Nicole Jordan (20 page)

B
ut of
course, my lord,” Venus said in her husky voice. “I understand perfectly why you would wish to free your ward of this danger. And I will certainly use every means at my disposal to assist you.”

Venus was half-reclining on a brocade settee, sipping her morning chocolate and looking the picture of sinful decadence in a lacy peignoir that did little to conceal her ample charms. Surprisingly, when Thorne had called upon her late this morning, she’d received him in her private boudoir rather than the small salon where she normally conducted business.

His unusual request had clearly surprised Venus, as well.

“I am curious, however,” she mused, “why you thought to apply to me. Could you not challenge Mr. Kneighly to a duel and frighten him away? You have the reputation of being a deadly shot.”

Sitting at ease in an adjacent chair, Thorne returned a charming smile. “Threatening to kill him would be the surest way to earn my ward’s wrath, I’m afraid. And it would have no effect in diminishing her affections for him. Amy has a deep romantic streak. If she considers herself thwarted in love by her evil guardian, she is likely to do something foolish, such as elope with the bounder.”

“Ah, I see. You could perhaps send an emissary in your stead to persuade him to terminate his suit.”

“To break his bones, you mean?”

It was Venus’s turn to smile. “Precisely. Surely you have grooms or footmen or such who could intimidate him and use physical coercion if need be. If not, then I can oblige you. I employ two footmen primarily for their brawn, in the event I need assistance with difficult patrons.”

Macky had mentioned two muscular bruisers, Thorne remembered. In fact, one of them had admitted him into the club this morning.

He shook his head. “Certainly I could have the job done. But I fear if Amy’s true love is wounded, he would only present an even more sympathetic figure in her eyes. I also considered bribing Kneighly to leave town, or finding some means of leverage against him. A man with his gaming debts would doubtless have vulnerabilities I could exploit. But the end result would be the same. No, Venus, my ward needs to be shown decisive proof that Kneighly has a passion for some other woman. That will be the surest way to convince Amy that he doesn’t love her and is interested only in her fortune.”

“I have indeed heard of Mr. Kneighly’s gaming debts,” Venus said thoughtfully.

“Then you know him?”

“We have met, although he has never attended my club. I make it my business to know all the gentlemen in London who could be potential patrons.”

“I suspected as much.”

“So you wish one of my girls to lure him away from your ward, my lord?”

“Yes. I would imagine several of your lovely doves might appeal to him. What about the petite blonde—Kitty, I believe her name is? Her coloring is even a bit like Amy’s, although she is much better endowed than my ward.”

“Kitty might do very well. You have a good eye.”

Thorne smiled. “Thank you, my sweet. I am willing to pay handsomely for your services, of course.”

“Then I can promise you will be satisfied with the outcome. By the time we are through, your ward will clearly be convinced that Mr. Kneighly’s passions lie elsewhere.”

“Excellent.”

Thorne hesitated. He couldn’t question Venus about her relationship to the late Thomas Forrester, but there should be no harm in mentioning Nathaniel. “I know Nathaniel would be grateful to you for helping to protect his sister.”

Venus’s green eyes immediately darkened, and she lowered her eyelashes, as if to hide her sorrow. “I am pleased to assist.”

“Nathaniel was quite fond of you, Venus. He spoke highly of you.”

At that, she glanced up at Thorne. “What did he say?”

Thorne let his lips form a secretive half-smile. “Nathaniel was a gentleman, of course, not the type to boast of his amorous conquests.”

Frowning, she averted her gaze.

“He was also very fond of your club. In fact, this was his destination the night he was killed, did you know?”

“I suspected as much.” Her voice was a bit hoarse. “His death was a great shock…and a terrible shame.”

“Indeed,” Thorne agreed, his tone grim. Noting that Venus wouldn’t meet his eyes, he resisted the urge to wrap his fingers around her lovely throat and shake her. Instead, he rose languidly from his chair.

“Well, then, madam,” Thorne said, bending to kiss the hand she offered him, “since you have agreed to address the problem of my ward’s fortune-hunter, I will take my leave.”

