Chapter 14

In September, when everyone came back from their vacations, Le Boudoir had been open and business had been booming for four months. They had had a regular stream of clients even over the summer, and their reputation was firmly established by then. Her friend “Thomas,” the minister of the interior, had been telling the truth when he said that the Duchess was the talk of Paris. People didn’t know who she was or where she had come from, but they said she was a breathtaking young woman, and every important man had been to Le Boudoir, and once they’d been, they went frequently, and couldn’t stay away from the cozy, intimate atmosphere she had created and the outstanding women who worked there. She had chosen well.

Angélique had been hoping to find two more girls but hadn’t seen any so far that she wanted to join them, although they had spoken to several. Her standards were high, and she wanted the approval of the other women to make sure that they were comfortable with them too. All the women in the house liked each other and got along, which was important to her.

She interviewed a girl on a September afternoon, who worked at a well-known house that had been the most popular one until Le Boudoir opened and Angélique appeared on the scene. It was run by a madam who was said to be a dragon. She no longer served the clients herself, but was said to have been very skilled in her time. And the girl Angélique interviewed that afternoon had sought her out, and said she wanted to get away from her house and madam. She said they paid her next to nothing, and the caliber of the men who went there had slipped. All the great men were at Le Boudoir now. But Angélique didn’t like the girl. She thought she had a vulgar quality to her, and was common, which was the last thing she wanted in the house. Not with the kind of men they entertained there.

The usual party in the drawing room was in full swing that night, when there was a heavy knocking on the door. Angélique didn’t hear it, with someone playing the piano, but Jacques did and opened the door, as four heavyset men pushed past him. They looked like thugs off the street, and an extremely blowzy, strident woman strode into the drawing room right behind them.

“Where is she?” she shouted, as the music stopped. “Where is this Duchess you’re all talking about?” She looked at the men in white tie and tails in the drawing room, and recognized only a few of them. The cream of le tout Paris had never gone to her, but mostly the nouveau riche, men with fortunes, but not of noble birth. Angélique had all of the elite. The moment they saw her, they knew she was the real thing, whether her title was real or not. They neither knew nor cared about that, but she seemed genuine to them, and very charming.

“I believe you’re asking for me,” Angélique said quietly as she stepped forward, a tiny figure in a beautiful gray evening gown with her back straight and her head held high. She looked more like a queen. The minister of the interior was watching—he had just been talking to her—and waited to see what would happen. He was like a tiger ready to spring. Angélique didn’t notice as she addressed the woman. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“You know who I am. Antoinette Alençon. Madame Antoinette. You tried to steal one of my girls today,” she said, sounding vulgar, as Angélique faced her with courteous disdain.

“Not at all,” Angélique said coolly. “I told her to go back to you. I have no wish to hire her. Now please remove yourself from my drawing room. There is a private party under way.” The thugs around the older woman coiled as though ready to strike, but weren’t sure at whom. And Jacques was no match for them. Angélique prayed that they would attack no one in the drawing room, or cause them to send for the police. She wanted no notoriety of that kind for the house.

“She told me you offered to pay her more, and tried to get me to increase her wage.”

“That is neither true nor of any interest to me. Goodnight, madame. Please take your friends and leave.” She stood staring the woman down, as no one moved in the room. No one wanted to be involved in a scandal, or even worse, a brawl. And turning on her heel, Madame Antoinette gave a signal to her henchmen, and they followed her out the door, which Jacques closed and locked behind them, as everyone in the room heaved a sigh of relief.

“Good lord, what an awful woman,” Angélique said, laughing, to conceal her trembling knees. She whispered to one of the maids to pour champagne for everyone, and more for those already drinking it. She then went on as though nothing had happened, and everyone relaxed, as her powerful friend came to stand next to her.

