Chapter Three
Felicity sat on the balcony on a spindly, wrought iron chair dropping little bits of bread for the gathering pigeons.
This morning had shaken her, much as she tried to forget it.
But she couldn’t stop feeling the hands that had pulled at her dress.
It didn’t matter that it was a maid and a seamstress.
Her vision had gone black, and she couldn’t breathe.
The glass door opened behind her, and Felicity turned, smiling as one of the courtesans stepped out and lit her cheroot.
Lucia was her name, and she’d come from Spain.
She had long black hair past her waist and red lips with a deep cupid’s bow.
She smiled in greeting at Felicity while taking a long pull and blowing it out elegantly.
She arched her neck and lifted her face to the warm sun peeking through the clouds.
Felicity jerked when she saw the bruised spots on Lucia’s pale neck.
“You’re hurt?”
Lucia cocked her head. “I am?”
Felicity’s heart pounded as she touched her own neck.
Lucia laughed. “Oh, those? Love bites, not good for my profession, but Hugh loves to mark me like I belong to him, the fool. I’ll wear a scarf until they fade.”
Felicity blinked. “Love bites?” Those bruises did not make her think of love.
“From kisses, dear.” Lucia leaned against the wall and studied her. “I forget you’re not one of us.”
“I beg your pardon?” Felicity crumpled the bread in her hand.
She thought she’d found some comradery here, even with these women who traded their bodies for money.
From afar, she’d been taught to judge them, but once she’d met the women who worked at the Den, she found them to be kind, independent women.
“A lady.”
“Oh no, I’m not—”
“Don’t look so downtrodden, dove. I won’t tell. We’ve all got secrets here.”
Felicity pursed her lips. So much for her secret identity. At least no one—almost no one—knew her real name. “Do they hurt?” Felicity asked in curiosity.
She lightly touched them. “No, they feel marvelous.”
Felicity’s eyes widened.
Lucia giggled. “You sweet, innocent thing.”
Felicity deflated. “Not so innocent.” And yet she didn’t understand anything about men and women or how something that would bruise the skin could feel good.
Her bruises had felt like torture. Even after they’d long disappeared, she could see them.
Handprints on her shoulders and hip. She’d stopped looking in the mirror at her body.
The other chair scrapped against the stone as Lucia sat across from her, the hungry pigeons scattering.
“Miss Smith, I hope you don’t mean what I think you mean?”
Felicity shook her head. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face says enough.”
Felicity focused on the plump bird that had remained at her feet. She used to spend hours watching the birds in the garden at home hopping between the rows of vegetables, immune to the scarecrow her mother made. “How do you do it? How do you let them touch you so . . .?”
Lucia reached across the space between them and took her hand. “I like pleasure, and I like money. The Den is safer than most places. I know no one can hurt me here. Safety is key when it comes to sharing your body.”
Felicity shivered. Cold seeped through her dress like she wore nothing at all. Emotions she’d long buried clawed up her throat.
“I can’t . . .”
“You’re not alone, dove. Many of us here came from bad places, bad things. It wasn’t your fault, and there is nothing wrong with you. Some men are just rotten to their core. Monsters.”
Was she that transparent? Felicity had to look away, her eyes burning as she gazed out over the crowded street.
Lucia squeezed her hand. “But there are also men who are kind and gentle. Men who want you to feel good. More than good.”
Felicity huffed out a laugh.
“Don’t let one experience, one man, ruin what will become the rest of your life.”
“I have to marry,” Felicity said. “How do I know which man will want to make me feel good?”
“You’ll know. The right man will show you how. I have to go.” Lucia stood, her pitying gaze heavy on Felicity.
She thought back to her time working with Dr. Sloan in Lord Alston’s home. Lord Alston was a good man. If any men fit the standard Lucia set, it would be him, Lady Amelia’s husband, Mr. Blakewood, and certainly Mr. Chase.
She would know, wouldn’t she? She had three men who’d made an excellent example.
Not all men were like Chadwick. Just his name was enough to sour her stomach.
