Private Research: An Erotic Novella (14 page)

“Wow, don’t hold back or anything.”

“I’m exaggerating for effect, Mina,” he said with a laugh. “The point is that many jobs don’t actually create anything fundamentally necessary. We happen to be lucky enough to spend our time intellectually masturbating, so why shouldn’t we embrace it?”

He had a point, even if I was certain I could poke holes in his case if I thought more deeply about it. Regardless, he’d successfully distracted me from a potential funk. Overall, for the dissertation as a whole, today had been a success. The letters added depth to understanding Anne Gracechurch and her milieu. Helped contextualize her seeming obsession with romantic stories, with heroes who were everyday men, not men with £10,000 a year.

I slanted a glance at Sebastian. Not quite a Darcy, but certainly not an everyday man.

And not my hero either.

Chapter Eleven

T
HE NEXT DAYS
were an idyll. We didn’t talk about the fight we’d had, or about the silent reconciliation. We simply enjoyed each other. And we worked well together. The trips to Stanton Hall and to Bedfordshire had proven that.

Even more, I didn’t want to be sad, or stressed, or worried about my nonexistent relationship. Much better to take it for what it was: hot sex and enjoyable companionship.

He didn’t push me to reveal more of myself, and I didn’t push him. Yet, somehow, day by day, I did come to understand him, to recognize his moods and his desires.

Research progressed at a faster pace than it had in the spring, and I was grateful that I’d been able to stay these extra months. I reanalyzed Anne’s writing in context of the new information I’d gleaned about her life and found that the rough draft of my planned six-chapter dissertation seemed to spill from my fingers. Perhaps I didn’t have the James Mead connection yet, but still—whereas last fall I was facing the possibility of having to extend to a sixth year, now I was nearly ahead of the game.

And one week after the trip to Bedfordshire, I made major progress on the Harridan House project as well. I’d managed to narrow down the disparate entries between the two estate books to six, one of which was a payment to Venus & Satyr Art Brokerage, which, with a name like that, was either truly a firm that sold art or a front for Harridan House. Or perhaps both. I wanted to return to Stanton Hall to see how far back that company was mentioned and if there were other receipts. Then I stumbled upon
The Memoirs of the Incomparable Penny Partridge.

“I found her!” I crowed, slapping the photocopied version of my latest reading down on the coffee table. It was late morning on a Saturday, and I’d been lounging on the sofa reading a photocopy of a rare book I’d stumbled over partly out of my interest in the nineteenth century and partly because a memoir by a London courtesan of the era seemed like it might mention
something
about a secretive sex club.

Sebastian stopped typing. Looked over at me from the kitchen table.

“Jenny Smollett.”

“Who?”

“That’s the name of our Madame Rouge. Or rather, of the first
named
Madame Rouge. I suspect there was one before her because her age is far too young to have been around when the club first began.”

“You’re saying Madame Rouge is a position.”

“I believe so. Like the pope.”

He laughed. “I doubt that the Catholic Church would appreciate that comparison.”

“It’s only funny or vaguely appropriate because they used to call brothels nunneries.”

“That changes everything then. I’m certain the pope would approve.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So who was Jenny Smollett?”

“From what I understand based on this courtesan’s memoirs, she was a mistress who was cast out of her protector’s home for participating in an orgy at Harridan House—or rather, as Penny Partridge puts it, ‘that mysterious house of every vice imaginable.’ She never actually mentions it by name. Then she showed up again a year later as ‘the turbaned madam known as Rouge.’ ”

“But it’s never actually called Harridan House?”

“Sebastian, this is a huge break. It’s far too much of an overlap to be coincidental. If I found this sort of connection between Gracechurch and Mead, I’d be set.”

He nodded slowly. “How
did
you find this, Mina?”

“Luck.” I shrugged. “When I came across her memoirs, I just thought . . . maybe she’d mention something of interest. After all Harriette Wilson let loose lots of brilliant gems about society when she wrote her exposé of England’s most powerful men.”

