Chapter Fifteen
Penhurst used the journey to quiz Seb about his investment plans and seemed particularly interested in the idea of the gaming hells and his list of contacts within that community. While many of the men Seb claimed acquaintance with were very real and exceedingly dubious, a great many were also fictitious as he found himself imagining how Gem would embellish the story. The viscount’s eyes lit up when Seb declared his vow never to pay a penny of tax to the Crown—but he kept his counsel. For now, Lord Millcroft was on trial. Once he had proved himself guilty of all manner of debauchery, then perhaps he would be invited into the inner sanctum. In his experience, all criminals were cautious, but fundamentally greedy. If the right opportunity presented itself, that greed would lead them astray. This outing was another test. As much as he was dreading it, Seb knew this was a significant trial by ordeal.
The brothel was less than ten miles from Penhurst Hall, although to all intents and purposes it was just a quaint, stone cottage on the Downs. Inside, it was anything but. Not only was this an out-and-out house of ill repute, it was an expensive one. The madam who owned it was French, as were two of her girls. She greeted Penhurst, Regis and Gaines as old friends, although the lingering, deep and distasteful kiss she bestowed upon the viscount suggested they were more than friends. Was this madam the French mistress Gem had heard him bragging about? Was this painted harlot Jessamine?
The madam eyed Seb with barely disguised interest. ‘Who is this?’
‘Monique, allow me to introduce you to my friend Lord Millcroft. Another hedonist in search of pleasure.’
‘Then he has come to the right place.Bienvenue.’
Aside from the disappointment at the incorrect name, there was something off about her accent.‘Vouz avez une maison charmante.’He kissed her hand so he could watch her face closely and, as he had suspected, she blinked rapidly in confusion before she covered it with a smile.‘Est-ce que la maçonnerie semble médiévale?’
‘Your French is excellent,monsieur.’
He’d wager it was better than hers because she had no clue he had asked if her brickwork was ancient. ‘I try—but I am little more than a novice.’ Penhurst didn’t appear to notice what was wrong with the exchange either, which was interesting. Clearly he had even less French than Madame Monique. Whoever he worked with higher up in the Boss’s extensive organisation, that person was most likely as British as this harlot.
‘Fortunately, all my girls speak reasonable English,monsieur, but they are all fluent in the language of love... If you have enough coin, of course.’ She winked saucily, then eyed his fat purse greedily when he held it aloft and shook it for effect. Any theories he might have harboured about this brothel being an intrinsic and vital link in the smuggling chain quickly evaporated at her enthusiasm for a few pathetic shillings and he bitterly regretted accepting the viscount’s sordid invitation.
‘Come, my lord. Let me introduce you to my girls.’ The madam coiled her arm around his waist, allowing her fingers to stray down his backside. She smelled of too much perfume. Her dress hardly covered the large breasts fighting to escape her bodice. ‘What do you prefer? Blondes? Brunettes? Perhaps a redhead?’
The only redhead in the room was eyeing him openly, suggestively licking her red lips as she thrust out her bountiful chest. Penhurst hadn’t lied about the girls being buxom and willing. A scan of them all draped over furniture or stood preening in front of him so scantily clad filled him with utter dread. Perhaps one of these girls was the mysterious Jessamine?
His head turned towards the sound of a giggle behind him just in time to see Gaines tug one of the girls onto his lap. The woman was already in the process of wriggling out of her bodice so that the weasel’s bony hands could grope her charms openly. In the corner, another girl had her hand down Regis’s breeches—neither apparently had any shame about such a public display. Seb was doomed if he was expected to perform in public. Not that he had any intention of performing at all if he could help it. He’d been in a few brothels in his time, it came with the territory, but he had always been a spectator up until now.
He turned back to the redhead, only just managing to hold in the gasp of surprise at seeing the wench now completely naked to the waist, and pasted on Millcroft’s bored mask as he pretended to survey the goods on sale one more time while he decided. It was then he saw her. Beneath the heavily painted face and revealing, gaudy gown was a girl whose come-hither smile was as false as Millcroft’s mask. She was young. Far too young for a place like this. Seb estimated she was barely sixteen—if that. Her eyes were terrified. He sympathised entirely. ‘I’ll take her.’
