She shook her head. “Even had I heard it called thus, I suppose I’d have thought it a Parisian equivalent of Hewards or another gaming club. It is not, I take it? Is it anothermaison closelike Les Moineaux?”
“It is a marriage of both vices, to some extent, although rather more... dissipated, one might say.”
“With such a name, I am not surprised.”
“It requires a token of entry obtained after introduction by an approved member. Provided one has that, he—or she—may enter and bring acquaintances if they so choose.” How much more to tell her?
“Why should it require a token of entry?”
He’d let her questions dictate the direction of the conversation for now. “For the sake of privacy, only carefully vetted persons may enter, the better to indulge in the pursuits within without fear of exposure in public.”
“Vetted by Dubois, I take it?”
“Aye. Mainly.”
“What precisely goes on at this—Le Repaire des Satyres?”
“One may gamble there if one chooses, private wagers with no limit on stakes—nor stakes confined to money. Nor is the gambling reserved only for men as in government-sanctionedmaisons de jeu.”
“So that is the nominal similarity to Hewards.” She frowned slightly. “In what way does it compare to Les Moineaux?”
“Sexual favors are available, but it is not amaison de tolérance. A registeredmaisonmight cater to exclusive tastes and admit anyone who meets basic entry criteria and can pay the price, but it is not so at Le Repaire.”
“The entry token precludes it, yes? To what end?”
“It is in the interest of patrons that access to Le Repaireremain restrictive and its activities remain off official registries. There are several women who come in to offer services on certain nights, but I am fairly certain none appear on the rolls of thepolice des mœurs.”
Isobel’s eyebrows, dark and winged, drew together. A dip of her chin signaled for him to continue.
Plain speaking, then. “There are private rooms available to members. Themed rooms. Some patrons visit Le Repaire with chosen companions or to hire a woman for the evening, but just as frequently they might seek among other patrons new partners with similar proclivities, secure in the club’s private nature.”
“I... see,” Isobel said, a touch faintly. “You have already gained a token to... there?”
“Aye. It was the most expedient way of gaining access to Dubois while further establishing my cover as Beaumont.”
Isobel regarded him, another question writ in her expression, but she looked away without voicing it aloud.
She had begun to trust him; he did not wish her to think it misplaced now. Itwasn’tmisplaced, goddammit. “There is a girl inside, a contact of Étienne Baudelaire’s and known to Amélie as well. I engaged her in a private room so that we might speak unobserved. And whatever she reported back to Dubois that we did in that room was not the truth.”
Relief touched Isobel’s face before she schooled it to an approximation of blandness.
He might have left it at that, but given what was on the table—that she might pose as his companion, tonight even—it was critically important that she understand what sort of man he was. And was not. So polite conversation be damned; it wasn’t like he’d expected in mentioning Le Repaire that they could keep to genteel topics.
“Bought pleasure isn’t to my taste.” He’d had excellent advicefrom a serjeant early on as a green lad in the army that it was a sure way for a man to end up with a diseased cock sooner or later, not fit for any woman.Far better yer hand, lad, than a blistered prick.
“Good. That is, not that I am judging. Or rather— I suppose I was... but I...” She pressed her lips together.
For a time, they watched a few boats plying their way up and down the river.
What she was thinking, he couldn’t guess, but he was reaching a decision himself. He’d begun seriously to consider Frascati’s yesterday as a possibility, even prior to conversation with Amélie and correspondence with Baudelaire. He was still not easy about it, but it should be relatively low risk for Isobel, especially with Baudelaire present. Likely at least one of Baudelaire’s other associates as well; Baudelaire did not usually work alone.
“Tomorrow night I will be at a place called Café Frascati. A café for dining but also amaison de jeuwith several different games run by the house. Any man may play so long as he can pay into the games.”
Isobel comprehended at once. “This is one of the places I would attend with you?”
“It would be entirely plausible for you to come with me. Women are not allowed to gamble but many come to watch lovers or, if unattached, seek protectors.”
“And it would increase your credibility among such men, bringing a... woman of your own?”
