Chapter 20

Cynthia’s belly rumbled. The maid had brought up dinner, but her stomach had been tied in knots and she’d barely managed to pick at it. Now, however, true hunger was beginning to make itself known. She’d rung the bell again and again but there had been no answer.

She gazed about the small chamber. It was so plain and simple compared to the rest of the house and she had some understanding of why Jasmine kept it as her own. A woman could think here, all quiet colors and white walls, nothing to distract.

Only at present she wanted some distraction—distraction from her thoughts of James.

Her stomach gurgled again.

Food.

Food would both settle her so she could sleep and also provide some of that much-needed distraction. Maybe warm milk and a sweet pudding of some type. Her mouth watered at the thought. Warm and sweet.

Should she ring again?

The clock on the mantel ticked away. The house was certain to be busy at this hour and it was probable that none of the maids had a free moment. What exactly did maids do in a brothel? Well, there must be plenty of sheets that needed changing and certainly other messes that she didn’t wish to think of.

Still, she was curious. And not just about the maids. What did happen in a brothel at night?

The lure of the forbidden and the ache in her stomach had her standing by the door. She glanced down at her borrowed dress, blue silk, not too low, but with a tight bodice. It would pass. It belonged to one of the girls. Jasmine’s clothing would never have fit her.

The handle was cold beneath her touch.

No, she could not be foolish, could not be recognized. It was one thing to visit during the day, covered in her veils. It would be another entirely to be seen here at night.

Turning away, her eyes fell upon Jasmine’s dressing table and the small scattering of cosmetics. What if she disguised herself? She’d never played with cosmetics, but it shouldn’t be hard. She’d always had a talent for painting.

She seated herself at the table and picked up the white powder Jasmine used to give herself that unnatural pale.

A few fluffs of the brush. Yes, that was good.

A little kohl at the eyes. Well, that was probably too much, but it did make her look different.

Red on lips and cheeks. No, that was not quite what she’d meant to do.

She looked like a corpse with a strawberry for a mouth.

On the other hand, she didn’t look at all like herself. Nobody would ever look at this woman and think, Oh, she’s the daughter of a duke. Of course, she might completely ruin the reputation of Madame Blanche’s. She certainly did not look attractive and she’d always heard rumors of the beauty of the girls here.

So…

She did want to go out, to see what was happening.

Another rumble—and there was that. She would never manage to rest, as hungry as she was. Perhaps she could just sneak down the back stair to the kitchen. Jasmine had told her there was one, even if she had not actually shown her. That was what she would do—and if she couldn’t find it she would come back here and try ringing again.

And besides it would be fun to see the kitchen, to see what sort of treats were demanded at night.

First, however, she would wash her face.

And then she saw it, one of Jasmine’s pearly white masks. Lifting it, she held it over the top half of her face. Now, that made all the difference. Suddenly the red lips were mysterious, the dark eyes deep and hidden beneath the mask. Nobody would ever know her—and she did fit, or at least she thought she did. Even though she’d visited Madame Blanche’s several times she had to admit that she didn’t really know what Jasmine’s girls looked like when they worked. She did hope they didn’t walk about naked—or draped in whips and chains.

With a small grin, she strode to the door and stepped into the hallway and down the stairs that led to the main part of the house. A strange thrill coursed through her.

She heard laughter, male and female, and the light buzz of conversation. It sounded like an evening soiree, not a brothel. Shouldn’t there be bawdy song or music? Groans of passion?

She came to a long hallway of doors, all firmly closed. Were these the main rooms of the house? Is this where people…? She placed a hand on one of the handles, tempted to peek in and see what it looked like. There would be a bed, but what else? Jasmine had hinted at more, but Cynthia wasn’t sure she believed her. What more could there really be?

What if someone was in there already? Now, that would be embarrassing. What would she do if she caught somebody in the middle of…And what would they think of her? Would they think she was one of the girls? Would they want her to join? If the painting had shown two men, surely it would be possible with two women.

She pressed an ear to the door. There was not a peep from within. But would she hear? The hall was silent save for the laughter and chatter from downstairs. Surely not all the rooms were empty at this hour?

Her fingers tightened on the door handle, but then she pulled back. She could not risk it. There might be something very slightly titillating about the fantasy of being asked to join in—yes, she would admit that—but it would be a horror to actually be asked.

And then the decision was made.

Loud footsteps, definitely boots, sounded on the stairs, coming up the stairs.

All her confidence that she would not be recognized fled and in a single motion she pressed down on the handle and stepped in.

The room was almost dark and from what she could see not that different than any other bedchamber she had ever been in. A single candle burned on a high mantel, filling the room with shadows.