He didn’t know who Harriette Wilson was, so our conversation turned into a little history lesson about the notorious Regency courtesan who’d counted the Duke of Wellington, prime ministers, and a whole slew of aristocrats and royals as her clients and then, to support herself in her old age, blackmailed those men with the threat of her memoirs. Wellington had famously said, “Publish and be damned.”

Which, she did. Although maybe not damned, since people gobbled up those memoirs like gossip rags.

“Brilliant,” Sebastian said, but I wasn’t certain if he was commenting on Wilson or on the fact that we’d made progress in understanding Harridan House.

Despite his hesitancy, I was bolder than Sebastian in my research. Not so afraid that my inquiries would somehow reflect back on his family. After all, if I didn’t mention his grandfather, there was no logical reason anyone would connect Harridan House to the viscountcy at all.

Now I had a name to research: Jenny Smollett. We still hadn’t gone to talk to his great-aunt Rose or the ninety-five-year-old childhood friend of his grandfather’s, but, because of his qualms, we were leaving that as a last resort.

I wasn’t certain what Sebastian hoped to learn, how extensive a history of the club he desired, but nonetheless, we’d made progress.

Which meant I got a much-deserved day of sightseeing. Days really. We spent the rest of the weekend going to museums and walking hand in hand in parks like the lovers we were. There was no tension, no underlying manipulative subtext on either of our parts.

I refused to think about the future or the past and instead enjoyed the beautiful, endless present.

O
N
T
UESDAY,
I
dressed in shorts and a tank top with the intention of taking my laptop with me to St. James’s Park and lying out in the sun while I worked.

As I was gathering papers to put in my backpack, my cell rang. The number was withheld.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ms. Cavallari?”

Excitement thrummed through me. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I had so many calls out to different people that this woman could be any number of people. If I had to make a guess, I’d say from the slight rasp, that she was fortysomething, or maybe fifty. I sat down on the couch and grabbed my spiral notebook and pen. Perhaps Roberta Small had turned into a dead end, but that didn’t mean every lead would.

“I’d like to meet you.”

“I’m sorry. Who did you say was calling?” I asked.

“I didn’t. Meet me at The Silver Arms, at 12:30
P.M.
today. In Camden.” The line clicked off.

I stared at my phone, the excitement lessening to a nervous indecision. Why the secrecy? No one with whom I’d left my number should have any need to require anonymity. There was no logical reason for an action that reeked of sinister intention.

It was 10
A.M.
I had no idea where the pub was, but with the Internet, directions would be easy, and I knew where Camden was. Vaguely. I’d planned to go shopping at the markets there at some point, but I hadn’t yet found the time, even though I was living only two Tube stops away.

A pub was a busy place, and lunch hour the busiest time of all. What harm could there be?

Only all the dangers that tended to befall people in novels and movies.

But it wasn’t like she’d said to come alone.

I opened my contacts list and pressed on Seb’s name. It went to voice mail.

“It’s Mina. I just got a very strange call. Call me back, okay?”

But what if he didn’t? What if I went and no one knew where I’d gone and something happened to me?

I’d phone Sebastian again on my way over and tell him exactly where I was going and why. And I wouldn’t eat anything at the pub, in case . . .

I shook my head. I’d entered full paranoia mode. This wasn’t some spy novel. I was a graduate student doing fairly innocuous research. But the whole private number, no name, quick phone call was decidedly odd. Anyone would think so.

Still. At twelve, I left the flat and walked over to the King’s Cross Station, ringing Sebastian up again.

“Mina, I just saw you called.” Relief flooded through me at the sound of his voice. I wasn’t alone.

“I’m going to a pub two blocks from the Camden Town Tube stop. The Silver Arms. This woman called me from a blocked number and said to meet her there, and she wouldn’t say her name. It’s weird, right?”

“Exceedingly. Where are you? I’ll take lunch now and meet you at the Tube.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

T
HERE WAS
A
different energy that I noticed the minute I stepped outside the Tube station at Camden. I waited on the sidewalk, watching the crowds of people go by.