“Well done, my dear,” Thomas whispered, and they exchanged a warm, affectionate look. They had had dinner several times by then and had gotten to know each other better. He had told her of his wife’s long illness in an asylum, and she sensed his loneliness. He lived only for his work. She was flattered by his confidences, and loved his explanations of politics. And had he been single, and their lives different, she would have been happy to be more than his friend. But she had made it clear to him that could not be. She didn’t want to be any man’s mistress, and he accepted that from her. He loved being with her, and they went for long walks together in the Tuileries Gardens, with her small hand tucked into his arm. She was always exquisitely dressed when she had dinner with him, and was truly the most beautiful woman he knew. She already had a reputation for wearing the most fashionable clothes, and she dressed her girls well too. There was none of the vulgarity of other women of their kind. There was nothing shocking about them except upstairs, where it belonged, which had been her intention all along. “Are you all right?” he asked after the intrusion, and she nodded, but he could tell she had been frightened and covered it well. It reminded him of how brave she was. The four men Madame Antoinette had brought with her had looked dangerous to all of them, and probably were. And she clearly hadn’t expected the reception she’d gotten, and had no bone to pick there.

“Of course, I’m fine.” Angélique brushed it off to him. She didn’t want her other clients upset.

“I want you to get a second man. The one you have isn’t enough. Something like that could happen again, or worse. You never know. We’re all gentlemen here, but you can’t predict when the wrong sort will wander in. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” His concern for her and affection showed in his eyes.

“I know everyone here,” she reassured him, looking around.

“So do I.” He smiled at her. “But please get a second man.”

“I will,” she promised. He left shortly after, he rarely stayed too long, but he came only to see her, and talk to her. He always had work he had to attend to, and secret missions he couldn’t tell her about, and she knew not to ask.

As promised, she had Jacques find another man to work with him, which he thought was sensible too. They shared the room in the carriage house, and Jacques didn’t mind. He was always kind and willing to do anything he could to help. And the appearance of the four tough men in the drawing room had worried him too. He agreed that it would be better with two. Luc, the man they hired, was young, barely more than a boy, but he was huge. He was a blacksmith’s son, so he was good with the horses, but more than anything, he was an imposing figure with Jacques at the door, which made everyone, clients and girls alike, feel more secure, as well as Angélique.

As it turned out, the protection they needed was not outside, but upstairs. A school friend of one of their favorite clients, a regular of Yaba’s, came with him one night for the first time, after his friend had raved about Le Boudoir. And the new client was particularly intrigued by the services of Ambre, when he heard that she was well versed with her small whip, and willing to tie him to the bed. He had been very pleasant in the drawing room, and rather meek, and had gone upstairs with her. They were absent for a long time, which no one thought unusual, until Ambre crawled out of her room on all fours, barely conscious and dripping blood. It was the first time one of the girls had gotten hurt, and they were horrified, as were the clients in the hall who saw it and rushed to help her. One of the men in the drawing room was a doctor and came upstairs to care for her. Apparently before she could apply a flick of the whip or use any of her tantalizing toys, he had beaten her to within an inch of her life with his fists, and punished her in every way he could. Before he could say a word, the other clients, who’d seen the condition Ambre was in, dragged him down the stairs and threw him into the street. They were appalled at what had happened. Many of them knew who he was. The friend who had brought him apologized profusely to Angélique and left a huge sum of money especially for Ambre. It was a very bad night.

Angélique went out of her way to reassure everyone the next day. And she and the girls discussed installing some kind of alarm system that would ring a bell, or a whistle they could keep, to use if any of them were in trouble, but nothing like it had ever happened before, and was unlikely to again. They knew who all of their clients were, and all of them were so kind. It took Ambre two weeks to recover, and everyone cheered when they saw her in the drawing room again. She knew she was among friends. All of the girls had taken care of her, just as Angélique had done for Fabienne when they first met.

To reward and cheer them up after Ambre’s incident, Angélique took them shopping again. She wanted to keep their wardrobes fresh, and the house had a reputation for being fashionable, which she wanted to maintain. And this time, when they went to some of the best shops, there were no snubs or slights. Shopkeepers recognized Angélique, from having sold expensive gowns to her, and they welcomed her patronage and that of the girls. She spent a huge sum of money on their clothes and her own. But the house had become extremely profitable in a short time. Mountains of boxes arrived at the house after their shopping spree, and they were thrilled with their new gowns, and even more new lingerie. And they had selected a pile of gifts for Ambre as well. Angélique had become known as the most generous madam in town, and girls were clamoring to work for her, but she was extremely careful about who she hired. She still wanted two more girls, but hadn’t found the right ones.