Before she could let out a sigh of relief, a voice sounded from the far side of the room. “You’re new, aren’t you? I was beginning to think Madame Blanche had forgotten me. I assume that she’s instructed you on what I require. My tastes are very simple. If you’ll just take off your dress and lie down on the bed, I will do the rest. And take off that horrid mask. I may not want to know who you are, don’t need your name, but I don’t wish to fuck a doll. I come here for the small bit of human contact I do desire.”

She froze. What? He did think she was one of the girls. There was no mistaking that—and he expected her to…No. That was impossible, but her whole body seemed frozen. The worst of it was she knew exactly who he was, the Duke of Starton. He’d come home with her father on several occasions and that deep, somber voice was unmistakable.

Without thought she stepped back, opened the door, and fled into the hallway.

“Oh, do that again, Percy. I do love it when you bite my neck. I am tempted to drop to my knees right here,” a female voice giggled.

Cynthia flattened herself back against the door.

Another giggle.

Why didn’t they just go into a room?

“Really, Percy, I want to do it right here.”

A male voice. “What if somebody sees us?”

“The very thought makes me excited. I am so wet, I may come all on my own if you don’t…”

Well, Cynthia certainly didn’t want to see—and there was no way she was going back into the room she’d just come out of. Wishing she could shut her ears to the moans that were echoing down the hall—had she really been thinking the place needed such sounds? Definitely not.

She reached another door and slipped in, holding her breath as she prayed for this one to be empty.

There was no light at all, not a single candle or lit fire. The air left her body and she sagged against the wall in the dark. Her lips quirked in self-deprecating humor. So much for her earlier bravado. The very thought of being caught, or for that matter catching someone else, was clearly far beyond her sensibilities.

Feeling her way, she crossed the room, wanting to be as far as possible from the door. Her knees rammed into something. A settee or chaise? It was hard to be sure without proper light. Whatever it was, she could sit while she decided on the best course of action. The problem with the soundproof doors was that she couldn’t hear out either. For all she knew the woman and Percy were leaning against this very door doing whatever it was they were doing.

On her knees?

The words had not fully penetrated before. She could only speculate on exactly what they meant, but her gut told her she was right. Her mind filled with the image of James kneeling before her, of his lips on her thigh, moving ever higher. Her inner muscles clenched as she remembered how it had felt, how her body had clenched with need as his lips moved up her leg. Would he feel the same if she did it to him?

She shouldn’t be thinking this way. Her body was heating and she could feel the need begin to rise. And given that she never wanted to see James again in her life, that was hopeless and would only lead to frustration.

What would his skin taste like? She was sure there’d be salt and musk and cinnamon. She wasn’t sure why the cinnamon, perhaps something in his smell?

No. No. No.

That was not what she needed to think about.

She pulled her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her. Wrapping her arms about her legs, she let her head fall forward.

The dark enveloped her. She couldn’t stay here for long. Every second she was here increased the chance that somebody would come in and then what would she do? Hide under the chaise?

It had worked on her visit to Madame Blanche’s. James had not seen her and she’d gotten a good look at his…Well, on that occasion it had only been his profile, but now her mind was actively filling in all the more enticing bits.

No. No. No.

She stood. Staying here served no purpose.

Sliding her feet over the smooth boards of the floor, arms out in front of her, she made her way back to the door.

It took several deep breaths and moments with her ears pressed tight against the door, trying to hear, before she found the courage to ease it open.

Again she held her breath as she slipped out, mentally crossing her fingers and toes, praying that her luck would hold.

It did not.

She found herself face-first in a male chest—and not the one she had come to know so well. There was no smell of cinnamon here.

She stepped back, startled.

The gentlemen stared at her, lips thinning. “You need to be more careful, girl.”

“I am sorry,” she whispered, glad that the mask still hid her features.

“I thought Ruby let things grow too lax, but Madame Blanche doesn’t even seem to know there should be rules. I cannot believe that Ruby refused to sell to me. I would have been a much better proprietor, much stricter.”

Cynthia nodded.

“And I would not have allowed any of this foolishness.” He reached out and in a single movement jerked the mask from her face, baring her features.

All she could do was stare back at him, her mind blank.

“Who are you?” the man demanded as his gaze raked her features. “There is something familiar…” His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. “I know you.”

“No, I am sure you don’t,” she squeaked. Even without the mask surely he couldn’t recognize her beneath the powder and kohl. She didn’t look at all like herself. And although she had to admit that he was vaguely familiar, that was all. An ache in the pit of her stomach warned her they must have been introduced at some point.

He reached out and his fingers bit into her arms. “You’re one of the actual young ladies that Ruby and now Madame Blanche have been foolish enough to allow here. I don’t know why they don’t stop this nonsense. This is no place for a lady. And don’t bother to deny it, the very tone of your voice spoke of who you are. I think I’ll just bring you downstairs. Somebody will know exactly who you are and then we can return you to your husband or family.” He stopped, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. “Or did he bring you here, your husband. I daresay that is another of Madame Blanche’s games. It must be stopped.”

