Chapter 15
Le Repaire des Satyres did not have a large number displayed beside the door like registered maisons de tolérance; it was in fact fairly inconspicuous, save the metal knocker in the shape of a satyr’s head. Nate dropped the ring against the door with a dull thud.
He produced the token of entry for the burly man at the door. The man’s eyes slid over Isobel without comment.
Dubois glided forward almost as soon as they were inside, greeting them in French.
“Ah, M. Beaumont, welcome. You have returned and this time brought with you a lovely friend. Come, ma petite, hand over your cloak.” Dubois took Isobel’s hands, bowing over them before leading her towards the drawing room that opened off the entryway.
Several clusters of people lingered on low couches, glancing their way with varying degrees of interest.
Following behind Isobel, he stripped off his gloves before lifting her velvet pelisse from her shoulders, revealing the beaded bodice and thin silk net of her gown. A servant unobtrusively stepped forward for her pelisse and his greatcoat.
Dubois’s eyes paused appreciatively on the expanse of skin above the low neckline. “Yes, you are most welcome here, Mademoiselle—?”
She allowed Dubois to claim her hand again. “I am Isobel Blanchet,” she said, offering a shy smile.
“And I am Guillaume Dubois, owner of this establishment. You must tell me how you have met M. Beaumont?”
“I am newly come to town and had lost my way on rue Montmartre. It was there that M. Beaumont found me.”
Was Dubois’s expression keener than usual? “I could hardly allow her to continue unescorted.” He lightly traced her collarbone. “She drew my eye at once.”
“I can see most certainly how she would. M. Beaumont has told you of the delights that await?”
“Oh yes, he has told me everything.” A slight tremor was genuine, but it served well enough for what she was meant to be.
“There is a game assembling if cards are your immediate preference, Monsieur. Or other patrons will no doubt find the mademoiselle most enchanting if your pleasure is that for this evening.”
He circled one arm around Isobel’s midsection, closing the other hand possessively around her bare arm above her elbow-length glove. She tilted her head back against his shoulder.
Dubois raised his eyebrows. “Or perhaps you would prefer instead a more private arrangement in one of our rooms?”
He caressed the line of Isobel’s throat.
“We will first visit the galèrie d’art for inspiration.
Perhaps the salle céladon later.” That particular room, named for its jade green walls, was free from voyeuristic eyes.
He’d met there with étienne’s contact, Chrysanthème, on his last visit. Other rooms he could not trust.
“But of course!” exclaimed Dubois, clasping his hands together. “And perhaps you will join me for a drink after, and I will see what I may do to enhance your visit.”
It was couched as an offer but had the feel of something far less benign and best not ignored, however much he was reluctant to bring Isobel under closer prolonged scrutiny by Dubois. “We would be delighted, would we not, chérie?”
“Indeed, mon amour.” Isobel’s voice was breathy.
Dubois bowed to her, then him, and gestured towards the gallery. “Please do enjoy, and then come to tell me the mademoiselle’s opinions.”
After stepping away, he murmured into Isobel’s ear, “Shall we?”
She nodded, and he caught the scent of her hair. “I will follow your lead.”
“You need not pretend to be worldly, only interested.”
Isobel touched his jaw and behind his ear. “I trust you.”
What Nathaniel and M. Dubois called the art gallery was an open space displaying various paintings and objets d’art, lit by oil lamps along the walls and containing multiple sitting areas and alcoves along the exterior.
In an alcove near the entrance, they passed a man reclining on one elbow on a couch, a woman kneeling beside him. His trousers were unfastened, his erect cock bared to passers-by as the woman caressed it. Her lips enveloped the tip before her head bobbed down.
The man inclined his head as they passed, his gaze heavy-lidded as he tracked them.
Isobel stumbled slightly, and Nathaniel’s arm tightened around her waist. “Steady,” he murmured as they strolled towards a display of china figures.
At a casual first glance, they appeared to be Meissen figurines until one looked more closely.
The figures were partially or entirely unclothed, suggestive of—if not outright explicitly depicting—sexual acts.
She sucked in a breath before unsuccessfully fighting a bubble of laughter.
Nathaniel’s smile, full and genuine, transformed his face into something dizzyingly attractive, as it had once before. Just as quickly his lips returned to their usual austere set, but his eyes were still crinkled at the corners. “Quite something, aren’t they?”