“Are you certain I cannot tempt you to remain awhile longer?” With a provocative gesture, Venus rearranged her peignoir over her lush breasts, clearly issuing him a sexual invitation. To distract him from thoughts of Nathaniel, perhaps?

“I am flattered, love, but regrettably, I have other business to attend to.”

Shutting the boudoir door behind him, he descended the stairs to the front entrance, where the same hulking footman opened the door for him.

He didn’t think it was his imagination when he felt the bruiser’s gaze boring into his back, but he controlled the urge to look behind him, instead making a mental reminder to ask Macky more about Venus’s hired ruffians.

Curiously, Thorne realized, the scowling footman was still watching him when he settled into his coach once more. Perhaps because his visit here this morning had struck a nerve? If so, he was even more glad to have involved Venus, for it might lead him to clues regarding Nathaniel’s death. And if not, he would soon have the problem of Amy’s fortune-hunter solved.

He didn’t regret his course, even if it relied on rather underhanded means. Diana had accused him of being devious, Thorne remembered, but he wouldn’t hesitate to set honor aside for a good reason. And to his mind, safeguarding the dependents under his protection was the best reason in the world.

He learned the names of the bruisers when he met Macky in a smoke-filled tavern near Covent Garden two afternoons later.

“Sam Birkin is the larger one,” Macky said over a pint of ale. “Billy Finch is the ugliest—scowls all the time. Kitty says they both have been in Venus’s employ since she opened her club.”

“And did Kitty have anything to say about Venus and Nathaniel’s relationship?” Thorne asked.

Macky nodded. “Aye, they were lovers, all right. Kitty said it shocked her a bit, since Venus rarely invites any man into her bed. But Nate was sharing it for at least a week or two before he died.”

Thorne gave a grim frown. “I wonder that I never noticed.”

“He likely didn’t want you to know. Kitty said it seemed they were attempting to keep their affair a secret, or at least Nathaniel always entered the back way.” Macky suddenly brightened. “But I learned one bit of information that will please you.”

“What?” Thorne asked, trying to control his impatience.

“Madam Venus once worked as a lightskirt at another club—Mme Fouchet’s. Do you know it?”

Thorne’s eyebrow rose thoughtfully. “Yes, I know it.”

Mme Fouchet’s was the most elite sin club in London, catering purely to patrons of sexual fantasies. The madam herself was a Frenchwoman who, with her noble protector, had fled the Terror in France, and then opened her own business when he’d died.

Thorne raised his pint in salute. “My compliments, friend. You’ve just unearthed the first promising clue in our case.”

Macky raised his own pint in acknowledgment. “Let’s hope it leads to some fruitful answers.”

Mme Fouchet did not appear surprised to see Lord Thorne when he called early that evening at her sin club, several hours before her fantasy entertainment normally began. But she did seem highly curious with his choice of topics.

“I am interested in one of your present rivals,” Thorne began once he was seated in the Frenchwoman’s elegant salon. “Madam Venus. I understand you once employed her here?”

Mme Fouchet eyed him keenly, but she answered his question without hesitation. “I did indeed, my lord.”

“I hoped you could tell me about Venus.”

“She performed here for two years, with great success. Her services were highly sought after by my patrons. I regretted to see her go.”

“Why did she leave?”

Fouchet’s smile was wry. “Because she was clever enough to realize the profit in running an establishment such as this instead of working in one. It was an amicable parting, and I have occasionally encountered her since. But she is busy with her own club. As you said, we are rivals.”

“Venus is not her real name, is it?”

“
Mais non.
My girls usually adopt a fictitious appellation to make them seem more mysterious. I believe her true name was Madeline. I recall it because I once had a cousin by the same name, although with a French spelling.”

“And Madeline’s surname?”

“Forgive me, my lord, but it escapes me—if indeed I ever knew it. The girls who come to me are not eager to share their pasts with me, you comprehend?”

Thorne presumed it was because their pasts must have been difficult ones for them to end up at a brothel, even a high-class one such as this. “So when she first applied here, you readily accepted her?”

