Chapter Six
The evening air held the crisp bite of autumn as Ashley’s carriage rolled to a stop outside Farah’s townhouse.
Through the brightly lit windows, she could see figures moving about—the card party was already well underway.
Her hands trembled as she smoothed down her emerald silk gown.
The ladies had gathered the things she’d need for her disguise, and they awaited her inside.
A wave of warmth engulfed her as she thought of her friends and their loyalty.
“Steady,” she whispered to herself. “You can do this.”
The butler admitted her with his usual formality, and Ashley followed the sound of feminine laughter to the drawing room. Farah had kept the card night small. Just the four ladies having an evening of whist. The perfect cover for Ashley’s absence, should anyone think to inquire.
“Ashley!” Farah swept forward to embrace her, using the gesture to whisper quickly in her ear. “Everything is arranged. The hackney will be waiting around the corner at eleven o’clock. Courtney will create a distraction when it’s time.”
Ashley nodded almost imperceptibly, then allowed herself to be drawn to the card table.
For the next hour, she played cards with determined focus, laughing at jokes she barely heard, making conversation that required no real thought.
All the while, the clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily toward her appointed hour.
At precisely a quarter to eleven, Courtney knocked over her wine glass with theatrical clumsiness. As servants rushed forward with cloths, and the other ladies exclaimed over the spreading stain on Ashley’s gown, she slipped from the room to take care of it. It was the ruse for her escape.
In a small antechamber off the main hallway, she transformed herself with shaking hands.
The wig Farah had procured covered her distinctive fair hair completely.
Courtney’s theatrical cosmetics darkened her eyebrows and hollowed her cheeks, aging her by perhaps ten years.
A simple black cloak, padding beneath her dress to disguise her figure, and a half-mask that covered the upper portion of her face completed the transformation.
Ashley studied herself in the small mirror. Even she barely recognized the woman staring back at her. Thank goodness she’d told Madam Chloe to expect her and what she’d look like.
Moving quickly through Farah’s garden, she slipped through the back gate into the alley beyond. The hackney waited exactly where promised, and within moments, she was rattling through London’s darkening streets toward an address that both terrified and intrigued her.
*
The townhouse with the red door looked different at night. Where it had seemed elegant and refined during her daylight visit, darkness lent it an air of mystery—almost danger. Warm light glowed from behind heavy curtains, and the faint sound of music drifted into the street.
Ashley had been directed to the side door, down an alleyway.
Her knock was answered immediately by a woman she didn’t recognize—older, severe-looking, who examined her with sharp eyes before nodding.
“Lady Anonymous, I presume? Madam Chloé is expecting you. This way.” Inside, a narrow servants’ corridor stretched before them, dimly lit by widely spaced candles.
“The passages allow for discrete observation,” the woman explained in a low voice. “You’ll be able to see and hear everything, but the guests and girls will have no idea you’re present. Madam Chloé insists on absolute discretion.”
Ashley’s heart hammered as she followed deeper into the house. The narrow corridor opened into what appeared to be a hidden gallery—a clever architectural feature that allowed viewing into the main parlors below, through decorative screens that appeared solid from the other side.
“Wait here,” the woman instructed. “Observe what you will. When you’ve seen enough, return to this spot and I’ll guide you out.”
Then she was gone, and Ashley was alone in the shadows.
Below her, the main parlor was a study in elegant sensuality.
Unlike the refined afternoon setting of her first visit, the evening atmosphere was decidedly more intimate.
Candlelight flickered from numerous sources, casting everyone in soft, flattering illumination.
Music played somewhere—a pianoforte, skillfully rendered—and the low murmur of conversation mixed with occasional feminine laughter.
Ashley counted perhaps two dozen gentlemen, quite a few of whom she recognized and some of whom she knew were married. This was why she was doing this. She didn’t want her husband being with other women. A snake of dread hit her. What if she saw Raven here?
The men were all dressed in evening attire that spoke of wealth and position.
The women—Madam Chloé’s girls—moved among them with practiced grace.
They were beautiful, certainly, but not in the obvious way Ashley had expected.
