Simply Shameless (8 page)

"Bonjour,
Madame Dubois."

"Bonjour,
madame.
Comment-allez-vousV

"Je suis bien,
madame,
et vousV

"Bien aussi."

Madame Dubois flicked a cloth over the scrupulously clean pine table and motioned Helene to sit. Within seconds, Helene's mouth was full of warm chocolate and the buttery layers of flaked croissant. She sighed and sipped at her coffee. Madame Dubois made the best croissants in London and made sure Helene had one for breakfast every day. Over the years, Helene had employed a lot of French emigres who had fled the successive regimes on the other side of the channel. Madame Dubois had been with her for the longest time, and Helene hoped she would never leave.

Rising from the bench seat, Helene murmured her thanks, put her mug and plate in the sink, and took her apron off its hook. She doubted any of her aristocratic clients would recognize her in this dull garb. Each morning she liked to take stock of her business from top to bottom. If some of her employees thought her a little eccentric, none of them dared say it to her face. In her mind, she was responsible for every little detail, and success was in the details. She had learned that lesson well over the past eighteen years.

She took a deep breath and climbed four flights of back stairs to the very top of the house, under the attics, where the smaller, more private rooms were situated. Here, where the ceilings were lower and the hallways narrow, the scent of sex and cigar smoke hung heavily in the air. Helene checked four of the small intimate bedrooms and then headed for the more public area.

For once there was no one lying asleep on the floor, or worse still, chained to the wall.

Helene frowned. It also appeared that all the equipment had been put back in its proper place. Whips, gags, chains, masks, and leather straps all hung in their allotted spaces on the black-painted walls.

Helene picked up her skirt to avoid a dark stain on the floor.

There were patches of blood and other bodily fluids on the plain wooden boards, but that was to be expected. Clients who liked to hurt each other, or to be hurt themselves, would be disappointed in their evening's play if a little blood wasn't spilled.

The servants who cleaned the upper floor were paid higher wages to ensure their complete discretion as to what and whom they saw in these rooms. No future Prime Minister or Lord of the Admiralty would want it known that he liked to be dominated by a woman, tied up, or fucked by a man.

Helene stepped into the second room and found one of the manservants already cleaning up.

"Good morning, Michael."

"Good morning, madame." He bowed, his face pink. She noted his shirt wasn't tucked in and that his uniform was rum-pled.

"I thought I'd make a start on the rooms, madame, seeing as how I was here quite late myself last night and all that." Heiene studied his expression. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

He met her gaze without shame. "Yes, madame, I did." "Then all is well. Thank you for your efforts, but don't forget to go and get something to eat and rest before your next shift."

He grinned at her and picked up a bloodied flogger someone had left underneath a chair.

"I will. And, madame? Thank you for giving me the opportunity to work on this floor. I feel quite at home here already."

Helene inclined her head. "I'm pleased to hear that, Michael, but remember, even though you are a servant here, no one can force you to do anything you don't want to do."

"Yes, madame."

Michael licked his slightly roughened lips and glanced down at the flogger. He stroked the leather tails and shivered, a dreamy smile on his face. Helene left him to his task. She had a talent for spotting the particular sexual interests of both her paying clients and her staff and had sensed Michael's curiosity about the more extreme sexual acts early on in his employment.

She retraced her path and went down a flight of stairs, checking the dust on the spindles as she descended. Michael was happy and so were most of her clients. In her establishment, they had complete privacy to indulge themselves as they wished with other consenting adults. She never recruited prostitutes of either sex from the streets, and nothing as vulgar as money ever changed hands between her customers and staff.

Everyone who worked for her came with a personal recommendation, and every client was obliged to maintain the standards of the house or their membership was revoked.

She paused to survey the largest salon on the third floor. Most of the rooms leading from this hallway were for private fantasies or more intimate lovemaking. They were distinct from the more public rooms below, where almost anything could happen and usually did.