“Immediately, my lord. Venus was unique. Not only a beauty, but very tall with brilliant red hair and green eyes. That combination is very appealing to many gentlemen.”

“Was there anything else you remember about her, Mme Fouchet?”

The Frenchwoman pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Now that you ask…Once she mentioned that she had lost her parents tragically. I seem to recall that they were killed violently many years ago. Venus was still angry about their deaths.
Pardonez-moi,
but that is all that I remember.”

Thorne smiled easily as he mentally tucked away the discovery that Venus was an orphan. “One last question, madam, if I may. Are you acquainted with an Englishman by the name of Thomas Forrester?”

Her frown deepened. “I don’t believe so. But I see many gentlemen here who do not reveal to me their true names. They are too…how do you say…bashful?”

“I expect bashful is an eloquent description,” Thorne said, smiling as he rose. “You have been extremely helpful. If you think of anything further about Venus, will you send me word?”

“
Oui, monseigneur,
I will be most happy to accommodate you.”

With a gracious smile, she accepted the sheaf of banknotes Thorne handed her.

“For your trouble thus far, madam. I trust I may rely upon your discretion?”

“But of course, my lord. I would not remain in business long if I shared my clients’ secrets.”

Thorne had hoped Mme Fouchet’s recollections would lead to more revelations about Venus. Several days later, however, he could claim no more progress on that front. Kitty had no clue what Venus’s last name might be. And the search for Thomas Forrester’s past was proving just as elusive.

John Yates had interviewed neighbors of the late Forrester, with little results. The man apparently had kept to himself, and when his lodging house burned down with him in it, no one had even claimed his charred body for burial. The other residents of the house had sought new lodgings elsewhere in London, so Yates was now attempting to track them down on the chance someone might shed some light on the late Englishman’s past.

For his own next steps, Thorne intended to question the other Guardians currently working in London—some half-dozen of them—to see if they’d ever run across Forrester during any of their missions. He also meant to brief the Foreign Office about events thus far. Yet the lack of any concrete evidence was beginning to frustrate him.

No doubt, Thorne reflected, the stalemate was at the heart of his disquiet since returning to London. But in truth, ever since Nathaniel’s death last spring, he’d experienced a vague dissatisfaction with his life that he had never openly acknowledged.

Until now. Only now was he willing to admit that he felt a discontent that was palpable.

The feeling was caused by more than an impasse in the investigation, Thorne suspected. He couldn’t blame his personal affairs, though. His father had ceased to plague him with matrimonial prospects, and the gossip about his betrothal had died down to mere curiosity. Under his aunt’s auspices, Diana was gradually being accepted by the ton, and he had confidence that she would eventually be admitted into the academy to train.

It was possible, however, that the reason for his discontent was Diana herself. Quite unexpectedly Thorne found himself missing her. Perhaps because in the past week since her interview, he’d had little chance for private conversation with her. He’d managed to see Diana every day by arranging at least one social engagement with her, but even then, they always seemed to be surrounded by crowds.

Chiefly she was busy preparing Amy for the start of the Season with shopping expeditions and imperative morning calls on the arbiters of the beau monde. And when Thorne rode or drove with Diana in the park, they were accosted by friends and acquaintances and inquisitive social climbers. On three separate evenings he had escorted the ladies out: to Drury Lane Theatre for a play, to a private music concert given by one of Lady Hennessy’s cronies, and to a small rout party to officially introduce Amy and his cousin Cecily into polite company. But he rarely had a chance to be alone with Diana.

He should have been satisfied with the tepid state of their relationship. His attraction for her was like an addiction, and the greater the distance he kept between them, the better chance he had of conquering his craving.

Late that afternoon, however, Thorne couldn’t stop himself from calling at her studio in the hope of catching Diana there. She’d told him she wanted to work for a few hours before their evening engagements. He could use the valid excuse of reporting progress on their plan to best Amy’s fortune-hunter. And also to confirm that Diana, along with Amy and Cecily, had been granted vouchers to attend this evening’s subscription ball at Almack’s—the exclusive assembly hall where only the cream of society was admitted.