An Innocent Maid For The Duke. Ann Lethbridge
me. I’ll have it done in no time.’
‘Flo,’ one of the other girls called. ‘Your gentleman’s waiting at the back door.’
A shadow passed across her friend’s face, but then she shot Rose a cheeky smile. ‘’Is lordship’s taking me out for dinner.’ She glided away.
His lordship, as Flo called him, was Flo’s gentleman follower. Rose sometimes wondered if he treated her right. There had been a couple of unexplained bruises that Flo had brushed off as falls.
The girls were allowed to walk out with the club members as long as they were discreet and did not ask for, or mention, any names. Flo lived in hopes her beau would ask her to marry him. Rose had offered dire warnings after seeing those bruises.
In her turn, Flo had instructed Rose on how to avoid unwanted children, just in case.
Rose pulled out the pair of thin cotton gloves she used to keep the silky fabrics the girls wore from getting ruined by her rough skin and set to work.
Slowly the noise around her dwindled to nothing. The wall sconce above her head contained the only candles left alight. A clock struck the hour.
Four in the morning! Already? The repair had taken far longer than she had expected because she’d also found three rips in the gauzy gown’s side seams and some of the silk roses bordering the hem had been loose.
She snipped off the thread and held the gown towards the light. So feminine, like something one of the titled ladies who occasionally visited the club would wear, even if it was a little gaudy.
What would it be like to be one of those ladies? Living a life of ease and luxury. She didn’t envy them the boredom that Flo said was the reason they came to the V&V, drawn there by the excitement of losing hundreds of pounds at the gambling tables or by the private assignations with one or other of the virile young men who were members.
She pushed to her feet, rubbing at the ever-present ache in the small of her back. Time to go home or she wouldn’t get any sleep at all. She carried the gown over her arm to Flo’s chest full of clothes. On top was a mask covered in red spangles shaped to cover the top half of the wearer’s face. It matched the gown. As Rose moved it aside, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, tired, drab, plain.
Grinning at her image, she held the gown up against her and kicked out a foot, making the red fabric swirl around her ankles. The picture she created was spoiled by the sight of her ugly brown dress as she turned to view herself from the side. She stared at the neckline. Was it too low? Should she have added a bit more fabric? While the V&V was renowned for debauchery and depravity, Flo was a singer not a courtesan.
Perhaps she should try it on before she put it away. For Flo’s sake, naturally. She shook her head. Who did she think she was fooling? She wanted to see what she would look like in such a gown.
She whipped off her frock and slid the whisper of a gown over her head. In the mirror, a magical transformation took place. Her eyes seemed to pick up the sparkles at the neckline and her figure seemed more shapely. If it wasn’t for the plain Jane face staring back at her, she might have thought herself pretty.
The mobcap had to go. But with the severe bun still in place, it made little difference. She pulled the pins from her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, then, with a naughty smile, tied on the mask.
She turned this way and that, regarding her reflection. Better. Much better. Why, she might almost pass as one of the girls. And if she really used her imagination, perhaps as a lady. The neckline was not as bad as she had feared. It was a little low, showing the rise of her bosom, but not at all indecent.
Eyes half-closed, she twirled around humming one of the tunes she’d heard the musicians playing in the ballroom earlier that evening, pretending she was waltzing with one particularly handsome gentleman, who had no clue she even existed.
Sore feet and aching back gave her not one twinge.
* * *
Returning from seeing his grandmother, Jake passed a carriage standing outside the front door of Vitium et Virtus. Waiting for one of nobility’s late-night revellers, no doubt. Usually it was the ladies who kept their carriages at the ready. He went around the side of the club, to the door out of sight of regular members, reserved for the owners.
The porter, Ben Snyder, bowed him in. ‘Good evening, Yer Grace.’
Jake froze. The pain of loss held him rigid, followed swiftly by a rage he could scarcely contain.
With a muttered curse Jake slung his coat and hat on one of the four hooks in the shape of aroused male appendages they’d bought as a job lot upon opening Vitium et Virtus.
Snyder handed him a mask and retreated to his chair.
No doubt the man had seen the anger and thought it was directed at him. Jake reined in his emotions. Built the wall of distance that kept him halfway sane. But, God help him, each and every time he heard those two words, his instinct was to glance around for his father. Only to realise it was he who was being addressed. He loathed it.
It was a constant reminder of his father and brother. Of their lives. Of their deaths. Of the reason he was now addressed as Your Grace.
It was also why he was here and not tucked up in the ducal bed in the ducal mansion. Here and only here did he seem able to snatch a few minutes’ sleep. A slog through the ledgers with a brandy or two in the comfort of the owners’ private rooms should send him into the arms of Morpheus. He hoped.
‘Any one left above stairs?’ he enquired of the porter, trying to sound normal and coming off icily cold.
‘A few, Yer Grace,’ the man said warily. ‘In the gaming room and upstairs in the private bedrooms. Want me to clear them out?’
‘No. I am not in. To anyone. I don’t care if the place burns down, I do not want to be disturbed, understand?’
‘Understood, Your Grace.’
The porter also added a whispered as usual, but Jake decided not to hear. The porter would follow orders. He always did and that was all Jake required. He strode along the deserted corridor with its erotic statues and murals seeming to leer at him, the need for brandy an ache in his throat.
He took the servants’ staircase down. It would take him to the other side of the house to another set of stairs leading up to where the owners’ private quarters were located. Allowing him to avoid any lingering customers.
A sound of soft humming brought him to a halt outside the ladies’ dressing room. He frowned. The girls should all be gone by now. They were certainly not supposed to entertain gentlemen here. There were rooms on the top floor set aside for such frolics. Rooms equipped with costumes and toys for every taste.
He donned his mask and opened the door a fraction, enough to see in but not be seen until he could figure out what was going on.
A petite woman in a glittering red mask was singing to herself, her scarlet gown swirling around her shapely ankles as she twirled in front of the mirrors, each one giving a different reflection of a gown moulded to every curve of a sinuously lush body moving in time to her humming. The smile on her parted lips was not the forced smile of a courtesan, nor that of a jaded widow, or yet the hopeful smile of a debutante anxious to please a duke. This smile was pure delight. Enjoyment.
Her joy at the simple act of dancing spilled over with an infectious feeling of lightness that unaccountably lifted his spirits. He found his own lips curving upwards in response. Even more surprising, he found himself wanting to be the one to waltz her around the room.
* * *
A movement in the shadows caught the corner of Rose’s eye. She turned and gasped. It was him! The Duke. Though he was wearing his usual mask, she would know him anywhere by his height and breadth and commanding presence. By his dark stubbled jaw and firm chin. By his lovely mouth.
Too many times had she stopped to admire him as he passed her at her work. Of all the