Chapter 6
The hatbox was heavier than it appeared.
It had arrived a few hours earlier, but Darcy waited until after dinner with her sisters before hastening to her chamber.
She set it upon the writing desk and eased off the lid.
She stared down at the face mask of lacquered silk, red and black, striking as a harlequin, and a coil of dark red hair worked into an elegant updo, pins and combs already threaded through to hold its shape.
Beneath them lay a folded letter, sealed with plain wax.
Her heart gave an uneven beat. She broke the seal and smoothed the single sheet.
Dear Mrs. D. Whitley,
Your painting reached me with the greatest pleasure.
The elegance of your hand, and the way you have caught so simple a scene yet stirred a longing for the country, those geese at their play live still upon the canvas, persuade me you are the very candidate for the work I propose.
I must warn you that the commission is scandalous; for that reason, your identity must be protected.
The enclosed mask and wig are intended for your use, and I beg you to employ the utmost discretion in coming to my establishment.
Though the subject be bold, your virtue shall never be in jeopardy; you will be safe and well protected whenever you work for me.
I hope the project may be finished within six weeks. Your reward will be handsome: one hundred pounds for each painting. I desire eight in all.
Darcy choked on the breath she had been holding and pressed her knuckles lightly to her lips.
One hundred pounds each. Eight paintings.
Eight hundred pounds. The figure stood in her mind with the authority of a magistrate.
When she had asked the agent in the country about a small cottage with four bedchambers, a parlor, a library, a dining room, and a well-situated kitchen, he had quoted fifty pounds for the year.
Eight hundred pounds would roof, feed, and clothe them for several years.
This was a fortune. It was not merely a reprieve; it would be a future earned by her own skill.
She looked again at the neat lines of the letter and read on.
If you accept this invitation, come tonight to the address enclosed by ten. Wear the provided wig and mask, and tell the majordomo that you are Red and here to meet the Madam.
There was an address on a small card tucked into the fold. “This must be a mistake,” Darcy whispered. “One hundred pounds per painting. Who would pay such a sum, and why?” She read the letter again and gasped. “How scandalous must it be!”
She lowered the letter and brushed the wig with the back of her fingers.
The hair lay soft beneath its pins, a deep wine that would lighten her eyes.
The mask gleamed. She lifted it, turned it toward the window, and watched the candlelight run over its surface like water.
Red and black, bold as a dare. It would hide her brow, her nose, the slope of her cheekbones, and leave her mouth free to speak and breathe.
No one should recognize a single thing about her, even if they knew a Miss Darcy Whitley.
She worried her lower lip and considered.
The notice had promised paintings that titillate.
Darcy was not a fool. She knew what such work might entail.
She might be asked to paint what polite ladies pretend not to see.
Yet the letter’s assurance of safety sounded like a woman’s promise meant to be kept.
Her mind began to order the problem as she would lay out a canvas.
If she accepted, she would have to go tonight.
The staff here believed her to be a widow with some connection to Lord Raine; they would not question her going out, since a social event could well explain it.
That shield would hold if she were cautious.
She glanced at the mantel clock. Nearly nine.
She could go to Aphrodite and return before the house banked its fires.
Taking this commission would let her rent a cottage with a garden, buy coal without counting the lumps, hire a daily governess for Sarah, and keep a proper table.
She could look Lord Raine in the eye and know that whatever protection he chose to extend or withdraw, her sisters would not be at its mercy.
Reckless, she thought. Reckless, and skating the edge of ruin if a single step went awry. Yet ruin had a hundred shapes. Hunger was one. Begging was another. Dependence, forever, was a third. Darcy drew a steady breath.
“I will do this.” It did not seem prudent to arrive in one of her old gowns, with seams ready to give way.
The modiste who had attended them had altered a few beautiful gowns for her, and she had thought she might never have cause to wear such things.
Young women like her, illegitimate and without connections, seldom owned anything so lovely, nor were they invited anywhere that required it.
Yet some instinct told her that one of those lovely gowns would be suitable to wear when calling upon this madam.
She lifted her chin, smoothed her skirts, and set about preparing herself for the night ahead.
An hour later, Darcy stood before the polished black door of Aphrodite and felt her pulse in her fingertips.
She had not replied to the letter; she had simply prepared.
Darcy had chosen a deep blue that made her skin look almost luminous.
Only a few stitches were needed to perfect the fit.
Now the silk lay cool against her, the borrowed elegance steadying her spine.
She lifted a gloved hand and touched the mask and then the knocker.
The majordomo opened at once, grave as a judge. Darcy inclined her head. “I am Red,” she said, her voice low through the mask. “I am here to see Madame.”
He bowed and stood aside. Decadence met her at the threshold.
The air was warm with sandalwood, beeswax, and something sweetly illicit.
Silk in shades of garnet and jet pooled in generous folds along the walls; light from a hundred candles softened the gilt and turned shadows into invitations.
A broad staircase swept upward, its banister threaded with ribboned lanterns that cast slow-moving halos upon the steps.
Women in jewel-bright satins drifted past with silver trays, offering champagne and sugared fruits that gleamed like temptations in a still life.
Music pulsed from the grand salon, strings and a low drum coaxing the room into a languid sway.