Despite their caution about who they let into the house, an unfamiliar American appeared in late September, referred by one of their best clients. He said he was in Paris on business, and had been told about Le Boudoir by his friend. He was an older, distinguished-looking, white-haired man, and appeared to be a man of substance. He said his name was John Carson, which the letter confirmed. But Angélique had an odd feeling about him. And he seemed to feel uncomfortable being there, as Americans sometimes were. Angélique had noticed that before—many of them were far more puritanical than the French. He looked nervous at first, and Angélique spent time putting him at ease. He finally relaxed and chatted with her. They talked mostly about politics and business, and avoided personal subjects, but she had seen immediately that he was wearing a wedding ring. After an hour in his company, she casually introduced him to some of the girls, but by then he only wanted to talk to Angélique. He made his interest in her clear when he lowered his voice, averted his eyes, and asked if she would go upstairs with him. And then he added in barely more than a whisper that he had never been to a brothel before, and she believed him. He had looked nervous and guilty from the moment he walked in.

“I’m sorry, John,” she said in a kind voice, wishing she could reassure him. “I don’t go upstairs. I love talking to our clients, but I don’t entertain them personally.” She could see that he understood what she meant. “I’m better in the drawing room,” she said lightly, and he smiled.

“My friend told me about you. You’re even more wonderful than he said. I love talking to you.”

“Thank you, John. You might enjoy some of the young ladies too.” She always referred to them as ladies, not women or girls.

“I would have gone upstairs with you,” he said with a look of regret. “My wife and I…we haven’t…we…we married a long time ago. We’re very different, we’re not close.” It was a story she was familiar with, and she nodded.

“I understand,” she said sympathetically, wanting to free him of his inhibitions so he could enjoy the full services of the house. She thought he might like Agathe, who had other clients like him, but he showed no interest in her when she walked by. He only had eyes for Angélique, and left at last after two hours with her, and promised to return the next day. Angélique assured him she would be delighted to see him when he returned. And after he was gone, one of their clients had recognized him and mentioned to her that he was a very important financier in the States. And he clearly wasn’t a habitué of brothels, he had looked uncomfortable all night, except while in deep conversation with Angélique. He had told her that he frequently did business in Europe, though more often in London. They had talked about England for a while, and he’d been startled when he first talked to her to discover that she was British. And the moment he heard her very upper-class accent, it was obvious to him that she was no woman of the streets. Like everyone else, he was fascinated by her. He came to the house every night for a week after that, to talk to Angélique, and he took none of the girls upstairs, he just sat with Angélique and talked to her for hours. And on the last night he told her how much he enjoyed meeting her and that he was leaving the next day.

“I’ll come back to see you the next time I’m in Paris, probably in a few months. I come several times a year,” he said wistfully. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind about going upstairs with me next time,” he said with a determined expression. He was obviously used to getting his way.

“I won’t do that,” she said firmly with a warm look in her eyes, to soften the blow of rejection. “But I’ll be very happy to see you. Have a safe journey home.” When he left she thought about him for a while afterward. He seemed like an unhappy man, but his eyes lit up when he talked to her. She could sense that he was used to being in command, and was unfamiliar with not getting what he wanted, but if what he wanted was Angélique in a bedroom upstairs, he would be disappointed again. And he left a surprisingly large amount of money for the time he’d taken talking to her. Angélique had never expected to be paid for the time she spent in the drawing room conversing with their clients, and she put the money away to split later among the girls. And she had the strong feeling when he left that she’d be seeing him again.

Le Boudoir was becoming more and more well known, and their business was increasing. In October and November, she finally had to take on two more girls. Both were extremely pretty. One was a Swedish girl named Sigrid, who spoke English, French, and German. And the other was a striking Spanish girl named Carmen, who had been a flamenco dancer and had grown up as a gypsy in Seville. There was something very wild about her, and the men loved her as soon as she started to work. Both women were great additions to the group. Carmen was rarely in the drawing room for five minutes before she was taken upstairs again. She was playful and loved to tease and taunt the men, and they loved it.

