A Wild Night's Bride (4 page)

“Game?” Phoebe snorted indelicately. “That’s all this really is, isn’t it? One big game.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Andrews nodded. “But one all the gents indulge in. With any luck, you could land an earl like our dear Elizabeth Ferren. Lord Derby has become all but her lapdog these days.”

With a sudden feeling of detachment, Phoebe sorted through the calling cards, selecting the most conspicuous. Heavy stock, cream-colored, gilt-edged. She read aloud, “Viscount Ludovic DeVere.”

“Lord DeVere, is it?” Mrs. Andrews chuckled. “Either his last light o’ love didn’t last long, or he’s soon to cut ‘er loose if he’s thrown his hat in the ring.”

“What do you know of him?”

“A wild one, is he. They call him ‘The Devil DeVere,’ but he’s generous as a prince with his women...until he tires of ‘em, of course.”

“I think
princely
generosity is a grossly exaggerated term.” Phoebe couldn’t quell her bitter cynicism.

Mrs. Andrews’ brows lifted. “Ye refer to the affair of our Prince of Wales and Mrs. Robinson?”

“Of course,” Phoebe replied softly. “What else could I possibly mean?”

“A sordid business, that,” the wardrobe mistress said. “And one you best take heed of lest you fall into the same trap. Poor Mary. Do you know the whole of it?” Her eyes glimmered with eagerness to recount the tale.

“Only whispers and gossip.” Phoebe’s own voice was little more than a whisper. She studied the contents of her teacup.

“’Twas a command performance of
Florizel and Perdita
. Must have been three...no…four years hence, the season before you joined the theater.”

It was precisely the season before. The ill-fated affair between the prince and his actress had indirectly served as the impetus for her own entry into the theater world. Young Prince George was charming, polished, and had a smile so sweet, he was predicted by his late tutor to become either the finest gentleman in Europe or the greatest blackguard. Phoebe’s own experience proved he was destined for the latter.

“We were staging Mr. Sheridan’s adaptation of
A Winter’s Tale
with Mary Robinson playing the lead,” Mrs. Andrews droned, oblivious to Phoebe’s abstraction. “The prince never took his eyes off her the entire night. The curtain had barely descended before he sent a lackey to her door with a
billet doux.
He addressed it to Perdita, signed
your
Florizel.” Mrs. Andrews chuckled.

Of course he would have.
He was impetuous. He loved Shakespeare. It was what had first drawn them together four and a half years ago in the queen’s library at Buckingham House. They had shared many stolen hours reading the bard’s plays. And later, they had shared much more... The lump in Phoebe’s throat threatened to choke her.

“Mary played coy for a good while, keeping him on tenterhooks for months, but her resistance only increased the prince’s fervor. Finally, he became so desperately besotted he wrote her a bond for twenty thousand pounds to give up the stage and become his mistress.”

“Twenty thousand,” Phoebe repeated blankly. He’d offered another a princely sum for what
she
had given for free. The reminder nearly made her heart seize.

“Can you imagine any woman commanding such a fortune?” Mrs. Andrews exclaimed. “But, of course, the money was never paid.”

No. It wouldn’t have been.
As in her case, his bond had been as empty as the promise it represented.

“Poor dear lost both her career and her reputation after that. When she finally threatened to make public his love letters, the king paid her off. Five thousand, I hear she got for returning
Florizel’s
amorous correspondence. Last I heard, she’d taken the money and hied off to Paris. Are you taking ill, duckie?” the older woman asked.

“N—no.” Phoebe vigorously shook her head. “It’s just all the excitement. What do you know of these other gentlemen?” she asked, glad for an opportunity to change the subject.

Mrs. Andrews took the cards, studying each, sorting them into two stacks. “You want none of this lot.” She made a face. “Those you may discard without a second thought. Now these others.” She tapped the pile with her index finger. “You would do well to make their acquaintance.”

“How am I to do that without accepting any invitations?”