I slung my arm back at the touch of hands on my hips.

“Easy.” At Sebastian’s voice, I relaxed and turned in his arms.

“I thought you were a pickpocket.”

He pulled me in close, lowering his head. “Maybe I am . . . and I’m going to steal a kiss.”

The line was sort of cheesy, but the kiss was not. I didn’t care that it was lunch hour and we were standing on a busy street with people drifting around us as if we were a rock in a river. All that mattered was the delicious heat of his mouth, the way his lips and tongue could awaken every pore of my body so easily.

“All right,” he said, breaking away. “Let’s find out who this woman is.”

The Silver Arms was a relatively quiet restaurant just off Camden High Street. The occupants were in groups of threes and fours, people stepping out from the office for a bite. No one looked mysterious or sinister. No one greeted us or passed us a clandestine note.

So we took a seat and waited. Ordered lunch and waited.

By the time Sebastian had paid the bill, and it was time for him to return to the office, it seemed clear this woman was not going to show. We left the pub and stepped back into the beautiful summer day. It was nice, at least, to have had lunch with Sebastian midweek. Unusual and different.

“Are you certain it was the right number?”

“She called me Miss Cavallari.”

“Hmm. What else did she say?”

“Almost nothing. I don’t know who she is or what she wanted to meet me about. Now I guess I’ll never know.

But later that evening, just after Sebastian returned home, the phone rang again with a withheld number. I answered it cautiously.

“Miss Cavallari, I apologize for not meeting with you this afternoon, but I had to investigate your friend, you understand.”

Investigate. What the hell had I gotten myself into here?

“Who are you?”

“I’ll answer that later. Suffice to say, you’ve been asking questions, and I’m willing to give you some answers. Tonight. In thirty minutes a car will arrive to take Mr. Graham and you to meet me. I understand this is all very secretive and rather unusual, but you shall understand the need for discretion once we meet. No harm will come to you.”

The call clicked to an end. I put my phone down in disbelief and looked up at Seb, who had stopped halfway across the room, as if he had sensed that this was another call from the mysterious woman.

“She’s sending a car to pick us up. To meet with her. So she can give me answers.”

“Us? Answers about what? Is one of Gracechurch’s descendants part of some mafia?”

I didn’t answer that. It was entirely possible for all I knew.

“So we’re going to do this, then,” he pressed. “Forgo all caution and take this ride?”

I was anxious and unsure. It did sound dangerous, even with Sebastian by my side. But at the same time . . .

“It’s just too strange to let it pass. She did say ‘no harm will come to you.’ Surely that’s something.”

He laughed. “Or the fact that she felt the need to mention it could suggest that there are times someone might have to worry.”

He was right.

“We don’t have to go.”

He was silent for a moment, studying me. Then he came close, took me in his arms. “Risk is my world, but this isn’t the sort of risk I usually take on. Still, I rather think this is something we’ll have to do.”

Thirty minutes later, we stood in front of Sebastian’s building, and a black sedan pulled up. A man in a black suit stepped out from the backseat and looked at us.

“Miss Cavallari? Mr. Graham?”

At our affirmative nods, he gestured to the backseat. On trembling legs, I approached the car and ducked my head to enter.

A long cardboard box rested on the leather, and I moved it as I slid into the car. The front seat was separated from the back by a smoky glass mirror. Sebastian followed me a moment later. Then the other man slid into the car.

“Inside the box, you will find two blindfolds. Put them on.”

I glanced at Seb, who shrugged, and I opened the box. Inside were two long strips of blue silk. And at the edge, embroidered in gold, the letters HH.

I looked back at Sebastian again. He’d lost his cautious calm, his mouth hanging open in astonishment. Our gazes met.

“Seb,” I said, lifting one length of silk with reverence even as I voiced what we were both thinking. “It still exists.”

Chapter Twelve

I
WAS ACUTELY
aware of every sound. Of my footsteps on a marble floor. Of the sound of laughter or some sort of party in the distance, the tinkling of glasses, the symphony of male and female voices, muted.

