Tangled in Sin Page 3

  Cynthia was not sure that she wanted to keep talking about James—but neither was she sure she wanted to stop. Had she never noticed that he always took command of their play—and had she liked it that way? There was something about thinking about him and control that left her feeling most unsteady. “He would never do anything to hurt you.”

  “You always did take his side. Do you remember when we were eight and you were convinced that you would marry him? Do you still feel that way?”

  “Of course I don’t. I haven’t seen him for years—or at least not really. I know it seems I should have, but I have a hard time remembering seeing him…and…and I would have remembered. I think I greeted him once at the opera a year or so ago, but I can’t be positive. And if it was him, I am not even sure he realized who I was, and I would have thought I must have seen him during the season, but I can’t recall ever noticing him. Even when I visited your house he was never at home.” Most of that was true, except the part about not being sure. It had not been him. If it had, she never would have forgotten. There was something so unmistakable about him.

  “That may be true, but your cheeks have flushed. I think there is more truth to what I say than you want to admit.”

  She should have changed the subject before this. She did not have romantic feelings about James. She wasn’t even sure exactly what he looked like now. She ignored the memory of that strong profile—and she was certainly going to ignore the tingle she felt whenever she thought of him, that she’d always felt when she thought of him. “Well, I didn’t come here to discuss your brother. But I do have another question. Can I ask you something else, something daring?”

  Jasmine settled back in her chair. “I am quite happy to stop talking about James, so yes, ask. Although I will not promise to answer. We do have a few more minutes before Cook is likely to return with Hope.”

  Cynthia leaned forward. “Did you like it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like relations. Marital relations.”

  “Well, I can’t claim to have had marital relations, as I am not married, but I found sex to be quite adequate.”

  “Adequate. You risked everything for adequate?” That was not the answer that Cynthia had wanted. Surely if a girl was to risk all, there should be something magical.

  “Perhaps more than adequate, but I will admit that it was not all that I had hoped. I was naive and did not know what to expect.”

  “So it truly isn’t anything special? Did it hurt?”

  “It was not exactly comfortable, but I don’t think I would call it painful. And since coming here I have learned a great deal and I do believe that it can be wonderful. I have talked to some of the girls and also some of the female patrons and been told some extraordinary things. I do believe that much depends on one’s partner—and one’s self. I think that with a little practice a woman could learn to be sure that she has—has fun.”

  “And are you getting this practice?” Why else would Jasmine choose to take over a brothel and then refuse to leave?

  A gentle sigh. “No. It is far too soon since my daughter’s birth, and I am not sure I will even when I am fully recovered. For now I will be content with my imagination—although my imagination was certainly not accurate my first time. I thought nightingales would sing and true love would follow.”

  “And it wasn’t like that?”

  “No. I think the one lesson that I would teach women is that love and sex are not the same. The lower classes know this, but we are fed a story of how we can learn to love and I think it is horseshit.”

  Cynthia knew her jaw had dropped open. The friend she had known would never have used such a term—or with such vehemence. It had been bad enough when she’d said the word sex, but shit?

  “Don’t give me that look. I live in a brothel now and even though it is quite an elegant one, the language can be coarse. I’ve come to believe it is often more honest than our more carefully chosen words.”

  Cynthia would let that go. “So tell me about what I need to know. I promise I will remember that sex is not love.”

  “Particularly for men. It is strange how we are taught that and not taught it at the same time. We all know that many men have mistresses, but never put that together with their relationship with their wives. That men may have more needs than marriage can encompass.”

  “Are you saying you believe that?”

  Jasmine leaned back in her chair and swung her feet up on to the table, revealing soft gray slippers. “I am not sure what I believe. Since I’ve been here I’ve met several married couples who are quite content and while I understand the men are quite demanding their wives are more than capable of meeting their needs. They seem far happier than those who do not have such a marriage. When I think of my own parents’ marriage…of my father and his mistress…”

  “Then the rumors are true?”

  “Yes, the duke had a mistress for decades.” Jasmine’s voice dropped. “And to tell you a secret that few know, although more speculate, Madame Rouge, Ruby, was actually my father’s daughter. It is why I came here. I had heard rumors, and when I was desperate I could only hope that they were true.”

  “Madame Rouge was the Duke of Scarlett’s daughter? Your sister?” The whole concept was unbelievable. “I can’t believe it. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t at first. When I came here I actually thought she would laugh and turn me away. But once I met her there could be no mistake. Ruby is my sister. We could almost have been twins.”

  “That I find hard to believe. I’ve heard she is a redhead and rather full in the bosom.”

  “Well, so am I—at the moment.” Jasmine glanced down at her enlarged chest. “I admit that our figures may be different in general, but the red hair is a wig and once she takes it off you would be amazed how similar we are. When I looked at her eyes it was like looking in a mirror. I actually thought about pretending to be her when she left. Oh, not really. I know that I could not truly pull it off, but there are many businesses that pass from one hand to another while the name remains the same.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  Jasmine was quiet for a moment, seeking a full answer. “I wanted something of my own and the name seemed like the easiest place to start. I can do anything I want with Madame Blanche’s. Well, at least anything within certain parameters.”

