Finally! Her relieved lungs staggered out a breath and then in, her pulse gradually slowing. Even so, Jane kept an eye on his progress, watching as he dropped his gloves inside his hat, exposing one long-fingered hand after the other.
He took inordinate care in choosing a table, pausing to cast a sweeping glance about the room from each position.
By the time he sat down, not one but two of the women from the minstrel’s gallery had rushed down to join him, leaving the spinet player on her own. The lyrist and flautist wore expressions of patent delight, crowns of golden laurel leaves in their upswept ringlets, and . . . nothing else beneath their Grecian-fashioned robes of transparent white gauze.
She watched them both choose a well-muscled thigh to perch upon. They peppered his face with adoring kisses, their hands snaking inside his coat. And Jane felt a disturbance in the epidermal layer of her cheeks, a telltale prickling as the temperature rose by at least two degrees.
She was blushing, of all things. Though, frankly, she did not understand why she should blush now when she hadn’t while observing the smothering embraces of the other women to their men. Quite perplexing, indeed.
He turned his head to whisper something in their ears, and Jane found herself leaning forward on the balls of her feet, as if she might hear that low timbre again. From this distance, it was an absurd notion to have. Nevertheless, whatever wickedness he spoke was enough to make his companions giggle with glee before they kissed him, then raced back up the stairs.
They appeared again at the oval gallery that overlooked the parlor. Only this time, instead of picking up their lyre and flute, they drew a diaphanous curtain as one would across a stage. The lamps illuminated behind them caused a shadow-puppet effect against the silken wall, the outline of their forms on perfect display.
Jane had only a moment to wonder what sort of entertainment the cyprians were planning. Then, with the spinet playing on, a wordless enactment began. It was a dance of sorts, a graceful movement of limbs twining, necks arching on soft sighs, bodies brushing and embracing.
Curious about the intended goal, Jane studied the audience, noting that the cardplay and conversation at the table halted. With rapt attention, every gaze lifted to watch the performance.
Well, all except for one.
The very man who’d sent the women upstairs, and seemingly for this purpose, looked away.
He did not sweep the room at a glance.
He did not fish in his pocket for a watch to check the time.
Instead, his piercing gaze settled directly on the alcove, as if those unfathomably pale eyes could somehow peer through the darkness . . . and directly to her.
* * *
When Raven had entered the bawdy house shortly after the little trespasser, he’d been surprised to find the study empty. She’d simply disappeared like an apparition. And yet . . . a scent lingered in the air.
The subtle, powdery essence was far different from the profuse odor of musk and the cloying perfumes of the bawdy house girls. No, this smelled clean and soft like the late autumn cuttings of lavender he’d once seen hanging from a frilly swag over an open window of a fancy corner bookshop.
Instinctively, he knew the fragrance was hers. Much like the dainty glove he’d found dangling limply from one of Moll Dawson’s prized statues.
With a smirk and a swift tug, he’d tucked the black silk into his pocket and continued his search, knowing the trespasser couldn’t have gotten far.
And he’d been right.
The instant he’d stepped into the parlor, he caught the barest trace of lavender and followed it to a curtained alcove in the far corner. Standing there, he could feel the warmth emanating from her body in sweetly scented waves. He’d even been tempted to reach inside and pull her out into the open.
But he hadn’t. He understood the need to keep secrets, better than most.
Even so, he was curious about her. The curtained grotto was used by both voyeurs and exhibitionists alike and it made him wonder if she was waiting for a lover.
Had she slipped inside this brothel for an illicit tryst? Or was it something else altogether, like that peculiar research she’d mentioned outside?
He did not have an answer and, if her silence was any indication, she hadn’t been prepared to reveal herself. At least, not to him.
So he’d done what came naturally—he’d walked on but kept a watchful eye.
At first, he’d wondered why the other men hadn’t taken notice of her. Then again, most blokes weren’t used to searching every dark corner as a matter of life or death. Yet, as he moved through the room, studying the nook from each angle, he discovered that she was almost completely concealed in the shadows. Almost.
He’d smiled to himself as he lowered onto a straight-backed chair at the far table. This vantage point provided just enough sconcelight to reveal her. And after sending Hester and Venetia upstairs, he eased back to proceed with his own research.
The debutante was a mere wisp in a fine black cloak and wore the hood pulled low. Much of her face was still hidden, except for a wide mouth and a narrow chin. A pair of deep red lips moved faintly as though she were murmuring to herself. Then she paused, her head cocked toward the gallery as the music and entertainment were reaching a crescendo.
Sighs and moans drifted down like a siren’s call. There were few greater visions in life than watching a pair of comely women pleasure each other. It was no wonder that the audience’s attention was ensnared.
All except for his.
Raven was more intrigued by the trespasser’s response and how her mouth fell still, relaxing to a plump pout. Strangely, the sight of it stirred him more than the kisses and caresses from Hester and Venetia had done. So much so that he was aware of his breath exhaling in a rush across the surface of his own lips and how they tingled in response.
Nearby, the gents from the other table and their evening’s paramours stood, heading for the stairs to sate their appetites. In the alcove, the trespasser’s subtle spellbinding incantations resumed.
His gaze drifted lower, edging along the satin trim that lined her cloak to a pale hand and a dark glove. But it was the objects those hands held that perplexed him—a palm-sized booklet and the stub of a pencil.
Was she taking notes . . . in a brothel?
Blast me, he thought with a wry smirk curling one corner of his mouth. Were all debutantes as peculiar as this one?
Regrettably, he was so engrossed in watching her reaction to the orgy unfolding overhead that he missed the instant another man staggered into the hall.
Raven stiffened when he saw it was Ruthersby. The baron was a dissipated drunkard known for leaving welted red handprints on the girls. Just one more reason to hate self-entitled blue bloods.
Whatever the little trespasser was doing here, she needed to steer clear of a man like that.
Fully alert, Raven sat forward, poised to intervene. The baron tottered sideways as he neared the alcove, his attention on the sights and sounds of the minstrel’s gallery. He righted himself, wavered one-footed, then set off again.
But gravity seemed against him. He staggered backward, swinging a silver hawk-handled cane in a wide arc to right his balance. The pointed tip struck somewhere in the middle of the shadows and earned a soft gasp from the trespasser, her lips parting.
The baron didn’t seem to notice her. He simply wobbled on. And Raven, adhering to his second rule, resumed his seat.
Until the baron stopped, and turned.