All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (6 page)

“Now you are comparing your arranged marriage to a brothel?” Saint braced his forearm on the balustrade and pivoted his body so he faced Hunter.

The duke shrugged as he moved to the small table and refilled his glass. “If I follow through with this marriage, I will be no better than Madame V and her girls. I will be bedding the chit for her lands and the investments I have overseen on her behalf. I will likely be the highest-paid whore in London. Mayhap all of England!”

Aghast by his friend’s bitter tone, Saint asked, “Have you even met this chit?”

“Only once.” Hunter took a hearty swallow of his brandy before adding, “Since I have spent a good portion of my life loathing her existence, it seemed best that I stayed away from her.”

Putting aside his own troubled thoughts, Saint took a moment to ponder Hunter’s problem. “Have you ever considered that your future bride feels the same as you? Perhaps she would be willing to dismiss—”

“And break my oath? Lose so much because my grandmother was a meddling old—” Hunter grimaced and shook his head. “No. If the lady is unhappy with her fate, then that is her choice. She will have my name and protection. She can choose one of the estates to live out her life in peace as long as she leaves me alone.”

“You are condemning yourself to an empty marriage before you even know the woman. What if you are wrong?” Saint asked, thinking of their friends. Reign, Sin, Vane, and Dare seemed to be happy with their wives. “What if you and—” He paused as he tried to recall the chit’s name. Had Hunter even told him?

“Grace. Lady Grace,” Hunter said, his expression warning Saint that he was finished with the unpleasant subject.

“What if you called on Lady Grace before her twenty-first birthday?” He was the last person who should be giving advice on affairs of the heart, but it was apparent his friend needed guidance. “Treat her as a friend, instead of a duty or, worse, your enemy? It might make the notion of marriage slightly more palatable.”

Hunter’s left hand tightened on the balustrade as he tossed his head back and laughed. “And I should listen to the sage advice of a man who has never kept a mistress longer than four months?”

“Three months.”

“Three, then.” Anger glittered in Hunter’s eyes as he struggled to mask it with humor. “And your father … tell me again: What sport was he engaging in when he collapsed and died?”

Saint’s lips thinned at his friend’s cruel reminder. “Women. He was bedding his current mistress when his heart failed him.” Saint had been six years old when it happened. His mother had weathered the scandal with her head held high, though privately she was thoroughly humiliated. “Why do you ask? If you are planning to be unfaithful to your wife, you might want to let your physician examine you first to see if your heart is sound.”

“My heart is fine, Saint.” Hunter emptied his glass and set it on the table. He turned to leave.

“Where are you going?”

The duke absently shrugged. “Since we have missed the little gathering at Dare’s, it would be a pity not to sample the delights of the Golden Pearl. I’ll let you know if my heart gives me any trouble.”

The duke patted his heart and smirked.

“Arse,” Saint muttered under his breath.

“Or you can see for yourself. If I recall, the blonde—Christ, what was her name, Hattie?—and that redheaded wench like their Lords of Vice in pairs. I’ll let you have first choice, though I believe the blonde prefers you.”

Hunter had decided duty and Lady Grace could wait another day. Saint shook his head, his smile tinged with apology. “Perhaps another time. I’ll leave the women in your capable hands.”

“What do you intend to do?” his friend asked. His unspoken question was,
Why did you come to the Golden Pearl if not to bed the wenches?
The gent was genuinely surprised that Saint was refusing his generous invitation.

“I thought it was obvious.” He clapped Hunter on the shoulder. “I decided to take my own advice. I intend to change my course.”

Chapter Seven

Madame Venna knew
he
was close.

Saint.

The one man put upon this earth to bedevil her. Abram had signaled her the moment the marquess had entered the Golden Pearl, though his well-intentioned warning was hardly necessary.

Saint would come to her when he was ready. This was a new twist to their odd relationship. When Abram had escorted him out of the Golden Pearl six years ago, Madame Venna had wondered if his bruised pride would keep him away.

