The Veiled Heart (The Velvet Basement Book 1)

The Veiled Heart
© Else Holland Books. All Rights Reserved, except where otherwise noted.

London 1898

The sun had long gone down and fog hung over the city like a reluctant and indifferent lover. It hovered over the skyline, not fully committing to either its descent or its departure, a languid libertine measuring the extent of its desire to slip into the waiting passage of streets below.

A fitting setting as she sat in the cab outside the notorious Velvet Basement, London’s top-end illicit pleasure shop catering to all things related to sex, from the practical to the perverse. Special needs and custom orders welcome, or so the write-up said.

Surprisingly, it was housed under her favorite bookshop. All those visits and no idea what had been under her well-clad feet. Wasn’t that just the nature of life?

Lady Miriam Rothbury pushed the last pin through the black lace veil hiding her face and into her hat.

It hadn’t taken much to get on the mailing list for updated booklets of London’s underground pleasures. Reading them opened up the world of masculine wants and desires. The skills and talents of the women at various establishments were documented and shared in great detail, along with the latest shops, establishments and trends; the current being the disproportionate number of flagellation brothels. The weight of the gender hierarchy was obviously sending men rushing to their submissive knees begging for the burn of the whip at the hands of a woman. Ironic.

But more importantly she had a guide for where to shop and where to visit.

The carriage rocked as the driver stepped down.

Nerves fluttered as she collected her things from the carriage bench and left the security of the cab.

A small brass bell rang discordantly as she stepped over the threshold of the prestigious Bond Street Bookshop. The squat, balding manager hurried forward.

“Good evening.” Her voice was clear and confident despite the ripples of nerves.

From memory Mr. Howard was a very active and attentive shop manager; he’d recommended Elizabeth Robins Pennell’s book
Over the Alps on a Bicycle
, illustrated by her loving husband, Joseph Pernell. Yet another assumption about her late marriage, that she and Freddy had been London’s greatest sweethearts. She’d refused to buy the book on principle.

“Oh, dear. Dear, dear me, I regret to say we are closed. Is your carriage still here?” He peered outside as if the sight of her cab would be a clear path to ushering her out.

Wonderful, he clearly didn’t recognize her. The knowledge sent a nice charge of confidence through her. Miriam took a deep breath and drew herself up, taking the few inches advantage she had on him in height. She needed it. This was the first time she had negotiated to enter an illicit premises.

“But you are not closed, now are you, or I wouldn’t be inside.”

His face went momentarily blank.

She understood, he was operating from assumptions about why she was here, the latest journal or novel. That was how the world worked. It was just that this time, he was mistaken.

Mr. Howard went to speak and she lifted her reticule enticingly into view.

“I’m here for something a little more unusual. I have it on good authority that I am at the right place to purchase some
velvet
.”

His interest flared as the clasp clicked open, blossomed into full attention as she flashed the neatly folded pound notes tucked within its soft, pink folds.

Now they were speaking the same language.

She may not be the usual type but she had money.

In less than a few moments of whispered exchange, Miriam slipped through the opening of a pivoting bookcase and started down the dimly lit stairs to the basement shop beneath.

From the practical to the perverse. The words from the booklet swirled around her. Anyone could be down there. Her chest tightened and her steps slowed to a halt.

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” her voice whispered in the narrow space.

Seedy stairs and dark basements full of lascivious men hadn’t occurred to her as she thought this plan up in her sun-drenched parlor.

Miriam looked behind her, a narrow shaft of light ran the full height of the pivoting door. Back there was a world she knew, of author talks, books and periodicals, everything that could be discussed over afternoon tea.

However, in reality, the things of real importance that had happened to her in the last few years, they were not subjects that could be discussed over tea. They most likely would never be discussed. That fact, that reality, was what brought her to this point, not a whim or fancy but an act of pure survival.

Turning back was not an option.

Miriam eased her fingers from the rail and willed herself to take the next step down and then the next.

Right now, she needed to keep her nerve and stay her course.

The narrow stairs under her feet made the descent a little precarious. And there was a musky, pungent smell held in the small space by a lack of fresh flowing air. It foreshadowed what would be in store at the bottom.

She took a crisp white scented handkerchief from her coat and held it over her nose, Lily of the Valley flooded her senses as she pushed the black velvet curtain aside at the last step. Her gaze took in the few cloaked men who turned away as she stepped into the room.

The solid beat of her pulse thumped as she peered through the small spaces of her veil and found her bearings.

It was a notably large space with high ceilings, subdued lighting, and sultry shadows that wrapped the shelves and display cases. Rich brown wallpaper covered the walls with a burgundy patina and the floor gleamed of polished wood.

The whole impression was of an opulent bordello, one that was regularly cleaned and dusted.

Miriam placed the handkerchief back in her coat; the faint scent of the perfume settled in her veil.

The air was better; it smelled of leathers and wood polish.

And, thank heaven, a woman was behind the counter.

Miriam’s fingers tightened around her reticule and she tilted her chin up. She was here for a worthy cause.

The already dimly lit room took on foreboding shadows as her veil allowed only small glimpses of her environment as she navigated toward the counter. But there was no mistaking the type of goods sold in the shop.

The tables contained boxes filled with postcards of plump derrieres, breasts of all sizes and shapes, and their owners in every situation imaginable to the erotic and lurid mind. A rabbit warren of shelves and glass-fronted cabinets covered the space. They housed all manner of objects, belts, buckles, batons, and whips. Large wood and stone members sanded down into a gleaming and insert-able shine. Black in an array of all types of materials; the textures designed to be experienced on the skin, for both pleasure and pain.

With a different personal history, she might be shocked, even confounded by some of the items. Unfortunately, she understood the use for which a good many of them were designed.