He’d masked his vileness so well. She hadn’t loved him.
She was only going to marry him because that was what her father wanted and he wasn’t old.
Marriageable prospects in her little village were scarce.
At her advanced age of twenty-four, Chadwick had seemed like a blessing.
He was a successful merchant, well respected.
But all along he hid something evil inside.
He wanted her inheritance, and he showed her he’d do anything to get it.
And it was an inheritance she would never see if she didn’t marry.
Not as long as her father held control of it.
She’d risked everything to escape a marriage to Chadwick, leaving even her sisters behind, who might very well suffer the same fate.
Though at fifteen and twelve, they were too young to marry, thank God.
Nor did they have the lure of a sizeable inheritance.
Felicity never understood why Aunt Caroline had left her so much money and nothing for her sisters, but she knew her age played a part in it—Aunt Caroline thought she’d never marry.
Felicity was grateful, but that inheritance had become her curse.
Her father had control of it, and against Aunt Caroline’s wishes, he deemed she would only receive it when she married.
He considered it an incentive to fulfill her duty as a wife and mother, not become an eccentric spinster like Aunt Caroline.
The door clicked closed, and Felicity realized she hadn’t responded to Lucia. She shook her head, trying to shake loose the grip of fear on her heart. Tonight, she was supposed to enter the main floor of the gaming club. Women weren’t allowed there, but she would be an exception.
The thought of being surrounded by all those men, the boisterous laughter, the ribald language, and lascivious stares terrified her. She’d seen it from a distance, but now she would be in it. With Mr. Chase to guard her.
Mr. Chase. Tristan.
Felicity stood and brushed the breadcrumbs from her skirt. He was trying to distance himself from her. She could feel it. Did he resent having to spend so much of his time with her? Was there something else he’d rather be doing? A woman he preferred to be with?
Did he see what Lucia had so easily seen?
Her cheeks flushed. Felicity opened the terrace door and stepped inside the dim, perfumed hall of the upper quarters where the ladies of the evening, the courtesans of the Lyon’s Den, entertained the gentlemen.
But the house was quiet for the moment. The lull before a storm of debauchery that Felicity suspected Lucia enjoyed.
The ladies were happy, flirtatious, and well cared for.
Did women truly enjoy the attention of a man?
Felicity couldn’t fathom it. Chadwick had shown her only pain.
And every evening, in a steady rotation—no, she couldn’t think of it.
She couldn’t even imagine what happened in these rooms. Felicity pushed past the rows of doors and took the back stairs to the private residence.
In her room, she found an evening gown laid out on her bed, and she covered her mouth.
The deep-green silk drew all the light to it, the fabric shimmering like waves of gold moved through it.
She couldn’t wear such a daring thing. Resting above it was a mask of gold.
Felicity picked it up, her hands trembling.
She’d never held something so expensive.
The knock on her door startled her, and she dropped it on the bed.
“Who is it?”
“Milly, Miss Smith.”
Felicity blinked. She wished she could just be Miss Smith.
A simple nurse. A resident of the Den. A spinster.
Someone who could stay hidden. This dress, this mask—this whole plan was too much.
She didn’t want to be this person. When she imagined her life, she never dreamed of fancy clothes and jewels.
She was a simple girl who loved to bake and sew.
“Miss?” Milly called in concern.
“Come in,” Felicity answered.
Milly entered with a pitcher of steaming water and satchel.
“What is all that?”
“A fresh basin of water and curling tongs. I’m to do your hair for the evening and help you dress.”
“It’s . . .” Felicity turned to the small clock on her nightstand. “Four thirty?”
“Indeed. But Mrs. Dove-Lyon said we should take our time. I’ve got a pot of tea coming and a dinner tray.”
Felicity bit her lip. Why was this scarier than tending to a half-naked male in his home?
She’d spent weeks with Lord Alston. Most of the time he’d been undressed.
But that had been different. He’d been recovering from a terrible injury.
He never felt like a threat. He never felt like .