He could have ruined her business with a calculated lie or used his connections to have her dragged in front of the magistrate on some charge. She was the owner of a brothel. Whatever the charge, there was a good chance it was true. There were always risks when one became a peddler of flesh and sin.

Saint had not used his position in polite society to claim his revenge. After a week had passed, he had returned to the brothel as if nothing had transpired between them. That first year, he barely spoke to her. Instead, he availed himself of the services she provided. According to her girls, Saint did not discriminate when it came to women. He favored them all.

The occasions his indifference bothered her, Madame Venna reminded herself that she had barely spent one night with the man. What was done or said no longer mattered. Saint had done her a great favor by respecting her wishes. Everyone had gotten what they had wanted. No one had been hurt. It did not signify that when he asked for a blonde, he requested that she come to him masked.

He was not imagining that the woman was her.

“Have you made a decision, Madame V?”

She cast what she hoped was a sultry glance at the gentleman to her right. Lord Mulcaster could be counted on when she needed a charming companion as the evening played out around them. He was in his early thirties, had never married, and usually wandered into the Golden Pearl once he had grown weary of the
ton
’s amusements for the evening. He also loved to gamble. Fortunately for her, he liked to spend his money in her establishment.

“And what decision might that be, Lord Mulcaster?” she asked, her eyes twinkling through the red-sequined mask she had donned for the evening.

His face revealed his chagrin that she had not been hanging on every word he uttered. Like the majority of the males she had encountered in her seven-and-twenty years, the earl believed that all of his opinions were noteworthy.

Unfortunately for Lord Mulcaster, she had a business to run. She usually was better at feigning interest, but Saint’s presence was distracting her from her duties.

“I was hoping I could tempt you to honor me with a walk this evening, Madame V?” the earl genially said as he extended his arm.

Madame Venna glanced at three other gentlemen who had been heatedly discussing politics. Now everyone’s attention had returned to her. This was not the first time Lord Mulcaster had tried to lure her upstairs. She had to admit that she had considered it once or twice. The earl was handsome enough, and it was to his credit that he did not bore her with polite conversation. His arrogance grated on her nerves, however. He was also prone to lecture, but these concerns should not be an issue in the bedchamber.

She abruptly cast her gaze up to one particular balcony, only to discover that Saint was no longer watching her. He was engaged in a serious discussion with the Duke of Huntsley. Madame Venna offered her companions a brilliant smile.

“What say you, Lord Kearns? Am I safe in Lord Mulcaster’s care?” she asked, appealing to the married viscount for his opinion. The earl frowned at this sudden wrinkle to his plans, but she ignored him. As she had intended, the gentleman straightened and stuck out his chest, inordinately pleased that she had consulted him.

“Well, now … everyone knows Mulcaster is a filthy scoundrel!” Lord Kearns said gruffly. His bravado wilted when Lord Mulcaster took an intimidating step toward him.

Fifty years old, the Earl of Golland clapped his hand on the insulted man’s shoulder. “There’s no need for fisticuffs.”

He shook his head at Madame Venna, his eyes silently scolding her for her mischief. She simply shrugged. She was allowed her little pleasures, was she not?

Looking from one face to the other, he asked the fuming man, “Do you want to get tossed out on your arse for breaking the house rules?”

“Who can trust the opinion of a man who betrays his own wife each night he walks into the Golden Pearl?” Mulcaster said savagely.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed two footmen heading toward them. Before the situation came to blows, Madame Venna crossed in front of Lord Kearns and placed her hand on Lord Mulcaster’s arm. “My good sir, this is the last place in London that would judge a man for his indiscretions. High morals would pauper me,” she said cheerfully, winking at her companions.

The gentlemen in her small circle chuckled, except for Mulcaster and Kearns. To placate the earl, she moved closer and was not surprised when his attention abruptly switched from Kearns to her.

“You have swayed me,
monsieur le comte.
A brief stroll would improve everyone’s dispositions.” Her smile did not dim, even when the earl’s hands pulled her away from her admirers with a possessive look that made her want to grit her teeth in frustration.

“Gentlemen,
au revoir.
Enjoy the many pleasures the Golden Pearl has to offer.”

