Viscountess of Vice Read online

  Viscountess of Vice

  Jenny Holiday

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Connect With Me

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jenny Holiday

  The Regency Reformers series

  An excerpt from Famous

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jenny Holiday. Second Edition 2019.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author.

  Edited by Alethea Spiridon. Cover design by Zack Taylor. Cover photos: Period Images (couple), Deposit Photos (background).

  ISBN 978-1-7753768-5-9

  For Courtney.

  “It’s a prequel…”

  Chapter One

  Autumn, 1812

  Being a prostitute was hard work. Catharine poked a finger under the feathered mask she wore, trying to target an especially itchy spot near her hairline.

  Correction: posing as a prostitute was hard work. An honest-to-goodness lady of the evening wouldn’t have to wear this blasted mask. The itching was driving her to distraction, never mind the sweating. It was a good thing she never took off the feathered confection, even when entertaining. The sight of her red, shiny face would have been enough to drive off even the most, ahem, enthusiastic of gentlemen.

  Of course, an honest-to-goodness lightskirt would also have to have honest-to-goodness relations with any number of men, so on balance, what was a little itching? The wig was no better. She glanced around the overheated drawing room, taking a deep breath and fighting the urge to tear the flame-orange, elaborately-coiffed contrivance off her head and hurl it into the fire.

  At least the discomfort provided a welcome distraction from her nerves. Here she was, nearly a month in, and she still felt that same fluttering in her stomach before the first gathering. And she wasn’t the nervous type—far from it. She was Catharine Chambers, the Viscountess Cranbrook, for God’s sake. Slightly scandalous widow, woman of action. Not that anyone here knew that, hidden as she was by her disguise. Still, she had not expected to find herself a nervous mouse every time. Didn’t expect it, and more to the point, didn’t like it.

  Several young men filed in, talking quietly among themselves, joining the handful already present in the crowded room. Good. Once the gathering began, she could lose herself in her role. It was never as bad as she imagined, once the evening got underway. No, in truth, it was usually very dull—that was the great irony of the whole absurd situation. Sitting straighter, she turned her head, displaying the pale length of her neck to best advantage. Suppressing a sigh, she affected a bemused smile.

  The ten o’clock crowd was typically young, eager, and always the politest of the evening’s three groups. The men she sought were not likely to possess any of those qualities. Why did she even bother with the first gathering? Because Blackstone insisted? He was rarely here to check up on her and would never know if she slipped away to her room for a nap—just what she needed to fortify herself before the midnight gathering.

  A footman entered with a tray of champagne glasses, a sign of Madame Cherie’s imminent arrival. Too late to escape. Resigned, Catharine accepted a glass, willing her hand not to shake. A sense of obligation would have kept her here anyway. Yes, she appeared dutifully at the ten o’clock gathering twice a week because underneath her scandalously low, black-ribbon-trimmed bodice beat the heart of a patriot. A very nervous patriot.

  Noble motivations and stage fright aside, this was supposed to have been entertaining. That was the whole point, really. In that sense, it was all very disappointing. Who knew that in addition to being exceedingly itchy, prostitution could manage to be so very dull?

  The door opened, and Madame entered with an elegant young gentleman on her arm. Catharine heard her own sharp, involuntary intake of breath. She quickly looked away, studying the patterns of shadow and light thrown by the fire on the scarlet silk walls. Even as her heart thrummed, she forced her face into a placid expression, opening her fan and idly fluttering it. Only then did she cast a look back toward Madame’s guest. A head taller than the others, he was dressed in black from the broad woolen shoulders of his coat to the tips of his shining Hessians. Even his hair, which he wore cropped close to his head, was dark. It was only a white shirt and perfectly starched cravat that softened the imposing effect.

  His bright green eyes darted around the room for a few seconds after he entered, as if he were unsure where to settle his gaze. Unlike her, he hadn’t learned to hide his unease. He was new, and he was, simply, beautiful.

  The gentleman gained control over his lovely eyes and began to survey the room in a more measured, calmer manner. Catharine tried to see the place as a newcomer would. A few of the girls were already upstairs entertaining regular clients, so there were only half a dozen others besides her in attendance, perched on settees and chairs throughout the room. And of course there was Amelia, draped over a chaise longue in a manner that bordered on the ridiculous. With her heavily painted eyes and rouged nipples peeking out of an elaborate lace bodice that was so low it practically met the high waist of her dress, Amelia offered gentlemen the caricature of a courtesan. She even affected a French accent and introduced herself as Amélie. Of course, presenting herself like this had made her the most popular girl in the house, both with the gentlemen and with Madame Cherie, who took great pains to present the entire establishment as French and therefore fashionable. Madame exhorted the girls at regular intervals to display a little je ne sais quoi. Amelia was the only one among them who equated je ne sais quoi with nipples, but there you had it.

