1
Lady Marianne Dravenstudied the window display. Though she was a widow and had lost her innocence before her marriage, the offering behind the glass caused a wary flutter beneath the bodice of her sea-green sarcenet. She was all for extravagant shopping, but this night's expedition was no traipse down Bond Street. On the other side of the glass, the man lounged on a scarlet daybed like a Roman god. He wore a short toga that left little of his muscular form to the imagination. Tossing his dark curls, he gave her a smoldering, come-hither look.
Marianne suppressed a shudder as the proprietress chuckled beside her.
"Prime quality, ain't he, milady?" Dressed in a pink, beribboned gown and painted as brightly as a doll, Mrs. Wilson ought to have looked silly. Instead, the contrast between the girlish get-up and the madam's hard features served to heighten her aura of ruthlessness. "You said you wanted the best, and 'ere 'e is."
Marianne masked her unease by raising a brow. "I'm afraid this specimen is a bit common for my taste, Mrs. Wilson," she drawled.
"But Ernesto is my most popular stud. E's in 'igh demand with duchesses and countesses alike," the bawd protested. "'Ave another look, dearie, and you'll see what I mean."
Stifling her impatience, Marianne looked to the glass again. Mrs. Wilson gave a nod of her improbable black curls, and in response the gigolo bent one sinewy leg. The white folds of the toga parted, falling open at the groin.
"TheItalian Stallion, that's what they call 'im," the madam said with satisfaction.
As if to prove that point, the man gripped his erect and undoubtedly horse-like attribute. He stroked from root to tip, lingering at the blood-engorged dome. Marianne swallowed a sudden panicky laugh.
Lud. What in blazes am I doing here?
Theton, of course, wouldn't blink an eye to see the notorious Baroness Draven at a male brothel. Indeed, Marianne had cultivated her reputation for debauchery with care: she'd needed the status of a voluptuary to gain access into this exclusive establishment. She alone knew her true purpose.
Ever since Draven's death—God rot his soul—she'd been searching for her heart's one desire. A memory slipped free from the tightly locked box inside her heart. She saw a beautiful babe with shiny corn-silk curls and wide jade eyes. Clinging to a bench in a sun-washed garden, the little cherub stood on wobbly legs, gurgling a sound so close toMama. Marianne felt again the grass beneath her knees, the proud yet anxious flutter of her pulse as she held out her arms and called out words of encouragement.
You can do it, Rosie. Just take one step at a time. Come to Mama.
Marianne's fingers curled inside her satin gloves as talons of longing clawed at her breast. It had been seven years since she'd last seen Primrose. The loss had continued to fester and would never heal until she had her babe back in her arms once more.
Eyes gritty, Marianne told herself she'dknowif anything had happened to Primrose. Day by day, she could still feel that bond, the connection that had been forged between them from the moment she'd held her child to her breast and felt selfless love for the first time. Love that would see her through any trial, including the one she currently faced: within the walls of this brothel lay her last remaining lead to her precious daughter, and she had to find him. To get the information she needed, at any cost.
I'm coming for you, Rosie. Wait for me.
"So you'll take Ernesto?" Mrs. Wilson said brightly.
Marianne let her lips form a cool smile. During the five hellish years of her marriage, she'd learned to control her emotions. She'd had to. Boxing up sentiment had been a means of survival; now, three years after Draven's death, she rarely examined what had been placed inside. Composure had become her armor.
"He's not what I'm looking for," she said.
"But you've already seen all my stables," the bawd said in a wheedling tone, waving her jewel-crusted fingers to the hallway behind them, "and you still 'aven't made a choice."
Marianne wished she could wash her memory clean of Mrs. Wilson's famed "stables," which consisted of a long row of glass viewing rooms. Within each one, studs like Ernesto showed off their goods in the manner of auction day at Tattersall's. Prime flesh strutted out and sold to the highest bidder. Marianne hid her shudder.
Men in glass houses... I suppose there is something apropos to that.
With deliberate insouciance, she said, "Notallyour stables, I believe."
"I don't know what you mean, milady." Mrs. Wilson's gaze sharpened, and coupled with her beaky nose, her expression became hawk-like. Predatory.
Marianne's nape tingled with caution. She had labored too long, too tirelessly, to show her hand now. In the three years she'd spent searching for Rosie in London, she'd discovered that vice looked after its own. Gaining the subscription to Mrs. Wilson's had proved more arduous than obtaining vouchers to Almack's. If she roused the bawd's suspicions now, she'd be tossed out of Covent Garden, any chance of finding her daughter dashed.
You're supposed to be a lascivious widow. Bloody hell act like one.
"I'm told you have a prize mount," she said, "one whose blood runs not only hot, but possibly blue as well. And I've heard you might allow your favored clients a ride on occasion."
"Where'd you 'ear that?" the madam demanded.
"Word gets around, Mrs. Wilson. I want the best your establishment has to offer, and I'm willing to pay for it." Marianne paused. "Aroyalsum, in point of fact."
The bawd's eyes hooded in a considering manner. Marianne had made a bold move, and she prayed it would pay off. It was no small matter, after all, to request the company of the madam's own lover. According to Marianne's sources, Andrew Corbett was an Adonis in his twenties, the bastard son of an actress and, if one was to believe gossip, the current King. Due to his good looks and questionably exalted heritage, Corbett had made a niche for himself as acicisbeoto rich, older women. Currently, he lived under lock and key as Mrs. Wilson's pampered pet.
