31
Gabby arrivedat Mrs. Wilde’s Club just before dusk.
The place was situated on a private lane in Covent Garden, and its Italianate façade looked innocuous enough from the outside. Pulling the hood of her cape more securely around her face, Gabby took a breath and headed for the front door. It was locked; apparently the club wasn’t yet open. Picking up voices from the side of the building, she followed them, arriving at another entrance around back, one cordoned off by a velvet rope.
The burly guard posted by the door looked her up and down, his brows lifting.
“Certain you’re at the right place, dove?”
“I wish to see your mistress,” Gabby said crisply. “You may tell her Adam Garrity sent me.”
The flash of recognition on the guard’s face when she said her husband’s name drove a blade into Gabby’s heart.
“Wait here. I’ll check with Mrs. Wilde,” he said.
He returned a short time later, unhooking the rope and ushering Gabby inside. Her pulse raced as he led her up two flights of stairs, passing flocks of women whose scantily clad bodies and painted faces left no doubt as to the roles they played at the club. As he took her down a hallway lined with rooms, she couldn’t help but look inside the open doors.
Merciful heavens.
In one chamber, she glimpsed a cross with manacles hanging from the horizontal ends. A whore wearing a leather corset paced in front of the cross. She selected a birch from an umbrella stand, testing its pliability before giving it a testing slash through the air.
In another room, Gabby saw a massive bed, so huge that it could occupy at least a dozen people. On the ceiling above was an equally large gilt-framed looking glass. Her cheeks blazed as she imagined the lascivious view that it would provide to the occupants below.
By the time the guard took her into a suite at the end of the hall, Gabby’s respiration had been reduced to quick, shallow pants, her palms sweaty and trembling. Left alone to await the mysterious Mrs. Wilde, she took in the opulent surroundings, recognition slamming into her.
Good Lord, this place was decorated like…a sultan’s seraglio.
It was as if her secret imagination had been brought to life with stunning, lush eroticism. Thetrompe l’oeilmurals on the walls depicted white columns and intricate arabesque latticework, sheer waving curtains giving glimpses of the surrounding azure sea. The visual effect of the painting was startlingly real: for an instant, Gabby was transported to a luxurious chamber of the Near East, the breeze blowing through the balcony, her nose filled with the scent of incense and the ocean.
In the antechamber where she stood, there was a round table and chairs, as well as a low red sofa, all of it in an Oriental style. The room was connected to a much larger space by an arched entryway that framed the main piece of furniture on the other side: a round mattress covered in peacock-blue silk. Jewel-toned pillows with gold tassels were scattered over it, inviting a queen to stretch out in sensual abandonment as she awaited her sultan’s pleasure…
Gabby’s heart spasmed, her fantasy snuffed out by the reality of where she was and why. Her husband wasn’t a sultan. He was a traitorous, black-hearted infidel.
The door opened, and Gabby steeled herself as a blonde woman entered. The newcomer was probably in her early forties, tall and statuesque, her thin black robe clinging to her curves and nipped-in waist. With a sinking feeling, Gabby registered the woman’s beauty, the exotic appeal of the amber eyes outlined with kohl and the lushness of that painted mouth.
“I’m Mrs. Wilde.” The blonde’s husky tone had a hard edge to it as she looked Gabby up and down. “You didn’t say who you were when you used Adam Garrity’s name to gain entry.”
Gabby straightened her shoulders, pushing off the hood of her cloak. “I am his wife.”
She saw the shock in the other’s feline eyes. “You’re Gabriella…I did not realize…”
Hearing the woman say her name was a slap to the face. Humiliation burned through Gabby. Adam had told his mistress about his wife? What else had they talked about, done together…?
“You are Jessabelle, I presume?” Gabby said tightly.
A spasm crossed Mrs. Wilde’s features. “I am not.” She exhaled, running a hand through her loose gold locks. “Would you care to sit down? I can have tea brought in.”
“I do not want tea. I want answers,” Gabby said fiercely. “How long have you and Adam been lovers? How manyFriday visitshas he had?”
“I am not, and have never been, your husband’s lover, ma’am.”
The blonde’s quiet statement had the ring of truth.
Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking on Gabby’s part.
“Then who was he visiting here at your club? Is Jessabelle one of your whores?” Gabby removed the note from her cloak, slapping it onto the table. “She sent my husband this note.”
“I sent that note,” Mrs. Wilde said.
