Her face pressed against the balusters for a better view. She’d recognized the previous man who’d arrived. He was a regular client who came once a week and always asked to see the same girl. Ida watched as her aunt escorted him toward the red parlor, engaging him in conversation as they went. Their voices eventually faded, leaving nothing but silence behind in the now empty foyer.
The front door opened again and a new gentleman entered. Seen from above, it was hard for Ida to gauge his height except by measuring him against the painting that hung immediately to his left. His shoulders appeared to reach the lower part of the frame, making him several inches taller than she. He removed his hat, allowing her to see the top of his head, which was covered by lustrous hair colored in shades of oak and chestnut brown. His build was both imposing yet somehow elegant at the same time. Perhaps because of the authoritative way in which he moved that suggested high social standing and power.
He glanced around and, finding no one about, looked up.
Ida froze. Even though she knew she ought to hide, she could not seem to move. Her gaze locked with his, her heart pounding harder with each passing second. Heavens, he was far more handsome than she had expected, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen.
Eventually, it was he who spoke. “You there.” His voice was not unpleasant, but the arrogance of his tone made Ida tense with irritation. “Will you keep me waiting forever or do you plan on serving me? I haven’t all night.”
Hawthorne hadn’t exaggerated his description of Amourette’s. Simon was impressed with how nice and respectable the building looked, considering its location and the business it housed. The tavern next door, slightly askew with timber-framed walls leaning into the street, seemed to fit the area better. By contrast, Amourette’s appeared to have been built with a love for precision.
When he’d first stepped inside, he’d been both surprised and relieved to find the place empty. In spite of what his friends had said, he’d worried about potentially coming across someone who might know him.
As it turned out, his concerns had been unfounded. Unsure of how to proceed, he’d remained where he was. Waiting. Wondering if he should call out for some assistance.
Until he’d glanced up and spotted her.
Even though the woman was partially hidden behind a railing, her eyes peered through the dimly lit interior to hold him captive. She shifted her gaze to the doors on either side of him before responding. “It will likely take an hour before one of the women is free and ready to accommodate you.” Her eyes met his once more. “They’re all fully occupied at the moment.”
“You’re not,” he said with challenging boldness.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not available,” she told him plainly.
He tilted his head and continued to study her. It was impossible for him to see her entire face, but based on her eyes alone, he believed she had to be somewhat pretty. “A pity,” he finally murmured.
There was a pause, and then she slowly stood, revealing a heart shaped face with a delicately positioned nose, a wide mouth with a plump lower lip, and hair spun from strands of gold.
Simon's gaze followed the woman's every movement as she began descending the stairs. She was slim of build with curves in all the right places, and it occurred to him that pretty didn't suffice when it came to describing her. Stunning was a much better word.
His heart kicked up a notch.
“If you’re willing to wait, I can have some food brought up from the kitchen,” she said. “A plate of sandwiches perhaps? There are also newspapers available to help you pass the time.”
Simon merely nodded while she stepped off the bottom step. She passed him and as she did, he caught a whiff of something wonderfully fragrant, a blend of citrus and honey. He was almost tempted to lean in and sniff the air, but managed to resist the urge at the very last second.
Instead he turned, following her movements as she continued toward the front desk. “Name?” she inquired. When he didn’t answer immediately, she glanced up, her eyes wide and, he noticed for the first time, a bright shade of blue. “It doesn’t have to be your real name.”
Unsure of which pseudonym to provide, he stared back at her for a long drawn out moment while giving the matter some thought. “Mr. N will do,” he eventually said.
“Excellent.” The woman made a quick note. “And do you have any particular tastes, Mr. N?”
Was she serious? Simon flexed his fingers. He’d not expected her to ask such a personal question or for a visit to a brothel to be so complicated. With the tip of her quill hovering in mid-air, the young woman kept her eyes trained on the paper where she’d been writing, her bent posture offering him a delicious view of her décolletage.
“Why do you need to know that?” Simon asked.
She took a deep breath. Expelled it. Her bosom rose and fell in response. “Some of the women here specialize in more uncommon modes of…um…gratification.”
Simon forced his gaze toward the more appropriate vicinity of her head. Was that discomfort he heard in her voice? A bit unusual for someone in her line of work.
“I see.” He paused while trying to decide what to say. The first word that came to mind was no. He'd never been the daring sort and generally let other men behave like scoundrels while he did his best to look respectable. Except, maybe Hawthorne and Yates were right. Maybe he did need a healthy dose of excitement in his life. Truth be told, he was so damn tired of always being proper, and besides, he was here now, in a place where no one would judge him. Taking comfort in this he leaned forward and said, “Does asking her to pretend she’s my maid fall into that category?”
There was no mistaking the pink hue that colored the woman's cheeks. “No.” The word seemed to catch in her throat. The quill scratched across the paper as she made a note of his comment.
“How about if…” Accommodating himself to the role he'd chosen to play for a moment, he deliberately let his voice trail off and pretended to ponder all manner of vice. But just when he'd settled on the perfect suggestion, he noticed her bracelet.
The air rushed from his lungs and before he could think, he reached out, grabbed her wrist, and jerked it toward him. “Where did you get this?”
Naturally, the woman tried to pull her wrist back, but Simon was stronger and refused to release her.
“Let me go,” she demanded while glancing around as if seeking assistance.
“Not until you tell me why you’re wearing this.”
She went utterly still and her eyes grew impossibly wide. “It was a gift,” she whispered. “I…I don’t know where it was purchased, if that’s what you want to know.”
Simon narrowed his gaze, gave the bracelet one final look, and let her wrist go. “It isn’t. I already know that part.” She took a step back, dropping the quill in the process. “Matthew Strong ordered it from a jeweler on Bond Street when he returned from France. He said it would make a fine gift for his daughter.”
Panic materialized on her face. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I was there.” Her lips parted with pure shock and Simon studied her features more closely. It couldn't be. Not here in a brothel. And yet the resemblance was now unmistakable. Filled with disbelief, Simon stared back into her gorgeous blue eyes. “My God. You’re her, aren’t you? You’re Ida Strong.”