Cynthia bit down on her lip, afraid that saying anything further would reveal even more of her identity. How could her few words have betrayed her? It had never occurred to her that her voice might give her away. She certainly knew that ladies spoke differently than their maids, and that maids spoke differently than shopkeepers, and that…Oh, it didn’t matter. She had to get away.

The man—and suddenly she knew who he was—tried to pull her forward, to pull her toward the end of the hall and the stairs that must lead down to the entrance.

Lord Thorton. Cynthia had been introduced to him after she had first come out and she’d seen him several times since. He was the man Jasmine had talked about that first day she had come here, the man who had made threats because Madame Blanche had not sold the house to him. Jasmine had pretended unconcern, but Cynthia had sensed her fear.

She struggled to stay put. It was impossible to say whether anybody below would know who she was, but that was one risk she could not take. If she were discovered here, even marriage to James would not save her from ruin. She could not do that to her father. She could not do that to herself.

She began to struggle.

Lord Thorton did not seem to notice her struggle. He kept pulling her toward the stairs.

She dug her heels in. No luck.

Screaming would only bring people and that was the last thing that she needed. If she could just get away then surely she could find someplace to hide. The man in the first bedroom hadn’t actually been frightening. Perhaps he would protect her. Or she could hide beneath the settee…Or…

But first she had to get away.

Blast it all. If she could fight James she could handle this much smaller man.

Pulling back her free hand, she swung with all she had, feeling a crunch as she connected with his nose

He stopped, his fingers loosening.

She pulled back one more time, and this time came free. A quick kick in the shin, to leave him hobbling, and she darted back down the hall. She would have liked to kick him a little higher, but didn’t have time.

Escape was the only thing that mattered.

It was only a second before she heard him behind her.

She turned the corner. There was a lock on the door to Jasmine’s room; she could hide there if nowhere else.

And then the angels finally smiled. A maid stepped out of the wall, her arms piled high with linens. Cynthia darted behind her, holding a finger to her lips. The girl looked startled but nodded.

The wall closed behind her, a servants’ corridor, dark and narrow. A couple of brackets held low wicked lamps and she hurried farther on. Voices echoed behind her, but the wall did not open again.

However, was she safe?

It occurred to her suddenly that she had no idea where she was going and that even if she could figure out how to open doors into other locations she had no idea where they would be. She’d never been in a servants’ hidden hallway before. She knew that many great houses had them and that they often opened right into bedrooms so that servants could discreetly enter and leave. She rather thought the Duke of Scarlett’s house had them, seemed to remember Jasmine mentioning one that led into her mother’s bedchamber. But what about here? Would they enter into guest chambers? Was she right back where she had begun—only without her mask?

Lifting a hand, she touched her bare cheek. Lord Thorton must still have it. Would he know it was Jasmine’s? He probably would. Who else wore white satin with touches of crystals? It didn’t seem like something you would wear simply for disguise. It was definitely a costume.

That probably didn’t matter, however. Jasmine wouldn’t mind and an excuse could always be made for how somebody else might have picked it up.

What mattered now was that Cynthia had no disguise, and clearly the cosmetics only went so far.

And she was stuck in this narrow, dim hallway, with no way to get out.

Leaning against the wall, she let her head sag, clarity taking her. For days she had fooled herself about her choices, about what she risked. When Lord Thorton had tried to pull her downstairs, suddenly she had understood all. Jasmine had been right. She was not ready to be shamed and shunned, to be an outcast.

She swallowed hard.

It had been so easy to say no to James, to pretend she knew what she faced, but she had never truly thought it could happen. Now she knew differently.

And James? He might be far from perfect, but surely he was better than what would have awaited her if she had been dragged down those stairs. The life that he offered might not be perfect, but if she was honest with herself, it was far from bad.

Or was she still lying to herself? Did she want James no matter what? She’d felt more comfortable with him in their few days together than she’d ever felt before. With him she felt able to reveal her true self—and who else would laugh with her after a mud fight?

If only he’d expressed the same desire. Although, desire was the wrong word. The man had definitely expressed desire, it was emotion she wanted, emotion and caring.

Well, she might want more, feel that she needed more, but she knew that if she could have run into his arms in that instant, she would have.

A week ago her life had been so simple, and now—just because she had wanted to help a friend—everything seemed upside down and dangerous. If only she could curl up in a little ball under the covers and not come out for a year.

