Adjusting the thick gauze veil over her face, Cressida took three deep breaths for courage as she stared at the brass door knocker. She was trembling so much she thought she’d crumple upon the spot.
She took a bolstering breath. She had to do this. Succumbing to her usual fear was not an option. She had to be able to inform Catherine that her husband had never set foot within the notorious—as she’d now learned Mrs Plumb’s salon definitely was—den of vice and iniquity. Regardless of what she discovered, she’d tell Catherine that, anyway. No, Cressida had to know for herself.
Within seconds of her knock she was admitted into a dim, quiet passage lined with paintings of women in various states of undress, the heavy atmosphere overlaid by a strong scent of musk. She felt the thickness of her veil for reassurance as she battled to combat the nausea caused by the sudden surge of fear, before pressing her hands briefly against the passage wall to steady herself.
She could do this. She had to do this.
Her courage was bolstered by the sound of a confident soprano issuing through the door that had been opened for her by a slip of a parlour maid. Italian opera… Excitement mingled with trepidation as the maid took her cloak. She trembled at the distant sound of clapping.
However, by the time Cressida had settled herself on a blue brocade chair, she was dismayed to find a tall, balding young man offering the company—of about thirty, altogether—a passionate recitation of a passage from Ivanhoe. If only she had timed her arrival a few minutes earlier but Thomas had been fractious and— She stopped mid-thought. The truth was that, although Justin was out, she had searched for just about every excuse not to come this evening and face her terrors.
Now her usual prevarication, if not cowardice, had resulted in the loss of her prime opportunity for seeing for herself this Madame Zirelli, whom Catherine claimed had ensnared her husband, before deciding how best to act.
Casting around the room for a woman who fitted the sketchy description Catherine had given her of a dark-haired woman nearing forty, she decided Madame Zirelli had quit the scene of her rousing performance.
Of course, no one with pretensions to respectability would be seen dead at Mrs Plumb’s, which was why more than half those assembled were in masquerade while another handful were, like herself, heavily veiled.
Smoothing the skirts of her black silk gown, Cressida tried to swallow down her nervousness at seeing several gentlemen whom she knew were acquaintances of Justin. Of Justin, however, there was no sign, which made her vague, desperate plan seem all the more ill-conceived and not properly thought out. Was it any wonder her husband had grown tired of a wife who seemed capable of little more than nursing his children?
Clapping dutifully as the current performer, the dome-headed orator, came to the end of his repertoire, her mind focused on her next move. What if someone addressed her? Asked her name? She had no idea how matters were conducted in a place like this, or indeed what went on other than music and conversation, though she could not plead complete ignorance. Catherine had not shied away from more than simply alluding to the nefarious assignations in the dim chambers beyond, a discreet service Mrs Plumb made available for those whose amatory needs were not met by their spouses, but whose desire for discretion precluded bawdy houses or more public carte blanches. The idea sickened her. People like Justin—and even apparently well-connected, irreproachable women like herself, Catherine had said—came here to meet a lover. If Catherine were with her, she’d claim that Justin and the Italian warbler she had heard on her arrival were closeted together at this moment, engaged in the very activities Cressida had once enjoyed so greatly but that now terrified her.
Covering her face with her hands, she recalled Catherine’s gleeful revelations. She must not dwell on them. After all, it was only gossip and Catherine thrived on gossip. It was to settle her doubts that she had come here.
Even as she tried to bolster herself with this, she acknowledged that as Justin was rarely home these days she must assume he was seeking company more diverting than her own.
She was only half aware of the emptying of the drawing room—the withdrawal of patrons into chambers beyond while those remaining made small talk around a table of glazed ham and plover’s eggs.
Her misery enveloped her like a cloak of heavy green slime. As she sat hunched in her chair, protected from her environment by her veil, Cressida’s mind roamed over Justin’s likely perusal of his options, once she had started to habitually reject his overtures. A man had his needs, after all.
“Would you care for some refreshment, madam?”
It was Mrs Plumb, judging by the description Catherine had given her. Coarse, plump Mrs Plumb, dressed like Cressida in respectable widow’s weeds, smiling unctuously at her as she held a tray of fizzing champagne coupes. Glancing about her, Cressida realised she was alone amidst a sea of empty blue brocade chairs.
“Or perhaps there is a certain gentleman, known or otherwise, to whom you seek an introduction. Madam, are you all right?”
The woman’s vulgar words brought the bile rushing up Cressida’s throat. Declining with a wave of her hand, Cressida rose and hurried towards the door, pushing her way past a knot of people gathered near the supper table, to find herself in a darkened passage. What on earth
had possessed her to come to such a place? She was out of her depth.
In the gloom she saw a gentleman walking down the corridor, smiling at her. Fear spiralled through her and she gripped the first doorknob that came to hand as she cast wildly for the way out. She had to escape Mrs Plumb and her odious assumptions. Who knew what the woman was going to suggest for Cressida’s entertainment? This was not a place for a gently reared female and the sooner she was back home where she belonged, the better. It was time to admit defeat.
Slipping into the room, she closed her eyes as she sank against the door on the other side, weak with relief that at least she was alone, since the room hadn’t opened on to the street and freedom. Her heart was racing and her mouth was dry but a calming scent of rosewater dissipated her nausea. She heard a faint stirring.
Confused, Cressida opened her eyes and found herself gazing upon the countenance of the most angelic creature she’d ever seen.
“Would you like to join us?” asked the young woman who smiled when Cressida jerked back, her fear apparent.
Dressed in flowing, diaphanous robes, the woman’s long fair hair rippled from a high, Madonna forehead and her eyes were blue and guileless. “My name is Ariane,” she said, “and I was once like you—fearful. But there’s nothing to be afraid of in this house. Not if you are looking for love.”
Everyone Cressida had seen tonight was dressed in masquerade, or heavily in disguise, but this young woman looked as if she had nothing to hide, as if she’d stepped straight from a mythical painting, adding to Cressida’s sense of unreality that she should be in such a place. Ariane was the most beautiful woman Cressida had ever laid eyes upon.
She looked down at their hands, now linked, and gained courage. “I heard men and women—” Cressida swallowed, “meet lovers in this house. That’s not why I came. I haven’t come to meet a lover.” Pulling away her hands, she tried to steady her breathing. “I’m not like that. I just want—”
Ariane’s gentle hand upon her shoulder stilled her. “You don’t know what you want, I think.” She led her to the door and pointed down the corridor. “The entrance is that way. I shall be going in a different direction for I came here to enjoy myself…” A secretive smile curved her lips—“with some friends. You’re very welcome to join us but I think perhaps you’d prefer the safety of your own bed.”
Ariane left her then, and Cressida watched her until she was nearly out of sight. Yes, she should go home. That’s what she’d intended. But Ariane’s enigmatic words had unleashed a world of curiosity that would not be satisfied and, as she disappeared around a corner, Cressida picked up her skirts and quickly followed.
Down twisting corridors and up a shallow flight of stairs she went, through a large, empty space lined with huge, lurid paintings of shocking scenes that made Cressida gasp and avert her eyes. Then finally through a pair of carved double doors and into a room filled with soft music and a strange, unidentifiable scent.