Winnie knew the bloody marriage settlement like she knew her own name. She had perused it for amendments or exceptions, to no avail. Much like Winnie, her father had been seduced by Graham’s silver tongue, bright smile, and promises to love and adore Winnie. It was all a lie told to a dying man who desperately wanted to ensure his daughter’s future and possible happiness. Neither result had come to pass, and if Winnie’s father was still alive, the dual weight of his failure would have crushed him.
Now it was Winnie facing the prospect of being crushed, and she would not allow it. Not without a fight.
Having enough of the solicitor’s company, Winnie stood, knowing exactly what she must do. No one would take anything else from her again, especially not a dead man she hoped was rotting in his family’s tomb.
“Yes, of course. But I will choose the physician and the time. My condition is sensitive. I will not risk my child.” Retrieving her black bonnet from the empty chair beside her, Winnie placed it on her head, refusing to cower. “The settlement clearly states that if a child, boy or girl, is formed from my union, that the child will inherit Brown Manor and that we both will be provided for. I am well aware that my late husband squandered all of my dowry, but Brown Manor belongs to us.” Winnie placed her hand on her abdomen; perhaps she was the stage actress in the family after all. “Good day, sir.”
Winnie walked out of the office, into the dark hallway, down the stairs, and out the door. The smell of the city was stifling, but it was far better than the oppressive air in the solicitor’s office. The streets were crowded with the working class, and Winnie longed to be amongst them. Perhaps she could open a dress shop of her very own one day, not needing to worry about what she would do to survive.
Seven years as Graham’s wife had kept her sheltered and afraid, but no more. Now at four and twenty, Winifred Musgrave would live her own life. To make that possible, she knew exactly what she had to do.
Dear God, she hoped it worked.
* * *
Winnie took a deep breath as she stepped out of the carriage in front of the large three-story Georgian mansion known as Pleasure House. It sat isolated in St. John’s Woods, a sought-after but scandalous neighborhood of North London. She had never visited her oldest and dearest friend, Kitty Delcour, in her home and place of business in the nine years they had been separated as girls. Usually, they would meet at Brown Manor for stolen hours of tea and gossip, as if no time had passed at all.
Winnie strolled up to the red door, and it opened smoothly as if she was expected; she wasn’t. The two ladies had been closer than sisters, but their lives went in separate directions. Winnie took the respectable route as a wife to the heir to a dukedom and Kitty as the incomparable courtesan of theton.
Handing the curious butler her card, Winnie tried to contain herself as the occupants of the house stared at her in curiosity. She knew a lady would never venture to Pleasure House in the middle of the day, but her business could not be deterred. Winnie needed Kitty for her plan to succeed.
“Right this way, madam,” the butler said, leading Winnie deeper into the mansion.
Following the butler, she took in her surroundings. Dark burgundy curtains adorned the windows of each room they entered. Sensual paintings and sculptures of people in various sexual acts cluttered the walls and empty spaces.
Pulling at her black pelisse, Winnie tried to ignore what seeing such things did to her, but she could not ignore the longing in the pit of her abdomen. She had not once in her seven-year marriage felt a desire for her husband. He was handsome, charismatic, and seductive with everyone but Winnie. Her wedding night had been uneventful. Her then husband dropped his mask once the doors of their bed chamber closed.
Deep in his cups, Graham handled Winnie roughly, before passing out completely, leaving a young Winnie bewildered. A blessing she had thought, but as the years went by and Graham’s attempts lessened, she blamed herself for never gaining her husband’s special attention and consummating their marriage.
Openly staring as Winnie passed through the halls, ladies stopped their pursuits to gape at her. She was shocked to find the women doing very normal things like knitting, playing cards, and reading, quite unlike what she expected ladies of their profession to do.
She tucked away her surprise and focused on trying to keep up with the long strides of the butler. The man was built solidly, a perfect specimen for protecting a houseful of vulnerable women from the gentlemen of London society, and he moved through the house with alacrity.
Reaching a light-blue sitting room that differed vastly from the rest of the house, Winnie stood in the center of the room, playing with her fingertips. It didn’t take long for the doors to open, and her friend strolled in with purposeful strides, her eyes full of worry.
“Winnie! What are you doing here? I was coming to see you in a fortnight!” Kitty practically shouted as she rushed to Winnie, taking her by the hand.
Kitty Delcour had beautiful dark skin, proof of her African heritage on her grandfather’s side. She was dressed in a provocative green gown that displayed her ample bosom, small waist, and curvy hips. Long, dark, silky hair was swooped high above her head in loose ringlets, completing the image of a sultry seductress.
“I know, but I need your help, and it couldn’t wait.” Taking a deep breath, Winnie closed her eyes, wondering for the first time in hours if her idea was foolish. But it didn’t matter; she had no other choice. She might lose everything, but she could fight.
“What is it? Is it Richmore?” Kitty asked. “He can’t throw you out on the street. We’ll stop him.” Leading Winnie over to the light-blue sofa, Kitty waited patiently for her to speak.
“I need you to invite me to your next party.” The words were heavy on Winnie’s tongue, but her mind was made up.
Kitty, also known as Madame Delcour, was famous for her parties. They were scandalous, attracting every manner of depravity, and Winnie was actively asking for admittance. Winifred Musgrave—who had never been touched by her own husband of seven years and only knew the mechanisms of the marital bed—was asking for admittance to a den of sin.
Shaking her head, Kitty released Winnie’s hand. “No. Absolutely not.” Kitty stood, turning toward Winnie, her dark skin glowing and her eyes ablaze. “You know nothing of this world, Winnie. You’re not a courtesan!”
Winnie’s heart thundered in her ears. If Kitty denied her, all would be lost. “I’m well aware.”
“You’re not aware of anything! The men of thetonare not what they seem in ballrooms and at tea. Some of them are cruel and take pleasure in punishing those weaker than them. You’re asking me to allow you into a lion’s den.”
“I trust you to protect me as you protect your girls.” Winnie stood, walking over to Kitty, who had paced. “You will point out a suitable gentleman, and I will…” She cleared her throat several times, unable to really say what she wanted. “…bed him.”
Kitty’s mouth fell open, her hands cradling her head. “Have you lost your mind, Winifred? Why do you want to do this?”
It was an honest question. A lady would not willingly offer herself up to a stranger, but it was the only way Winnie could keep Brown Manor and secure her future, and perhaps to gain the one thing her insipid marriage never could provide.
