Chapter 1
London, December 1820
“You cannot go up there, madam!” The butler, whose cauliflower nose made him look like he had once fought—and lost regularly—for a living, tried to block the stairs.
He didn’t want to grant her admittance to the house, and Maris really didn’t want to enter. What she had to do there was beyond scandalous, and she’d spent her whole life—well, practically her whole life—avoiding scandal like the plague. Never taking a false step or breaking a rule or speaking up for herself.
Except once, and how she regretted that.
Would she regret today? She was trying to convince a strange man to come home with her and—and—she stopped herself from thinking any further.
Maris dodged by the butler and stood at the bottom of a vast marble staircase. One good push from above and one could very easily fall, with no hope of recovery. Marble was hard. As hard as her heart needed to be at present.
“I can and I will. You will not hit a lady, I am sure.” The Countess of Kelby pinned back her veil and smiled. The effort was nearly painful as her cheek muscles were unused to the exercise. Maris had spent the last ten years caring for her elderly husband Henry and slaving over his ancient texts, and there had been little occasion to turn up her lips to strangers. But now the earl needed something else done, and the recalcitrant man he had chosen to do it was somewhere upstairs in a den of utter iniquity.
She must speak with him. It was a matter of life and death—his death if he wouldn’t cooperate, she was that angry. Let him tumble down the stairs and break his neck. Henry had counted on him. Placed his trust in him. She had been writing to the man for weeks with no response. It was past time he do his duty, go to Kelby Hall, and begin the job for which he’d been hired.
And paid.
Maris stood in the foyer of the most infamous address in London—the Reining Monarchs Society. Even buried in the country, she had heard of the place and the men—and, unbelievably, women—who belonged to the secret club.
Not so secret, after all. It had been a matter of a few shillings and another one of her rare smiles to induce Reynold Durant’s valet to reveal where his employer was spending his misbegotten afternoon.
Interesting, since two months ago, Reynold Durant couldn’t have afforded a valet or membership in such a place.
The butler crossed his muscled arms before him. “He’s not to be disturbed, madam. I’ll lose my position.”
Maris attempted the smile again. “Then I’ll wait. Right here at the bottom of the stairs. Captain Durant is bound to come down sometime.”
The man’s dismay was comical. “You can’t do that! You’re a . . . you’re a lady! It’s not proper having someone like you here at all.”
“It’s not proper having anyone here. You must be desperate to work in such an environment.”
The butler’s bloodshot blue eyes dropped to the carpet. “It ain’t so bad. You get used to it.”
Maris could not imagine a more unlikely thing. To get used to unending carnal depravity would simply not be possible. She’d rather jump from the Tower of London than bare her breasts like that brazen woman she’d glimpsed through the open parlor doors. Before she’d blinked away, Maris could have sworn there were jewels on the woman’s nipples—rubies, or at the very least, garnets.
She opened her reticule and fished out some bribe money. She’d have to walk back to her hotel if she had to dole out any more, but it wasn’t far. The Reining Monarchs Society was located right in the heart of Mayfair, conveniently close to the best houses. Captain Durant’s bachelor lodgings were only around the corner. One had to conserve one’s energy when one was sinning at such a spectacular rate.
Henry had given up his house in town years ago. Maris had not been to London very often since her unsuccessful Season. It had overwhelmed her then, but she didn’t have time to be frightened now. It was she who planned to do the frightening.
She passed the butler the coins. “I promise I’ll not bother anyone. I’ll just sit in silence in that chair over by the wall. Could you describe Captain Durant so I’ll recognize him when he comes down?”
Maris’s money disappeared with breathtaking speed. “You don’t know him?”
“Not at all.” And she wished they didn’t have to become acquainted. A man who restrained and whipped his women was no one she wanted to meet over the breakfast table at Kelby Hall. Or maybe he was the one being bound and beaten? She shuddered at the image.