The faint creak of a door opening, accompanied by the breeze made by its passage, and then plush carpet beneath my feet. I struggled not to stumble in my heels on the suddenly softer surface.

I felt knuckles scrape along the back of my head, and then the blindfold was gone. The atmospheric yellow light of the wall sconces was near blinding after the total darkness, and I blinked to adjust.

I looked to my left and saw Sebastian, intent and focused on our surroundings. I wanted to reach for his hand, but that was childish. I felt like Alice through the looking glass, in a world that was both absurd and sinister. One that had heard me whisper its name in libraries, archives, and museums, in conversations with historians. And someone with whom I had conversed, who had expressed no knowledge of this secret world, had passed my name on. Who?

The small room was hard and lush at the same time, with thick carpet over dark hardwood and red wall hangings.

A woman stepped in front of us, a mocking little smile on her face, and she gestured to the room in general.

“Welcome to Harridan House.”

Despite that raspy voice that had made me think she was close to fifty, she appeared a decade or so younger. She sported sleek red hair caught up in a French twist. A leather half mask of the sort one might see in Venice during Carnivale obscured her face.

In her hand were another two strips of black silk. She handed one to each of us.

“I am Rouge.”

Rouge. Like
Madame Rouge.
Now that was interesting. “There are rules here at Harridan House, and as guests, you must obey those and more. These masks are to protect your identity. Some members forgo masks entirely, and some prefer more substantive ones.” She gestured to her own face. “Or even full masks that obscure the shape of the mouth. Secrecy and discretion are paramount even if you do recognize someone despite his/her disguise. We do not discuss the club outside its walls.”

“Do we sign a nondisclosure agreement or something like that?” I asked. My voice was a shock even to me in the decadence of this little room.

She laughed. “Utterly unnecessary. If you talked about it, the damage would already be done. Suing you would be of no purpose.”

I glanced at Sebastian out of the corner of my eye. His entire body was tense although he was doing a wonderful job of pretending to look nonchalant about the undertones of what Rouge was saying.

“I see you both understand.” Her gaze flitted back and forth between the two of us, and then she nodded with a smirk before continuing. “As I said, secrecy and discretion are paramount. Anything you do here at Harridan House will remain in confidence. However, guests are not allowed to participate in any exchange of body fluids, or to engage in intercourse, even with rubbers. Members and employees must undergo monthly exams to ensure that they pass all health requirements. Naturally, nothing is foolproof. If you choose to join after tonight, you will have only guest privileges until you pass your first physical.”

I listened to this recitation with both awe and trepidation. Tonight would likely be the only night I ever visited Harridan House and I was absolutely fascinated. I’d taken one anthropology course as an undergrad, and I knew some anthro PhD would kill for the chance to study a subculture such as this one, completely shrouded in secrecy.

“The dress code. Most members choose to wear the black cloak only, allowing for freer physical access. Some prefer to wear evening gowns and black tie. No casual clothing is allowed.” Her gaze swept down our bodies. Sebastian was in his work suit, and I was in a casual summer dress, nothing remotely black tie. “When we have finished our discussion, I will lead you to the changing rooms. Do you have any questions?”

Any
? I had dozens of questions.

“How did you become Madame Rouge?”

I glanced over at Sebastian, somewhat surprised though I shouldn’t have been. He knew everything I did about the history of Harridan House, which wasn’t all that much. And we definitely didn’t know its story since 1944.

Rouge was silent for a moment.

“You realize, of course, Mr. Graham, that we conducted an extensive investigation into your background, as we do with all prospective members. You, as well, Miss Cavallari.”

“Under normal circumstances, Mr. Graham, you would not have come to our attention until . . . perhaps . . . you’d made greater strides in your career. But we’ve confirmed that your grandfather was in fact a member of the club in its prior incarnation. And we confirmed from a number of your ex-girlfriends, or perhaps I should say ex-lovers, that you are indeed the sort of man who would contribute to the greater pleasure.”

