Page 10 of Sloth: The Fallen Earl
Not unlike the ton’s scandalous establishments, like Forbidden Pleasures and Lucifer’s Lair, membership to the notorious club had recently been extended to select ladies of the ton.But,whereas at the other rival establishments, gleeful participants were masked ladies and their identities kept secret, here at The Devil’s Den, the eager, lusty ladies and widows, if they so wished, flaunted their presence.
They played theboredwife—ofttimes, with their generous husbands in the audience, watching on. Or they played the lusty virgin, yearning to be taken by a big, powerfulgentleman. Or one who’d been caught cuckolding her husband and sought to be punished, badly and painfully.
Wakefield’s latest investment flew in the face of all the respectable businesses he’d otherwise taken on until now. Through the marriage of his half-sister, Livian Latimer, to an owner of the establishment, Wakefield found himself joining in a partnership to restore the once-great hell to its former glory.
All things known about Wakefield’s commitment to respectability should have made his presence at the notorious gaming hell, The Devil’s Den, a thing for the others to note.
But not a single pathetically weak, dissolute fellow among the nearly one hundred and twenty-five patrons in attendance, most three sheets to the wind, paid him a sprig of attention. Notwith the depraved and very mesmerizing show taking place on the stage of London’s wicked club. Tonight, however, had proven exceedingly helpful in showing Wakefield that the patrons who attended these hells weren’t watching him, and for obvious reasons.
Seated in the green leather armchair next to Wakefield, the Earl of Dynevor, proprietor and Wakefield’s recent partner, poured two brandies. He slid one across the smooth surface of the newly installed, gleaming mahogany table.
“What are your thoughts on your latest investment, Wakefield?” Dynevor asked as casually as he might two gentlemen discussing dull, respectable business transactions and not the sordid scene—a Virgin Auction—on display at the front stage.
Wakefield considered the other man’s question.
What were his thoughts? “I believe we’ll make a fortune because most men are weak, and men like you and I are strong because we aren’t ruled by our cocks.”
The younger gentleman lifted his snifter in Wakefield’s direction. “Aye to that,” he said.
They clinked glasses.
While Wakefield cradled his snifter between his hands, he and Dynevor continued assessing the salacious affair in companionable silence while the bidding grew increasingly heated.
“Do I hear one hundred pounds?”
“One hundred pounds!”
Yes, there was a fortune to be had in sin, and if the display unfolding wasn’t testament to that, Wakefield didn’t know what was.
Craving carnality like the drug it was, the ladies enjoyed putting themselves on display for a room of hungry men, and all the exquisite participants played at some role.
The tall, slim-hipped, narrow-waisted beauty clad in a filmy white negligee commanding the room’s attention was no different.
With her enormous doe eyes, a man could easily believe the role she carried out with the finesse of a damsel in distress. That was if it were not for the heavy, long-lashed, desire-filled gaze she passed over the room.
Those same eyes which continued to find their way back to him.
The first time she’d sought his gaze, he’d believed it nothing more than a seductress’s trick she employed with various gentlemen around the establishment. But the more he’d contemplated the skilled actress on the stage, the more he noted her hungry stare sliding back his way.
“Hello,” she mouthed, her lips moving distinctly, her gaze adoring.
He started at the sense of shared connection she managed to create from even across the length of the hall.
The minx’s lips moved again, mouthing those same words. “He—”
Wakefield stiffened. She hadn’t been saying “hello.” She’d been asking the crowd for help. No, she’d been asking him specifically. Or that’s how it seemed. God, she was masterful.
“Lovely, isn’t she?”
Wakefield, unnerved at Dynevor catching his absorption with the lady, tossed the remainder of his drink back. “Passably so.” Determined to wrestle his self-control back, he shifted his attention from the wicked wanton.
“Aye,” Dynevor allowed. “I’ll give you she isn’t a grand beauty.”
No, she certainly wasn’t, but—
“There is a certainje ne sais quoito her,” the proprietor murmured, more to himself. “Something a gent can’t put his finger on. I sensed it the moment I met her.”
Wakefield’s attention went flying to the other man. “Do youmeetall the ladies before they take part in the act?” There was a snappish quality to Wakefield’s voice he neither understood nor liked.
