Page 5 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

“Ten years of wedded bliss to my beloved baroness,” Neville replied.

“Then the rumors are correct. You truly are happy,” said Stanforth, looking both baffled and…envious?

“Quite,” said Neville, his mind whirling at yet another astonishing contradiction. How could a man like Stanforth be lonely? “Your Grace, are you well? For I’m quite certain you didn’t invade a reformer tea house just to offer congratulations.”

The duke closed his eyes briefly as though gathering strength. Then he took a deep breath. “I wondered if you were free to discuss a delicate matter. My daughter, Lady Cressida, has approached me about a betrothal to someone of your sort, and I need to know everything about him.”

Now bemused, Neville quirked a brow. “My sort? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. That covers a multitude of sins, does it not?”

Stanforth actually flushed, and Neville felt a moment of pure alarm. The end of the world could not happen today.

“That was poorly phrased,” the duke gritted out. “I mean no offense. To be blunt, Cressida’s heart is set on Sir Kenneth Lochore. If you had the time and inclination to discuss his character, I would be in your debt.”

Neville blinked. Although he knew Stanforth had two children, no one had ever declared him a doting papa. Yet he was actually willing to entertain a love match for his daughter? To someone well outside his lofty circle? How very interesting. It seemed this man possessed many, many layers. “Of course. Although not today, I’m afraid. Lady Carlisle is expecting me home for an early supper, then we have evening plans at Sanctuary.”

The duke frowned. “Sanctuary? That name is vaguely familiar. Is it a theater? A restaurant? Somewhere for wagering, perhaps?”

Surely it was the devil himself that made Neville lean closer. Stanforth smelled so good, like shaving soap and fresh herbs and warm skin. Inhaling until his head swam, he blurted rashly, “It’s a private pleasure club on the corner of George and Manchester Streets, Your Grace. For those who have, hmmm, less conservative tastes and enjoy indulging in wicked play with others. You know. Discipline. Use of accessories and costumes. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Threesomes.”

Stanforth rocked on his heels, his cheeks now bright red. And yet once again pure yearning flashed in his eyes, like someone with empty pockets peering in the window of a sweet shop. Well, well, well. Which of those sexual acts did the duke deny himself? What part of his true nature did he always suppress?

Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, Neville retrieved one of his engraved calling cards. “Here,” he said cautiously, holding it out. “Sanctuary is exceedingly discreet, all members are documented and thoroughly interrogated before gaining their club mask. However, if you present my card to the owner, Madam Venus, and say I vouch for you, you’ll gain entrance for one evening. See if the club is something you might enjoy. Oh, and all members are over twenty-one and consent to their choices. At Sanctuary, everyone gets exactly what they want.”

“I…er…ah…” mumbled Stanforth, but he actually took the card and stuffed it into his waistcoat pocket. “I won’t delay you further. My secretary will send a note regarding a time to discuss Lochore.”

“Very well—”

“Good day, Carlisle,” said the duke, his tone curt again, as though their entire conversation had not taken place. Then he turned and strode out of the tea house.

Neville shook his head and pushed aside his now-cold beverage, but he couldn’t help watching Stanforth climb into his luxurious town carriage. Perhaps one day the duke would make use of the calling card. He’d been tempted; Neville would wager every penny of Ara’s fortune on that. Especially as Stanforth gave a passing fair imitation of a man who hadn’t orgasmed in a while. Speaking of which…

Neville smiled as he picked up his hat and walking cane, offered a jaunty wave to the other tea house patrons, then sauntered out into the misty rain.

Madam Arabella and a playfellow at Sanctuary beckoned.

CHAPTER 2

Sanctuary! At last!

Neville stepped out of the club’s complimentary black hackney, then held out his hand to assist Arabella down onto the footpath illuminated by two large lanterns at the nondescript entrance.

At this point he could scarcely contain his excitement. And although Arabella was a far more pragmatic soul than him, it was clear by the sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes that even she was eager for their night to begin.

“Here we are,” said Neville, as he ushered her into the building. As usual, they were greeted by what appeared to be a busy and prosperous modiste: rows and rows of gowns waiting to be boxed and sent, countless bolts of fabric, trims in a glass case, and a large, well-lit room of six seemingly industrious seamstresses. This was the mask to deter the law, gossips, and nosy troublemakers; not a single gown was created here. The ‘seamstresses’ were all Sanctuary maids who took turns in the seats amongst their other duties within the club.

Sanctuary itself was spread across four fairly modern three-story red-brick townhouses on Manchester Street that had been significantly reconfigured and refurbished since their construction in the 1770s. From the false shop, novices were directed to the left—and their final trial of a truly diabolical but thankfully short underground cellar maze—while current members like himself and Arabella continued down a hallway to the right.

“You’re thinking about the maze of doom, aren’t you?” said Arabella, her grin knowing.

“It will haunt me for eternity. I know it only takes a few minutes, but it feels like hours of walking bare stone tunnels and all you can hear is your breathing and the echo of your shoes. I was ready to claw the walls,” he replied with great dignity.

His wife laughed. “Madam Venus knows how to separate the wheat from the chaff. Fortunately, it’s only the first time that people get directed left. In saying that, I honestly don’t know what her seamstresses would do if someone actually arrived to be measured for a new gown.”

“Could you imagine,” said Neville, chuckling as they approached the reception area. It was elegant yet tranquil with cream silk walls, brown leather couches, thick carpets, and tasteful oil paintings hanging in gilt frames. Heavy cream velvet drapes covered the windows, the room had a softly welcoming glow from beeswax candles in polished silver candelabras, and the well-tended fireplace kept the room pleasantly warm.

They were greeted deferentially by an attendant who then swiftly departed to fetch Madam Venus.

Arabella hesitated. “Oh, I forgot to ask. Did you have any preferences for tonight’s playfellow?”