Madame Monique snapped her fingers. ‘Claudette! Lord Millcroft would like to talk to you.’
The frightened child appeared about to bolt at any moment, yet still managed to undulate towards him with one pale hand resting on her generous hip. Under the rouge she was as white as a sheet. Without saying anything, he took her hand and gently led her to the furthest seat in the room, then, like the vile Gaines, tugged her to perch on his lap because his host was watching him intently. She was as stiff as a board.
‘I knew you wouldn’t hang about, Millcroft.’ Penhurst had draped one arm possessively around the madam. He saluted Seb as the harlot dragged him to the sofa. Neither wasted much time with the preliminaries. Like his minions Regis and Gaines, the viscount was very at home here in this brothel—and very comfortable getting down to business with an audience. It was all so sordid.
Seb let the minutes tick by until the sight of the bucking twin bare arses of Penhurst and Gaines made him feel bilious. There was spectating and then there was voyeurism, and while he was watching them, they were probably watching him.
‘Tell me, Claudette, is there somewhere we can be alone?’
‘I have a room, sir.’ There was more Geordie in her accent than Gallic. ‘Shall I take you to it?’
‘Yes. A splendid idea. I don’t suppose you have any brandy?’ It was going to be a very long night.
* * *
Clarissa had been doing some thinking, a great deal of thinking as she prowled around her bedchamber reliving the evening, and had come to two conclusions. One, there could be no doubt about Penhurst’s treachery. And two, she was rapidly going off the Duke of Westbridge. The latter might well have something to do with the third conclusion she was wrestling with, which currently lent towards a growing belief that she had a bit of athingfor Seb. Outlining exactly what thatthingwas was less tangible because it kept shifting and changing hourly and like a coward she didn’t want to think about it properly.
When her cluttered mind did wander down that path, which it did with alarming frequency, Clarissa stubbornly dragged it back. Lust, worry, respect, excitement, ease, admiration, kinship and affection were all fitting definitions for what she felt. A great many words. Words that altogether hinted at something entirely different and altogether scary, becausethatwordwas one she had never anticipated feeling for any man—including Westbridge.
Her future plans had always revolved around marrying well and then hiding behind the battlements of her title. It was the one thing she could excel at, after all, and a good marriage would give her the social standing which commanded respect and shielded her from being discovered as nothing more than a pretty face. It was a pragmatic solution.
Only now, that calculated and impersonal sort of society marriage had lost some of its appeal and she blamed Seb for that. All his talk of his besotted, happy grandparents combined with the odd thoughts she was having about him were making Clarissa question her plan. The idea of years and years of marriage to a man who largely talked about himself was nowhere near as alluring as years and years with a man who made her body yearn, who made her smile and feel special and spoke to her like an equal. Whilst the idea of inevitable wrinkles should be terrifying, when all she had was her face, the suggestion that those wrinkles would be carved by happiness and laughter was hugely appealing. There wouldn’t be much laughter with Westbridge. But with Seb...
The tap on the door made her jump. He was here. Finally. She tightened the sash on her robe, rearranged her thick bedtime plait to hang over one shoulder and then arranged herself into an attractive seated pose on the mattress. ‘Come in.’
The door opened and a grinning stranger filled the frame. He bowed as her mouth hung slack. ‘Lord Graham Chadwick of the King’s Elite at your service, my lady. My friends call me Gray. I am Leatham’s replacement for the evening.’
‘R-replacement?’ Her voice sounded squeaky. Disappointed. So she stood up and tried to appear in control. This man could be lying. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Gray shrugged and deposited a large coil of rope on the floor. He was dressed from head to foot in black. ‘'Tis I who gets the pleasure of climbing out of your window tonight to watch for smugglers as Seb is otherwise engaged.’ Blue eyes twinkled out of a face which appeared to be smeared in boot black.
