In the middle of the book, she would find Rodesson’s famed picture of a gentleman reviewing his ‘harem’ of willing wantons at a Jermyn Street brothel. That gentleman, the Earl of Trent, was shown in aroused glory…
All she had to do was look.
All she had to do was open the book and satisfy her…curiosity.
No, that was…improper. Invasive. Rude. Unforgivable. But she could just peek. After all, the earl had performed in public. It was his own fault he had ended up in a book—
Really, one peek could hardly hurt.
She flicked past two courtesans entwined like the numbers six and nine to find
The Jermyn Street Harem
.
Trent was shown reclining on silken pillows, dressed in a dark blue robe, covered but for his spectacular…cock which curved upward into the air. Dozens of women stood before him, displaying their breasts and quims. His lordship appeared as jaded as always as he selected one for his entertainment.
Throat dry, Venetia studied the picture. Trembling, she traced his length with her finger.
This was so very…wrong. To touch…him. This way. But she couldn’t resist.
Was he exaggerated in the work? She doubted it. He’d felt enormous, impossibly so, when pushing against her backside.
His…cock looked so rampant. Thick at the base, it curved toward his lean stomach like a sickle and was crowned with a large, dusky head. It was clearly the centerpiece of the picture, rendered in great detail—even to the veins on its shaft.
She found her fingers stroking between her thighs. The way she did, without conscious thought, while she drew.
Women were not supposed to touch themselves there. Even bathing was to be done with a cloth and with haste. But if she didn’t touch herself, she’d die from the pain.
Rubbing in a slow, sensual spiral, she remembered his words.
“Do you touch yourself like this, sweeting? Do you paint your quim with your brush until you are creamy and wet?”
She lifted her brush from the water goblet, stroked it against the rim to smooth the bristles and squeeze the water out.
Do you prefer two cocks at your command, or another woman’s juicy cunny?
She thought of him watching her, amused, intrigued, with his hand on his large cock…
She wanted him so, this man she couldn’t have. He was an earl—one who frequented the wildest brothels, lavished fortunes on the most desirable mistresses—but in her fantasies, she could have him. He would be hers.
Yanking up her skirts, she listened. Her door was behind her, closed. From beyond it, nothing but quiet. Feeling illicit, she parted her thighs on her chair and touched the wet brush to her nether lips. She drew a line of water to the apex and dabbed there, teasing herself with the cool wet against her heat. The sable bristles, soft but slightly stiffened by use and washings, rasped her clitoris.
She could just imagine the look of approval on Trent’s handsome face…
Sliding the brush down, she held it tight to her bud and rubbed herself against it. Wanton. Wild. Not longer caring about a delicate performance…
Yes, yes, he was right. She
was
wet and sticky. Heat and honey.
Oh, yes. Oh!
She had to hold the edge of the desk as the climax roared through her. She shook with it, rocking the chair on the plank floor. Her fingers dug into the blotter; she dropped the brush to the floor.
She gave a weak, giddy giggle as she imagined Trent applauding—
She gasped at the quick rap on the door.
Mrs. Cobb. The doorknob rattled. Twisting in her seat, she saw it begin to turn. She’d forgotten to lock it!
The book fell into the drawer with a bang just as her housekeeper pushed open the door and peeped through the opening. Facing forward, Venetia prayed Mrs. Cobb didn’t notice her hiked up skirts, prayed that her racing heart didn’t explode.
“This came in the post, mum.”
Fluffing out her skirts as casually as she could, Venetia felt the hem swish over her ankles. She dropped a cloth over her painting in progress—it didn’t matter if it smeared.
She knew her face must be beet-red but she had no choice but to walk over on shaky legs and take the letter. As she took it, she gagged.
“Pooh, scent! It stinks of the stuff.” She sneezed. Her eyes watered. She stretched her arm out straight to keep the offensive thing away. Eyed it warily. Who would send a letter drenched in perfume? The return address was Compton Street, on the fringes of Mayfair. Instinct warned that this wasn’t the sort of letter she could allow anyone else to see.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.” She began to swing the door shut.
“Is it trouble, mum?”
“No.” She closed the door firmly. Guilt stabbed. Mrs. Cobb might like gossip, but she was truly concerned.
