9. Open For Business
OPEN FOR BUSINESS
The women wasted no more time debating Nell’s plan. Rose would carry it out that very night.
And if she was going to seduce Lord Reginald, they meant to prepare her properly.
Which was why she was promptly marched upstairs and subjected to the sort of attention usually reserved for one of Mayfair’s fussy debutantes before her come-out.
Marianne brought out scented oil, followed by enough jewels to ransom a minor prince. While she considered pearls against sapphires, Violet filed Rose’s nails and rubbed cream into her hands.
Maisy took charge of her face.
When she was satisfied, she turned her attention to Rose’s wig, pinning and rearranging it until every dark curl fell precisely where it ought.
Rose had prepared herself for countless men.
This should have felt no different.
But it did.
By the time they finished, she scarcely recognized the woman in the mirror.
Her own hair had been tucked away beneath the brunette wig she usually favored, styled with thick shining curls tumbling over one bare shoulder.
The gown they’d settled on was ivory silk, cut low in the front and much lower in the back.
A narrow ribbon of gold circled her throat.
Her mouth had been tinted the soft red of crushed rose petals.
She looked polished. Luminous.
And… available.
Rose drew one last breath, left the dressing room, and made her way downstairs.
By the time she entered the main room, the heart of The Domus had come alive. Cards snapped against the faro tables. Dice tumbled over green felt. Music drifted from the pianoforte, nearly swallowed by laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of gentlemen eager for the evening to begin.
All was perfectly normal until raised voices sounded near the entrance.
A few heads turned, but no one panicked.
Denny stood between the inner hall and one of their regular patrons.
He ranked just below Boris when it came to keeping order, and though he wasn’t nearly as large, he knew how to make himself difficult to pass.
Most importantly, he had the compact, coiled look of a man who knew exactly how to use the weapons hidden beneath his coat.
Rose winced, immediately recognizing the offending patron: always well-dressed, well-fed, and well-accustomed to being welcomed.
“Miss Violet is not receiving tonight,” Denny said.
Mr. Harcourt smiled as though the guard had made some small mistake. “She will receive me.”
“No.”
Mr. Harcourt’s smile thinned. “I have been a patron of this house for three years.”
“And we are pleased you have enjoyed your visits, sir.”
“Then you will tell Miss Violet that I am willing to be extra generous.”
“She is not available.”
Rose quickened her pace, stepping forward before the man’s temper sharpened further. It wasn’t something she’d normally do. But this was Lord Reginald’s first night at The Domus, and she didn’t think that a skirmish at the door would further their cause.
“Denny?” she said smoothly. “Perhaps another lady might please Mr. Harcourt this evening.”
Huffing, the frustrated client turned.
His gaze traveled over her slowly. The mahogany curls. The delicate silk. The bare line of her shoulders.
It was in that instant she realized her mistake.
“Miss Rose,” he said, his irritation easing into satisfaction. “I suppose I can settle for another… flower. Yes. I’ll take you.”
Every instinct in Rose went taut.
She’d set out to draw Lord Reginald’s eye.
Not to invite the attention of the first disgruntled gentleman who crossed her path.
“I’m afraid…” If she went with Mr. Harcourt now, their entire plan for the night would be a waste.
“Miss Darling is not available.”
The voice came from above them, and in that second, even the dice fell silent.
Rose looked up.
Lord Reginald stood at the top of the grand staircase, one hand resting on the rail. In contrast with every other gentleman in the room, however, he had made no effort to dress for the evening. His coat was absent, his dark waistcoat plain, and a lock of hair had fallen loose near his temple.
He ought to have looked unfinished beside the careful elegance surrounding him.
Instead, he made the other men seem overdressed.
The careless attire made him seem harder—stripped of pretense.
And as his gaze moved over the room with the calm, assessing authority of a man accustomed to being in charge—he wasn’t smiling.
This was the captain.
Mr. Harcourt turned at the sound of his voice as well. “Not available?” he sputtered incredulously. “Tell me, are there any ladies in this establishment who are working tonight? Why, I never—! And who, precisely, are you to decide this, anyway?”
Lord Reginald descended one measured step at a time.
“Captain Preston.” His voice was calm. Almost too calm. “And presently the owner of this club.”
“So it’s true, Malum is letting it go.” The stout gentleman gave a short laugh.
“Ah, well. We appear to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Be a sport, old boy. The wenches are all the same anyway.” His eyes flicked over to Rose and then back to Lord Reginald.
As though they ought to be in on the same joke.
Lord Reginald—Captain Preston—was not laughing.
“Your name,” Lord Reginald demanded.
He reached the last stair.
Up close, Lord Reginald was even more imposing.
His cravat had loosened at the throat, and a faint shadow roughened his sharp jaw.
But it was his eyes that mesmerized Rose.
Silver. Steady. Cold with authority.
Mr. Harcourt’s smile faltered.
“H-h-harold Harcourt,” he finally answered. “Second cousin to the Earl of Grimstead.”
Lord Reginald regarded him without expression.
“You have worn out your welcome, Mr. Harcourt. Leave. And do not return.”
The man, who had been an established member for up to a decade, looked toward Rose, perhaps expecting her to soften the moment. To laugh. To assure Lord Reginald he had misunderstood…
Rose met his gaze. “Denny will escort you out, Mr. Harcourt.”
For one tense moment, she thought he might refuse.
Denny stepped forward.
Before he could touch him, Harcourt jerked his cuffs straight and pulled away. “Fine,” he snapped. “With Malum abandoning the helm, I doubt this sorry excuse for a whorehouse will survive much longer anyway.”
He made an irritated turn and strode toward the entrance.
Denny followed closely, and only after they’d both disappeared did Lord Reginald look at her.
The anger she’d seen was still visible in the hard line of his mouth and the tension in his jaw.
But then… his gaze moved over Rose with unmistakable awareness—taking in the sensual curls, the ivory silk, the bare curve of her shoulders.
Rose felt his stare everywhere.
“Miss Darling,” he said. “A word, please.”
Good.
Better than good.
She’d have him alone, which was exactly what she and the others had hoped for.
Still, Rose had no intention of following him back to his office. She wouldn’t stand before that enormous desk like a woman called in to answer for herself.
She’d be at a considerable disadvantage.
So, she decided, she wouldn’t.
“Of course, my lord,” she said with her most disarming smile. “Follow me.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as though he suspected a trap.
Perhaps he ought to have.
Rose led him through the side corridor and up the private stairs to a different receiving room than the one she’d shown him earlier. This one featured deep blue silk and gold trim, the signature chaise before the fire and, of course, a decanter waiting on a polished table.
After a moment’s hesitation, Lord Reginald followed her inside. Rose shut the door behind them.
He turned at once.
“I will continue to manage The Domus for the amount of time promised.”
Rose tilted her head. “Yes?”
“But I must insist on one condition.”
Something in his voice made her stomach tighten.
“What condition?”
His gaze held hers.
“You will not receive clients.”