Those rooms were for the voyeurs and exhibitionists. The ones of this floor were for the connoisseurs of sexual passion and erotic desire. Helene tweaked a damask curtain into place and retied the sash. Not that she was judging any of the preferences expressed by her clients. It was not her place to form an opinion; she simply provided the most erotic and exotic sexual experiences the very rich could ever desire.

Helene sighed as she walked through the rooms, righting a chair, moving a floral arrangement to a different table, retrieving a lost silk shawl and mask. When had her joy in her accomplishments turned into dreariness? She had achieved her aim. She partly owned and managed the most discreet and successful pleasure house in the city of London. Her waiting list was three years long, and membership was more difficult to obtain than vouchers for Almack's or admission to White's.

She paused in the hallway and listened to the silence around her. The house was deliberately designed to conceal noise and create a sense of intimacy for her patrons. This morning it felt too quiet and too empty. Helene gripped one of the door frames until her fingers whitened. What was wrong with her? She sounded as jaded and out of sorts as her old friend Peter Howard.

Was he right? Did every man and woman come to realize that all the sexual opportunity and pleasure in the world didn't make up for that loneliness, that empty bed, that lack of companionship ? He'd certainly reduced his visits to her establishment since he'd found love.

"For goodness sake, Helene!"

In an effort to rally herself, she said the words out loud. They sank quickly into the deadening silence of the walls and thick pink carpet.

"I am not alone. And I can have any man in London with a snap of my fingers!" Helene demonstrated the snap and walked through to the main landing. "I refuse to turn into the kind of woman who walks around hallways talking to herself."

"But you are talking to yourself."

Helene gasped and peered down into the gloom of the open stairwell. Lord George Grant grinned up at her from the circular entry hall two stories below. His black hair was windblown, his cheeks red with cold, and his brown eyes sparked mischief. At forty-five, he was still a very attractive man. Helene leaned over the banister, hand to her heart.

"You wretch, you startled me. I didn't realize anyone was there!" She started down the stairs, hands held out to him. "I didn't even know you were back in London! How are you,
mon ami?"

Lord George took both her hands in his and kissed them.

"I'm well, thank you, busy with all this diplomatic nonsense with France but glad to be home for a few weeks."

She linked her arm through his and drew him toward the back of the house. "Come and talk to me while I answer my correspondence—that is, if you have the time." She hesitated. "Have you been home to your family yet?"

"To my loving wife, you mean?" He shrugged. "As far as I know, Julia's still busy fucking Lord Lambdon. I doubt she'd be pleased to see me at six-thirty in the morning."

Helene patted his hand. "I'm sure your daughter would appreciate your company, though."

Lord George threw himself into a chair and looked up at her. "Dammit, Helene, you're not my conscience. Of course I'll go and see Amanda. She's the only reason I stay married." He glanced at her under his long eyelashes. "Of course, if you wanted to marry me, I'd be out of this chair and pounding on the door of my solicitor's office in a second."

"I don't intend to marry anyone."

He sighed. "I know, but it doesn't stop me hoping."

Helene tried not to smile as she rang for some refreshments, then sat at her neat desk. Her leather journal lay on the blotter. She opened it at the correct date and read through the already lengthy list of tasks she needed to accomplish before the day ended. A notation on the following page caught her eye. Tomorrow was the twins' eighteenth birthday. She had sent them a substantial sum of money and her usual letter full of lies.

With a sigh, she shut the book and returned her attention to

Lord George. Of all the original founders, George was the one who had the most to do with the day-to-day running of the business. He dealt with the bank and relayed Helene's monthly reports to the other partners, who no longer wished to attend the meetings. He was one of the few men in London she hadn't slept with and actually trusted. Since Philip Ross, she'd learned never to bed men she genuinely liked. Friendship was far too precious to mix with the uncertainties of sex.

A knock on the door brought not only their tea but also the morning post. Helene smiled as Oliver, her newest footman, managed not to spill the tea or drop the letters. He'd been with them for only a few weeks, but he was already starting to put on weight and regain his confidence. One of the other servants had found him starving and beaten in the street after being thrown out by a brothel catering to men and had brought him to Helene.