With a stone-faced expression, Lord Kearns muttered to his companions, “It appears Mulcaster will be savoring one or two that are not on the list.”

Madame Venna did not bother to stop and correct the viscount’s mistaken impression of her accepting the earl’s invitation. Neither would Mulcaster. It did not signify that she intended to disentangle herself from the earl as soon as an opportunity arose. The man could spin any tale he chose as long as it benefited her business.

“Do not mind Kearns. Jealousy can put an edge to a man’s tongue,” the earl murmured in her ear.

“Let them talk. You and I are both aware that all I have consented to is a stroll,” Madame Venna said glibly.

Lord Mulcaster patted her gloved fingers on his arm. “True. However, I do hope to persuade you to consider a more intimate setting.”

Genuine laughter bubbled in her throat at his arrogance. “You are welcome to try,
monsieur le comte
!”

As she and Mulcaster walked by Anna, she smoothed her hair with the first three fingers of her right hand. It was a signal to let the other woman know that her assistance was needed. Unbeknownst to their guests, Madame Venna and her staff often communicated with subtle hand signals and oblique words and phrases as a means to direct and to warn others of potential problems within the establishment. This private communication was also put in place to protect her girls and staff. She did not condone violence in her house unless it was consensual, but rules were not always a hindrance. Some men thrived on cruelty and hurting creatures weaker than them. Unfortunately, brothels, even first-rate ones like the Golden Pearl, had their fair share of loathsome blackguards who thought of nothing but themselves. Since the police were more likely to toss her girls in prison than prosecute an abusive gentleman, it was up to her and her staff to watch over the girls.

Lord Mulcaster slowed as they left the main ballroom. The grand staircase they were approaching would take them upstairs to the small balconied alcoves that overlooked the ballroom. Saint and his friend had taken possession of one of those alcoves. While the open balcony ensured that the earl would behave himself, Madame Venna questioned the wisdom of Saint witnessing the exchange. The alternative was to direct the earl to one of the private parlors, but she was not in the mood to be fondled by the amorous gentleman.

“Do you wish to take the lead, Madame V?”

Perhaps one of the alcoves on the opposite end, not easily seen from Saint’s position,
she decided. Gracefully she extended her arm in the direction of the staircase. “
Oui.
After all, it is my house.”

*   *   *

What game was Madame Venna playing with Mulcaster?

Unseen by the couple, Saint sipped his brandy as he observed the polite exchange between them. He expected more of a flirtatious manner from her, especially if she was planning to invite the man into her bed. Mulcaster’s looks impressed most ladies, and his fortune had caught the attention of more than one ambitious mother who had daughters to marry off.

Saint grimaced and rubbed the sudden pain in his left eyebrow. Why was he standing in the shadows, lusting after a woman who had made her disinterest as clear as keen blade slicing into his gullet? He and Hunter had parted ways more than thirty-five minutes ago. His Grace had gone downstairs to inquire after a pretty strawberry-blond-haired wench named Temperance. Hunter had confided that the naughty minx would never live up to her puritanical name, and many gents were grateful for this flaw in her character. Saint, on the other hand, suspected that the prostitute’s ridiculous name was proof that Madame Venna had a sense of humor.

Suddenly feeling foolish, Saint was about to leave when a pretty blonde approached the couple. Whatever news the woman brought was bad for Mulcaster. Madame Venna confirmed it when she sent Mulcaster an apologetic look as she rose from the sofa. The earl swiftly came to his feet as well, but his rigid posture revealed that he was not pleased by the interruption.

Madame Venna moved with confidence and purpose as she headed for the staircase. The blonde who had ruined everything remained a few minutes longer in an attempt to appease the disgruntled patron, but Mulcaster dismissed her with a wave of his hand. With a slight frown marring her face, she departed in the opposite direction from her employer.

Mulcaster did not seem to notice. He was staring after Madame Venna as she disappeared into the corridor. Reluctantly accepting that he had been denied his prize, he headed for the staircase. In the end, one immoral lady would do as well as the next. Saint was confident the earl would find someone else to warm his bed this evening.