The abbess met Victoria Paget at the door of the brothel,
welcoming her in without a word. She did not ask Victoria's
name or her reason for seeking out a specific man. She
showed no loyalty to her customer, nor did she seem to care
overmuch what the strange lady on her doorstep wished to do
with her time or her reputation. Victoria suspected that the
Earl of Stanton had paid the woman well to insure her lack
of curiosity.
And what did it matter, if she was forced to play the whore
to discover the truth? It would be worth any sacrifice, if
it meant that she could put her husband's death behind her.
If a subordinate's betrayal had brought about his end and
she knew, and yet she did nothing? Then she failed him as a
widow, just as she feared she had as a wife. Until she was
sure that poor Charles rested easy, she would have no peace
herself.
The woman led her through the main salon and down a hall
hung with red curtains and bawdy art, and opened one of the
many rooms for her. "I know the man you seek, and I know
his tastes." She turned a critical gaze on Victoria, as
though she were inspecting merchandise before displaying it.
"There will be no difficulty in getting him to come to
you, if you have the nerve to meet him." She waited to
see if Victoria expressed shock or hesitation. When she saw
none, she said, "Tom Godfrey is known by the girls here
to be clean and gentlemanly. You are in no danger, spending
an evening in his company." The woman gave a small
satisfied smile. "In fact, there are those who would be
jealous of your good fortune."
Victoria sincerely doubted it, but said nothing.
The abbess gestured her into the small bedroom before them.
Then she turned to a silk curtain next to the door and
pulled it aside to reveal a brass-bound peephole. The woman
offered no further explanation, but Victoria could guess
what was expected of her. Lieutenant Godfrey would be led
down the hall, toward this room. The abbess would pull aside
a portrait or a drapery to give him his first glimpse of the
woman who awaited. She was to beguile him with her
movements, allowing them both to pretend that she was
unaware. She nodded to the abbess.
The woman nodded back. "Wait here and I will see to it
that he finds you." Then she departed, closing the door
behind her.
Victoria examined her surroundings, surprised that it was no
different than a common bedroom. The walls were covered in
cream silk, but there were no paintings or any sort of
ornament. The room was empty but for a wardrobe, a small
dressing table and mirror, and a great soft bed with
virginal white sheets.
She wondered if this room had a specialized purpose: the
loss of innocence. Surely this was not the place for her.
She had lost that, long ago. And yet? As she hung up her
cloak, a shiver went through her that had nothing to do with
the temperature of the air.
When she had gone to see her husband's friend, the Earl of
Stanton, with her unusual request, he had first dismissed
her as foolish. Perhaps her husband had suspected that there
was a spy in the midst of his company. His death did not
prove the fact. Soldiers died. Surely she knew that. She had
followed her husband to the Peninsula and seen the results
of battle, had she not?
She had argued that her Charles had died not in battle as he
should but because of false intelligence. His men had been
unprepared when they were ambushed on the road. Her husband
had often remarked about the strange behavior of Lieutenant
Godfrey and insisted there was something not quite right
about him. It must be more than coincidence that the man who
her husband suspected was the only one to escape unscathed
from the massacre.
Stanton had argued that she had no real proof. That the
man's reputation had been sterling, right up to that moment.
And in any case, he was no longer the army's concern. He had
been badly wounded in another engagement, retired from the
service and returned to London. Then he had thought to tease
her, and made the outrageous suggestion that she find the
man and ask him herself.
When she had eagerly agreed to this, he had changed his tune
and tried to frighten her. Godfrey did not inhabit the sorts
of places that a respectable lady might go. Did she mean to
frequent bawdy houses, looking for him?
She had squared her shoulders and said, "If
necessary."
And necessity had brought her here.
Victoria reached behind her to undo the modest gown she
wore. She had cast off her mourning before coming here.
Though black might suit her mood, it did not fit her
disguise. Red had seemed too obvious. So she had chosen a
green dress. She favored the color, although she had worn
nothing so frivolous since before her marriage. Now she
removed it and hung it on a hook at the back of the
wardrobe.
She stood in petticoats and shift, staring at her own white
face in the little mirror. It could not do to look
frightened, when he came for her. Stanton had argued that
she would be horrified at what was expected from a woman in
such a place.
She lifted her chin, examining her reflection and pinching
her cheeks to get some color back into them. She had
informed Stanton that she was no longer a schoolgirl, and
was not in the least frightened of a thing that she had done
many times before.
Her frankness had made the poor man blush, and he'd pleaded
with her to cry off and to forget everything he had said on
the matter.
Of course, she had refused. Given the suspicious nature of
his death, her husband would have expected her to act on
what he had told her. Although Charles had been a good man,
sometimes he had treated her no different than he treated
his soldiers. He expected loyalty, obedience and courage, as
well as her devotion. If the Earl of Stanton did not mean to
pursue the matter, then she must. And she would be better
off under his guidance than acting on her own.
When he had seen that she would not be swayed, he had shaken
his head and given her the address of this place. He had
promised that although it was against his better judgment,
all would be arranged.
She froze. There was a whisper of air against her bare arms.
It seemed to come from behind the draperies on the wall
behind her. He was there, watching her.
She turned so that her back was to her supposed observer and
touched her own neck, running a finger along the skin, and
up to remove the pins from her hair. Then she took up the
brush from the dressing table, combing out the curls as
though she were preparing for bed.
Her hair was her pride and joy, now that she was back in
London. She'd cried when Charles had made her cut it, saying
that if she was to follow him to Portugal there would be no
time for feminine nonsense. But it had grown back as full
and lustrous as it had been before her marriage. She
wondered if the man who watched cared for it, or if he
thought her foolish as well. She twisted the locks in her
hands, spread them and let them fall down her back.
