Prologue
Miss Xenia Loveday’s next patron entered the confessional like a man who owed nothing to God, and this intrigued her. Of course, this was not a real confessional, and she was no absolver of sins. In fact, she was the opposite: a dispenser of iniquities.
She couldn’t see much of her client through the silk screen that covered the hole between the two sides of the booth. The translucent window revealed only shadows, a unique arrangement that allowed the patron to receive his services anonymously. When she’d first proposed this diversion, her employer, who was known as the “Abbess,” had seen its potential.
“I like a woman with initiative.”The Abbess’s closely spaced eyes had gleamed with approval and avarice.“You remind me a bit o’ myself, dearie. When I first started this Nunnery in the middle o’ nowhere, people said I was mad. Now bluebloods come from London to spend their blunt. I predict this new game o’ yours will be the talk o’ my brothel…no pun intended. Keep the ideas coming, dove, and you may find yourself rising through the ranks.”
Rising through the ranks of the brothel wasn’t Xenia’s dream in life…but needs must. She was short on funds, and this job allowed her to make a good living without selling her body and exposing herself to a host of dangers, from diseases to pregnancy. Most importantly, she could keep her identity concealed, which was key to her survival.
Play your part well. If you earn a good tip, you could add to your savings…and maybe have extra left over for a meat pie.
Cheered by the thought of a savory pastry for supper, she took stock of her waiting patron. He’d turned down the lamp on his side of the confessional, rendering himself a flickering shadow. Like the other guests who attended the Nunnery’s masquerades, he wore a mask to guard his privacy. Xenia’s success stemmed from her ability to understand a customer and his deepest fantasies, and she discerned several details about the present fellow.
Limned by the dim light, he appeared fit…muscular without excessive bulk. The breadth of his shoulders and length of his torso suggested that he was tall, and his hair appeared short and thick. He had the posture of a gentleman who, from birth, has known his own worth. His stillness conveyed an uncommon degree of self-discipline. He did not fidget, nor launch into lustful demands. Instead, he waited with a quiet confidence that fascinated her.
What brought him here? What are his desires? What does he want from me?
By “me,” Xenia was referring to her persona this eve, Sister Sirena. The angle of her patron’s head indicated that he returned her scrutiny, and she knew what he saw. She’d worked on perfecting her silhouette, which was cast onto the silk screen by two bright lamps. As Sirena, she wore a dramatic wimple, beaded crucifix, and padded bodysuit that enhanced her curves and gave the illusion that she was as naked as the day she was born.
Her costume also provided protection. Back in London, she had let her guard down, and her past had nearly caught up to her. She’d learned her lesson. When she interviewed for this job, she’d done so under the alias of Mary Smith and altered her appearance with hair dye and face paint.
“Welcome to my confessional, sir,” she said grandly. “I am Sister Sirena, the Salacious Storyteller. Tonight, I will enchant you with a tale woven from your deepest, innermost desires. As you listen to my voice, you will find yourself transported into another world. A world where pleasure is everything, and nothing is forbidden.”
Although she’d given this introduction a half-dozen times this eve, her intimate tones made it sound like a secret between lovers. Her voice was her most prized asset, an instrument she’d learned to play with precision. She could tailor her tone, timbre, and accent to any role she played. She could sound like an eager wanton or a coy virgin; for the right price, she could be whoever the customer wanted.
“Nothing is forbidden?”
The stranger’s query held a quiet intensity. Although his voice was muffled by the partition—he didn’t project his voice the way she, a professional, did—his accent and manner confirmed that he was a blueblood. Her encounters with the breed had been far from sterling, but she was always willing to take their money.
“Tell me your desires, sir.” She’d crafted Sister Sirena’s voice to be an alluring mix of sultry and submissive. “And I will spin you a tale.”
“What sort of tale?”
“That is up to you, darling,” she purred. “Do you wish to hear about birching? Aménage à trois, perhaps? Or I could tell you about a dungeon where the most depraved acts imaginable take place…”
“None of that interests me,” he said.
A picky toff. Just what I need.
She kept her tone sweet and cajoling. “Whatdoyou want, sir?”
He paused, as if contemplating his options. Was he hesitating because his fantasies were filthy? She could have assured him that she wasn’t one to judge. She’d heard about every perversion under the sun and doubted his desires could be more depraved than those of the patron before him, who’d wanted a fantasy in which every orifice was filledand in simultaneous fashion. During the telling, she’d lost track of the body count and number of appendages; luckily, her patron had been too busy pleasuring himself to notice. His groaning climax had drowned out that of the tale.
“Discretion is my middle name,” she said coaxingly.
“I thought it was ‘Salacious.’”
This fellow had wit. Interesting.
“I am salacious and capable of keeping a secret,” she replied.
“Very well,” he said. “I want something real.”
Did he mean he wanted to tup? If so, he’d come to the wrong place.
“I am a storyteller, sir,” she said. “If you’re looking for another kind of diversion, the lovely novices downstairs will gladly?—”
“I want you.”