They gave a party in December a few days before Christmas, which was lavish and elegant. The champagne flowed, they served caviar, and two hundred men crowded into the house. All their regular clients brought friends. Thomas came to wish her a merry Christmas, and as usual, didn’t stay for long, but she was touched that he’d made the time to come. And the day after the party, Angélique was chatting with several of their regulars about how much fun it had been. She had worn a spectacular white satin gown to the party, which showed off more of her body than she usually did, tantalizing their clients more than ever, since they all knew they couldn’t have her. For the madam of a brothel, she was unwaveringly chaste, much to the men’s dismay.

She was wearing an elegant black dress the night after the party, with a handsome pearl choker around her neck that had been her mother’s, when she heard two Englishmen walk in, and explain that they had been sent by friends. She recognized one of the voices immediately. Glancing into the hallway as he took off his coat, she saw her brother Edward, swaying unsteadily. He was drunk and saying that he wanted to meet the girls. Without hesitating, she excused herself to the man she was talking to, disappeared into the kitchen, and sent for Fabienne, who came to find her a minute later to discover what was wrong.

“The drunken Englishman in the drawing room by now is the younger of my brothers,” she whispered. “He can’t see me, or he’ll tell all of England. Give him one of the girls, and send him upstairs quickly. I’m going to my room. Tell everyone I have a headache.”

“I’ll take him myself,” Fabienne reassured her. She could do at least that for her, and she didn’t have a client at the moment. “Don’t worry, it will be fine.”

“Thank you,” Angélique said gratefully, and disappeared up the back stairs, as Fabienne went back to the drawing room, and nearly threw herself at Angélique’s brother, oozing charm. He was very drunk, and quite flattered.

“Do I get a choice?” he asked, weaving. “Our friends say all the girls are terrific, and some are pretty exotic. There’s an African girl I want to meet.” He was emphatic about it, and fortunately Yaba was nowhere to be seen—she was upstairs with a client.

“She’s with a regular client,” Fabienne told him. “She won’t be back down tonight.” And then Fabienne pouted at him and looked like an innocent cherub. “My feelings will be hurt if you don’t pick me.”

“Oh, all right then,” he said, lurching at her, as she took his hand and led him toward the stairs. “Who’s the phony duchess, by the way? That’s pretty funny, a whore calling herself a duchess. You know, my brother is a duke.”

“Really?” Fabienne cooed at him as they headed toward her room, wishing she could slap him for what he’d said about Angélique. “I’m sure he’s not nearly as exciting as you are, and only half the man.”

“Well said,” Edward answered as they walked into her room, and she closed the door as he lurched unsteadily toward the bed, lay down, and unbuttoned his pants. He was anything but exciting, or imaginative. He told her what he wanted, and with the amount he’d had to drink, it was over in five minutes, and he passed out and lay unconscious on her bed. She went to find his friend a little while later to come and get him, and Jacques helped carry him downstairs. Edward had been anything but charming or fun. His friend paid what they owed, and Fabienne was relieved when they left, and went to tell Angélique they were gone. She looked shaken from having seen him for the first time in two years. But at least it wasn’t Tristan, which would have been even worse. She was still dressed and went back downstairs with Fabienne, to say goodnight to the other guests.

But seeing Edward had upset her. She lay in bed that night, thinking of him and their older brother, how terrible they had been to her, the home she would never see again, and the life she had chosen now. She hadn’t had the courage to write to Mrs. White since she’d come to Paris nine months before. She felt terrible about it, but she hated to lie to her, and she couldn’t admit what she was really doing. She decided then to write her a letter and tell her she had taken a job in Paris as a nanny, and had been very busy. There was no way she could tell her the truth. And as she fell asleep that night, tears rolled into her pillow. She was the most successful madam in Paris, and she was so homesick for her childhood home and her father that she was crying like a child.