“Then why did you come here, where the arrangements are far less formal and certainly shorter? You should attend the Cyprian’s Ball or some such to make a more permanent kind of arrangement.” Her half smile showed what she thought of Simone’s chances among the fashionable impures. “Not that any such, ah, liaisons are lasting.”
“I do not seek permanency. And I came to you because I live across the street and I have seen you at church. I have heard that your reputation is for honesty,” Simone said, “and for treating your, ah, employees well. I thought you might assist me in making that other kind of connection, for a fee, of course.”
“Of course. No nob dips his wick for free, not here.”
Simone blushed. It was all well to put her foot in the waters, so to speak, but she’d been raised in a genteel household. Perhaps coming here was not such a good idea.
Mrs. Burton ignored Simone’s reddened cheeks as she poured tea. “I’m not certain I want to be known as a procuress.”
What else was the madam of a bordello, a matchmaker? Simone accepted a cup of tea. “I merely hoped you might know of a gentleman seeking a longer, more, ah, personal, relationship.”
“Tell me, why not look for a husband?”
Maybe the woman was a matchmaker after all. So Simone explained how she had no dowry, no family connections, no great wealth or title. She did not mention that her father had been disowned, that her half-French mother was also half-Gypsy, or that she had a young brother to support. His existence, his innocence, his very name, did not belong here with her disgrace. She did tell Mrs. Burton about her one-time suitor in Oxford, a neighbor who was not willing to take a penniless bride after her parents’ deaths.
The madam shrugged. “It’s a common enough story, a girl disappointed by a cad who was less interested in her than in what she could bring him. Men are selfish swine at the best of times. Remember that. It is not enough to have a lovely mother for their sons, a willing woman in their beds, a helpmate for life. They want gold, too, the fools.”
Simone nodded as if she agreed with the businesswoman who made a good living selling love. “Were you disappointed that way?”
Mrs. Burton did not take offense at Simone’s personal question, thank goodness. “Hell no. I married a rich old man who did me the favor of leaving me enough brass to set myself up in business, bless him and his bad heart. I chose this business because I thought I’d be good at it. Why did you?” she asked, just as bluntly.
So Simone repeated her tale of work gone wretched, fire poker and all. “I no longer have references for”—she almost said honest employment before recalling her hostess’s profession—“teaching positions. Other jobs I tried offered insult and injury, without decent wage. I feel the, ah,
demi-monde
is my best course. Will you help me?”
Mrs. Burton tidied the dish of biscuits in front of her. “You say you speak several languages?”
Perhaps the madam knew of a foreign gentleman in need of a mistress. Simone counted off her qualifications. “French, Italian, and Spanish, a bit of German. I can read and translate Latin, but not Greek.” Again, she made no mention of Romany, which, in her experience, only led to distrust and fear, as if she were going to steal their horses or children or candlesticks, or put a curse on their houses. She wished she could, a few times, but no one had taught her that Gypsy magic, if it existed.
“You say you have served in homes of Polite Society? Yes, I can see where your manners are refined enough.”
Simone had wondered why the older woman had watched so carefully as Simone handled the fragile tea cup, used her serviette, and nibbled daintily at the tiny biscuits that were the only meal she’d have this day. She’d taken a second one only when Mrs. Burton did. Now she said, “One child I taught was the daughter of a Member of Parliament; another was of a titled family.” The so-called gentlemen at those addresses were no better than the patrons of the pub where she briefly worked. Inebriated, poorly washed, they all thought their coins entitled them to take liberties. “I learned my manners from my parents, however. My father was manor-born. And my mother’s mother”—who scandalously wed a Gypsy horse trader—“was descended from French nobility.”
“You just might do. Take off your bonnet, if that is what you call that monstrosity, and let your hair down, please.”
“Here, now?”
“Modesty is out of place for this calling, my dear. And I need to see what your governessy garments are hiding. All cats might be alike in the dark, but a tom who’s going to have a pampered kitten on his arm at the opera expects more.”
