directions, Charlie donned an air of nonchalance as she skirted the club floor, heading for the main staircase that led to the brothel area. Massive chandeliers lit a high-ceilinged chamber furnished with plush Turkish rugs and ornate mahogany gaming tables. Groups of well-dressed men—all strangers, thank goodness—milled about, chatting and laughing with a handful of young women wearing attire not dissimilar to her own. Off to the far right, there was another arched doorway swathed in curtains of rich crimson damask. When a footman emerged, Charlie caught a glimpse of two bare-breasted courtesans sprawled upon a chaise longue beside a gentleman smoking a hookah pipe.
Heavens above. The tableau brought to mind the folio of erotic etchings that she’d once discovered in Hastings House’s library. Blushing hotly, Charlie hastily looked away. Thank goodness she didn’t have to go in that direction.
And then anger surfaced at the rampant misogyny on display. She was by no means a prude, but witnessing how these “noble” men thought nothing of indulging their fantasies of subjugating women made her blood boil. If she didn’t have to hide the fact that she’d set foot inside the Rouge et Noir Club herself, she’d take her brother to task about his past habit of visiting places like this when he was a bachelor. And she’d jolly well admonish Max Devereux for coming here too.
Even though she kept to the shadows as much as possible, she still managed to attract the attention of a middle-aged gentleman. With a glass of brandy in hand and his cravat askew, he was weaving his way toward a nearby settee. Ignoring his low whistle and clumsy wink, Charlie slightly altered her course to avoid further interaction. She didn’t have the time or inclination to fend off unwanted advances from drunken “nobs.”
Once she reached the stairs, she quickened her pace, and within a few moments, she’d gained the first floor. Turning to the right as Frank had instructed, she soon found herself in a sumptuously decorated hallway that was thankfully devoid of lecherous noblemen, foxed or otherwise. The soft light of gilt wall sconces illuminated the flocked wallpaper, gleaming oak panels, potted palms, and claret-hued curtains. If it weren’t for the paintings of frolicking naked nymphs and a rather well-endowed bronze statue of Bacchus, she could be at home.
But then again, perhaps not. As the hubbub of voices from the main club faded away, other sounds that would never be heard in Hastings House became evident—an erotic chorus of rhythmic grunts and moans and cries punctuated with the occasional burst of tittering laughter filtered into the corridor.
Although Charlie tried to tell herself the heat burning her cheeks was simply a result of rushing and nerves, she knew that beneath her discomfiture, she might even be a little aroused. A mortifying and undoubtedly shocking circumstance indeed, that simply listening to the sounds of sexual congress could provoke such wanton and unladylike feelings inside her.
But then, she’d always been a little more wicked than most young ladies. Her mouth twitched with a wry smile. It was her propensity for wickedness that had landed her in this mess in the first place.
Swiftly padding her way down the Turkish runner, Charlie focused on counting off the doors until she reached Madame Erato’s boudoir—according to Frank, it was the ninth room along. As she pressed her ear to the cool oak panels of the door to listen—she wouldn’t even attempt to slink inside until she was absolutely certain Lord Rochfort was thoroughly engrossed with the courtesan—she suddenly sensed a presence behind her. A large male presence standing much too close.
A hand, warm yet firm, closed about her bare upper arm, and an all-too-familiar baritone grazed the edge of her ear, raising gooseflesh. “Charlotte Hastings. What the devil are you doing here?”
Chapter 2
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The Beau Monde Mirror: The Essential Style & Etiquette Guide
Oh, no! Dear Lord above, no!
Sucking in a startled breath, Charlie spun around and came face-to-face with Maximilian Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor.
Her older brother’s best friend.
The man who frequently occupied her romantic daydreams and deliciously wicked fantasies at night.
A man who was always amiable—perhaps even a little flirtatious on the odd occasion—but to her unrelenting disappointment, never more than that. Why, in the six years she’d known him, they’d never even shared a waltz.
The indecently handsome duke planted his large hands on the door on either side of her shoulders, caging her in as he stared down at her, a fierce scowl marring his perfect brow. From beneath a sweep of dark blond hair, his sapphire-blue eyes seemed to pierce her to her very soul.
Too flabbergasted to string a coherent sentence together, Charlie stammered, “How…? Wh-what? You’re not…” Somehow marshaling her thoughts and her ire—it was one thing to know Max visited brothels, but it was another thing entirely to witness him doing so—she raised her chin and demanded in a furious whisper, “What on earth are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I have more or less the same thoughts about you, my lady,” he bit out. “Have you gone stark raving m—”
The sound of female laughter—loud and affected—drifted toward them from the direction of the stairs, and Max swore beneath his breath. Because rounding the corner and headed their way, was a courtesan and a ton buck Charlie and Max both knew. Baron Edgerton.
Oh, dear God. If Lord Edgerton recognized her…
As horror and panic whipped the air from Charlie’s lungs, Max sprang into action. Seizing her hand, he tugged her across the corridor and after collapsing onto a gilt-legged settee, he dragged her down on top of him.
