Chapter One
London, 1815
Colleen averted her gaze, but the sounds still created a vivid picture in her mind. The slap of skin on skin. The grunting. The moaning.
The barking?
She slid a glance out of the corner of her eye. Yes, the woman was most definitely barking like a dog. The collar around her neck, the man plowing into her from behind holding the attached leash, gave definite confirmation.
One of her girls was pretending to be a dog.
Colleen tilted her head heavenward and sighed. For the thousandth time she asked herself what in the blazes she had gotten herself into. Colleen Bonner was a respectable woman of business. A God-fearing woman. How she had managed to let that silver-tongued devil talk her into managing a bawdy house, she’d never know. And not just any bawdy house. The Black Rose. A Venus club for those with unusual tastes – and the blunt to pay the high membership fee.
Colleen sidled around the edge of the Gold Room. It was one of the smaller back chambers in the club. The walls were painted a rich amber hue, and the thick pile carpet underfoot was a light olive-brown that was the color of an antique locket. Plush pillows in varying shades of yellow were piled in the center of the floor, a soft, makeshift bed for the tomfoolery that went on under her roof.
Pulling her watch from the pocket of her waistcoat, she tried to gain the attention of her girl, Lucy. Who was currently howling like her fur, er, hair, was being plucked from her skin.
The small cluster of spectators made the task more difficult. Men and women lounged about on the semi-circle of settees surrounding the pile of pillows. Colleen slunk around the edges of the room, keeping her eyes firmly planted on Lucy’s face. Too many hands were creeping where they shouldn’t on the settees. Too many body parts exposed that only a doctor should see.
Lucy looked up, her glance sharp, but her howling and barking never ceasing. Colleen tapped her timepiece, and Lucy nodded, the motion small and quick. The girl dug her fingers into the carpet, and pushed back into the man’s thrusts, yipping and moaning like mad. Quite the performer her little Lucy. A performance she’d promised to another member in fifteen minutes.
Message delivered, Colleen escaped from the room. She leaned back against the closed door and stared at her feet, willing her stomach to settle. Working under this roof was a trial, but it was a trial she deserved. And her penance would soon end. Still, the urge to leave, to tellhimjust where he could shove his job, was as tempting as sticking her toes in the Thames on a hot summer day.
Having a roof over her head and food in her belly was a greater temptress. Much as she hated her new role, she couldn’t deny the relief at having a room to herself and a full meal to look forward to each day.
Her cousin had been all kindness and condescension, allowing her to share a room with his daughters when her own home had burned.
And he’d spent every day reminding her just how kind he was.
Insufferable man, her cousin. Almost as bad ashewas.
Colleen smoothed her hand down her cotton skirts and strode down the hall to the main room of the club. The crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling scattered soft light throughout the room. The gold painted paper covering the walls shimmered under the one hundred and eighteen candles in the chandelier. The one hundred and eighteen candles that still weren’t sufficient to brighten the room to its current warm glow if not for the gas lamps burning discreetly on each wall.
Those one hundred and eighteen candles cost a fine penny to replace each day, and Colleen made a note to herself to askhimif they ought not rely solely on the gas lamps from now on. Not thatheever appreciated her thrift.
A three-piece band played a waltz from their nook on the small landing that separated the main room from the upper floor. Couples danced under that glittering chandelier, holding each other indecently close. The women wore diaphanous gowns of silks and satins, necessary uniforms for most of her girls if they wanted to project the right image to the club’s patrons.
Colleen looked down at her own apparel. When she’d first married, she and her husband hadn’t had the luxury of a maid, and Colleen had taken to wearing her husband’s loose shirts with skirts she’d fashioned to conveniently wrap about her waist. Easy to slip on and remove. After a while she’d paired it with an old waistcoat her husband had no longer worn and the look had become her daily uniform. Simple. Efficient. No-nonsense. The outfit she sported now was the one she’d had on the night of the fire. None of her other clothes had survived.
As the manager of The Black Rose, not one of the doxies, she thought her clothes appropriate to her position. She’d packed up the frivolous gowns the owner of the club had left behind in her chamber upstairs and donated them to the girls. Ifhehad wanted a different sort of woman managing the club,heshould have found a different woman.
Molly, one of the club’s higher-earning lady-birds, sidled up to her, a glass of champagne in her hand. Colleen resisted the urge to pull the shoulder of the woman’s gown up.
“We have a good crowd tonight.” Molly took a sip from the flute. A large blood-red stone on her ring glinted in the light. “It’s a shame Madame Sable isn’t here to see it. After all, you had said she might be back by now.”
Colleen gritted her teeth. “I said I didn’t know when she’d return from her tour of the continent. She could return tomorrow or a year from now.” That was the story she was to tell, anyhow. That her dear friend had needed a respite and had asked Colleen to act as manager of the club until her return. Colleen knew the true reason for the woman’s departure as much as she knew the woman. That was to say, not at all. But the need for secrecy had been impressed upon her.
“Yes, where did you say she was?” Molly asked. “The south of France?”
A serving girl passed by, and Molly grabbed another glass of champagne. Colleen narrowed her eyes. That champagne ran two hundred quid a cask. “I didn’t say. Madame Sable’s letters are too infrequent for me to keep track of her whereabouts.” Reaching into a deep pocket sewn into her skirts, she pulled out a small notebook and a bit of black lead. She scratched herself a note. “How many glasses of that wine have you had tonight?”
Molly snorted. “Are you going to dock my pay? Madame Sable was never so stingy.”
“It isn’t only the expense.” Although keeping an equal or greater level of profit as Madame Sable was important to Colleen. “But you girls need to keep a sober mind, what with all you get up to. An impairment of any kind could be dangerous.”
“What would you know about it?” Molly edged into Colleen’s space, her slight form vibrating with animosity. “Your knees are bound together so tight, I don’t see how you even manage to walk.”
Colleen kept her expression placid, but a pulse throbbed in her temple. Her new workers liked to push her, test her boundaries, and no one more so than Molly. “And yet I walk quite well. I can even climb stairs. If I wanted, I could climb to my office and write a note of dismissal if the urge took me.” She was gratified when the girl stiffened beside her. She needed the workers to respect her. A touch of fear, even, wouldn’t go amiss. It was difficult to wield authority when Colleen didn’t know her own limits. Could she fire someone? She didn’t want to write tohimto ask.
