Page 63 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Her husband smiled slowly. “Cavaulting school.”
“Dear lord,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. It was difficult to hold onto her earlier ire when he smiled at her like that.
“Smuggling ken,” he continued with a grin. “Nugging house. Buttocking shop.”
The panel slid open. “Yes?” said the male voice within.
Her cheeks burning, Alexandra nudged Nick out of the way. “Morning, Charlie,” Alexandra said with a smile, praying the man had not heard her husband say the wordsbuttocking shop. “Is the Madame in?”
The heavy door opened, and Charlie ushered them inside the dark foyer lit with low gas lamps. The Masquerade’s doorman was built like a mountain. Though he wore a pressed and expensive suit, Charlie’s craggy features, broad frame, and accent belied an upbringing outside of the genteel streets of Mayfair. Aside from manning the door, he ensured the protection of the exclusive club’s occupants. From Alexandra’s understanding, he was an effective guard: she had never seen a member forcibly removed.
Charlie raised an interested eyebrow at Nick—recognition for the King of the East End flashing in his features. “Afternoon, Mr. Thorne.” He returned his attention to Alexandra. “Is th’ mistress expecting ye today, miss?”
His question meant the Madame was still alive. Alexandra loosed a relieved breath. “I’m afraid not, but I must speak with her. Please tell her it’s urgent.”
“Of course. If ye’ll but wait a moment.” Charlie gave a short bow and left down the main hallway.
Nick scanned the room, his keen gaze taking in the dark wallpaper of the back foyer, the wall sconces that flickered with candlelight. The resonant melody of a harp drifted down the hall from another room. Even in the middle of the day, appearances at the Masquerade remained upheld. Though the formal gatherings occurred only every sennight, lovers let rooms during the week for prearranged assignations. Their every whim was catered to by an army of servants who paid a high sum for their discretion.
“So what sort of clientele comes to thisclub?” Nick asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Anyone I know?”
Alexandra narrowed her gaze. “Don’t be coy with me, Nicholas. You are asking for information you can use for political extortion, aren’t you?”
“Potentiallyuse,” he murmured, strolling to a stop before one of the paintings—a nude meant to depict the Greek god Apollo framed in the sunlight. “You never know when those shitebags in Parliament need a nudge to pass a decent bill.”
Fair enough, Alexandra thought. Nick and her brother Richard often worked together to whip progressive bills. It took a great deal of effort and work to pass reforms in chambers occupied by a social elite who were more preoccupied with lining their own pockets.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Alexandra said. “Masks are a requirement. The identities of every member here are known only to the Madame. She guards her secrets very well.”
Charlie returned, his buffed black shoes clacking along the marble. He gave a short bow. “My lady, if you go through the east wing, the mistress will see you in her chambers now.”
Alexandra thanked Charlie and approached the painting of Apollo. A hidden latch beneath the frame swung a portion of the wall open. She came here often enough that the Madame had given her permission to traverse the club’s hidden halls without an escort. The Madame’s private rooms were reached only by a series of concealed doors and hallways, and Alexandra was one of the few who knew the path. The Madame, after all, never mingled with her club’s guests. She remained a secretive figure, speaking with no one, not even her members.
The only people she revealed herself to were Charlie and Alexandra.
With a soft whistle, Nick followed Alexandra through the hidden passage. “So how did you come to meet this Madame?”
“She invited me after reading my work,” Alexandra said, climbing the narrow stairwell. “I don’t know what life she leads outside this building, but she would put your knowledge of political secrets to shame, I suspect.”
“Aristocrat?”
“It’s possible.” She glanced at him with a smile. “But I shan’t tell you my suspicions.”
He tsked. “You afraid I’ll blackmail her?”
“I think it more likely she’ll blackmail you.”
Nick gave a surprised laugh. A strand of hair fell across his forehead, and Alexandra felt a keen urge to push it back. Touching him in Millie’s flat had brought back so many memories. His touch, yes, that was something she had thought of often over the years, in the quiet of her bedchamber. But . . . he had let her glide her fingers across his skin as if he wanted to commit the sensation to memory. And she, for a brief, wild moment, had considered giving more of herself. More of her touch. Her lips. Her hands.
More.
Alexandra cleared her throat, cheeks flushing. She mentally thanked the dim candlelight for hiding the direction of her thoughts. “Through here,” she said. They turned down another passageway.
Nick strolled alongside her, studying the paintings lit by the wall sconces. They were beautiful moments of intimacy—some couples caught in nude embrace, others held hands as they wandered through fields of flowers. In every painting, they wore elaborate masks—the Madame had commissioned these for her club.
Nick shook his head in amusement. “Toffs have such strange habits,” he murmured, moving on to the next painting. “I’d want to know who I took to bed.”
“It’s a matter of choice,” Alexandra told him. “Women of my station rarely have their desires catered to. Here, every decision belongs to them. All members must agree to become lovers, and to each other’s fantasies.”