“Straddle me,” he commanded in a hoarse whisper as he grasped her hips. Without hesitation, Charlie complied, moving to sit astride his lap. Even though her back would be turned to the approaching couple, Max’s hand came up to cradle the back of her head. “Hide your face in my neck,” he urged. “Pretend to nuzzle my ear. Don’t let Edgerton see you.”
“But I’ll smudge my—”
“No buts,” Max hissed. “I’m trying to protect you. Just do it. Now.”
Charlie immediately dipped her head and pressed her lips to a vulnerable patch of flesh beneath Max’s ear.
And almost at once, all of her chagrin and fear, embarrassment and uncertainty began to melt away.
Oh my… Hadn’t she dreamed of doing this more than once in the middle of the night? Being this close to Max? Kissing him?
Charlie reveled in the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of
his pulse. His delicious scent—a heady combination of his cologne, the starch of his freshly laundered collar and cravat, and another entirely masculine smell she always associated with Max—enveloped her in a sensual cloud, and for a moment, she almost forgot where she was and how much danger she was in.
Yes, danger.
Lord Edgerton called a greeting to Max and Charlie tensed; her fingers dug into Max’s shoulders and her breath hitched. But then Max stroked a hand down her silk-clad back as though soothing a restive beast about to bolt. “They’ve almost passed by. You’re doing well,” he whispered before he offered the baron a nonchalant greeting in return. “Evening, Edgerton.”
Charlie forced herself to breathe. If she played the part of a courtesan with some conviction, she would have less chance of being noticed. Even though she scarcely knew what she was doing, she threw herself into the role. Ignoring the fact she must be smearing away half of her face paint, she burrowed into Max’s neck a little more, then dragged her lips along the edge of his sharply chiseled jaw. His taste, the feel of him filled her senses again, making her dizzy.
Salt. Musk. Spice. Hardness.
The slight rasp of bristles. Heat.
Max.
When her fingers sifted through the thick, silky hair at the back of his head and she gently drew on his earlobe, the duke shifted restlessly beneath her. “Yes, that’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Don’t be shy.”
Good Lord. Was she really stirring Max so much that she’d made him groan? Or was he just pretending? In her heart of hearts, she really hoped he wasn’t, because there was no doubt that sharing such an intimate, wholly inappropriate embrace with Max was affecting her in countless, very real ways. Her heart beat wild and fast, and desire fluttered to life and gathered in all kinds of secret feminine places.
Dare she trace the curve of Max’s ear with the tip of her tongue? She was just about to when Max’s hand gripped her nape. “You can stop now,” he murmured. “Edgerton’s gone.”
“Gone?” Slightly dazed, Charlie lifted her head. “Oh, good.” She reluctantly climbed off Max’s lap and plopped onto the settee beside him. Beneath her relief, disappointment welled as she took in Max’s far-from-pleased expression.
“Yes, thank God.” The duke stood abruptly as if he couldn’t wait to put as much distance between them as possible. “And I expect Edgerton will be otherwise engaged for the next half hour or so. Which means it’s the ideal time for us to go.”
Charlie sprang to her feet too. “Wait. No.”
Max’s scowl deepened. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded as he reached for her arm. “I need to get you away from here.”
“I…I can’t leave.” Charlie shook him off and took a step back. “Not yet.”
Max reached for her again, and this time his grip was uncompromising as he drew her in close. “Well, one thing is certain,” he growled down at her, “you’ve definitely taken leave of your senses. Come.” He began marching her down the corridor, steering her away from the main staircase and toward the very end of the hall. “We’ll take the servants’ stairs down to the rear entrance.”
“No. Stop.” Charlie halted her steps, digging her heels in. “Nothing is wrong with me. I haven’t lost my mind. I’m just in a spot of trouble.”
Max spun back to face her. “Oh, and skulking around a brothel dressed up as a prostitute will get you out of it?”
“Please, let me explain,” she entreated, placing her hand on his arm. “It’s complicated.”
His eyes searched hers for one long moment, and Charlie swore she could see his mind making calculations—weighing up the risks if she stayed versus the benefit of immediately carting her off to safety—but then he huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Very well, I’ll listen. But make it quick.”
He drew her into a nearby window embrasure that was flanked by an enormous pair of potted ferns upon marble pillars. The shadows and feathery fronds partially shielded them from view so they should be safe enough for the moment. Crossing his arms over his chest, Max stared at her expectantly.
Charlie drew a deep breath. How much should she disclose to Max, and how much should she leave out? “The matter involves Lord Rochfort,” she began in a low voice. “I take it you know him?”
Max’s jaw tightened and a muscle pulsed in his lean cheek. “Yes, I know him. He’s depraved through and through. One of the ton’s worst blackguards.”
Charlie wished she’d known that when she first became entangled with the baron nearly six weeks ago. She’d heard rumors, of course, but had foolishly dismissed them in the face of his practiced charm and sardonically handsome smile. “Well, in case you didn’t know, he’s here tonight. In fact, I have it on good authority that the baron is with Madame Erato at this very minute. And I was about to sneak into her boudoir when—”
“Sneak in?” Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Good God. I’m an openminded sort of fellow, but you weren’t planning on joining them, were you?”
