down his uneasiness and fixed his baby brother with a haughty glare. “My tastes are narrow in that regard. And I do not think the Honorable Miss Pennington will be the type to satisfy my rather urgent demands, do you?”
“She’s going to be your next wife?” Brandon laughed mirthlessly. “That shows a singular lack of imagination. Then again, if she’s going to die you’re probably better off picking someone as cold and judgmental as you are. She’ll do nicely. So if she’s not the one to satisfy your…er…sexual urgings, who is?”
“I rather thought I’d start with Violet Highstreet. If I can find her. I gather she left Mrs. Cadbury’s establishment.” Benedick didn’t like the slow, wicked smile that crossed his younger brother’s ravaged face.
“Excellent choice,” Brandon purred. “I can give you her new direction. I expect she’d be more than happy to come to you this evening. And I’m afraid Mrs. Cadbury’s excellent house is no more. You’ll have to find some new source for your tame excesses. In the meantime, I’m going out. And don’t ask me where.”
Benedick resisted the impulse to protest. His planned excesses felt far from tame. “My interest in your activities was simply a momentary lapse, baby brother. You may go to the devil any way you please.”
“Decent of you,” Brandon replied. “I intend to.”
2
Six o’clock in the evening was not the most conventional time for sexual congress, but Benedick, Viscount Rohan, didn’t give a damn. Living in Somerset had required a certain amount of sexual circumspection on his part, and ever since his latest mistress had departed in a wounded huff, some six months before, he’d been depressingly celibate. He intended to take care of that matter immediately, and Violet Highstreet and her talented mouth would prove more than up to the task. Of all Mrs. Cadbury’s highflyers she was the one who specialized in that particular variation, one of many he was extremely fond of. She would take the edge off him, so to speak, and he would then enjoy himself more traditionally or perhaps head over to his club to discover who exactly was in town. At the moment, however, all he could think of was La Violette’s carmined lips enclosed about him.
If Emma Cadbury had closed her doors, he would have to find a new source of enthusiastic—and healthy—companions. The women of London fell into a number of categories, starting with the virtuous wives and widows, which were of no interest to him, followed by the virgins, who were only worth marrying and turning into virtuous wives and widows and nothing more.
Then there were the far from virtuous widows and married women who only wanted pleasure without accountability, his favorite breed of bed partner. Followed by courtesans and mistresses, highflyers living under the protection of a distant, beautiful abbess like Mrs. Cadbury, women whose establishments could range from crystal chandeliers to the best champagne. Or they could descend to the more depressing, staid households with a grim harridan overseeing the proceedings.
Then, of course, there were the many varieties of streetwalkers, all of whom he tended to avoid, rather than risk disease. But even among his limited categories he could find infinite choice, and he had every intention of sampling the spectrum.
Starting with Violet Highstreet. He was as randy as a teenage boy, and she’d have very little to do before embarking on the sweet journey to completion.
He sank down into one of the leather chairs in his study, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and awaited her arrival.
Lady Melisande Carstairs, widow of Sir Thomas Carstairs, better known as “Charity” Carstairs to her much-disgusted social acquaintances, looked up from the tiny Louis Quinze desk with its gilt and ormolu trim, a frown crossing her face. She’d made a huge blot of ink on the letter she was writing, and it stained her fingers, which was nothing new. Since she was always petitioning the House of Lords or the House of Commons for one thing or another, and generally being ignored, her ink-stained hands were de rigueur. Wasn’t that why they made gloves?
Something was wrong. She could have sworn she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and yet no one had popped her head inside the door to talk or see what Melisande was doing. The inhabitants of Carstairs House, more familiarly referred to as the Dovecote, numbered twenty, and every one of them was a Ruined Woman, a Soiled Dove, one of the Poor Unfortunates. Every one of them