House of Dark Delights (34 page)

He held her gaze steadily until she looked away, letting out a tremulous breath.

“You will be contacted regarding transportation arrangements to Calais and from there to the chateau.” Recharging his quill with ink, he said, “Where do you live, Miss Keating?”

“St. Giles,” she said, noting how his eyebrows quirked at the mention of the notorious slum. “I share a bed in a lodging house on Denmark Street and Charing Cross Road. But…”

“Yes?”

“When I left yesterday evening, I told my landlady I wouldn't be returning, and I…I don't know if she'll let me back in, because it's tuppence a night, and I haven't been able to pay it in some time.”

With a little grunt of acknowledgment, Sir Charles wrote anote on a sheet of writing paper, folded it up around four gold sovereigns, and sealed it with wax. “Give this to Mr. Peckham at the St. James's Royal Hotel on St. James's Street. The payment covers your bed and board for two weeks. See that you eat your fill, and then some—your thinness detracts from your beauty. Eat beef and mutton washed down with plenty of good, rich burgundy. It will put some much-needed color in your cheeks.”

She murmured her thanks as she took the note, heavy with the weight of the coins. It was more money than she'd had in her hands—more than she'd
seen
—in a very long time. With any luck, she would see a great deal more at the conclusion of her one-week “enslavement.”

One week of appalling degradation. If she could stomach it, she would be free forever from the ever-worsening squalor and hunger and hopelessness in which she'd been mired these two years past. She could buy a little cottage in some village in the Cotswolds, where no one had ever heard of Caroline Keating and her tattered reputation. Perhaps she could even open the school for girls that had been her dream since childhood.

“If you've no further questions…” Sir Charles scooted his chair back.

“The money,” she said, sitting forward. “You said thousands. Lord Rexton did, too. Is that true? Is that how much a slave can expect to…sell for?”

“Two thousand at a minimum,” he said, “and possibly quite a bit more. The highest price in the history of Slave Week went to a young lady last year, an astonishing beauty, the virginal younger daughter of a duke. She cost her master twenty-three thousand guineas.”

“My God.”

“Once the winning bid has been accepted, the gentleman is required to sign a note of indebtedness for that amount payable to the lady whose services he has purchased, which note is held in escrow by Lord Rexton.”

“He will be there?”

“As a representative of Childe and Upcott, yes. Our client, I shall call him Seigneur X, retains us to handle the legal and pecuniary aspects of Slave Week. The auction itself is overseen by Riddell's, which has distinguished itself in that business for the better part of a century. Needless to say, we will have ensured in advance the financial solvency of the invited gentlemen, although it goes without saying that some are in a position to bid a good deal more than others. At the end of the week, if all has gone well and the lady has upheld her end of the contract, the note and the funds it represents will be handed over to her.”

“All of it? None is held aside as a commission for you or the auction house?”

“We are remunerated separately by Seigneur X. You see?” He pressed his lips together in what she took to be his idea of a smile. “Elegantly simple, the entire affair.”

About the Author

LOUISA BURTON, a painter and former freelance illustrator, lives in New York with her husband and two cats, one a Russian Blue who bears a striking resemblance to Darius in his feline incarnation. The Hidden Grotto series, beginning with
House of Dark Delights,
is inspired by a lifelong passion for mythology, history, and Victorian erotica.

                  

Explore the mysteries of Grotte Cachée at
www.louisaburton.com

Softly he said, “Put the stool in the middle of the floor, Charlotte.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because you want me to.”

He knew. Somehow, he knew everything. A stranger, someone she'd met mere minutes ago, had just locked her into a torture chamber. The situation should fill her with foreboding. There was a certain measure of that, to be sure, but mostly what she felt, God help her, was an intoxicating thrill of arousal underscored by a sense of rightness, a sense that she deserved whatever this enigmatic stranger would do to her, and more.

She lifted the stool, which was remarkably heavy, and set it down in the middle of the floor.

“Take your clothes off,” he said.

She turned to stare at him.

“It has long been customary,” he explained, “when punishing females to make them undress. It tends to have a…humbling effect.”

Charlotte met his eyes for a moment, then looked down, her gaze lighting on the front flap of his breeches, stretched tight over a bulging erection. She felt suddenly starved for air; her heart thudded in her ears.

Darius noticed the direction of her gaze, but seemed unperturbed, perhaps even slightly amused. “Strip,” he said.

Charlotte took a deep, tremulous breath, and set about unlacing her bodice.

HOUSE OF DARK DELIGHTS

A Bantam Book / February 2007

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2007 by Louisa Burton

Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-553-90344-7

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