“That’s splitting hairs, Lissie.” Lady Annabel took another draw on her cheroot to emphasize her point. “It’s the spirit of the thing that matters, and I never cheat on a wager.”
Lady Elizabeth gave her an arch look. “Honor among thieves, Annabel?”
“No. Honor among wicked widows.” Lady Annabel adopted a virtuous tone. “After all, my dears, if we don’t have our reputations, we don’t have anything at all.”
A moment of stunned silence greeted this statement; then all four ladies laughed appreciatively.
“A bit late for that as well, I’m afraid.” Lady Elizabeth downed the rest of her whiskey in one swallow, then indicated their surroundings with a wave of her empty glass. “Have you forgotten where we are?”
Lady Annabel shrugged. “We’re wearing masques. If no one recognizes us, it’s just as if we weren’t here at all.”
Aurelie giggled. “A convenient sort of morality, is it not?”
“My dear.” Lady Annabel smiled through a thin curl of smoke. “Is there any other kind?”
Charlotte studied her cheroot. It looked as long as it had when she’d first lit it, the blasted thing. “As far as the spirit of the wager is concerned, Annabel, I think our honor is safe, regardless of whether or not we smoke the cheroots. Lord Devon wagered we wouldn’t enter the whorehouse. The cheroots and whiskey are incidental.”
Aurelie downed her whiskey and stubbed out her cheroot in the empty glass. “Certainment. We’ve won the wager already, and here’s the proof.” She held up the cheroot for their inspection, then threw the remains of it into her reticule. “Just as well, too, because that dreadful cheroot is staining my glove.”
Lady Annabel continued to smoke her cheroot with every appearance of enjoyment. “Lord Devon is terribly wicked, is he not? Imagine his challenging us to enter a whorehouse! We should cut his acquaintance, my dears.”
“He’s no wickeder than we are.” Charlotte had no intention of cutting Lord Devon. Wicked or not, he’d proved most diverting at a time when she badly needed the distraction. “In any case, I confess I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a brothel.”
Lady Elizabeth nodded. “Oh, I have, as well. I thought it would be different, though—more exciting, somehow.”
Charlotte glanced around the room. “More exciting than bare-bosomed ladies being pawed at by sotted gentlemen? Yes, there’s nothing so unusual in that, I’m afraid.” One could see the same thing in many aristocratic ballrooms in London, though thetondid their best to hide their sins under a thin veneer of respectability. Failing that, they hid in secluded alcoves and behind the shrubbery in dimly lit gardens.
“No. It looks rather like Lord Harrow’s ball last week.” Lady Elizabeth sounded disappointed. “Even the same people are here. Look, there’s Lord Dudley. Oh dear. I’m sorry for that poor woman he’s groping, for I suppose she has to have him, doesn’t she?”
Aurelie observed the couple for a moment. “Not to worry,ma petite. He doesn’t look as if he’s in any condition to, ah…perform.”
Lady Annabel snorted. “No, he doesn’t. With any luck he’ll lose consciousness. I hope she fleeces his pockets if he does.”
Charlotte said nothing, but reached up to make sure her masque was securely tied. She hadn’t noticed Lord Dudley before. She scanned the room again to see who else she’d overlooked. For pity’s sake, half thetonwas here. The male half. She knew, of course, that aristocratic gentlemen spent more time with whores and their mistresses than they did their own wives, but good heavens—weren’t there other bordellos in London?
If any of these gentlemen were sober enough to focus, they’d recognize her easily, even with her masque on. Charlotte chewed on her lower lip. No, it wouldn’t do at all for Ellie and Cam to discover this latest escapade. She never should have promised her sister she’d give up her mad frolics, for she’d known even as the words left her mouth it was a promise she couldn’t keep.
Wretched things, promises.
She’d take care to avoid them in future. It was one thing to be a scandal, but quite another to be a scandalanda liar. She rose to her feet. “This was amusing enough for a time, but it grows dull. Shall we go find Devon?”
Annabel took a final draw on her cheroot. “Dear me, Charlotte. Bored in a bordello? How jaded you are.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps it’s more amusing for the prostitutes.”
“Perhaps,” said Lady Elizabeth. “But I draw the line at finding out. Besides, I believe the cheroot has made Aurelie ill.” She held out a hand to help the Comtesse rise from the divan.
Lady Annabel jumped to her feet. “Oh, dear. She looks quite green. We’d better hurry.”
Every eye in the room turned in their direction as they made their way to the door, but this time the men’s scrutiny felt more ominous. No one said a word to her and no one approached, but Charlotte’s flesh prickled in warning. The sooner they rejoined Devon, the better—
Oh, hell and damnation. She still had the blasted cheroot clutched between her fingers. It had burned to the end at last and now it threatened to singe her glove. She hurried back to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. If some leering scoundrel got a peek under her masque because of that dratted cheroot, she was going to have Annabel’s head—
“Leaving so soon, sweet?” A strong, muscular arm snaked around the middle of her body and jerked her to an abrupt halt. “But we haven’t yet been introduced.”
For a moment Charlotte froze with shock—only a moment, but that was all it took for her friends to vanish into the crowd. “Unhand me, sir,” she ordered in the haughtiest, most marchioness-like tone she could muster.
“Unhand you? Oh, no. I don’t think so.” The voice was low and so close she felt his breath tickle her ear. “What fun would that be?”