Rouge’s gaze swung to me. “You, Miss Cavallari, would never have come to our attention.”

I flushed. How much had she actually been able to dig up on me? Which one-night stands and random hookups had she managed to track down?

“Our?” Sebastian prodded, even though she hadn’t answered his last question and, I suspected, she had no intention of revealing any information other than what she initiated.

“The club,” she said, which was a vague enough answer as to say nothing. “Now, time for your tour.”

D
ESPITE THE HEAVY
black cloak that warded off any possible chill, I was acutely aware of my nakedness. And likely that was why Rouge had insisted we dress this way for our tour. I overlapped the edges and clutched the fabric tightly closed as I stepped out into the hall. Sebastian was already waiting for me in the empty hall, and I giggled at the sight of him in his cloak and mask. How was this sexy?

His lips quirked up, but he didn’t laugh. “It’s rather unfair that you find me ridiculous, and I find you impossibly sexy.” He stepped forward, reaching for me. “Maybe that’s because I know what’s beneath this shroud.” He pushed my hands away and slipped his own between the folds. It didn’t matter that anyone could walk in, that likely Rouge would any moment. His hands on my bare hips encompassed my entire world, and I swayed toward him.

“We’re here, Mina,” he rasped against my cheek. “We’ve found it. And I would like nothing better than to fuck you here right now.”

“That will have to wait.” Rouge’s voice cut through our little world, and I stepped away from Sebastian, swiftly pulling my cloak together.

“Does the prohibition against intercourse apply to us?” Sebastian demanded, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Rouge cocked her head to the side thoughtfully. “I don’t have all night to chaperone you. Follow me.” She turned and headed down the hallway.

Again, no direct answer to our questions. But we followed anyway. After all, this was why we were here.

We passed through a warren of hallways, and every so often, the hint of voices, laughter, suggestive moans, would waft through the air toward us. There were no windows anywhere, and I was beginning to get the sense that we were literally underground.

It was a weekday, yet there were all these people in nooks and crannies, satisfying their basest desires. We stopped at an open door and peered inside. I inhaled sharply at the starkness of the activity within. A woman, nude, lay bent over a rounded, padded bar, like the kind I’d seen used at the gym for lower-back strengthening, her large breasts squashed against the vinyl. Behind her was a man, equally nude, strikingly muscular, hand gripping her hips as he fucked her. The slick, wet sound of their coupling and the scent of their efforts and desire were overwhelming.

Were they strangers? The thought disgusted me at the same time that heat grew heavy between my legs. Not that I should judge, considering my past history. But then . . . I judged myself as well.

The next room we passed by had a different configuration—two men and a woman—and it was the first time I’d ever seen anal sex outside of erotica. Even the porn movie I’d seen hadn’t had anything like that.

Seeing that much real sex happening in front of me was shocking. Strange. There was both an immense power and a terrible vulnerability to all these naked bodies. Beautiful and horrifying and arousing all at once.

I wanted to hold Sebastian’s hand, but we passed through the club on our separate journeys. I had no idea if he saw our surroundings with a critic’s eye or if it was everything he had ever imagined it to be.

“This is the lounge,” Rouge said as we stepped into a larger space with a checkered marble floor.

There was a bar and tables, and a handful of people were eating and drinking, chatting as if this were any other club.

How did a place like this exist and avoid the attention of the government, of regulations? Or maybe it was known. Maybe among a certain set, Harridan House was an open secret. Maybe bribes were made and eyes averted, or whoever was in charge of licensing was as into swinging and orgies as the rest of the club members.

I didn’t know, and Rouge was not exactly a fount of information. I was beginning to realize that she—and her secret partners—had decided it was safer having us more knowledgeable and managed by the threat of death than researching on our own, free to publish and publicize. Not that that had ever been the plan.

Maybe thirty people filled the room, and this just on a Tuesday night. How filled would it be come the weekend?

And who were these people?