“You must venture about in public now to where the titled gentlemen congregate,” Mrs. Andrews advised. “There are public events—balls, masquerades, the various pleasure gardens, and of course, private parties.” Her face lit up at the last. “Oh, my! I never would have thought of it. There could never be a better opportunity!”

“What?” Phoebe asked.

“A month ago, Madam Hayes offered me a bit of work for a private entertainment at King’s Place.”

“King’s Place?” Phoebe was appalled but couldn’t help her curiosity. “Isn’t that a...”

“A bawdy house?” Mrs. Andrews chuckled. “’Tis, indeed, much more than that. ‘Tis the most exclusive nunnery in all London, luvie. Some of the girls there command a hundred guineas a night.”

“A hundred guineas? That’s enough to support an entire family for two years!”

“And the gents pay it for a night of pleasure without so much as batting an eye.”

“But what kind of work would you possibly do for
a brothel?
”

“Costumes, of course!” Mrs. Andrews laughed. “Madam Hayes has commissioned me several times in the past for clients who wish to enact certain fantasies. Some require elaborate costuming, but these men always pay handsomely for such things.”

“Men like DeVere, you mean?”

“Aye, and others. There are few who can afford such extravagant pleasures, but the ones who can will surely be there for the Feast of Venus. ‘Tis the best place to find your patron.”

Phoebe could almost see the wheels of machination working in the older woman’s mind. “I’m to deliver the costumes later today. You will come as my assistant.”

“You mean to sneak me into a brothel?” Phoebe was incredulous. No decent woman would ever pursue such a course. She felt akin to a snake shedding its skin, as if along with her old life, her old values were also slowly slipping away. Yet, it was the path she had already chosen—to become the plaything of a rich and powerful man who could advance her career. If only given the chance, Phoebe knew she could make a name on the stage. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement, she rationalized, really little different from most marriages, which were contracted for mutual gain, a dowry traded for a title.

Phoebe had long ago given up hope of marriage. She had no dowry and had forsaken her virginity for the empty promises of a lover who’d abandoned her. She had nothing left to bargain with if she sought a respectable match. No, that option was long past.

There are much worse things.
A life as a kept woman was a far cry from the desperate straits of a Covent Garden harlot, dependent on a string of anonymous patrons for her bread.
It is not the same at all.
For starters,
she
would be in control.
She
would choose the man, the one man to whom she would sell her body...the devil with whom she would ultimately bargain her soul.

That last thought echoed in her mind as she idly flicked the gilt-edged card.
Ludovic, Viscount DeVere. The Devil DeVere.

“Aye, duckie.” Mrs. Andrews winked. “At two hundred guineas a head, we could never pay for such a thing in our lifetime. As my assistant, however, we will get you inside. Once our work is done, you will pose as a gentleman’s consort, decked out in all the splendor we can muster.”

“Splendor?” Phoebe’s face fell along with her spirits. “How am I to manage that? I have no money.”

“Ye need not look so fretful, luv.” The older woman retrieved an item from her pocket with her plump hand and laid it atop the calling cards.

“A key?” Phoebe picked it up with a frown.

“To the costume warehouse.” The older woman flashed a rare smile that revealed two missing teeth. “I tell you, no duchess in all the land can boast of better finery than the wardrobe mistress of Covent Garden Theatre.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

King’s Place, St. James Square

Ned and Ludovic entered the notorious King’s Place brothel, the most elite of the once-famed courtesan, Charlotte Hayes’ four exclusive houses of pleasure. Escorted by loincloth-garbed lackeys who inspected their invitations, they advanced into the central receiving chamber, transformed into an enchanting tropical paradise.

Ned was struck at once by the intoxicating and nearly overwhelming fragrance of exotic flowers, the vivid and vibrant visual display of colors, and the hypnotic reverberation of pulsing drums. His gaze was drawn to the soaring ceiling where a massive chandelier was cleverly disguised as a full moon by a huge blue-tinted, blown-glass bubble that hung suspended over a pool of water in which frolicked a half-dozen beautiful and
very naked
young women. This scene, laid out amidst a veritable jungle of potted palms and tropical blooms, illuminated by the smoky, flickering flames of myriad flambeaux, stole his breath.