“Of course.” At least Simone thought she understood. She stood and set her hat down, then started pulling out pins from her straight red hair, inherited from her English father. Her nearly black eyes must have come from the Gypsies, along with her almond complexion, for both of her parents had light eyes and fair skin. Simone unbraided the coronet of curls fixed to the back of her head and spread it out with her fingers. She always wore her hair scraped back and carefully confined like this to avoid any hint of wantonness. Now it fell over her shoulders, down her back, in red-gold waves where it had been in the braid so long. Her serviceable grey gown pulled across her chest as she combed out the curls, and Mrs. Burton walked around her, clucking her tongue.
“What a shame you have wasted all this for so long. That hair, those eyes… But yes, you just might do, and we both might profit. I have a gentleman in mind.”
“A client?”
“A patron if you will, but more a friend. He helped me start my business so I owe him a favor. He expressed a need for a female to accompany him to a house party at a country estate. None of my ladies is respectable enough.”
“He would bring his mistress to a house party?”
“It’s a bachelor gathering for the swells. They’re bringing their own entertainment from Town.”
Simone started to gather her hair up again. “An orgy? I will not—”
Mrs. Burton laughed. “Gracious, no. You must have been listening to your landlady, that old biddy. My, ah, friend would not take part in anything that scandalous. Not since he’s come of age, anyway. Nor would some of the other guests, from what I hear. Government types and businessmen, with reputations to uphold, don’t you know. As far as the neighbors will see, this party will be as polite as a debutante ball, without chaperones, of course. Another old friend of mine will act as hostess. She’s been Lord Gorham’s mistress for the past ten years, at least.”
“It sounds…lovely.”
“Well, it is a few days only, and nights, naturally. But if you please my friend, who knows but he might keep you on. He is generous.”
Now that truly did sound lovely. “If he is generous, I shall make sure I please him.”
“That’s the ticket, dearie. Just be honest.”
If Simone were honest, she’d admit her knees were knocking together at the very prospect.
Mrs. Burton was going on: “If it doesn’t work out, you come on back. With proper clothes and a bit of training, you could make a lot of money right here.”
“I’d rather try to find a wealthy protector, ma’am. No offense. But a house, jewels I could sell, a bit of security for the future, that’s what I want.”
“Don’t we all, dearie. Don’t we all.”
Chapter Two
After a few more questions, Mrs. Burton rose to cross to her cluttered desk.
“Help yourself to more biscuits while I send a note to Harry,” she told Simone as she pulled a sheet of paper closer. “The gentlemen like a female to have a bit of meat on her bones.”
The madam filled her delicate chair and her bodice in ways Simone never hoped to. She did hope the woman’s old friend approved of her, despite her lack of soft curves and billowy bosoms. The house party sounded like a distinguished gathering, one that might even offer other avenues of employment. Who knew but some nobleman’s mistress had a misbegotten child that needed a governess? Simone could not afford to miss the chance. Besides, Mrs. Burton’s patron must be intelligent and well-mannered if he demanded the same in his companion. From what the older woman said, Simone suspected he was of middle years, no randy youth or rakish, hardened town buck. He’d know she was inexperienced from the letter being written, so his expectations could not be too high. How low was too low? Simone’s education had serious gaps, especially when it came to questions of what a man expected for his money, and how much money was involved anyway.
For that matter, Simone realized she should have come to terms with Mrs. Burton first, to agree on who got what share of the gentleman’s largesse. Simone needed the coins more, and she’d inherited more than black eyes from the horse-trading grandfather she’d loved as a child. It would never do to offend the woman, though, not before the letter was sent. Mrs. Burton might decide Simone was not biddable enough for her efforts, or too mercenary for an aristocrat’s mistress. Members of polite society, Simone knew, believed discussions of money matters to be crass. Which, she supposed, was why so many of them landed in dun territory or debtor’s prison, and why so many of their merchants’ bills went unpaid. Did such foolish conventions hold among light-skirts and their protectors? Simone could not afford such nicety in her dealings. Why, she might have to ask the gentleman for an advance on her pay, if he expected her to dress the part of a highly paid courtesan.
Simone had to laugh at herself, counting her chickens before the rooster arrived. He might decide she was too old, too plain, too unskilled, too unsophisticated to be his paramour. The doorman had not thought she had the proper—or improper—qualities. Neither did the women who peeked into the open door, then giggled. Their hair was prinked in ringlets, their breasts pushed over the low-cut bodices, and their skirts shortened to show a bit of lace petticoat or silk stockings. No, Simone did not look like one of them and never had, not even when her family was in funds.