  “I still don’t see why you’d want to. Even if you don’t want to marry, surely you could find somewhere to live quietly with your daughter.” This whole thing made no sense to Cynthia. Why would anyone give up a respectable life if they didn’t have to? She might enjoy adventure, but she’d never have dreamed of giving up her life and home.

  “That was my original plan—as much as I had any plan at all. But to be frank, I didn’t have enough money without selling my diamonds”—her hand rose to her neck—“and doing that is far harder than one would imagine. I thought about trying to sell them back to my father, but it seemed wrong—and I lacked all confidence that he would not just take them from me. They were bequeathed to me and if it is at all possible I will bequeath them to my daughter.”

  “But surely you could sell Madame Rouge’s.”

  “Madame Blanche’s. And while legally I probably could, I made certain promises to Ruby and I do not intend to let her down.”

  Well that Cynthia could understand. A promise was a promise. Although one could work the wording to one’s benefit, it was important to not betray the words one spoke. “Fine, but what about your daughter? Surely you don’t think it fitting to bring her up here?”

  “You are sounding like James, or indeed any male member of my family. I don’t believe it matters for the first few years, and after that I will manage somehow. A school where she can reside. Perhaps a house in Richmond that I will visit on Sundays and when I have a day free. I do not know the answer, but I will find one. I am discovering that having faith that there is an answer is half the battle.”

  “I am not so convinced,
but it is your life and your daughter. And speaking of her, when can I have a chance to see her?”

  Jasmine stared back at her a moment and Cynthia could see the consideration in her eyes. She walked to the door and opened it, speaking to someone through the crack. A few moments later a well-padded older woman walked in holding a bundle of blankets, a kicking, wiggling bundle of blankets.

  “The little thing is just beginning to bother. She slept for a good two hours, but I reckon she wants her mama now.” The woman handed the bundle to Madame Blanche and then looked over at Cynthia. Her eyes moved to the pile of veils tangled on a chair. “And who might this be?” She turned to Madame Blanche. “Are you taking over Ruby’s habit of helping ladies? It is a dangerous business.”

  Other ladies came here? Why? That was a peculiar thought. Cynthia pursed her lips.

  “Don’t worry, Cook,” Madame Blanche replied. “I have no such intention. I am merely advising an old friend that I do not need help and that she would best be on her way.” Madame Blanche cuddled the baby close. A chubby hand poked out, and then another, two little starfish waving in the air.

  “Oh, do let me have her. You promised I could see her.”

  Jasmine’s eyes rose to hers, studied her. She turned slightly, holding out the bundle. “I do hope you know how to hold her—be sure to support her head.” A slight pause, and then, “This is Hope. She is the only thing important in my world. I need you to believe that. The past is unimportant. Let it go.”

  Cynthia reached out and took the child. “She’s so small, so light. I’ve never felt anything so delicate.”

  “She was born a trifle early,” Cook said.

  Jasmine paled, but did not move.

  A trifle early. Cynthia did not know much about childbearing, but she did know how to count. She knew just where Jasmine had been at that time. “That would mean…”

  “I have told you it means nothing. The past means nothing. Accept that or go now.” She turned to Cook. “And don’t you have something on the stove that needs to be stirred?”

  Cook shook her head, but said, “Of course, Madame. Call for me when the little one is ready for another nap.”

  She exited the room.

  Cynthia stared at her friend, willing her to say more, but clearly Jasmine wanted no talk about Hope’s paternity. Cynthia forced her focus back to the bundle, shifting it so that a small face was revealed.

  And instantly she was captured.

  Serious blue eyes stared up at her. A small nose wrinkled and precious lips tilted up in a pout.

  The baby twitched and considered—and stared and stared.

  “She’s beautiful,” Cynthia whispered. “Beautiful. So beautiful.” Holding the baby with one arm, she lifted a hand and stroked the rosebud cheek. “I’ve never held one so young. I spent some time with my cousin when her youngest was half a year, but that was very different than this. She looks like she knows all my secrets. I swear she’s reading every thought that passes through my brain. And those eyelids—you can almost see through them.”

  Jasmine gave a smile and then said, “Cook swears that babies know all the secrets of the universe until they begin to speak, and then forget them instantly. She says it’s the great curse of humanity.”

  “I would not have taken her for such a philosopher.” Cynthia did not look up, but continued to stare down at the pensive infant.

  “You would be surprised—and I sometimes think she, Cook, is the one who knows everything. I could never have done this without her. Whenever I have a question about the house or the baby, she is there with a ready answer.”

  Cynthia felt a wistful pang. “It would be nice to have someone to fill that role. Since my mother’s death, I always feel I am discovering the world on my own.”

  “Surely your father…” Madame Blanche’s voice trailed off.

  “He tries, but he is not a woman. I doubt that he could tell me—”

  “I do understand. There are some things that one can only ask another woman.”

