The Notorious Scoundrel - By Alexandra Benedict Page 0,3

to the club…to forget.”

“And does being here make you forget?”

“No.”

Edmund thought as much. He looked around the room for another place to sit, but the serving girl returned with the beverage then, and he wasn’t inclined to move away from his seat now that he’d a drink in hand. He paid her a coin.

“It won’t help you, you know.”

Edmund took a swig of the gin. “What won’t help me?”

“The drink.” He nursed the cigar in his bejeweled hand. “It won’t help you to forget.”

“It’s all worthless, is it?” He chuckled at the theatrics. “The club? The drink? Is there no escape from one’s ‘tired’ life?”

“There is escape.”

“Oh?”

“In death.”

Edmund snorted at the smattering.

“You laugh at death?”

He peered at the stranger with a sardonic expression. “I laugh at men who speak with courage about death, but who have never faced it.”

“Hmm…and you’ve faced death?”

“I have.”

Edmund downed the rest of the gin and smacked the empty glass on the table, but the spirits had yet to stifle the dark memories in his head.

“And how does it feel to confront death?”

“Do you want me to philosophize?” He shrugged. “I can’t say, in truth. It’s only after the danger has passed that I even realize I’ve come close to death, and then I feel triumphant.”

“Because you’ve bested death?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.”

Edmund waited for the stranger to break the silence with another odd question or puzzling remark, but the shadowy figure refrained from further comment, drawing on his cigar.

Edmund didn’t mind the quiet; he was a man of few words himself. He was also accustomed to more peculiar companions, his history at sea so varied and colorful; yet, at present, he wasn’t in the mood for any more blathering.

He looked at the stage. “What is the show about?”

“I don’t know. This is my first visit to the club, too.”

Edmund sighed, weary. Soon the gin took effect and he sensed his muscles loosen. The sensual music and rich colors and low mood lighting in the room started to make him drowsy…but then the sudden clash of instruments pierced his skull and jostled his wits.

He blinked and glanced around the room, bemused.

“I think the show’s about to start,” said the stranger in an offhand manner, clearly uninterested in the whole proceeding.

Edmund stretched out his long legs and yawned. He was prepared to sleep through the insipid performance, which he assumed was a bawdy comedic act or a recital from a half-rate singer, but the soft clash of cymbals and tambourines, the rhythmic slaps of a hand drum roused his dormant senses.

He remembered sailing to North Africa, stopping in Morocco for supplies before continuing toward the continent’s western shores and bustling slave waters. He remembered similar sounds and lush melodies coming from the foreign port, filling the night air, which was already sweet with spices and tangy fruits.

Edmund opened his eyes and observed the stage as the red velvet curtains parted. The room hushed but for a few patrons, who whispered the word “Zarsitti” with excitement.

A figure soon appeared, scantily attired in white silk. The coquette had a long flowing skirt, beaded with crystals, and a hip scarf bejeweled with gold coins. A matching top crisscrossed over her lush breasts, but her arms and belly were nude.

The dancer’s artful movements, a captivating pattern of hip rolls and twirls, stirred Edmund from his listlessness, bewitched him—and every other male member of the club. She gyrated and shuffled and swayed, hypnotizing him like a snake charmer with music.

He noted a birthmark shaped like a kiss just below the center part of her breasts. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual mark or makeup designed to enhance her sensual allure. A veil concealed her nose and lips, and an elaborate coin headdress crowned her lengthy, wavy blond locks. There was only a set of piercing and painted eyes that peered at the crowd through the silk mask.

The blood in his veins warmed as she undulated and swooped in step to the pulsing instruments. He stared in both admiration and longing at the woman’s lean figure, her smooth, muscular midriff. Every tendon stretched, seeking glory and applause, and inwardly he offered her that very ovation, for even his bones throbbed in appreciation.

He relished the savory sensations that welled inside him. He had drifted across the sea of idleness for far too long, and the dancer’s mesmerizing appearance was like an anchor staking him to the seabed. She beckoned him back onto land, to feel again. And he was dizzy with the woman’s heady