Chapter Five
Having tidied her possessions from her boudoir—or, rather, the room that would, in future, be occupied by another of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s employees—Cordelia performed a final tour of the room.
She bade farewell to the marble statue of the goddess Venus that watched over the activities, the furnishings in rich imperial colors with their gold trimming that reeked of opulence…
…and the sturdy four-poster bed on which she had earned a living.
Most people would have considered it a room of degradation, a place to debase herself to satisfy the physical needs of the men she serviced.
But, under Bessie’s watchful eye and Isidore’s kind tutelage, Cordelia had come to view it as a place of opportunity where, instead of being the oppressed, she took advantage of the baser needs of the opposite sex to earn a living.
It’s just a business transaction, Cordelia, darling. Bodies only are required—hearts and souls are left outside the door.
Cordelia smiled at Isidore’s wise words, by which she had lived during her tenure.
I always left my heart and soul outside.
Until him.
Where was he tonight? Had he returned to the country? Or did he sit alone, in his lodgings wondering what his Dahlia was doing? Perhaps, having turned his back on the Lyon’s Den and its decadence, he’d sallied forth into the Society in which he belonged…
…to seek a better woman than me.
Chiding her foolishness, Cordelia exited the boudoir and closed the door, adjusting her wig and mask.
A drunken cheer rose in the distance and she smiled to herself.
Idle, titled men were, once again, gathering to watch their friends indulge in a game to vie for the hand of a woman—or, rather, a dowry—little knowing that Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a tendency to stack the odds in favor of the man she deemed the most suitable match for her client.
Wastrels, gamesters, and womanizers, the lot of them.
But they had their part to play in the world, most notably, a source of income for Bessie and employment for those whom Cordelia had grown to view as her friends.
One such friend approached her now, a slender youth dressed in knee-length breeches trimmed around the edges with thick fur and a circlet of leaves on his head. In his hands he carried an object that resembled a horse’s head, with bone-white fur and a horn protruding from its forehead.
“Have you been hunting unicorn, Puck?” Cordelia said. “A new crown to adorn that pretty head of yours? You’ll not secure a lover with that, I assure you.”
Puck held the object aloft. “Oh, darling, I wouldn’t be seen dead in this dreadful thing!” he cried. “It’s for tonight’s game. Some silly fellow must wear it while he humiliates himself for a dowry.”
“You can wear it afterward.”
“Oh no, that simply wouldn’t do, darling,” he said. “White is so not my color—it does nothing to flatter my silhouette. One must never wear white if one’s body is cursed with an abundance of curves.”
He lowered his gaze to Cordelia’s hips, then lifted it again, his lips curling into a lopsided smile.
“It might do for you, I suppose,” he said. “Your form’s too far beyond redemption to concern yourself with what color you’re wearing.”
Cordelia glanced at his breeches. “At least I’ve not covered my arse in what looks like a brace of stuffed badgers that would make any arse look larger than the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
He twisted his mouth in mock hurt and placed a hand over his heart.
“Oh, how you wound me!” He pirouetted before her, issued a bow, and shook his behind. “It’s made from fox, not badger.” Then he straightened and tilted his head to one side. “Are you telling me that my breeches make my arse look overly large?”
“No,” she said, laughing. “Your arse is large enough on its own.”
He stuck out his lower lip. “Well, Coriolanus likes it.”
“I know he does,” Cordelia said. “Twice daily, and three times on Sundays, or so I’ve heard. For shame! Sundays are supposed to be a day of rest.”
“And they are,” he replied. “Bed rest.”
“You slut!” she cried.
“You whore!”
They stared at each other, then, unable to contain her mirth, Cordelia let out a laugh and he drew her into his arms.
“Such a shame you’re leaving us, darling,” he said. “But, I suppose, having been nurtured in the belly of the Lyon’s Den, you’re ready to be thrust out of the cunny and into the world.”
“You’ll forget me as soon as I’m gone,” Cordelia said. “There are plenty of other girls to exchange barbs with.”
“Nobody’s tongue is as sharp as yours—sharp enough to rival the cook’s knives. Who will I have to advise me on my attire?”
“There’s Isidore.”
“Oh! That old hag,” he said, his words belying the affection in his voice.
“Nobody can give you better advice than Isidore,” Cordelia said. “Didn’t she point out, the first time she saw those dreadful breeches of yours, that they’d serve a better purpose as a hearth rug?”
