CHAPTER 6
“This way, gentlemen.”
A Nubian porter, swathed in a scanty crimson toga that displayed a goodly amount of oil-sheened ebony muscles, opened the portal wider and beckoned Wrexford and Sheffield to follow him through a curtain made of jewel-tone glass beads.
The whispery chatter as it fell closed behind them seemed redolent with the promise of more exotic experiences to come.
Illusion was often just as seductive as reality, thought the earl as he watched the light of the wall sconces flicker over the erotic murals of the corridor.
“Welcome to our Bosom.” The proprietress rose and gave a graceful curtsey as they entered the fancy salon—a gesture clearly designed to display her impressive cleavage.
Age had added hints of silver to her upswept blond tresses and a bit more voluptuousness to her curves. But Madame Boudicca was still a beauty.
“I’m honored.” A gleam of crafty intelligence lit her kohl-rimmed eyes as she ran a quick assessing gaze over them. “We’ve not yet had the pleasure of your patronage here, Lord Wrexford. Or yours, Mr. Sheffield.”
The earl wasn’t surprised that she recognized them. It was her business to know her potential clientele.
“What enticements might we offer you? I’m sure we can cater to your every desire.”
“Just the pleasure of a private conversation with Jeannette, if you please.” He took a purse from his pocket. “For which, naturally, I expect to pay.”
She hesitated. “We have earned a reputation for discretion here, milord. It’s worth a great deal to an establishment such as mine.”
“I, too, have a reputation for discretion,” he countered. “You have my promise that what I hear tonight won’t come back and bite you on your lovely derriere.”
A twitch of amusement pulled at her carmine lips.
“Discretion is not the first word that comes to mind concerning your reputation, sir.” She considered the request a moment longer before adding, “Nonetheless, my sense is, your word as a gentleman can be trusted.” With a deft quickness, she plucked the purse from his palm.
“And besides, I have always had a weakness for handsome rogues who possess clever tongues.”
Sheffield stifled a snort.
A gesture indicated they should take a seat on one of the velvet sofas. “Wait here. A servant will come shortly and take you to Jeannette.”
After sinking down into the soft pillows, his friend looked around at the ornate furnishings and gilt-framed paintings of satyrs cavorting with nubile young maidens. “A pleasant place,” he murmured.
“Feel free to return another time,” said Wrexford. “And enjoy it with your own guineas, not mine.”
Sheffield contrived to look injured. “It was simply an observation. I’m not in the habit of having to pay for my pleasure.”
Wrexford didn’t doubt it. The younger son of a nobleman wasn’t seen as an attractive commodity on the marriage mart. But Sheffield’s charm and golden good looks made him a welcome partner in the boudoirs of the beau monde, despite his lack of title or fortune.
“What about you, Wrex?” murmured his friend. “Word is, you haven’t chosen a new mistress to replace the divine Diana Fairfax.”
True. The earl watched the candlelight dip and dance over the erotic pictures of coupling flesh. But he had no intention of explaining why.
Sheffield was wise enough not to press. They waited in silence, for several more minutes, before an older woman swathed in plum-colored silk entered the salon.
One of the matrons who supervised the girls, decided Wrexford, noting her basilisk eyes and hard-set mouth. Business was business—Madame Boudicca and her staff would keep careful watch that nothing havey-cavey was going on within the intimate pleasure chambers of the establishment.
“Please follow me, gentlemen.”
Matron Plum led the way through a paneled portal set at the far end room.
The lighting in the corridor was softer and more subdued than that of the reception room.
Musky perfume—roses scented with an earthier undertone of spice—hung heavy in the warm air, while underfoot a tufted Turkey carpet muffled their steps, giving the illusion that they were walking on some strange multicolored cloud.
Swoosh, swoosh. The only sounds were the sinuous murmurs of voices tangling with the silky swoosh of fabric and flesh.