Plush red velvet couches with potted palms and a large Persian carpet filled the area in front of the counter.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” The attendant had a rather striking angelic face and looked much too young to have lost the ability to be surprised.

Miriam tightened her hold on her reticule and glanced about, privacy was not going to be possible.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” the angel asked.

The expected look of mockery didn’t come. Yet her limbs felt too long and awkward in the space. A small cough cleared her throat.

“French letters.” Miriam’s discreet whisper found its echo in a young clear voice.

“A sheath is it, ma’am? Why, we have a good selection for your consideration.” The attendant’s right hand motioned in the direction of a man further down the counter. Under the veil, her face was burning at the announcement of her purpose to the shop.

Nevertheless, this was not the place to get embarrassed.

Bracing, Miriam turned. The man was tall and exceedingly broad. There was a focus and presence about him. A confidence in his own skin that made her straighten her spine a fraction.

He was going through a box that had a partially torn card with the words ‘Sheaths ten pence’ written in neat letters. He lifted first one and then another sheath out of the box, each apparently different and, it seemed, unsatisfactory, as he kept searching.

Were there really so many types to choose from? The thought was disconcerting. That meant the need to know the benefits and drawbacks of each type. Know any differences in maintenance and handling.

“I’ll take them all.” She would deal with the issues later.

The angel didn’t show the slightest hesitation as she turned, took the three steps to the end of the counter, and extricated the box from the man.

How odd. Even from the end of the counter, he was making her overly aware of her body, the stiffness in her stance, the beat of her heart, the tightness in her throat.

Under-the-breath words became louder until the angel enunciated clearly in their small, shared space:

“You will have to negotiate that with madam over there. These are all sold.”

That sounded very awkward.

It was better to look away in these sorts of exchanges, and she did. Just like she had when her now dead husband had opened his trousers in a curtained vestibule of the opera theater and flexed with purposeful precision into the chorus girl from the third act.

Unlike her, some men had more courage. The man from down the counter now stood right next to her. Miriam looked away, her pulse racing.

“Perhaps you would need one less than you have purchased?”

His breath infiltrated the lace of her veil and tickled her cheek. A clean, minty scent.

It was an act of will to keep her face averted as a shiver of awareness ran over her.

A thousand retorts flashed somewhere in her mind, but he’d captured her voice as surely as a canary trapped in a miner’s cage.

She managed to shake her head, no, with a modicum of conviction.

“Surely madam has not counted how many there are? One more or less would not disrupt your purpose.”

A snicker came from behind a set of shelves.

She should be embarrassed to be here, to be bargaining with a man about sexual aids. Fortunately, shame had long gone from her suite of emotions.

She pushed her spine up straighter and turned her body further away from him, yet her voice was still in hiding.

What was wrong with her?
A further shake of her head,
no
, was all that was possible.

That all too solid pulse of hers thumped as if it were pushing gallons of blood through her body in heavy hard beats.

The angel stepped in. “We’ll have more next week. If madam wants them all, she can have them all. What matter how many there are?”

“Or that you can reuse them,” came another snicker from a dark corner.

The hand that clasped her upper arm was firm. He didn’t let go. A touch that showed purpose, not coercion as he turned her to face him.

The reality was she had left her station at the door.

It was natural to look at the hand first. It was large with thick square-tipped fingers, the nails neatly trimmed and manicured. Not the pale, slender hands of her late husband. These were masculine, earthier in their solid rectangular length.

Her focus moved up his arm and looked at his coat. Black or maybe dark blue? It was hard to say looking through her veil and given the low light in the shop. The collar was lifted up as if against the wind; but in here, more likely against perusal.

His neck showed signs of dark stubble as did a firm square chin that creased in the middle.

Inside her chest was an odd tremor, but she continued her inspection as she shook off his hold. He let go and yet didn’t step back.

Miriam tucked her reticule closer to her chest.

Through the translucent spaces in her veil, she could see full, lush lips. Instinctively, she knew this was where she should stop. That she should step back, look down, and ignore him. But how did you stop when there was a slight twist of a smile at one corner of his mouth? He was enjoying this.

Her eyebrows came down; however that strange tremor returned making it hard to hold on to her annoyance.

“Perhaps madam would be tempted with double the price? A return even the stock exchange will not be able to match.”

He could see she didn’t need the money, and when he smiled with rakish charm her capacity for logical thought lost its hold and started to plummet into a dark abyss, far out of reach when she needed it the most.

That ripple in her chest went wild.

No coherent response presented itself. The pulse of her heart thudded in her joints. In her wrists, her elbows, the soft flesh behind her knees. Her skin was awake, alight with sensitivity as her clothes lay on it. Her body assailed her with sensations and riotous thoughts that made the legendary fireworks at Vauxhall passé.

That wasn’t the worst though. No, the worst was that he was making all the shadowy corners inside her wake up. As if he had taken a torch of gleaming light and was walking the narrow avenues of long forgotten emotions, illuminating her hopes, her desires, and rousing them from a slumber best left undisturbed.

It was remarkable.

Disconcerting.

He was a stranger, a man indifferent to her. Yet he was setting her aflame with his proximity and close regard.

There really was nothing for it except to continue her inspection and hope she had passed the worst.

His nose was straight and solid, and with the darkest of eyebrows. They arched in question over her sure downfall.

Her pulse beat faster as her breath became shallow.

Miriam closed her eyes and then reopened them. He was still there and so were those damn eyes.

She gazed in confirmation at the clearest blue. The color of the Greek ocean as it sparkled a liquid turquoise.

She thought of it as the color of her salvation. The color had circled her husband’s yacht, as he lay asleep below deck. Asleep, he’d been oblivious to the fact that she had taken off all her clothes, jumped into that color of promise, and floated as if her life had meant nothing; and at the time, it hadn’t.