George accepted a cup of tea and sipped at it, his expression thoughtful. Helene sorted through her mail, pausing when something caught her interest.

"There is a letter from Sudbury Court. Isn't that Lord Derek's country house?"

"Aye, it is." George sat up. "I wonder what the old goat wants." Helene frowned at him, broke the black wax seal, and scanned the single sheet. Her hand flew to her cheek.
"Mon
Dieu,
this is horrible." "What?"

"It is from Lord Derek's solicitor." Helene stared at George. "They are both dead from the smallpox. Lord Derek died quickly. Angelique seemed to have recovered but succumbed to S an infection of the lungs." She managed to pass him the letter. "Here, read it for yourself."

Lord Derek had always been a staunch supporter of hers. His wife had been Helene's friend. Images of the vibrant woman she had helped rescue from the Bastille crowded her mind. Despite the harsh rules of society, Angelique had insisted on claiming Helene as her friend. They'd spent many hours together speaking their native tongue, sharing secrets and happier memories. Most women tended not to like Helene.

"It seems the whole house caught the smallpox from the new kitchen maid." Lord George gave a disgusted sigh. "You would've thought they would have tried out Jenner's vaccine."

Helene dabbed at the tears on her cheeks. "Lord Derek was always a little skeptical of science, wasn't he? He preferred to place his trust in God." She swallowed hard. "At least they are together. At least neither of them is left to mourn alone."

George studied the letter. "It seems they were buried in some haste as well."

"Not that I would have been welcome at the funeral anyway." Helene tried to smile. "But I would've liked to have paid my respects. Perhaps we can go and visit their graves. I would love to say good-bye properly."

He met her gaze, his expression serious. "Of course we will go. I'd be delighted to escort you." He frowned. "I wonder who will inherit his property and his title. They had no children, and he is the heir presumptive of his uncle, the Earl of Swansford."

"Trust you to be thinking such mercenary thoughts on such a dreadful day."

"I'm not being mercenary, Helene." He tossed her the letter. "Unless Lord Derek bequeathed the shares back to you in his will, whoever inherits the estate inherits fifteen percent of your business."

Helene put the letter back on the desk and smoothed it with her fingers. "I hadn't thought about that. I've been meaning to ask Lord Derek to sell me back his stake for years, but he always seemed so thrilled to be involved in something so scandalous."

George finished his tea and set the cup down. "I wouldn't fret about it. You still own seventy percent of the business, so whatever happens, you have a controlling interest."

Helene fixed him with a sharp stare. "I would own even more if you allowed me to buy back your share as the Duke of Diable Delamere and Viscount Harcourt-DeVere have done."

His face darkened. "They don't need the income this place generates. I do. Former gentleman spies and diplomats aren't paid very well, you know."

"I know and I apologize." She sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to contact the solicitors and discreetly try and buy the shares back through them."

George got to his feet and stretched. "That might take a while, my dear. An estate that complex won't be sorted out overnight."

"I realize that, but it will probably be easier to deal with a lawyer than with the new heir."

George chuckled. "It will surely be one of the more unusual inheritances a man might receive. A title
and
part ownership in a brothel."

"It's not a brothel, George."

He winked at her as he headed for the door. "I know. And now I am off to take breakfast with my daughter and steal her away from her lessons for a few hours before I fall into my lonely bed."

Helene nodded. "If there is a memorial service to be held in London for Angelique and Lord Derek, will you escort me there?"

He bowed. "If my wife doesn't expect my escort, and somehow I doubt that she will, I'm at your service."

Helene waited until the door swung shut behind him before resting her now-aching head on her hand. Sometimes George still surprised her. His lack of distress over a man and his wife he had known for almost twenty years seemed cold. In the last few months, since his wife had taken a lover, he'd seemed to grow even more distant and cutting. It was as if by shutting off his emotions for his wife, he had shut down everything soft inside him as well.