He rolled his eyes. “She chides me as if she’s my mother. Last week I thought she was going to turn me over her knee and spank me.” He licked his lips. “Not that I’d object if Coriolanus turned me over and—”
“That’s enough!” Cordelia said, laughing. Then she gestured toward the closed doors, behind each was a doxy servicing a visitor. “Do you want the patrons to hear you?”
“It might help them with their”—he gestured to his groin—“enthusiasm. More men like that sort of thing than you’d suspect.”
“I know,” Cordelia said, wincing at the memory of some of her more enthusiastic visitors.
His smile slipped and he placed a hand on her arm, empathy gleaming in his eyes. Before he could speak and reveal the tender soul beneath the exuberant exterior, Cordelia patted his hand.
“Be off with you now, vile creature!” she said, with a grin. “And don’t lose your head.”
He continued along the hallway, his laughter echoing in the air, and Cordelia made her way to the staircase leading to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s study.
A door opened and a tall, lean man with blond hair and pale blue eyes appeared, blocking her path.
“Well, I say, what a delightful surprise, m’dear! I thought I’d heard the sweet voice of my lovely Dahlia.”
Her stomach clenching with nausea, Cordelia took a step back.
“Sir Iain. I trust you are well?”
“All the better for seeing my ripe little flower. Would you care to open those pretty petals of yours for me? There’s twenty pounds if you’ll give me five minutes behind that door. I’m afraid poor Rosita’s proven to be a disappointment. No stamina—not like you.”
He licked his lips and reached toward her.
“I’m not available tonight,” she said. “S-speak to Hermia if you want to make an appointment with another.”
“But I want you.”
He thrust his face close, and she pushed him back.
“How dare you deny me!” he said. “You’re nothing but a whore who never resists an offer to be fucked for cash.”
“Sir Iain, I must insist that you leave. Patrons of the Lyon’s Den are not supposed to—Oh!”
She screamed as he backhanded her across the face, his hand a blur of movement, and she staggered back.
“I’ll not have a whore tell me what I must do,” he snarled, and he reached for her. She darted sideways, but he caught her wig and tore it off.
“Aha!” he cried. “I always knew you were a dark-haired vixen. Now, at last, the curtains match the carpet.” He fisted his hand in her hair. “Come, let me take a look at that pretty face of yours.”
Ignoring her cries, he pulled off her mask, then smashed his mouth against hers. She stumbled back and he fell on top of her, and she fought the urge to retch at the feel of the bulge in his breeches.
“That’s it,” he said. “I’m ready for you like a dog wanting to take a bitch in heat.”
Cordelia tried to push him off, but his body was too heavy. She twisted her body and they rolled sideways. Then, curling her hand into a fist, she drove it straight into his groin—a trick Isidore had taught her for dealing with visitors who tried to take more than they’d paid for.
Sir Iain stiffened and let out an airless gasp. Pushing him aside, she struggled to her feet as footsteps approached and Coriolanus appeared, Puck at his side. Before Sir Iain was on his feet again, the two men hauled him up and held him firm.
“Devil take you, get off me, you fools!” he slurred. “You’ve no right to—”
“We have every right, Sir Iain,” Coriolanus said. “We’re very particular about the behavior of our clientele, and this is not your first warning.” He turned to his companion. “What say you, Puck, darling? Shall we take him outside—around the back, perhaps?”
Puck giggled, and Sir Iain let out a snort of disgust. “Degenerate demons!” he snarled.
“Oh yes, and don’t you love it!” Puck said. “What say you, Dahlia, my love?”
Cordelia placed a hand on her cheek where Sir Iain had hit her, and winced, battling the urge to see him punished. Then she shook her head.
“Just get rid of him,” she said. “At least I’ll never have to see him again.”
“And neither will any of the girls,” Coriolanus said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon takes a breach of the rules seriously.”
“I didn’t breach any—” Sir Iain began, then broke off as Puck aimed a kick at his shin.
“Say another word and I’ll come visit you with all my acquaintances and we’ll have our way with you—with a candlestick.” He nodded to Cordelia. “Go clean yourself up, darling—you look as if you’ve crawled through a bramble bush backward.”
Cordelia glanced at her assailant, who glowered at her through red-rimmed eyes. Then she nodded and retreated to her bedchamber on the topmost floor. She shuddered as she glanced at the wig and torn mask in her hands, recalling Sir Iain’s taunts.
It had been a long time since she’d felt so dirty—not the businesswoman selling a commodity to fund her future, but a whore debasing herself in sordid encounters with sweaty men wanting to indulge in every depravity.