She did allow herself to slide down the wall until she was sitting on her heels, allowed herself one more minute to wallow in pity. Then she raised her head. This angle actually allowed her to see more detail, as the low lantern light cast shadows. She could see where the catches were—and the doors must definitely enter into at least some of the rooms. There were far too many catches for them to just release panels into the hallways. And what were those squares? It looked almost like somebody had placed thin blocks of wood every ten feet or so along the entire length of the wall, right at eye level. There were about twice or three times as many squares as there were latches.

It was very strange.

Pushing herself back up the wall, she stood and went to the first square. She placed a single finger upon it. It moved, swinging slightly as if on a pivot.

Curious.

She pushed with more force. It swung up and to the side, revealing a small hole, light shining through.

What?

A peephole—the term came to mind, although she could not remember where she’d heard it. Perhaps Jasmine had used it when discussing the servants’ hallways. There must have been some way for them to be sure they were not intruding.

Pressing her eye to the hole, she peered through.

Occupied. Pulled back.

And pressed forward again, unable to help herself.

Was he really about to? He was? Was that what James had been talking about? What she had seen in the picture? It must be. It looked so uncomfortable, although the woman didn’t seem to find it so. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying it, urging him on, rising on her knees to push herself more tightly against him.

Cynthia pulled back, letting the square swing closed, images of the couple still flashing before her eyes.

Would James want to? And would she let him?

No. No. No.

She was not going to think about him. She’d already thought about him far too much.

Her thighs quivered though, her body having its own ideas about what thoughts should be going through her head.

Determined not to give in, she eased down the hall to the next square.

Did she dare? She placed a finger upon it. Did she have a choice?

With some trepidation she pushed it to the side. Only the faintest trace of light shone through. If the hallway had not been so dimly lit she would not have thought there was any light. They probably left it lit just enough for the maids to come in to straighten the rooms.

An easy breath filled her lungs. Empty. This room was safe.

To be sure, she put her eye to the peephole—and stopped.

The floor was a tangle of bodies.

A real tangle.

There were far more than four feet. She could see at least—at least seven.

Was that even possible? And there were at least five…

Straightening, she let the square close.

Why would anybody…? And several sets of those legs had been quite masculine.

For a moment she could feel only disbelief. She’d known she was innocent, but this was unbelievable.

Only it wasn’t. It took a scarce moment for her mind to adjust. Although she didn’t think she’d heard of such a thing, even in rumor, it did make a strange sort of sense. She’d known plenty of boys—and men—who always wanted more toys. The number of men still didn’t quite work, but then maybe they were good at sharing.

And didn’t that raise some bizarre images.

She moved on to the next square and pushed it before she could think too hard. She could not stop now.

This room was brightly lit—and empty, from what she could see. It was, however, filled with strange wooden frames and whips. And what was that? It looked far too much like the steel trap her father’s game warden set to catch wolves on the far northern estates. She’d thought them barbaric then, and this—whatever it was—did not look any less so.

The flat swung shut. She was not going into that room unless there was no choice.

It might not be a smart decision, but it was the only one she could make.

The next square.

No, definitely not.

The next.

This room was again dim. She peered in. No sign of life—and nothing frightening. A simple bedroom, admittedly one with far too many closed bureaus and silk scarves hanging from the posts of the bed, but she could manage that.

Only there was no entrance.

Drat. She should have thought to check and only looked in rooms that granted access.

Moving on to the next square, she pushed it aside.

Again, light. It looked empty. A large pile of brightly colored pillows and a low, wide table were in the middle of the room. There was nothing else that she could see. Holding her breath, she pushed on the latch, the door slid open soundlessly. She stepped forward.

Nothing save the lingering scent of Oriental musk.

She released a deep breath and looked about. It was more sumptuous than it had looked from without. The pillows all lush satin of brilliant colors and interesting patterns. An ornate brass candlestick stood on the table. The rest of the room was simple, although hung with billowing drapes. A single set of white columns stood a foot out from one wall, far more Roman than the rest of the room. There were some odd metal rings placed in the walls and floor, but the room was otherwise empty save for one inlaid chest.

Most important, it was completely unoccupied.

Hurriedly, she moved to the door and took a couple of deep breaths.

Please, please, please, let the hallway be empty. Her stomach roiled with dread at the thought of running into Lord Thorton again.

The room she’d chosen was near the far end of the servants’ hallway, so perhaps she would be in luck.

With one last breath, she opened the door and stepped out cautiously, prepared to duck back in.

Nothing.

There were some sounds drifting from down the hall—and perhaps down the stairs. Laughter and perhaps raised voices, but it was hard to be sure. She turned in the other direction.

At first she thought the hall a dead end, but after a moment she spotted a small wooden door, discreetly placed in one corner. This time she didn’t hesitate. It was the type of servants’ door she knew well. Stepping through, she hurried down the steps—and finally let her nose lead her to the kitchen and a bowl of hearty stew.