  “Like about whips and chains—or even just a wedding night.” She kept her voice light, but still Jasmine stiffened slightly.

  As if sensing the lack of attention, the baby began to fuss and whine, her delicate cheeks turning a startling shade of plum. Cynthia tried to rock her and cuddle her close, but the whimpering grew to a cry.

  Jasmine lifted her gaze from her daughter. “Perhaps I should take her…?”

  Cynthia shook her head, clearing her thoughts. “No, please. Let me carry her for a little longer.” She rocked the baby in her arms, inhaling the magic scent of talc and warm milk—and new. Hope smelled new. She’d never realized that new had a scent, but clearly it did. “If you’re not careful I may steal her away with me.”

  She said it as a joke, but Jasmine’s face paled at her words, reminding Cynthia of just how real a fear that might be. “I didn’t mean it like…,” she began, trying to soothe the wound she had just opened.

  “I know. I am sensitive. It seems all too possible that such a thing could happen. I think my father would steal her if he could, if he thought there was any possibility that I would return to being the good daughter.”

  “Don’t say such a thing. I am sure—”

  “And I am equally sure that he would. He may not have decided on a plan yet, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking. I live in fear of what Scarlett will decide to do. I can only hope that he has come to the opinion that a great marriage is now beyond my reach and that therefore I am useless. He may decide it is better to just let me fade away. If he ignores the gossip so will everybody else after a bit.”

  Cynthia was not so sure about that. It was impossible to imagine a father who would not care if his daughter just disappeared. She knew her own father loved her and would never let her go. Even now that he was remarried, she was confident of her place in his world.

  “You’ve grown quiet,” Jasmine said, leaning forward in her chair.

  She was not ready to share the quiet despair she felt at her friend’s plight. “I am admiring your daughter. She may be the most lovely thing I have ever seen.”

  That brought a smile to Jasmine’s face and even more roses to her cheeks. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Perhaps next time we can take her for a walk in the park? It’s strange, but she makes me want all these things I’ve never even thought about. Suddenly nothing seems more delightful than pushing one of those ridiculous new baby carriages in the park.”

  “I do agree, although perhaps not today,” Jasmine glanced toward the window and as if in answer to her words there was a sudden crash of thunder and sheets of rain began to pour down.

  “Oh dear,” Cynthia said at the same time that baby Hope released a single loud scream, her little body stiffening into a board.

  “Here, give her to me. I think she needs some Mama cuddles.”

  Jasmine reluctantly handed over the child. “It is perhaps best. I need to be going. It will be slow getting home if this lasts more than a few minutes.”

  “Oh, why don’t you try to wait it out,” Jasmine said, bobbling her daughter. “Nobody will come here while the weather is like this.”

  “No, I had best not risk it.” Cynthia walked to her veils, which lay on a chair. “Although I am not sure how these will hold up to a torrent.”

  “You’d best take one of my cloaks. One with a good hood.” Jasmine stood, still holding the baby, and walked to the door, calling something out into the hallway.

  “No, I couldn’t.”

  “I will insist, so surrender now. I can be quite stubborn.”

  And didn’t Cynthia know that to be true. “Fine. I will have to come again to return it.”

  Jasmine pursed her lips before smiling. “And then we will take that walk in the park, two heavily veiled widows, and perhaps I will instruct Simms to see about acquiring me a baby carriage.”

  Chapter 4

  The icy rain hit Cynthia hard the moment that she stepped out the
red door and onto the stoop. At least it was not freezing, although by nightfall it very well might be. She stepped forward feeling the squish as her slippers hit the first puddle, the biting water seeping rapidly toward her toes. She should have had Simms, Jasmine’s porter, summon a hack, but she could not risk any connection between Madame Blanche’s and her home. It would never do to have her father know she’d just come from the most notorious brothel in London. He’d probably lock her in her room for a month if he found out. She would hail a hack herself once she’d walked a few blocks. Another wet, sloppy step and then another.

  There were worse things than cold, squishy feet. A hot bath would cure them as soon as she was home.

  Home. What a wonderful thought. She’d enjoyed her afternoon with Jasmine, but being there made her long for normalcy. Even after two visits, it still seemed unbelievable to her that her dear friend, the legitimate daughter of a duke, could somehow have ended up running a brothel. That was not how the world worked.

  No, that was not fair. It was exactly how the world worked. One mistake—assuming one would call Jasmine’s infant daughter, Hope, a mistake—and a woman could find herself without home or family. Still, there had to be something better, something more acceptable, than managing a brothel, didn’t there?

  She pulled the thick white wool of Jasmine’s borrowed cloak more tightly about her shoulders, feeling the luxury of the fur trim even through the heavy veils that covered her face. She probably looked odd with the black netting of her disguise peeking from beneath the pale hood, but there was no helping it. She’d needed some cover from the sudden storm and it had been impossible to refuse Jasmine’s offer. And the veils did keep the rain from beating against her face in a way that the hood alone would not have. It was surprising that not more people wore veils for protection—although a well-wrapped scarf could accomplish the same thing while not hindering one’s vision.