Venetia strode back to her desk and tore open the envelope with the end of her paintbrush.
Her gaze riveted to one word in fussy, lavish handwriting.
Rodesson
.
Scanning the words…
your father revealed…can no longer paint…his talented daughter…
Her stomach tightened. Nausea roiled in her belly. She reached the last line.
One thousand pounds to preserve your secret
.
And the loopy, flowing signature, almost impossible to decipher.
Lydia Harcourt
.
“Lyd, what the bloody hell are you about?”
With three silk gowns draped over her arm, Lydia gasped in shock. A gown slid from her grasp to pool on the floor. The voice came from behind her, from the doorway of her bedchamber. A voice she hadn’t heard for years…
She trod on the skirts as she turned, to see Tom lounging in the doorway, dressed like a dapper dandy. She gulped. The second to last time she had seen her half-brother he had been wearing his butcher’s apron and it had been splattered with fresh, bright red blood. The last time he’d demanded money…
She was suddenly conscious she wore only a corset and a shift and her large brown nipples were obvious beneath the flimsy lawn.
“Haven’t you a good word for yer own flesh and blood, Lyd? After so many long years?”
“I thought you were in Italy.”
“Missed the home shores, lass. And missed me family.”
Run out of blunt, no doubt. Though most men fled to Italy because they could live in decadence there without money.
“I’ve nothing.” She laid the dresses on her bed, as smoothly as she could. Her traveling trunk was already half-filled. “I can’t spot you a thing this time.”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, I could pawn the contents of your drawing room and buy a villa fit for a king.”
And where did that leave her? “The house was rented furnished, Tom.” And she had a mere month to vacate it.
“I’ve been in London for a while. And the tables have been bloody fickle—”
“I won’t give you money for gambling.”
“I’m worried about you. Blackmail’s a rum business, Lyd. A bloody dangerous one.”
She jerked up. Her peach satin snagged on the trunk hinge and tore. How did he know?
“I was playing whist at The Sin Room and overheard the very foxed Duke of Montberry.”
Montberry! Oh, how annoying that man was. She’d thought he would at least use some discretion. That was the problem with dealing with aging men. Montberry might have been a military genius but in the years since Waterloo he was quickly losing his wits. What a fool to get drunk at Mother Maggie’s horrid brothel and spill secrets.
Tom grinned. He was a strikingly handsome man. Why hadn’t he found himself a post pandering to an Italian countess and left her alone? But she owed him her very life and she couldn’t deny him what he wanted.
“I’ve looked after myself my entire life, Tom. I’ve nothing to fear.” Nothing to fear but age. She was almost forty. It had been so easy when she’d been young—eighteen. Lord Craven had believed she was fifteen. Of course she hadn’t been a virgin, but she’d put on the act for Craven. A sponge, a bit of blood, some sobbing and tears.
And what other choice did she have? What future was there for an aging woman with no means?
“Ye could come with me back to Italy, Lyd. Venice is a beautiful, decadent city.”
Italy. So far away from England. She needed to escape London. The carriage this afternoon as she’d walked to Hyde Park…it had been a near miss. And last night, the man in the shadows…the footpad. He’d grabbed her arm, a knife had glinted, he’d swiped, but then he’d ran. She’d been in the company of Lord Brude, thinking herself safe…
Since mailing her last letters, the ones to R, S, and T, she’d been beset by accidents…
Accidents. No reason to think they weren’t. Other than the fact she’d now made enemies. Powerful enemies…
Blast men! All she’d wanted was her due for all her years of servitude. A little protection for her retirement. And instead of paying a few thousand pounds—a mere trifle to these men—they’d rather do her harm…
Italy. She could flee to Italy. Buy a villa. Buy a handsome Italian or two…
No, she couldn’t escape to Italy with Tom. Not now. Not yet. She doubted she’d make it to the coast alive. She had to go to Chartrand’s orgy first. He would be there. As would Brude, Wembly, and Montberry…
Tom stretched out on the side of her bed, watching her with his head-of-the-family arrogance, his booted feet dirtying her expensive ivory counterpane.
“How much do you want?” Lydia asked on a sigh.
“Madam is not in.”