Their gowns, while cut lower and they obviously wore no corsets, were still elegant.
Their movements were graceful rather than vulgar.
She watched as one woman—a redhead in deep blue silk—approached a portly gentleman sitting alone.
The woman’s technique was fascinating in its subtlety.
She didn’t throw herself at him or make crude suggestions.
Instead, she engaged him in conversation, laughing at something he said, touching his arm lightly as she settled into the seat beside him.
Within minutes, he was leaning toward her, completely captivated.
Another woman, this one dark-haired and exotic-looking, was demonstrating a similar approach with a younger gentleman.
But her method was different—more playful, teasing.
She would drift away when he reached for her, making him follow, then reward him with a smile and a kiss that made him preen like a peacock.
Ashley realized she was witnessing a dozen different strategies, each woman adapting her approach to her particular gentleman. It wasn’t about beauty alone—it was about attention, about making each man feel singular and important.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
Ashley spun around with a gasp. A woman stood in the shadows behind her—thirtyish, with striking red hair and a knowing smile. She wore a simple but elegant dress, and unlike the women below, carried herself with an air of someone merely passing through rather than working.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said softly. “I’m Maggie. I run the club’s finances. Madam Chloé mentioned you might be here tonight. Asked me to look out for you, make sure you understood what you were seeing.”
“I…thank you,” Ashley managed, her heart still racing. “So, you’ll answer my questions?”
“Of course. The night is early and the men are quite tame. They’ll spend an hour drinking, maybe playing cards before selecting the lady they wish to take upstairs.
” Maggie moved to stand beside her, looking down at the scene below.
“Some men have a favorite. And there can be tension if another man wants that lady.”
Ashley found herself relaxing slightly. There was something warm and genuine about Maggie, despite her occupation. “Madam Chloé said I could learn by observing.”
“And you can,” Maggie agreed. “But observation only teaches you so much. The real education comes from understanding what drives these interactions.” She gestured to the parlor below. “What do you see?”
“Women entertaining men,” Ashley said hesitantly. “Making them feel important. Desired.”
“Exactly. And notice—the physical contact is minimal at this stage. A touch on the arm, sitting close enough to share scent and warmth, but nothing overt. They’re building anticipation, making the men want more.”
Ashley watched more carefully, seeing the pattern Maggie described. The women were conducting a dance of sorts, each step carefully calculated to draw their partners deeper into desire.
“But surely eventually…” Ashley trailed off, unsure how to phrase her question delicately.
“Eventually they retire to private chambers, yes,” Maggie said matter-of-factly.
“But even then, it’s not what you might think.
The best girls—the ones who command the highest prices—they don’t simply…
perform. They create experiences. They make each man feel like the most virile, most desirable creature alive. ”
Ashley absorbed this, thinking of Raven’s careful distance. “How do you make a man feel desired when he’s determined to keep himself separate?”
Maggie turned to study her with intelligent eyes. “Ah. So that’s your situation. A husband who won’t come to your bed?”
Ashley’s cheeks flamed even in the darkness. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only because Madam Chloé told me to expect a lady in precisely that predicament.” Maggie’s expression softened with sympathy. “It’s more common than you’d think, actually. Men build walls around themselves for all sorts of reasons.”
“My husband grieves another woman,” Ashley admitted quietly. “She died shortly before our marriage. I think he believes coming to my bed would dishonor her memory.”
“Or perhaps he fears something else entirely.” Maggie paused, seeming to weigh her words carefully. “Tell me, who was this woman he grieves?”
“Her name was Kitty. A…a woman from a house like this.”
Recognition flashed across Maggie’s face. “Kitty O’Brien? Red hair, green eyes, Irish accent?”
Ashley’s breath caught. “You knew her?”
“I did. We worked together here briefly before she moved to Mrs. Bellamy’s establishment, and I retired from servicing clients.
” Maggie’s expression grew thoughtful. “Kitty and I used to meet at Gunter’s Tea Shop.
She spoke of His Grace often. The Duke of Blackstone, yes?
Generous, kind, but with very particular… preferences.”
“Preferences?” Ashley’s voice came out barely above a whisper.