Page 64 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Nick was quiet as they continued up another flight of stairs. The Madame’s private suite was on the highest floor. “And your desires?” he asked her quietly. “Have they been seen to here?”
She raised her chin. “If they had?”
Nick’s gaze met hers. Such a tangible look he had. It reminded her of his fingertips tracing the curve of her hip, sliding between her thighs. It reminded her of all the things he whispered in bed so long ago, things she’d never forget.
“I might ask how they’ve changed since I last fucked you,” he murmured. “And if he made you come, or if that only happened with me.”
Alexandra’s skin was hot. She had some primitive impulse to press him to the wall of the corridor, unbutton his jacket, set her teeth to his skin. She’d confide that the last time she reached climax without the aid of her hand, it had been on the train from Gretna. That when she pleasured herself at night, she only ever came when she thought of Nick inside her, touching her, tasting her, licking her.
Alexandra leaned away, fighting against her desires. “The Madame’s suite is at the landing.” Her words sounded hoarse. “Please wait here until I’m through.”
Nick smiled, as if sensing her unease, and leaned back against the wall to wait.
* * *
The Madame had craftedher suite for comfort rather than seduction. Her sofas and chairs were patched and worn, with one particular wingback piled with cushions, indicating a great deal of time spent there. Beside it, a stack of books had pages dogeared and tea-stained. At the far end of the room sat a writing desk that Alexandra had coveted for many long months, made of carved mahogany and a gleaming surface that was currently littered with pamphlets.
The Madame was secretive—her identity hidden even from Alexandra—but it was clear she had a keen interest in literature, philosophy, even mathematics. Everything in this room spoke of a woman well-read and curious about the world in which she lived.
A creaking floorboard drew Alexandra’s attention.
“Alexandra,” the Madame said as she came through the door from her bedroom. “How wonderful to see you.”
The Madame wore a veil to obscure her features. What Alexandra did see was a woman of average height who wore dresses that showed off a lean figure. Her voice was lovely, her German clearly accented with an English lilt—no doubt to hide her voice from detection. Alexandra had little doubt this woman was a member of the aristocracy, one she had met before. But she had no means of telling the Madame’s age.
Alexandra lifted the books off the wingback—astronomy, calculus, botany—and settled into her usual seat. She had interviewed the Madame over many months, making certain to arrive after most members selected their rooms. Sneaking out was difficult to explain—her friend Emma once asked if Alexandra were meeting a lover at night. The truth was far less pleasurable: the Madame fed Alexandra information about Lord Seymour’s smuggling operation.
“I apologize for the unexpected visit,” Alexandra said. “But the matter is urgent.”
The Madame was quiet as she sat across from Alexandra. “Shall I ring for tea?”
“No.” Alexandra leaned forward and clasped her hands. She did not mince words: “My work has been compromised.”
The Madame went still. Alexandra would have given anything to see the other woman’s face, to know her identity. How could she protect an alias? “Has it?”
“My husband—you’ve read the broadsheets, I assume?”
“I have.” Now Alexandra could hear the smile in her voice. “Nicholas Thorne. Not a choice I expected.”
Alexandra ignored that. “A man from my husband’s past has returned to the East End. We believe Lord Seymour paid him to murder me and my informants, and he took the contract as a . . . personal vendetta. He’s already killed two of my contacts—possibly a third. You are the only one left.”
Alexandra could feel the Madame studying her. “I see,” she said. Her voice betrayed nothing of her emotions.
“I will not ask your identity,” Alexandra continued. “I’m here to suggest that leaving London might be a safer for you.”
There. The Madame’s veil fluttered with her agitated breath—a sign of her alarm. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have obligations I must see to here.”
Alexandra considered that. She may not know the Madame’s true identity, but she thought of her as a friend. “My husband’s men could guard you. They would not reveal your identity, even to me.”
The Madame rose and approached the large bay window, bracing her gloved hand against its frame. “As you may have surmised during our time together, I am skilled at hiding.” The sunlight went through the lace of her veil, revealing her profile, the slope of her nose. “I don’t need to leave this city to disappear, Alexandra. I can do that standing in the most crowded ballroom in London.”
Not for the first time, Alexandra wondered if she, too, had allowed the Madame to disappear into the woodwork of a grand house. If she had made the grave error of overlooking this woman, and if she should apologize for her foolhardiness. Instead, she studied the Madame’s stacks of books—tomes of knowledge that were creased and tea stained. Suddenly those books suggested a different view of the club’s elusive owner. It seemed strange to wonder if a woman surrounded by such intimacy might be lonely. If those books became a refuge for a clever mind surrounded by people who could not remember her name or her face.
“Do you wish differently?” Alexandra couldn’t help but ask.
She thought of all the women on the perimeter of the ballroom, waiting for acknowledgment. Alexandra’s reputation was scandalous—in ruins, now—but she was never ignored. Never forgotten. Never invisible. Her visage had graced countless illustrations. Her name the topic of countless articles and hushed whispers. It was a curse of opposites.
The Madame straightened. “If things were different, I would have no secrets to share with you.”