The breeze tugged at the hood of Venetia’s cloak. She caught hold of it to keep it in place, shadowing her face. Not in? She must speak to Lydia Harcourt. She stuck her foot on the threshold so the door could not be shut. “When will she return?” she demanded.
“Not today.” The housekeeper frowned at her foot.
“Then when?” Her father was now lying in sickbed. She needed to reassure him that Lydia Harcourt was taken care of. What if he had another attack of his heart from the worry?
Beneath her clean, starched cap, the servant’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot say.”
“Mrs. Harcourt sent me a letter requesting my prompt response.” Venetia tried to infuse haughtiness in her words but, standing on the steps at an unfashionable hour with her cloak’s hood pulled low to hide her face, she knew the servant wouldn’t find her intimidating. The servant would know she had secrets to hide.
“Madam has left for a stay in the country. She will not return before a week hence.”
An Incognita leaving London at the beginning of the Season? “Where has she gone?”
“A house party.” Raw greed gleamed in the housekeeper’s dark eyes. “Now, madam, if you have a package or a letter ye wish to leave for my mistress—”
And have her pluck a few notes from the stack that Lydia Harcourt expected to receive? Or perhaps take the lot and run off? She wasn’t that naïve.
She bit her lip. The physician had assured her Rodesson would recover. But he had looked so frail last night…and anxiety over this wouldn’t help. “I would prefer to deliver my…gift to Mrs. Harcourt directly,” she said. “Where is she staying?”
“I’ve been instructed not to say. Ye’ll have to come back when she’s returned.”
The housekeeper pushed hard on the door. Venetia admitted defeat and drew her foot back. The door snapped shut in her face.
She trudged down the steps. She worked so hard to ensure her servants didn’t know about her secret life. But Mrs. Harcourt was careless. The housekeeper obviously knew what sort of business she was here to transact. The hood, the veil, the face paint had hidden her appearance at least. But why would Mrs. Harcourt race off without waiting to get her money?
She stomped down the last two steps. She hated this. Hated to be at the mercy of this woman.
She paused at the stairs that led down to the servants’ entrance, cast in shadow. An idea dawned. Could she bribe another servant to tell her where Mrs. Harcourt was? She nipped down the steps and raised her fist to knock—
“I might be wearing drawers and I might not, milord!”
Startled, Venetia glanced up. A couple stood at the top of the steps. The girl, blessed with golden ringlets, coyly stroked the chest of a fine gentleman.
“I knew the instant I set on eyes on you whether you were or not, strumpet,” the gentleman returned and he boldly cupped the swell of the woman’s breast beneath her poppy-red pelisse in full view of Compton Street.
“Strumpet!” Giggling, the young woman slapped the man’s broad chest with a dainty reticule. “Miss Harcourt to you, sir.”
Was this giggling twit was her blackmailer? Some courtesans merely used the title ‘Mrs.’ to appear respectable to their neighbors. Just as her mother had pretended to be a widow.
“You’ve no idea what is beneath me dress, milord,” the girl challenged.
Venetia chewed her lip. Should she walk back up and announce herself? The girl was silly and young, and hardly seemed capable of creating a clever scheme of blackmail.
“What if I were to toss your skirts right now to find out, sweet strumpet?”
His lordship was tall, alluringly dark, and radiating dangerous sensuality, just like Lord Trent. This silly flirtatiousness reminded her of her kiss with Trent. Of the thrill of bandying naughty words…
A strange wistfulness blossomed in her heart—jades could be bold and flirtatious and have fun. She’d spent a lifetime in Maidenswode being rigidly correct lest someone suspect the truth—that her mother wasn’t a respectable widow.
The gentleman inched up the girl’s skirts.
“Swansborough!” the girl cried. This time she slapped his hands.
Laughing he let her skirts drop. “And where is your sister, angel? Why has the lovely Lydia left London?”
Venetia stood absolutely still.
“She went to a dull house party. She was ever so…tedious, going on about how she would be spending a week at Lord…Oh, Lord Chartrand’s estate. Why should anyone wish to rusticate in the country? At least I shall be able to use her theatre box.”
Lord Swansborough gave a throaty laugh. “Angel, Lord Chartrand’s house party is the most wicked orgy of the Season.”
“My sister has gone to an orgy? How utterly scandalous.”
“Indeed. I just might retrieve my invitation and go myself.”