“I suppose I ought to point out that this is not, strictly speaking, a brothel,” said a low, melodious voice. There was the slightest trace of a French accent, and I knew our hostess had entered even before I turned around.
She was smiling in spite of my hasty attempts at an apology.
“Faugh! We must not be provincial about such things,” she said,the smile broadening. “We know why we are here. My house is always open to people who understand what they desire.”
There was good Gallic sense in what she said. She came forwards until I could smell her perfume, something dusky and heavy with only the slightest edge of rich, plummy darkness. She tipped her head, studying us. “I think I recognize a pirate when I see one, but who are you with your savage jewels, mademoiselle?”
“Boadicea,” I told her.
“Ah! The Briton queen with the unpronounceable name. I shall not attempt it,” she said gravely, but a light danced behind her eyes. I took the opportunity to return her scrutiny. She was wearing a gown very similar to the one in the painting—beautifully draped and heavy enough to bear the weight of a galaxy of diamond stars. The diamond tiara sat at her brow, darting sparks of light as she moved her head. Her extraordinary and elegant costume had been carefully chosen to make the most of her natural beauty. She had dark brows, strongly marked and arched, but her hair was the color of winter frost, varying shades of white and silver. It fell to her hips, a rippling river of ice.
So, this was the woman who had captured my half-brother’s affections, I mused. I was not surprised; she was exquisite, with an air of mature worldliness that would no doubt appeal to many a younger man, especially one reared in the hothouse atmosphere of a royal court. I could well imagine any besotted youth showering her with jewels in a fervent attempt to earn her attention. Some mistresses kept their counsel, discretion being the better part of both valor and profit for them. Others blazoned their triumphs for the world to see, heedless of scandal or outrage. It remained to be seen which she would prove to be with regard to Eddy.
She extended her hand. “I am Madame Aurore, your hostess for the evening. I hope you will forgive the formality of a meeting, but Ialways make a point of greeting newcomers personally.” She lifted one pale hand towards the open door in a gesture of command, and one of her army of pages trotted forwards with a tray and glasses.
“Champagne,” she pronounced, insisting that we each take a glass. The fine crystal was like silk in my hand, and the wine was gently effervescent, the pale gold of new straw. We sipped, and she gestured towards the furniture grouped by the hearth, urging us to sit. The evening was warm enough that the fire had not been lit, but a pair of tall porcelain perfume burners stood upon the tiles, sending puffs of scented smoke into the air.
“I am always pleased to see new faces in my establishment,” she began, “but you must understand the need for discretion.”
“Naturally,” Stoker said.
She gave him a look of approval as she made quick work of scrutinizing him with the eye of a practiced businesswoman, taking in the tailoring and the jewels. The overlong hair and the eye patch would make no difference to her. It was the aristocratic vowels and the gemstones that mattered.
“You have chosen an excellent night to pay a first visit to the club,” she told us. “Tonight is our Wednesdaybal masqué. I see you have brought masks,” she added with a nod towards the black velvet dominos we each held. “The custom is that upon the stroke of ten, the entertainment begins. You have free rein of the house and the gardens, except for the suite on the third floor that is marked with a black velvet rope. That is my private apartment and not open to guests,” she warned. “Should you lose your way or require anything at all, there are always pages to offer assistance. I pay them a generous wage, and it is for you to offer them whatever gratuity you feel appropriate. That is none of my concern.” She paused, long enough for me to realize that the small army of black-liveried young people were there for more than just the opening of doors and serving of champagne.
“Oh.Oh,” I managed.
She gave me an indulgent smile. “How refreshingly new you are, mademoiselle! I can see why monsieur has brought you tonight.”
She went on. “I do not keep a record of my visitors, for your protection and my own. I cannot be compelled to reveal what I do not know and what cannot be proven. This is a private house and I am a private woman entertaining her friends—that is all the authorities need to know.”
“Most appreciated,” Stoker assured her. She gave a nod and continued.
“While the ball itself is underway, you may dance and consume all the food and drink that you wish. Converse, enjoy the entertainments. I take great pride in the originality of the themes and the generosity of my table. Should you have need, there are private rooms for more intimate activities. If the door is open, avail yourself of the apartment. You may shut the door for privacy if you wish. There is a silver ribbon tied to each doorknob. Leave it hanging outside if you are open to the prospect of company joining you. If you wish for complete privacy, take it into the room with you. When you depart the room, kindly ring the bell and a maid will come and freshen the amenities for future guests.”
It seemed a most civilized arrangement, I decided. One might have a room entirely to one’s own purposes or one might enjoy a bit of a crowd if tastes ran that way.
She went on. “At the stroke of two, the house will be gifted with darkness. The lights are extinguished and some guests take this as a signal to slip away. Others remain and the public rooms are given over to whatever the inclinations of my guests. You may find at that hour that invitations are presented to you—unexpected opportunities. It is, of course, your perfect right to refuse any overtures, but I suggest you accept them. Perhaps make a few of your own,” she added, the edges ofher mouth curling upwards. “Things you never imagined possible in the light become desirable in the dark.”
I felt a shiver—a premonition?—shudder down my spine. Stoker, for his part, seemed entirely the man-about-town, raising his champagne coupe to his hostess. “To the powers of darkness,” he said.
She smiled, a ripe, inviting smile, and lifted her own glass. They drank and I hastened to finish my own champagne. Madame Aurore offered a dish of tiny sugar pastilles flavored with mint. “To sweeten the breath after champagne,” she told us. I took one—Stoker took seven—and rose as she clicked her fingers.
Instantly, one of her slender pages appeared, this one with dark skin and elegant ankles. He gestured for us to follow him as our hostess remained in her reception room.
“Have a good time,” she called after us. “And I would remind you that Venus favors the bold.” I turned back to see her smile, a thin, watchful smile that did not quite meet her eyes.
We followed the page from Madame Aurore’s small parlor towards the sound of music.
“Would you care to join thebal masquéor would you prefer a more private setting?” the page inquired without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
“Thebal,” Stoker replied quickly.
The page inclined his head and led us through a series of corridors, each hung with rose or grey silk and a painting of the goddess of the dawn. In some she strode over hills, spreading the soft light of the morning over the landscape as she walked. In others, she was in the act of rising from her slumbers, the bedclothes tumbled suggestively. Sometimes she was accompanied by a battalion of maids strewing flowers and dewdrops, but at others she was depicted in the act of dressing—or undressing—with cherubs holding the ribbons of hersandals and stroking her delicate feet. There were nipples, so many of them, and blushing cheeks, rosy with effort or pleasure as she looked upon a sleeping youth. It was a glorious collection, with Auroras both fair and dark, some with blond tresses and some with black and every shade in between. Her skin was brown or pink or white, her features European or African or Asian. They were Aurora in every dimension, and I would have loved to have studied them at length.
But the page trotted on, leading us towards the sound of music, and a restless buzzing noise that I realized was the chatter of excited voices. I had expected languor from a crowd of undoubted sophisticates, but there was the underlying hum of anticipation, of needs yet to be met, clamoring in the blood.
We climbed a grand staircase carpeted in plush grey, with lavish sprays of hothouse peonies and roses spilling from urns at the foot. An enormous chandelier hung far overhead, the prisms scattering rainbows across the walls in glittering arcs. The page paused at the top of the stairs, just in front of a set of double doors that had been thrown open.