She drew a calming breath, more transfixed by his smile than the shocking china figures. “Remarkable, even. Although I would probably not display them on a shelf in my own home,” she added in a prim tone.
The left corner of Nathaniel’s mouth quirked again slightly before he offered her his arm. “Perhaps you will find the art elsewhere more to your tastes.” He was entirely straight-faced again, but when he caught her eye, she knew—knew—that he was amused.
She was somewhat more prepared for the next piece of art, a painting of a nude woman surrounded by several fully clothed men whose hands and mouths were pleasuring her in various ways.
Equal parts titillation and shock twinged in her stomach.
With some difficulty she dragged her eyes from the painted woman’s face.
This time she refused to so much as look at Nathaniel, although she was suddenly more aware of the warmth and strength of his body beside her. As for his hands, last night, and his mouth . . .
A woman, perhaps some ten years older than herself, approached on their left. The woman was dressed more staidly than herself, with eyes far bolder than her own.
Nathaniel drew her close, arm banding her to him. Steadying her.
“Inspirational, don’t you think?” the woman asked.
“Erm, yes. Quite,” she murmured. Nathaniel’s chest vibrated silently against her back. She wanted to laugh too, partially from nerves but also because she was genuinely amused. This was an entirely absurd situation.
“I have found it so on other visits,” the woman said. “I have not seen you before, I think?”
“It is my first visit here.”
“And tonight I do intend to savor her first reactions entirely for myself.” Nathaniel’s tone—no, Beaumont’s—was careless but offered no room for negotiation.
“Indeed.” The woman leaned closer to her. “That one looks worth savoring as well,” she said sotto voce, tipping her head towards Nathaniel.
A sudden visceral flash from last night of him on his back beneath her, both of them lost to pleasure, warmed her cheeks.
The woman’s smile was knowing. “Bonne soireé.”
“It would seem, chérie, that we must find somewhere else more private if we wish to indulge without interruption.” Nathaniel’s words were for the benefit of those nearby, but the warmth they created in her was genuine. “But first we will find M. Dubois as we promised.”
He directed her forward, hand set against the small of her back, until they located Dubois.
“What are your impressions of our little establishment, Mademoiselle?” Dubois asked. “Is it so far to your liking?”
“Yes,” she managed. “The galèrie was quite, ah, thought-provoking.” She nearly choked on the last words, fighting down giddy laughter.
“How pleased I am that you say this.” Dubois beamed. “Perhaps you will now step with me this way, and we shall have our drinks?” He said something further to the girl with whom he was speaking and gestured for Isobel and Nathaniel to follow him along the corridor.
After several turns, he ushered them into a spacious and richly decorated study.
“I have just acquired a very fine apple brandy as well as a most pleasant eau-de-vie de marc from the Bourgogne region.” He gestured to a well-appointed sideboard.
“Or if you would prefer a drink from your countrymen, I have a whisky that has only recently left your Port of London.”
“We will be glad to share whichever drink you prefer,” Nathaniel said pleasantly.
“The marc de Bourgogne, then.” Dubois poured for each of them, her glass as generous as his and Nathaniel’s. “Me, I have never developed the taste for your harsh whiskies.”
“I must admit curiosity as to where you acquired whisky,” Nathaniel said. “I have not been offered it during my time in France.”
“A friend brings me many interesting articles from your country.” Dubois’s eyes were keen. “He has means of avoiding pestilential regulations on its import.”
Smuggling? And this friend . . . Compton?
“We provide services to one another in this way,” Dubois continued. “He supplies me from England, not only whisky but other articles of particular interest to Frenchmen, and I find buyers for what he sells.”
“Mmm. Are you amenable to making other English friends who might also trade services with you?”
“That depends upon what you are offering.” Dubois sat back, fitting his fingertips together.
“You will have learned that my father works in the British Foreign Office.”
How easily Nathaniel slid into this other persona. It was fascinating, in a way, but her stomach was uneasy. Why? The thought of Compton? But that was precisely why they were there. She must not grow faint of heart now.
Dubois was regarding Nathaniel thoughtfully. “And you believe this interests me?”
Nathaniel’s expression was purely neutral. “Does it?”
“We could both prosper from such a friendship,” Dubois said slowly. “Do you know, a friend of mine was last night at Frascati’s? He played at trente-et-un and said you were a most formidable opponent.”
The antagonistic blond man? Surely it could not have been the student. Even more disquieted, she adjusted her skirt, careful not to look up lest she give away any sort of reaction.