“This is the playroom,” Rouge announced, when we stopped at the threshold of another cavernous room. It looked like what I’d always imagined a BDSM dungeon to look like, filled with toys and contraptions that might also be found in a sixteenth-century torture chamber. Although perhaps a little more hygienic and vinyl-covered than splintered wood and rusted spokes. The room was currently empty.

“Popular space,” I commented, hoping to draw
something
out of our hostess.

“Everyone has their kink,” she said simply. “This isn’t yours.”

I wasn’t certain how she gathered that from my small comment, but I was pretty certain she was right. Despite the little showdown Seb and I had had a few weeks earlier in which he’d claimed I was a secret submissive, pain and serious bondage weren’t exactly high on my list. Or even on the list at all.

We passed by another closed door with the unmistakable sounds of sex emanating from within. I was starting to understand the unspoken codes: closed door meant privacy requested, open door meant feel free to watch. We stepped into the next open room, which was empty. But Rouge walked over to the wall and pulled the draperies aside, revealing a window into the closed room next door.

And suddenly I was watching one man give another man a blow job.

“I thought the closed door meant privacy,” I choked out, my gaze never leaving the exhibition before me.

“It means do not disturb, do not join,” Rouge corrected. “But there is always a way to watch, and that is understood.”

Do not join.
I imagined that, walking into a room where two people were already having sex and simply adding my body to the mix. How did anyone know if they were really welcome or desired? Or did that matter here? Was every body interchangeable?

I glanced over at Sebastian. He, too, was watching the men. I wondered if it turned him on.

Rouge drew the curtain shut. She shot me an amused glance as she passed me on the way out of the room. “That isn’t his.”

I blinked, then followed her, Sebastian a step behind. His hand brushed against me, pushing the voluminous folds of cloth against my backside. I looked back at him and shivered at the intensity of his gaze. This tour, combined with that look in his eyes, was possibly the most torturous foreplay in the world.

Another open door and inside a bed with three occupants. In my head I heard the documentary announcer:
And here we see another common phenomenon amongst these underground mammals. Watch the female cohabit with two males, an evolutionary adaptation as a result of lack of resources.

I snickered at my thoughts, and Rouge sent me a seething glare. Right.

But it was just too much. I was getting overwhelmed with all the different permutations and combinations. I wanted to go back to Sebastian’s flat and feel him inside me with plain old one-on-one sex. Somehow Harridan House had been more erotic as a mystery set in the past, created solely in my imagination.

The rest of the tour passed by in a blur of naked, thrusting bodies. I noticed the glass bowls of assorted condoms strategically placed throughout, as well as bottles of lube and clean, folded towels, like this was a spa.

Of course, there was an actual spa as well, shower rooms, a sauna, hot tub.

The tour wound up back at the changing rooms where we had first shed our clothes in favor of the cloaks.

“Change,” Rouge commanded, “and I’ll see you back in the office.”

She left us in front of our respective dressing rooms. I opened the door and was startled when Sebastian pushed me forward, his body crowding mine as he shut the door behind him. I turned to face him, every fiber of my body awake to his desire. We’d both been on edge as we’d watched the panoply of erotic scenes.

“I’ve been sporting a painful hard-on all night,” Sebastian said, holding up a little foil square that he’d clearly lifted from one of the many convenient, expensive crystal bowls, and ripped it open. I watched him push his cloak to the side, revealing his pale, nude body and clear arousal. He slid the condom down his length and then reached for me, under my cloak, grabbing my backside and pulling me close. “And conveniently . . .”

He lifted me, and my legs slipped around his hips, pushing the voluminous fabric of his cloak aside. My sex nestled against him, and with that contact, I could feel how damp I was. Then he hoisted me up a bit more and brought me back down as he thrust up.

I cried out at the sudden, piercing pleasure of it, even as he pushed me against the wall of the changing room. How many others had stood here in this same way, unable to hold back? Sebastian’s groan pulled me back from clear thought, and I slid my hands down his arms, reveling in his lean strength.