There were four doors lining each side of the way, each painted a pastel shade of pink and marked with an ornate brass numeral. Matron Plum stopped in front of Number 6. A quick touch to the latch and it released with a whispered snick.
“Please enter. When you are done, give a tug to the bellpull by the bed and I will come escort you out.” A pause. “The house rules forbid gentlemen to move around outside the reception area on their own.” Her eyes tightened in warning. “I trust you will respect them.”
Or the hulking brute in the toga will break a few bones, thought the earl as he acknowledged the warning. “But of course.”
After a grim nod, Matron Plum retreated.
More pink. As Wrexford followed Sheffield into the chamber, he felt as if he had stepped inside a spun-sugar confection of rose-colored hues.
Pink light, pink frills, pink flesh . . .
The hanging oil lamp flickered silently inside a ruby-hued glass globe, casting a soft glow over the lovely young woman lying amidst a tangle of cerise linen sheets.
A plate of ripe strawberries sat on the side table, along with three flutes filled with blush-colored champagne.
“You wish to speak with me?” Her voice was low and lush. “What a pity,” she added with a husky laugh after looking them over. “Conversation ain’t my strongest skill.”
“I’m sure you’ll prove quite satisfactory.” Wrexford drew one of the delicate gilt chairs closer to the bedside and took a seat. Sheffield chose to stand in a shadowed spot behind the table.
Jeannette tittered and batted her fire-gold lashes. “Would ye care te wet yer whistle before we start?”
“Thank you, but I’m here for business, not pleasure.” He held up a fist and slowly opened it to reveal half a dozen gold guineas nestled in his palm.
Her gaze became wary. “About what?”
“Nicholas Locke.”
She sighed and then shivered. “Oiy, te think I might o’ had the hands of a murderer still tainted with blood tickling my cockles that night.”
“Locke was with you the night of the murder?”
“Aye,” confirmed Jeannette as she reached for the coins and quickly tucked them beneath the sheets.
“At what time,” demanded Wrexford. “And please be as precise as possible.”
She gestured at the gilt clock on the dressing table. “Time is money, milord. So I can tell ye exactly when Nick was here. He arrived at one in the morning, and didn’t leave until sunrise—that is, around half past six.”
That confirmed what Locke had told him. But it was no help in proving his innocence. The argument between the brothers had occurred a little before midnight.
Leaving plenty of time for the gruesome deed to have been done before the accused showed up at Boudicca’s Bosom.
“How did Locke appear? Agitated? Upset?” he asked. “Any signs of a physical struggle?”
Jeannette thought for a long moment. “He seemed unhappy, but that wasn’t unusual. He’d told me he was worried about Cedric—”
“In what way?” interrupted the earl.
“He didn’t say exactly. But . . .” She slowly curled a strand of her golden hair around her forefinger. “In my line o’ work, ye learn te sense a man’s primal nature. Nick’s a very sweet and generous gent. I can’t believe he wudda hurt his brother.”
“You’re not alone in holding that sentiment,” he replied. Women apparently found Locke charming, though he had yet to see the allure. “Which is why I’m here. If you know anything else that might help prove his innocence, I’d like to hear it.”
“I wish I could help ye, but all I can say is, Nick never said an unkind word about his brother.” Her expression turned sad. “I hope ye find the bloke what killed Cedric.”
Something about the way she said the murdered man’s name stirred a prickling at the back of his neck. “Were you acquainted with Lord Chittenden, too?”
A sad smile tugged at her rosebud lips as she nodded. “But please don’t tell Nick.”
Wrexford glanced at Sheffield, who merely raised his eyebrows. “Are you saying you were intimate with the baron, as well as his brother?” he asked.
“Aye, two peas in a pod, they were.”
That was one way of putting it, thought the earl.
“Cedric was a sweetheart, just like Nick. Very kind and generous—a perfect gentleman in every way.” Jeannette smoothed at the ruffles on her boudoir wrapper.
“Which made,” she mused softly, “those strange marks on his body even odder.”