“Our Queen Oberea truly has outdone herself.” DeVere flashed a delighted smile and freely caressed the bare breast of the sultry island maiden who offered them each a small, discreetly wrapped package and drinks served in hollowed coconut shells.

Ned accepted the former with an inquiring look.

“Cundums, my friend. Nifty little implements to ensure one’s safety,” DeVere answered. He accepted the bowl, inspecting the greenish-tinged contents with a dubious look. He sniffed and made a face. “Horse piss smells better! What the devil is it?”

“It is called kava kava.” The girl giggled. “’Tis the native drink of the Otaheitians, guaranteed to fill you with well-being. Also believed to have aphrodisiac properties,” she added with a wink.

“My cock needs little encouragement,” DeVere said. “But what the hell.”

“It has a very bitter taste,” she warned. “Best to drink it all at once.”

DeVere handed a bowl to Ned with a challenging lift of his brow. “Time to enter into the spirit of the game, ol’ chum. Bottoms up.” Raising the bowls, they drank at once, DeVere laughing as Ned sputtered.

Ned feared he would embarrass himself by gagging at the nasty assault but somehow managed to swallow it down. Almost immediately his mouth became tingly and his tongue distinctly numb. “Gad! I’d have liefer thwallowed the horth pith!”

DeVere roared and beckoned the girl for another round.

“Not on your life,” Ned managed to enunciate more clearly. He scanned the room, noting about two dozen other men, such as Charles Fox and Lord Carlisle, notorious gamesters both, and DeVere’s frequent carousing partners dating back to their university years. Ned’s attention rested on the youngest of the exclusive coterie who laughing the loudest and dallying with the serving wenches, already appeared well into his cups. He was a slightly rotund fellow but very richly dressed. “Is that who I think?” he asked, still struggling to make his tongue function properly.

DeVere cast his gaze on the group. “Our newly liberated Prince of Wales? It is, indeed. The king and queen kept him on a very tight leash while he was in his nonage. Until only a few months ago, the poor chap was followed everywhere by his priggish governor who, of course, reported his every movement to our equally sanctimonious king. Now turned one-and-twenty, he appears quite intent on making up for lost time.”

Ned had to agree. “Taking up with the likes of Malden and Charles Fox, he must be bent on causing his father an apoplexy. A prince after your own heart, DeVere?”

DeVere smirked. “Given he’s already forged alliances with all His Majesty’s most vocal opponents, he just may be, indeed. Perhaps they’ll make a proper king of the pup yet.”

When Ned turned back to DeVere, the viscount was shedding his clothes. “What the devil are you doing?” Ned asked.

DeVere tilted his head to the half-dozen nymphs bathing in the makeshift lagoon with a low chuckle. “If I am to get my two hundred pounds worth of lovely, feminine flesh, I intend to begin now.” Divested only of coat and cravat, his progress arrested when the mistress of ceremonies appeared.

Although the bloom was long gone from the rose, she had lost neither her talent for theatrics nor the ability to command a room. In the regal style of the island queen she portrayed, Charlotte Hayes made her grand entrance on a carpet of flowers amidst a fanfare of drums and waving palm fronds. Her elaborate coif was adorned with flowers and plumes, her gown woven of red feathers with a girdle intricately embroidered with hibiscus and accented with seed pearls.

Like a queen attending her court, she mounted an altar-like pedestal erected beside the lagoon and addressed her guests with an ebullient smile and a flourish of her red-feathered fan.

“My esteemed lords, dear gentlemen, and lovely ladies,” she mouthed the latter with a wink. “As my most honored guests, you are privileged this night to behold the ceremonial feast in which I, Queen Oberea, shall present to you the most beautiful and unsullied Otaheitian maidens whose bodies, hands, and mouths have been schooled in the arts of love in
all
of the diverse and delicious varieties.”