  Catharine startled a little when Madame rang the silver bell that signaled the start of a gathering. At that moment, the gentleman’s gaze swung to meet hers. The combination of the bell’s shrill tone and the stranger’s insistent green stare sent a chill down her spine, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end under her wig. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the bumpy gooseflesh there. His eyes followed her hand, and she snatched it away.

  She was accustomed to the bald, almost clinical gazes gentlemen deployed in this place, but his was different, more intimate. Could he be the one?

  Then, inexplicably, he smiled. Not the ironic, leering smirk she would have expected, but a genuine, wide smile that lit up his emerald eyes. She breathed deeply, her tightly corseted lungs suddenly in need of a great deal more air than they were receiving. How very…surprising.

  A final trill drew her attention to Madame Cherie. A petite, dark woman, Madame was a beauty despite her fifty-plus years. Unlike some of the older girls, she had allowed the silver streaks in her hair to advance unimpeded. The silver and black tresses, twisted into an elegant chignon and her modest, though highly f
ashionable, copper silk gown belied her profession. If Catharine had met her in a Mayfair ballroom, she never would have believed the woman was the proprietress of London’s most exclusive house of ill repute.

  Madame lifted her glass. “Bonjour, mes amis!” A general rumbling of acknowledgment ran through the ranks of the assembled gentlemen. “Welcome to my humble home.” A hint of a French accent tinged her speech when she switched into English, though Madame didn’t have a foreign bone in her body. Blackstone said she was the daughter of a blacksmith from one of the home counties.

  “We have some new guests today.” Madame turned to nod at the dark gentleman whose arm she still held and at the cluster of younger men Catharine had noticed earlier. “So allow me to acquaint everyone with the traditions that govern our establishment.

  “We gather three times an evening, at ten o’clock, midnight, and two o’clock. I invite you to mingle with my dear ladies at any or all of these gatherings.” She gestured around the room at Catharine and the others. “And what fine ladies they are, are they not?” Turning to the tall stranger, she patted his arm before dropping it, not waiting for a response. There was that smile again, but this time he tempered it and dipped his head slightly as if to signal his agreement that, yes, they were fine ladies indeed.

  Madame moved to stand near the hearth. “Should you come to an agreement with one of them, please visit one of my associates to arrange your visit.” A trio of elegant, liveried, and extremely large men entered the room on cue and stood, faces blank, against the far wall. It was difficult to discern—by design—if they were footmen or something else entirely.

  “You are welcome to make arrangements for two hours and to join us again at midnight. Or you’re free to arrange a longer interlude. And of course, please feel free to make use of our gaming, dining, or billiards rooms at any time.”

  Catharine cleared her throat as delicately as she could, trying to catch Madame’s eye. The older woman often “forgot” to remind the guests about the special rules that governed an encounter with Lady V.

  “Yes,” Madame said, eyes narrowing slightly. “There is one more thing.” She glided over and laid a hand on Catharine’s shoulder. “This, my friends, is Lady V, a genuine Mayfair lady. Highborn.” She lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “She very likely knows you.” A few of the younger men shifted uncomfortably. “Not to worry, my dears, Lady V is sworn to secrecy. It’s not in her interest to reveal how she finds her evening entertainment. She would be ruined if her true identity came to light.” Madame began to stroke Catharine’s neck with the back of one hand. “I have tried and tried to convince her to change her stance on this matter, but she remains adamant. Your time with Lady V will include only…” Tension mounted in the room as Madame deliberately trailed off, building anticipation.

  “Conversation.”

  The crowd, which had grown silent, erupted in exclamations and good-natured jeers. The overdressed Amelia sighed theatrically as Madame Cherie, enjoying the drama, continued. “Yes, my dears, you pay for Lady V’s company, but not, alas, her body. If you want her, you’d better act quickly, as she’s fast becoming my most popular girl.” The neck stroking had turned to rather insistent tapping. “Inexplicably so.”

  Disengaging herself from Catharine with a final tap, Madame seated herself on a chair near the fire. “Please enjoy yourselves, gentlemen.” She nodded toward the pianoforte, and the young girl seated in front of it launched into a waltz. A shopgirl with a gift for music, she played in exchange for lessons from one of London’s most highly regarded music masters, a personal client of Madame’s.

  So, to work. Catharine was fairly certain none of the new clients would be of interest, but that wouldn’t prevent Blackstone from quizzing her later.