“No! Of course not! I know I don’t have the best reputation, but do you seriously think that someone like me—a veritable wallflower who’s never even had one proper suitor—would engage in a…in a sexual threesome with a despicable rogue like him?”
Oh, no. Had she really just said that? Heat scorched Charlie’s entire face. Young tonnish misses were never supposed to talk about sexual congress, let alone admit they knew about the most licentious types of bed sport.
And it seemed Max might be blushing too. The crests of his cheekbones were stained with a wash of high color as he muttered, “Setting aside the fact you even possess such singular knowledge, at this point in time, I honestly don’t know what to think. God in heaven—” Max caught her chin with gentle fingers. Concern clouded his deep blue gaze as he studied her face. “Rochfort hasn’t hurt you, has he? Forced himself upon you? Or coerced you to participate in some debauched game for his own perverse pleasure? Because if the bastard has—” Some sort of fierce emotion, something dark and dangerous, flickered like lightning in Max’s eyes.
“No…No, he hasn’t done anything like that. But…” Charlie swallowed. Her mouth had suddenly gone dry. “He is trying to hurt me in another way.”
Max’s brow plunged into a deep frown. “What way?”
“Some weeks ago, when we were both attending the same rout, he stole something from me. A notebook containing very personal information that I foolishly kept in my reticule. A…a diary of sorts. And I need to get it back. Otherwise…”
“Charlie, what has he threatened to do?” Max’s tone was low and taut, laced with barely restrained anger.
A frisson of fear skittered down Charlie’s spine. “If I tell you, Max, promise me you won’t do anything rash. Make a to-do. If I’m implicated in another public scandal…” Despite her best efforts not to succumb to the urge to cry, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t do that to my family,” she whispered. “Not again. Not after I was expelled from Mrs. Rathbone’s academy. My father will disown me, I’m certain of it. And Nate and my darling sister-in-law Sophie have just welcomed a son into the world. I cannot disgrace the family name all over again. I just can’t.”
Max’s expression softened. “You’ve known me for years, Charlie, and I promise I’ll be the soul of discretion. You can trust me not to make this worse.”
Charlie nodded. “All right…” She inhaled a shaky breath while inwardly praying that she was doing the right thing. “Lord Rochfort is blackmailing me. And if I don’t keep paying him the sum he’s periodically demanding, he’ll sell my notebook and all of my secrets to the Beau Monde Mirror.”
What?
A white-hot flare of incandescent fury shot through Max before coalescing into ice-cold certainty: Rollo Kingsley, Baron Rochfort, would pay dearly for his vile, contemptible, and totally reprehensible treatment of Lady Charlotte Hastings.
He wanted Rochfort’s head on a pike and his ballocks lopped off. Not necessarily in that order.
&nb
sp; He mustn’t have schooled his features sufficiently as Charlie laid a hand on his taut-as-an-iron-bar forearm. “Max, you just assured me you wouldn’t make things worse, but I can see by your expression how angry you are.”
Max forced himself to relax and give her a reassuring smile. “I won’t renege on my promise. You have my word. Now”—he drew a steadying breath to direct his thoughts away from committing justifiable homicide at the Rouge et Noir Club—“tell me why you wanted to risk stealing into Madame Erato’s room. Are you certain that Rochfort has this notebook of yours with him tonight?”
Charlie sighed heavily. “Of course I can’t be absolutely certain, but even if he doesn’t, I was hoping a quick rummage through his clothing might yield something else useful, like a housekey. You see, several weeks ago, I attempted to bribe my way into Lord Rochfort’s townhouse to conduct a search—”
Max thrust his fingers into his hair. “You did what?”
Charlie’s generous mouth dipped into a pout. “You needn’t look so horrified. It really was the most logical course of action to take. Because Lord Rochfort is blackmailing me, it made me wonder if he might be short of funds and thus underpaying his staff. But I quickly discovered that his servants are all incredibly loyal. Not one of the maids or footmen I approached could be swayed to let me in.”
Max snorted. “Thank God for that.” Given the rumors he’d heard, Max suspected it was more likely that Rochfort’s staff remained loyal to their master out of fear rather than devotion. Just thinking about Charlie creeping about that perverted bastard’s house all by herself made his insides clench.
Charlie grimaced. “Well, in hindsight, it wasn’t the wisest plan. The very next day, Lord Rochfort waylaid me in Berkeley Square, right outside Gunter’s Tea Shop.” She swallowed and a shadow of fear crossed her face. “To say he was unhappy that I’d been trying to nose about his townhouse would be an understatement. In any case, he told me that he always keeps my notebook on his person so I hadn’t a hope in Hades of recovering it. Well, at least until he’s satisfied that I’ve paid him enough. And then to teach me a lesson, he doubled his price to stay his hand.”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 2