“He’s a tall one, he is. Dark hair and eyes. Has a saber scar on his cheek, but other than that, I s’pose you’d call him handsome. He was wearing a yellow waistcoat, although I don’t guess he’s got it on now.”
She tripped over the rug at that news and arranged herself on the chair. “Thank you. See? I’m sitting.” Maris folded her gloved hands in her lap. “I don’t imagine there’s any reading material I might peruse while I wait?”
“Nothing the likes of you would enjoy, my lady. There’s a large library here, but the books are what you might call naughty. More pictures than words, if you take my meaning.”
In general, Maris was in favor of expanding her education, but perhaps not in this case. “I take your meaning very well. You’ve been very helpful, Mr.—?”
“Mick Fisher, at your service. Don’t make me sorry I let you wait, now.”
Maris crossed her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “I shall be the soul of discretion. Do carry on.”
She counted to one hundred after Mr. Fisher shuffled his bulk down the hallway, taking in her surroundings. The club’s furnishings were in the first stare of fashion. The carpet was thick and Turkish, the chair comfortably padded, the gilt-framed paintings lurid yet lushly executed. The house was remarkably still for a haven of vice. Maris had lived in the country too long to think that sexual congress, whether committed by humans or animals, was ever quiet.
But it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. Perhaps the society became noisier at night.
Maris had never been touched by her husband unless it was fully dark outside . . . and inside, too. Henry was as anxious as she to blow out the candles to prevent them both from seeing what was going on.
Or not going on.
Their marital bed had held little joy for him, but it was all so many empty years ago. She’d come to terms with her situation and was not going to let herself dwell on it. Maris was a woman of action now, and the stairs beckoned. Time was of the essence, in so many ways. Who knew when Mr. Fisher might be back to check up on her, or a footman would cross through the hall? Or, God forbid, that scandalously naked woman decided to parade along the Turkey carpet, her nipples sparkling?
Or how long her beloved Henry would live.
Maris practically ran up the steps to the next floor, minding the slippery marble. In her experience, when one wished evil on another, evil frequently had other ideas. She did not intend to fall when the object of her quest was so close.
Judging from the open doors she peeked into, she had found the bedrooms, and odd bedrooms they were. Yes, there were beds—rather giant ones that could hold the average family—but the rooms were fitted with equipment that would be more at home in a stable than a family home. The selection of crops and a variety of roping neatly tacked to the flocked walls was astonishing. Where the walls were not wallpapered, they were mirrored, and Maris moved swiftly so she would not glimpse her plain gray walking dress and pale-as-milk skin reflected on them. It had been much more important to focus on her brains than her nonexistent beauty since she’d attained her womanhood, and she generally gave mirrors a wide berth. It was enough she was clean and respectable.
Though respectability would not serve her well there.
When she came to a shut door, she paused. Did she dare knock, or just open it? She heard muffled noises behind the thick painted wood. A steady swish of something, and low groans a second after.
Disgusting. Whoever was in there deserved to be interrupted.
Maris turned the doorknob. Unlocked. She pushed the door open a fraction.
The first thing she saw was a man’s waistcoat draped over the back of a chair. Yellow, with what appeared to be giant orange chrysanthemums embroidered on the silk fabric. A vulgar waistcoat, entirely unsuitable for a decorated war hero, which she knew Reynold Durant was, for all his lack of duty to his new responsibility. He’d recently sold out and was rutting through London, all on her husband’s coin.
Another inch of open door showed a standing glass mirror angled toward the bed and the broad back and taut buttocks of a rather spectacular specimen of manhood captured in its surface. The double image of reality and reflection made Maris swallow and stumble backward. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.
“Care to join us?” the specimen drawled, sending shivers right down her spine. He must have eyes in the back of his head, for he didn’t turn, just continued stroking the woman stretched upon the bed with a black velvet crop. His voice sounded as if it would taste like warm dark honey blended with the best French brandy. One raspy word from him and a woman would never leave, trapped in its liquid amber depths.