A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(8)

Of course he would have. He was impetuous. He loved Shakespeare. It was what had first drawn them together four and a half years ago in the queen’s library at Buckingham House. They had shared many stolen hours reading the bard’s plays. And later, they had shared much more... The lump in Phoebe’s throat threatened to choke her.

“Mary played coy for a good while, keeping him on tenterhooks for months, but her resistance only increased the prince’s fervor. Finally, he became so desperately besotted he wrote her a bond for twenty thousand pounds to give up the stage and become his mistress.”

“Twenty thousand,” Phoebe repeated blankly. He’d offered another a princely sum for what she had given for free. The reminder nearly made her heart seize.

“Can you imagine any woman commanding such a fortune?” Mrs. Andrews exclaimed. “But, of course, the money was never paid.”

No. It wouldn’t have been. As in her case, his bond had been as empty as the promise it represented.

“Poor dear lost both her career and her reputation after that. When she finally threatened to make public his love letters, the king paid her off. Five thousand, I hear she got for returning Florizel’s amorous correspondence. Last I heard, she’d taken the money and hied off to Paris. Are you taking ill, duckie?” the older woman asked.

“N—no.” Phoebe vigorously shook her head. “It’s just all the excitement. What do you know of these other gentlemen?” she asked, glad for an opportunity to change the subject.

Mrs. Andrews took the cards, studying each, sorting them into two stacks. “You want none of this lot.” She made a face. “Those you may discard without a second thought. Now these others.” She tapped the pile with her index finger. “You would do well to make their acquaintance.”

“How am I to do that without accepting any invitations?”

“You must venture about in public now to where the titled gentlemen congregate,” Mrs. Andrews advised. “There are public events—balls, masquerades, the various pleasure gardens, and of course, private parties.” Her face lit up at the last. “Oh, my! I never would have thought of it. There could never be a better opportunity!”

“What?” Phoebe asked.

“A month ago, Madam Hayes offered me a bit of work for a private entertainment at King’s Place.”

“King’s Place?” Phoebe was appalled but couldn’t help her curiosity. “Isn’t that a...”

“A bawdy house?” Mrs. Andrews chuckled. “’Tis, indeed, much more than that. ‘Tis the most exclusive nunnery in all London, luvie. Some of the girls there command a hundred guineas a night.”

“A hundred guineas? That’s enough to support an entire family for two years!”

“And the gents pay it for a night of pleasure without so much as batting an eye.”

“But what kind of work would you possibly do for a brothel?”

“Costumes, of course!” Mrs. Andrews laughed. “Madam Hayes has commissioned me several times in the past for clients who wish to enact certain fantasies. Some require elaborate costuming, but these men always pay handsomely for such things.”

“Men like DeVere, you mean?”

“Aye, and others. There are few who can afford such extravagant pleasures, but the ones who can will surely be there for the Feast of Venus. ‘Tis the best place to find your patron.”

Phoebe could almost see the wheels of machination working in the older woman’s mind. “I’m to deliver the costumes later today. You will come as my assistant.”

“You mean to sneak me into a brothel?” Phoebe was incredulous. No decent woman would ever pursue such a course. She felt akin to a snake shedding its skin, as if along with her old life, her old values were also slowly slipping away. Yet, it was the path she had already chosen—to become the plaything of a rich and powerful man who could advance her career. If only given the chance, Phoebe knew she could make a name on the stage. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement, she rationalized, really little different from most marriages, which were contracted for mutual gain, a dowry traded for a title.

Phoebe had long ago given up hope of marriage. She had no dowry and had forsaken her virginity for the empty promises of a lover who’d abandoned her. She had nothing left to bargain with if she sought a respectable match. No, that option was long past.

There are much worse things. A life as a kept woman was a far cry from the desperate straits of a Covent Garden harlot, dependent on a string of anonymous patrons for her bread. It is not the same at all. For starters, she would be in control. She would choose the man, the one man to whom she would sell her body...the devil with whom she would ultimately bargain her soul.

That last thought echoed in her mind as she idly flicked the gilt-edged card. Ludovic, Viscount DeVere. The Devil DeVere.

“Aye, duckie.” Mrs. Andrews winked. “At two hundred guineas a head, we could never pay for such a thing in our lifetime. As my assistant, however, we will get you inside. Once our work is done, you will pose as a gentleman’s consort, decked out in all the splendor we can muster.”

“Splendor?” Phoebe’s face fell along with her spirits. “How am I to manage that? I have no money.”

“Ye need not look so fretful, luv.” The older woman retrieved an item from her pocket with her plump hand and laid it atop the calling cards.