Black Silk. Sharon Page

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      Notation in Winslow’s Volume for Wagering at Winslow’s Gentlemen’s club, the upstart of such clubs: Fifty pounds that the widowed Lady F—, who has been missing from Mayfair for two weeks, has run off with a footman rather than share the bed of Lord H—.

      1

      “You spend a night allowing a woman to drip molten wax on your chest, and afterward everyone casts you as the villain.” Dashiel Blackmore, Lord Swansborough, leaned back into his leather club chair and grinned.

      His friend, Sir William Kent, Bow Street’s magistrate and a gentleman who could remain composed while handing down a sentence that sent a youth to a prison hulk, blanched in shock and embarrassment at this casual remark.

      “Good lord, you’re depraved, Swansborough.” Sir William shook his head as he lifted his brandy and drained the last half inch. He adjusted his spectacles over intense blue eyes, his fingers brushing the long-healed scar from a footpad’s attack. “What sort of madness was that about?”

      “The anticipation of each burning drop.” Dash crooked his fingers, then made a snuffing motion, and an obedient, well-trained girl immediately leaped to do his bidding.

      Winslow’s, the newest of London’s hells, combined the tradition of the gentleman’s club—venerable location, card tables, a strict control of membership, a slab of beef for dinner—with the pleasure of London’s brothels.

      Ironic that Sir William had tracked him down to this place, had used his name to gain entrance.

      The girl, a plump temptation with honey-blond curls, approached, carrying a candle. Around the crowded, smoke-hazed room, two dozen whores bestowed their charm and favors on various gentlemen. All the women were blondes, all voluptuous with lush mouths and succulent tits.

      Wearing a hopeful expression, the girl sashayed toward Sir William and him. She pursed her rouged lips suggestively and gave a tiny puff of breath—enough to set the flame flickering and the pooled wax spilling.

      Turning back to Sir William, Dash gave a devil’s smile. “Care to explore dangerous sex?”

      “Bloody hell, no.” Sir William waved the girl away. She gave a pretty pout and spun, setting her shortened skirts whirling around her plump thighs. He leveled a serious gaze, filled with fatherly censure. “Still dressed head to toe in black, I see. Even a black cravat. Swansborough, are you the villain of this piece?”

      It never ceased to be strange to hear Sir William use his title. Sir William had known him since he was “young Dashiel,” had sometimes teased him by using his middle name, Lancelot. He picked up the brandy bottle to refill their glasses. “If you believed me to be the villain, wouldn’t I be in Newgate by now?”

      Sir William raised his glass briefly in agreement. “Where were you on that night?”

      “Tied to a bed, I expect. I cannot remember.”

      “Four witnesses saw you on the Dark Walk just before the woman disappeared. One insists she saw you dragging a reluctant woman with you—a woman hidden by a black cloak.”

      Dash leveled his gaze at his friend, the one man who had believed his story about his past, his unbelievable tales about his uncle. He took a long drink of the brandy. “I do not kidnap women.”

      “Was it part of a game? A bedroom game?”

      “I was not at Vauxhall. But I can offer no proof of it.”

      Sir William СКАЧАТЬ