Victoria stared into the mirror again. If she took too much
time with her clothes, he would know that she dawdled. She
took a deep breath and undid her petticoats, letting them
drop to the floor, stepping free of them and taking the time
to brush away the wrinkles before hanging them beside her
gown. She had not bothered with stays. They hardly seemed
necessary, considering what she was likely to do tonight.
Now, she wondered if they should have been present as part
of the ceremony of undressing, or if he preferred the
glimpses of her body through the thin shift she wore. The
knowledge of an anonymous watcher and his opinion of her was
like a bit of ice drawn slowly over her heated skin,
bringing sensitivity wherever it touched.
She sat down upon the bed, ignoring the way the shift's hem
rode high to reveal her legs. She removed her slippers,
dropping them on the floor. And then she undid her garters
and rolled her stockings down, pointing her toe and flexing
her bare legs. She shifted on the mattress until her back
was against the wall at the head of the bed and felt the hem
creep almost to her waist as she did so. And for the first
time that evening, real fear took hold of her. She felt
exposed, vulnerable.
Then she banished the feeling with a false smile. She knew
what she might have to do, when her quarry entered the room.
In comparison, the task of the moment could hardly be
considered frightening. She was still alone.
It was not as if, even when alone, she had allowed herself
to behave with abandon. It was not proper. But she was in
the last place in the world where she would have to concern
herself with propriety.
She reached up, tentatively at first, and touched her own
breasts through the lawn shift that covered them, shocked at
how sensitive they felt. Her nipples tightened in response
to the pleasure and the coldness of the room. She closed her
eyes to hide herself from her circumstances and cupped her
hands under them, pushing them tight to her body so that
they almost spilled from the neckline of the shift, enjoying
the weight of them.
She let her hands drift lower, to catch the hem of the shift
and draw it completely out of the way. She bit her lip as
though in desire, and blocked the last of her fear in her
mind. Then she let her legs fall open, exposing herself to
anyone who might be watching from the hall.
From some hidden place, there was a sharp intake of breath,
and the slow hiss as it was released again.
The sound sent a tremor of awareness through her. Was the
man on the other side of the curtain the man she sought?
Perhaps it was some other stranger. Whoever her audience
might be, they were expecting her to continue.
And suddenly, her body trembled again, and she wished it as
well. She spread herself with her fingers, and began to
play.
Tom Godfrey looked at the woman sitting on the bed and tried
to disguise his shock into something within the realm of
expectation or eagerness.
The abbess touched his arm, to silently ask if this was the
sort of woman he had been looking for.
He placed a hand over hers and nodded. Not only was the
chestnut hair just as he had wished, and the eyes bright
green, but the shape of the face was the same as well. There
was the short nose, the gently rounded cheeks and the small
dimple in the chin.
He had not seen her body in the little miniature his captain
had carried. But he had imagined it: the pale skin dusted
with gold from the sun of Portugal, with long legs, high
breasts and a trim waist flaring into soft round hips. His
imagination did not do this woman justice.
The madam smiled and nodded, gesturing to the door at her
right and pressing a key into his hand. He pressed a coin
into hers in return. Then, she retreated.
He stood there for a while, staring into the little window,
enjoying the clandestine view it provided. The woman was
very like the one he longed for. And with his desire came
the faint feeling of guilt.
Though why he should feel guilty about thoughts not
expressed, he did not know. It was not as if he had ever
bothered Victoria Paget with his opinions of her. He had
never even met her. He had not even sent the briefest of
condolences along with her husband's personal effects,
fearing that some stray comment in it would lead her to
guess the truth. He had done nothing to be ashamed of.
But while his actions had been blameless, he regretted his
uncontrollable thoughts. Captain Paget's descriptions of his
wife's spirit, and her unfailing loyalty and courage, had
moved him to envy. The devotion of his own fiancée
waiting in London for him had seemed ambivalent in
comparison. And then, Paget had shared a glimpse of the
little portrait that he had so often admired himself.
Tom had felt the first stirrings of jealousy. Perhaps it was
because he doubted that Paget deserved such a wife as the
one he'd described. At times, he had spoken of her as he
might of a particularly good soldier, and not a woman who
was worthy of respect and tenderness. And though the captain
had claimed to have a great fondness for her, when the war
parted them he had shown no particular desire to be faithful
to her in the way he swore she was to him.
Perhaps it was merely covetousness on Tom's part. He had
seen the peace it brought Paget to look on the picture
before a battle. And he had wanted some bit of that peace
for himself. He had longed for reassurance that someone
waited for him and cared for his survival. The few pitiful
letters he'd received from his supposed love filled him with
doubts about their future. And his fears had been proven
true soon after his return to England.
But worst of all, there was lust. He had seen the picture,
and wanted the woman in it. When the captain had died, Tom
had searched his pockets for it, out of a sudden shameful
desire to keep it for his own. That he could have it to gaze
on each night, before he slept. And to imagine…
It had repelled him that he could have such thoughts about
the widow, with the husband barely cool on the ground before
him. So he had bundled the miniature up with the captain's
few personal effects, tucked the lot into his haversack to
keep it safe from the soldiers who were looting the
battlefield, and sent it back to camp with the next courier.
When he had arrived there on a stretcher almost a month
later after another skirmish had shattered his leg and his
career, he had wanted to meet with her and to explain the
circumstances of her husband's death. But she was already
gone back to London. Disappointment and relief had mingled
with the pain of his wound.
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