Chapter 7
Nate paid the driver to set them down in place Louis XV.
Isobel laid her hand on his arm when he offered it, and slowly they started in the direction of the Seine.
Despite Amélie’s suggestion of the palace and gardens, he preferred the greater anonymity of quai des Tuileries.
With the day grey and cool and a breeze coming off the Seine, there were few people out purely for pleasure.
It suited him for the conversation at hand.
Isobel withdrew her arm when they reached the wall separating road from docks below. They stood side by side, facing the water. No other pedestrians were nearby.
“You learned of the existence of Les Moineaux on your own,” he said by way of opening the subject. “I mentioned Guillaume Dubois yesterday, the owner. He also owns an establishment called Le Repaire des Satyres.”
“The Satyrs’ Club,” Isobel translated. “The other business you mentioned this morning? It’s not familiar to me. I am certain I’d have noticed such a memorable name.”
“It is often shortened to Le Repaire when people speak of it.”
She shook her head. “Even had I heard it called thus, I suppose I’d have thought it a Parisian equivalent of Hewards or another gaming club. It is not, I take it? Is it another maison close like Les Moineaux?”
“It is a marriage of both vices, to some extent, although rather more . . . dissipated, one might say.”
“With such a name, I am not surprised.”
“It requires a token of entry obtained after introduction by an approved member. Provided one has that, he—or she—may enter and bring acquaintances if they so choose.” How much more to tell her?
“Why should it require a token of entry?”
He’d let her questions dictate the direction of the conversation for now. “For the sake of privacy, only carefully vetted persons may enter, the better to indulge in the pursuits within without fear of exposure in public.”
“Vetted by Dubois, I take it?”
“Aye. Mainly.”
“What precisely goes on at this—Le Repaire des Satyres?”
“One may gamble there if one chooses, private wagers with no limit on stakes—nor stakes confined to money. Nor is the gambling reserved only for men as in government-sanctioned maisons de jeu.”
“So that is the nominal similarity to Hewards.” She frowned slightly. “In what way does it compare to Les Moineaux?”
“Sexual favors are available, but it is not a maison de tolérance. A registered maison might cater to exclusive tastes and admit anyone who meets basic entry criteria and can pay the price, but it is not so at Le Repaire.”
“The entry token precludes it, yes? To what end?”
“It is in the interest of patrons that access to Le Repaire remain restrictive and its activities remain off official registries. There are several women who come in to offer services on certain nights, but I am fairly certain none appear on the rolls of the police des m?urs.”
Isobel’s eyebrows, dark and winged, drew together. A dip of her chin signaled for him to continue.
Plain speaking, then. “There are private rooms available to members. Themed rooms. Some patrons visit Le Repaire with chosen companions or to hire a woman for the evening, but just as frequently they might seek among other patrons new partners with similar proclivities, secure in the club’s private nature. ”
“I . . . see,” Isobel said, a touch faintly. “You have already gained a token to . . . there?”
“Aye. It was the most expedient way of gaining access to Dubois while further establishing my cover as Beaumont.”
Isobel regarded him, another question writ in her expression, but she looked away without voicing it aloud.
She had begun to trust him; he did not wish her to think it misplaced now.
It wasn’t misplaced, goddammit. “There is a girl inside, a contact of étienne Baudelaire’s and known to Amélie as well.
I engaged her in a private room so that we might speak unobserved.
And whatever she reported back to Dubois that we did in that room was not the truth. ”
Relief touched Isobel’s face before she schooled it to an approximation of blandness.
He might have left it at that, but given what was on the table—that she might pose as his companion, tonight even—it was critically important that she understand what sort of man he was.
And was not. So polite conversation be damned; it wasn’t like he’d expected in mentioning Le Repaire that they could keep to genteel topics.
“Bought pleasure isn’t to my taste.” He’d had excellent advice from a serjeant early on as a green lad in the army that it was a sure way for a man to end up with a diseased cock sooner or later, not fit for any woman. Far better yer hand, lad, than a blistered prick.
“Good. That is, not that I am judging. Or rather— I suppose I was . . . but I . . .” She pressed her lips together.
For a time, they watched a few boats plying their way up and down the river.
What she was thinking, he couldn’t guess, but he was reaching a decision himself.
