I was intrigued in spite of myself. “How?” I dropped a hand to Vespertine’s head, stroking his fur. It was coarser than I imagined, springy under my fingers. He gave another sigh and settled more comfortably.
“By establishing a house like this one. She kept it stocked withexactly the sort of maiden the king liked best, plump and rosy and eager for the pleasures of the flesh.”
“She was a procuress.”
“She was a businesswoman,” she corrected swiftly.
“Like you.” In spite of my determination to remain objective, I was beginning to like Madame Aurore. She harbored no illusions about who she was or what she did, and she would never apologize for either.
Again she shrugged. “I have been compared to many a worse woman, believe me. But I think you do not mean it as an insult?” She paused to smile at me before going on. “I am indeed a businesswoman, as you say. I see a need and I provide the remedy.”
“And what is the need?” I asked, biting into the chocolate bun. It was less sweet than the vanilla confection, edged with something dark and almost bitter. Vespertine looked up at me with adoring eyes and Madame Aurore passed me one of his biscuits. He took it from me as gently as a lamb, lapping up the treat with his broad tongue.
Madame went on. “Pleasure, escape, satiety. Some people come here to remember, some to forget. My task is to provide the fantasy, to give them a place to play the game.”
“The game?” I asked. I took up another bun, this one shaped like a horn filled with cream, and with madame’s encouragement, I offered it to Vespertine. He ate the entire thing in one bite, licking his lips when he finished.
“The game,” Aurore repeated. “Have you not considered what this place is? It is a nursery for grown-ups! This is what everyone wants—a return to the nursery.”
“Do they?” I put in. Vespertine gave me another beseeching look but I shook my head at him. He settled at my feet and lay his head on his great paws.
“You look skeptical,” she told me, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she smiled. “But consider life, my dear. It is dangerous and demanding,particularly in a city such as this. Every year more people crush into the capital. There are more trams and carts and carriages. The underground railway rumbles beneath us. Smoke belches out over the town, turning everything sooty and black. And in the streets, such noise! Such chaos! We must be warriors simply to cross the street.” She painted a vivid picture, but she was not wrong. I had grown to love London, but there was much to be said for the occasional escape into the countryside. Green meadows and blue skies were infinitely preferable at times to the choking grey fogs and teeming pavements.
She went on. “Even in the privacy of one’s home, there is always some responsibility, some new trouble. The maid has given notice or the drains are bad or the neighbors are unquiet. Where may a person refresh themselves? Give themselves up to the sheer joy of being cared for?”
“That is what you think this place is about?” I inquired. “Caring for the clients?”
“Guests,” she corrected gently. “But of course it is! Here they are treated with all the love and tenderness of a favorite nursemaid. When they are hungry, they are fed, exquisite foods that are beautifully cooked. When they are tired, they repose themselves in the softest beds. There is music for the ear and the finest wines for the palate. Everything is done to gratify the senses.”
“And when a guest wants more than a nice nap and a blancmange?” I asked.
“They are given what they desire. It is like being a child again and visiting your grandmama’s house, where you are indulged in every whim. Only here, the whims are not so childish,” she said with a meaningful gleam in her eye. It was the first real glimpse she had given me of a sense of humor, a lightness I found relatable.
“I had not considered it in that light,” I told her. “But it makes a sort of sense.”
She smiled. “I wish only to bring joy, mademoiselle. To help bring light and glamour and pleasure to people’s lives. Such as you and your paramour.”
I stuffed the last of the chocolate bun into my mouth and said nothing. At my feet, Vespertine had begun to snore, a gentle, rhythmic sound that was oddly soothing.
She gave me a reproachful look. “You think I have overstepped myself, but why should women have secrets among friends?”
“And we are friends?” I asked. “You do not even know my name.” I paused deliberately, wondering if she would betray knowing my identity.
But if she did, she was more careful than her page. She merely smiled again. “I know your heart, mademoiselle. That is sufficient.”
I sipped at my champagne before making a reply. “What do you know of my heart?”
“I know that you wish to give yourself fully to your companion but you are afraid.”
There was challenge in her voice, but I could not deny what she said.
“Perhaps,” I said slowly.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Let us be frank! You and this man are all but lovers. You move towards each other and back again, never quite succumbing to your passions.”
“How can you tell?”
“Seduction has been my life’s work, mademoiselle. I know how a man looks at a woman when he has had her. And I know how a man looks when he is suffering for want of her.”