. . a real prospect for her. And Lord Alston hadn’t known she was there to consider him as a potential husband, only that she was a nurse sent by Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Would these men know why she was there?
Her stomach turned over at the thought.
“You’ve gone a bit green, miss.”
“I don’t think I can do this, Milly.”
“Of course you can. With a mask like that, you can be anyone you want to be.”
Felicity stared at the mask. A mask was just another way to hide. How much longer would she be able to keep her presence a secret?
Four hours later
Felicity did not look in the mirror. Not when she dressed—alone—and not when Milly returned to fasten the back and to tie the mask.
A black domino draped her shoulders, but she still felt exposed by this gown and the way she could feel it clinging to her body.
Too much air touched her upper chest. She hugged the halves of the domino closed as she left her room, her gaze on the floor.
“Mr. Chase is waiting at the ladies’ door to take you through. He looks good enough to eat,” Milly said with glee.
“What?” Felicity said in confusion, but Milly had hurried ahead, almost running down the stairs. Milly paused at the landing, peeking around the corner.
“Just look at him. Hair black as a raven’s wing and those eyes like licks of blue flame.” She shivered. “His arms are so thick.”
“Milly, what are you talking about?” Felicity looked over her, the benefit of being taller than Milly.
There Mr. Chase stood, arms folded and certainly bulging with muscle, as Milly described.
Not massive like a blacksmith, but agile.
A man who could move swiftly. His top hat was missing, and his hair was styled elegantly.
He could easily mix among the lords. Her mouth dried as she watched him, her heart beating faster as warmth spread through her belly.
Tristan Chase was a beautiful, if dangerous, man.
But not the sort of danger that frightened her.
He had the kind of edge that came from a man who could defend himself.
A seasoned soldier who feared nothing. He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if he weren’t comfortable in his evening attire, but he looked the part.
A stunning, charming creature, and he was hers. For tonight.
Felicity shook her head. She stepped out from behind Milly and approached him.
He looked in her direction, his blazing blue eyes catching her in their thrall.
She was swallowed into his intense orbit as she stopped before him, her bodice too tight, but nevertheless she held his stare.
There was one thing Felicity was certain of.
She could never fear him. For all his dark mystery, his sinister glares, and taunting smiles, he was a decent man.
A man with a skewed compass perhaps, but that compass still pointed toward chivalry and honor.
The others whispered about him. He was secretive and revealed nothing about himself.
He slipped through the shadows, rarely socializing, and yet everyone spoke of him. About him—never to him.
He abhorred gambling, which Felicity found curious since he worked in a gambling den.
There must be a story there. An intrigue that only added to his mysterious allure.
The ladies often fawned over him, but if Felicity understood their innuendo, they suspected him an excellent lover, but none of them had first-hand experience, which Felicity found reassuring.
She wouldn’t look at him the same if she knew he was cavorting from room to room.
So, what did he do? Where did he go? Who was he?
His stare never dropped from her face, but she wanted to feel his appraisal. Did she look acceptable? Or did she look absurd, obviously out of place in this word of elegance and vice?
“Mr. Chase,” she murmured softly, having difficulty finding her voice. Her skin flushed with uncomfortable heat as her awareness of him overwhelmed her.
“You look enchanting, Miss Brandon.” He took her hand and bowed over it.
Felicity licked her lips. She didn’t know what to do with her body. Compliments were not something a good, pious woman entertained.
“Oh, thank you. You as well.”
His lips twitched. “Are you ready? I thought we’d stick to the upper gallery so you could observe the floor. When you feel comfortable, we’ll join the fray.”
“Am I expected to play?”
“No. Just observe.”
“And you’ll be there?”
His jaw tightened. “I will not leave your side for a single moment.”
The tension in her shoulders eased. She could do this. She could watch and observe these people from afar and no one would know who she was.
Felicity nodded. He held out his arm, and she curved her hand around his bicep. Her fingers flexed as Milly’s words came back to her. He did have thick arms. The bulging muscle firmed under her hand as he opened the door and led her through.