He’d begun seriously to consider Frascati’s yesterday as a possibility, even prior to conversation with Amélie and correspondence with Baudelaire.
He was still not easy about it, but it should be relatively low risk for Isobel, especially with Baudelaire present.
Likely at least one of Baudelaire’s other associates as well; Baudelaire did not usually work alone.
“Tomorrow night I will be at a place called Café Frascati. A café for dining but also a maison de jeu with several different games run by the house. Any man may play so long as he can pay into the games.”
Isobel comprehended at once. “This is one of the places I would attend with you?”
“It would be entirely plausible for you to come with me. Women are not allowed to gamble but many come to watch lovers or, if unattached, seek protectors.”
“And it would increase your credibility among such men, bringing a . . . woman of your own?”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt it.”
Several pedestrians were approaching. Isobel waited until they were well past. “Then I suppose Amélie must find me something else to wear.” Her dimple showed for a moment before disappearing. “Unless Mr. Beaumont’s tastes run specifically towards widows in drab clothing.”
“We will defer to Amélie as to specifics, but aye, you’ll need a range of clothing for the next several days.
” He caught his gaze lingering where her dimple had been and checked himself.
Nathaniel Beaumont’s tastes would not run towards sedately attired Scottish widows, but it seemed Nate Blackmore’s did.
Isobel’s expression turned thoughtful. “What of Le Repaire? Is that not far more likely a place for me to learn something of Lucy, given its connections to both Compton and Dubois? To say nothing of a visit furthering your own aims?”
“It is a place I would prefer not taking you.” Hopefully she’d leave it at that.
“You would prefer not to take me? Or Mr. Beaumont, recently come to Paris to enjoy its sybaritic delights at your noble father’s expense?” Sarcasm colored her voice. This time the dimple was well hidden. Her chin was lifted at an angle he was fast coming to understand indicated a tenacious bent.
He did not doubt that she was intrepid, having come alone to France for the reasons she had, and she had not lived a wholly quiet life tucked away in some tiny corner of Britain.
But he also knew without needing to ask that she hadn’t life experiences to prepare her for a place such as Le Repaire.
Or if she did, he’d give up his work, his instincts having become utterly worthless.
When he remained silent, she pressed the point. “It is because of what I might see, is it not, that you are reluctant?”
“Assignations there are not always conducted behind closed doors, by preference,” he said bluntly. “I cannot predict what may be on display.”
Slight color rose on her cheekbones, but she didn’t drop her chin or her gaze.
He tempered his tone. “It would be unwise for you to go.”
Her chin lifted a fraction of an inch farther. “Unwise only because you wish to shield me? Or because you doubt my fortitude?”
She wanted it spelled out? So be it. He was no gentleman, after all, in any sense, no matter what roles he sometimes played.
“Anything goes, consensually, once one crosses the foyer of Le Repaire, and many of its patrons have appetites that run to more inventive, extreme pursuits of carnal pleasure than you may have previously considered. Invitations to participate can, of course, be declined, and anyone who presses attentions where they are unwelcome is removed. But propositions are made.” He looked her over, head to toe, quite deliberately.
“You will receive advances. Entering as my companion will not shield you from that. If anything, it may invite them.”
“So I will decline all invitations.” She looked more determined than daunted.
He fought to rein in his frustration.
She likewise took a deep breath, released it. “Shall we walk farther?” she asked.
He offered his arm again. “As you like.” They weren’t finished with discussion about Le Repaire but pausing it, of mutual accord.
They walked for several minutes in silence before he broke it. “I imagine you have questions about what to expect, tonight at Café de Foy and tomorrow at Frascati’s.”
“Yes.” She took her time before asking, “Have you done this before? That is, in the course of your work, have you needed to counterfeit a relationship of—of an intimate nature?”
“At times.”
“Was it difficult, feigning emotional intimacy?” She was looking straight ahead, but he sensed her full attention was on his answer.
“No, not as part of a job; one does it as a means to an end. And generally it is necessary for only a short duration anyway. One outing or one night or maybe a handful of days. A few weeks at most, mostly out of the public eye. Sometimes it’s merely the suggestion of a relationship—sharing quarters, for instance. ”
Isobel glanced at him and then away. “What if a suggestion is not convincing enough to satisfy suspicious persons?”