In a curtained niche, a masked lady, half-reclined, toyed with a glass while a gentleman’s hands lingered at the ties of her bodice.
On a velvet chaise, a pair kissed with shameless pleasure, the woman’s skirts rucked high, the man’s coat fallen open as if his restraint had slipped to the floor with it.
Incense and amber curled through the laughter and soft gasps, a scent that stroked the skin.
He led her along a corridor laid with thick Turkish carpet; the walls wore silk damask, the color of ripe pomegranates. Lamps in gilt brackets spread honeyed light. She passed niches where statues glowed like cream, curtains that fell in obedient folds, paintings that winked with varnish and sin.
Overhead, swaths of silk hung from the ceiling like captured night.
Polished floors caught the glow and returned it in honeyed ripples.
Lounges in peacock velvet and wine-colored damask held bodies arranged for comfort and for display.
Nearby, a couple turned in a private waltz, their steps slow, the lady’s gown pooled at her hips as if the dance had undressed her by degrees.
Everywhere, pleasure was curated and offered, a gallery of sin arranged with the care of a connoisseur.
Laughter lifted, hushed, rose again. A gentleman’s murmur, a woman’s answering purr, the soft chiming of crystal—a hundred private pleasures threaded into one indulgent hum.
Darcy’s heart thudded, her stomach in tight knots. She had never set foot in a place like this, had scarcely believed such rooms existed; shock warred with a sharp, unwelcome curiosity that drew her a step farther in.
They climbed a staircase where her hand skimmed a banister polished as satin.
On the second floor, the majordomo paused at a paneled door, knocked once, and opened it upon a room dressed like a jewel box.
A voluptuous woman waited there, all curves and command, her dark hair arranged to display the line of her neck and the diamonds at her ears.
Her gown, a rich claret silk, fit her as if the fabric had been taught to worship.
“Come in, Red,” she said, her voice velvet and mischief. “I am Madam Rebecca.”
Darcy stepped inside and curtsied. “Madam.”
“Brandy, sherry.” Rebecca poured for herself without waiting, then arched a brow in offer.
“None, thank you.”
“As you like.” She motioned to a chair of green velvet. “Sit. I have seen your hand. It is elegant and sure. I have need of such a hand.”
“I am glad you appreciate it.” Darcy sat, the mask warm now against her cheek. “Your letter spoke of a gallery.”
“Yes.” Rebecca’s smile turned feline as she returned to her armchair. “I am assembling a private collection to rouse the jaded. Paintings of pleasure, but with taste.”
“Paintings of pleasure,” Darcy slowly repeated, wondering if she understood precisely what Madam Rebecca was about.
“I want patrons painted in the act of tupping, masks upon their faces, bodies honest and beautiful. The works will hang in a room where only certain eyes may look. Think Renaissance—flesh with reverence and appetite—yet modern in its daring. Do you know an engraving after Titian, a woman punished for desire, her lovers tormenting her with pleasure? That sort of severity and grace combined.”
Darcy’s stomach executed a quick and unhelpful turn. The room seemed to tilt by a degree. She held very still and drew air through her nose. “I… I… I do not know what to say.”
Rebecca laughed, not unkindly. “If you are a virgin with delicate sensibilities, my dear, this is not for you.”
“I…” Oh God. How could she paint anyone naked, so intimately? “What a shocking and scandalous proposition! Surely no one is expected to take such work home to complete. ”
“Of course not,” Rebecca replied smoothly. “I shall provide a private and elegant room for your exclusive use here. No one will enter without your permission—only the servant I assign to you, and she will be entirely discreet. May I have your answer?”
“I would like a few days to think about it.”
Rebecca stood. “I am afraid waiting a few days is not in my plans. Thank you for coming here to see me. It must have taken great courage. Please allow me to escort you out.”
Oh God, I cannot lose this opportunity! “Wait,” Darcy said, too fast, then gentled her voice. “I am to paint only. I am not required to participate?”
“I would never dare to ask a lady to participate in the debauchery that happens here. Only to look,” Rebecca said with a smile. “To look and record with your paintbrushes. Your virtue is safe under my roof, and so is your reputation, as long as you keep your identity secret. I promise you this.”
A deep tremor went through Darcy’s heart, and she stiffened her spine. “I can do it.”
“Very well.” Rebecca resumed her seat, lifted her glass, and inclined it toward Darcy in a small toast. “You will not regret this. Let us assess you now.”
“Assess?” Darcy repeated, blinking. “What does that mean?”
“It means I must see you look at nakedness and not faint.” Rebecca emptied her drink, set down her glass and rose in one graceful sweep and moved to the door. “Come.”
Heart pounding, Darcy stood and followed Madam Rebecca. They went along a short passage where the carpet softened each step. Rebecca opened a door without knocking and stood aside. Darcy’s breath caught, and for a wild moment, she felt faint.
Good heavens!
Within, upon a chaise as comfortable as sin, lounged the Earl of Raine.
His cravat hung loose; his waistcoat was discarded.
He sat with an indolent sprawl, long legs splayed, a study in dangerous ease.
Before him, on her knees, a nearly bare woman bent with languorous attention, her hair spilling over her shoulders like poured wine.
Oh God!