  Catharine felt the dark gentleman’s regard, but one of the young men approached before she could decide on her first move. Perching on an arm of her chair, the boy filled the frame of her vision with his youthful, golden presence. Ironically, this was exactly the sort of man she collected as Lady Cranbrook. Young, enthusiastic, not looking for a serious entanglement. A month ago, in another setting, she would have enjoyed the boy’s attentions.

  “That’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing.” She smiled blandly and fingered the long, heavy gold chain she always wore around her neck here, feeling the comforting heft of the hidden ruby that hung from the end of it, nestled between her breasts. “I’d like to see what’s hanging from that chain.” He reached a hand out, as if to tug the necklace out.

  She swatted his hand. “Then you shall be disappointed.” She produced a smile to temper her annoyance.

  “Is it a gem? Perhaps a key?”

  Shrugging coyly, she contemplated sending her young admirer on an errand. The refreshment table wasn’t far enough away, though.

  He lowered his voice. “Whatever it is, I wager it will look spectacular lying on the sheets beside you, cast aside.”

  This happened sometimes. A man, having heard the rules, decided to regard her as a challenge, flattering himself into thinking he would be the one to break them. “Ah, but I never remove it.”

  “Not ever? Not even when you bathe?”

  “Not that it’s any of your affair, but no.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was a gift from my husband.” She amused herself sometimes by doling out little bits of the truth. But she’d alarmed her poor admirer quite a bit more than she’d intended, judging by the startled look on his face. “My late husband,” she added with a chuckle.

  He recovered quickly. “How long have you been widowed?”

  “Nearly two years.”

  “And you’ve worn that necklace every day since then?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What would your late husband think of you being here?”

  He would be proud of me. Proud that I was doing something important, something for England. But of course she couldn’t say any of that so settled instead for, “I am enjoying widowhood.” It wasn’t a lie. She mourned Charles, of course, but she loved being a widow, adored the liberty that came with it. It was the first time in her life she had been free to make her own choices, to do more than be swept along by the actions of the men around her.

  The boy leaned over to speak in her ear. “Are you sure we can’t come to some sort of private arrangement? I could pay you directly.”

  She widened her eyes, playing innocent. “A private arrangement?”

  “Yes, for more than, ah, conversation.”

  She raised her fan, creating a barrier between them. “No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible, but I do thank you for your interest. I’m quite flattered.”

  “It’s just that…”

  My, he was a persistent one. She summoned her best icy look and lifted her brows as high as they would go—an instinctive response that was, of course, lost behind her mask.

  “I cannot help but think that perhaps you have been waiting for the right gentleman to come along. Perhaps you have not had the opportunity—”

  “Not had the opportunity?” A deep voice cut in, and a dark presence inserted itself into their small circle, contrasting dramatically with the golden boy. It was the green-eyed gentleman. “The lady passes her evenings in a whorehouse, so one would imagine she contends with a nearly unlimited supply of…opportunities.”

  The younger man sat close to her, so the newcomer must have been near in order to overhear their conversation. She smiled brightly at him. “Don’t let Madame Cherie hear you calling this a whorehouse, sir. She’ll take offense and have you thrown out.”

  Unamused, he frowned. “Isn’t it, though?”

  “What? A whorehouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, but as a patron, you of all people should understand the importance of euphemism in these sorts of situations.”

  The golden boy watched their exchange as if he were taking in a game of badminton. Though it was rude, she ignored him, keeping her eyes fi
xed on the intriguing dark gentleman.

  He cocked his head slightly. “I don’t believe in euphemism.”

  “Oh? And what do you believe in?”

  “Precision. Authenticity. Exactitude.”

  “Perhaps, then, sir, you find yourself in the wrong place this evening.”

  “No, I think not.” He glanced around until his gaze settled on one of Madame’s oversized footmen. “I shall make arrangements and return presently.”

  The golden boy leaped from his perch.

  “Unless,” said the mystery gentleman, “you feel you have a prior claim? It did rather sound as if perhaps you’re in search of more than the lady is prepared to offer this evening.” He fixed the younger man with an icy stare that caused the boy to bow and hurry off.

  Her new client watched the boy retreat, then turned toward her and nodded. He stripped off his kidskin gloves, deposited them on her lap, and turned on his heel.

  Sitting back, she blew out a breath and reached again for the royal blue silk fan that matched her dress, right down to the black ribbons trimming it. She was slightly dizzy. Was it the overheated room? The exhilarating volley of conversation they’d shared? The gentleman himself? She rather feared she was about to find out.

  * * *

  Knowing he needn’t worry about performing should have made James Burnham less anxious. Given that conversation was exactly why he’d come this evening, it should have been a relief to meet a woman who didn’t expect him to want any more from their time together. Instead, as he followed Lady V up a winding staircase, he had to consciously tamp down a rising unease.