“Welcome to our Bosom.” The proprietress rose and gave a graceful curtsey as they entered the fancy salon—a gesture clearly designed to display her impressive cleavage. Age had added hints of silver to her upswept blond tresses and a bit more voluptuousness to her curves. But Madame Boudicca was still a beauty.
“I’m honored.” A gleam of crafty intelligence lit her kohl-rimmed eyes as she ran a quick assessing gaze over them. “We’ve not yet had the pleasure of your patronage here, Lord Wrexford. Or yours, Mr. Sheffield.”
The earl wasn’t surprised that she recognized them. It was her business to know her potential clientele.
“What enticements might we offer you? I’m sure we can cater to your every desire.”
“Just the pleasure of a private conversation with Jeannette, if you please.” He took a purse from his pocket. “For which, naturally, I expect to pay.”
She hesitated. “We have earned a reputation for discretion here, milord. It’s worth a great deal to an establishment such as mine.”
“I, too, have a reputation for discretion,” he countered. “You have my promise that what I hear tonight won’t come back and bite you on your lovely derriere.”
A twitch of amusement pulled at her carmine lips. “Discretionis not the first word that comes to mind concerning your reputation, sir.” She considered the request a moment longer before adding, “Nonetheless, my sense is, your word as a gentleman can be trusted.” With a deft quickness, she plucked the purse from his palm. “And besides, I have always had a weakness for handsome rogues who possess clever tongues.”
Sheffield stifled a snort.
A gesture indicated they should take a seat on one of the velvet sofas. “Wait here. A servant will come shortly and take you to Jeannette.”
After sinking down into the soft pillows, his friend looked around at the ornate furnishings and gilt-framed paintings of satyrs cavorting with nubile young maidens. “A pleasant place,” he murmured.
“Feel free to return another time,” said Wrexford. “And enjoy it with your own guineas, not mine.”
Sheffield contrived to look injured. “It was simply an observation. I’m not in the habit of having to pay for my pleasure.”
Wrexford didn’t doubt it. The younger son of a nobleman wasn’t seen as an attractive commodity on the marriage mart.But Sheffield’s charm and golden good looks made him a welcome partner in the boudoirs of the beau monde, despite his lack of title or fortune.
“What about you, Wrex?” murmured his friend. “Word is, you haven’t chosen a new mistress to replace the divine Diana Fairfax.”
True.The earl watched the candlelight dip and dance over the erotic pictures of coupling flesh. But he had no intention of explaining why.
Sheffield was wise enough not to press. They waited in silence, for several more minutes, before an older woman swathed in plum-colored silk entered the salon.
One of the matrons who supervised the girls, decided Wrexford, noting her basilisk eyes and hard-set mouth. Business was business—Madame Boudicca and her staff would keep careful watch that nothing havey-cavey was going on within the intimate pleasure chambers of the establishment.
“Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Matron Plum led the way through a paneled portal set at the far end room. The lighting in the corridor was softer and more subdued than that of the reception room. Musky perfume—roses scented with an earthier undertone of spice—hung heavy in the warm air, while underfoot a tufted Turkey carpet muffled their steps, giving the illusion that they were walking on some strange multicolored cloud.
Swoosh, swoosh.The only sounds were the sinuous murmurs of voices tangling with the silky swoosh of fabric and flesh.
There were four doors lining each side of the way, each painted a pastel shade of pink and marked with an ornate brass numeral. Matron Plum stopped in front of Number 6. A quick touch to the latch and it released with a whisperedsnick.
“Please enter. When you are done, give a tug to the bellpull by the bed and I will come escort you out.” A pause. “The house rules forbid gentlemen to move around outside thereception area on their own.” Her eyes tightened in warning. “I trust you will respect them.”
Or the hulking brute in the toga will break a few bones, thought the earl as he acknowledged the warning. “But of course.”
After a grim nod, Matron Plum retreated.
More pink.As Wrexford followed Sheffield into the chamber, he felt as if he had stepped inside a spun-sugar confection of rose-colored hues.Pink light, pink frills, pink flesh . . .The hanging oil lamp flickered silently inside a ruby-hued glass globe, casting a soft glow over the lovely young woman lying amidst a tangle of cerise linen sheets.
A plate of ripe strawberries sat on the side table, along with three flutes filled with blush-colored champagne.
“You wish to speak with me?” Her voice was low and lush. “What a pity,” she added with a husky laugh after looking them over. “Conversation ain’t my strongest skill.”
“I’m sure you’ll prove quite satisfactory.” Wrexford drew one of the delicate gilt chairs closer to the bedside and took a seat. Sheffield chose to stand in a shadowed spot behind the table.
Jeannette tittered and batted her fire-gold lashes. “Would ye care te wet yer whistle before we start?”