Mr. Harry had not hired any of them, she reminded herself again for confidence, taking another biscuit. In case he did not like her, or like what Mrs. Burton wrote, at least her belly would be full.
Men
were
interested in her. Otherwise she would not be in this fix, unless males commonly assaulted any female to cross their paths. No, no one had tried to take advantage of her in Oxford, under her parents’ roof. Why, her own beau, the suitor she thought she’d marry when he established himself in his career, had never tried to steal a kiss. Too bad she had not aroused in him the same ardor some of her employers had shown. Then the young curate might have wed her despite her lack of dowry.
Simone could not decide if she actually wanted to be the object of this Harry’s passions. If he did not hire her—or did not reply to Mrs. Burton’s note—then she was not a fallen woman, unless her landlady had seen her cross the street. Surely in all of London there was an employment agency that did not require references. Or some old bat so difficult no one else would work for her. Simone could try harder to find a post. Maybe Mrs. Olmstead would let her clean the house in exchange for rent. Maybe Mr. Fordyce downstairs needed a secretary. Simone quickly dismissed that idea. But maybe Mrs. Burton would pay her to instruct the women here. After all, if none were acceptable for a genteel house party, they ought to be taught, to attract a higher class of customer. That was a far better plan.
Simone almost interrupted Mrs. Burton’s pen scratching. But what if men wanted their women ignorant and silly and soft? This house obviously was a success, with just such fluffy wares for sale. There was nothing frothy about Simone, not a curl, not a frill, not a giggle.
And she had no heart for the transaction she was contemplating. She reached for her black cloak. Then she remembered her brother and sank back on her cushioned chair. The biscuits were all gone, along with her choices.
Mrs. Burton rang a little bell on her desk and the beefy doorkeeper came, as if he’d been waiting nearby to come to her aid. “See that this is delivered to Harry, George. If you bring it to McCann’s Club, they’ll know where to find him. I’ll be waiting for an answer.”
George looked at the folded sheet, then at Simone. “Harry?” Disbelief resounded in his voice.
Mrs. Burton waved him on his way with one beringed hand. “By the time our Harry arrives, he’ll be pleased.”
George still seemed dubious, so Simone’s hopes—if hope they were; she was still undecided—sank. “I should go back home and wait there.”
Mrs. Burton brushed that aside too. “What, would you have me bring Harry to Mrs. Olmstead’s? Should we discuss your business in her front parlor, which I’d wager is dark and dreary?”
The woman was right on all counts. Mrs. Olmstead would have apoplexy to see Lydia Burton on her doorstep, much less with Simone’s prospective lover in tow. She’d die of outrage, then Simone would have another sin on her head. “Heavens, no. But you could send for me. Or I could watch out of my window.”
“Hm. That might be better. Then Harry and I could settle the finances right off. You wouldn’t want to be haggling over pounds and pence the minute you meet him. I’ll take care of that business for you.”
Simone was not quite sure she trusted the gleam in Mrs. Burton’s eyes, a gleam that matched the diamonds in her ears and on her wrists. Simone might sacrifice her scruples, but she meant to hold tight to her wits. Let a bawdy house madam settle her fees, and perhaps keep more than her fair share for making the introduction? Not likely. “You said Mr., ah, Harry, was generous. I think we should see if we suit, first, before worrying over the money.”
“You’ll suit. I’ll see to it. One of the girls must be about your size. Come.”
Simone was supposed to wear the trappings of a prostitute? Oh, dear. “I do not wish to appear too…too…” She could not think of a word that would not offend her hostess.
“Fast? Loose?” Mrs. Burton supplied, frowning. “Immoral?”
The unknown Harry would know she was a fallen woman by her presence here. Simone did not want to appear cheap or tawdry. Her intention was to command a substantial fee. She settled on “Unladylike.”
“Of course not. Harry is particular. Otherwise any of my girls might have done well enough. We’ll find something suitable, never fear.” She sniffed. “And anything would be better than what you have on. I suppose all of your gowns are fit for the trash bin?”