Page 38 of A Figure of Love

“Good evening. I have come to see Mrs. Hensleigh.”

The servant took Gareth’s hat, gloves, and cane. “I will see if she is receiving. Will you have a seat in the parlor?”

Gareth stepped into the small, opulent room just off the foyer. He was struck, as he always was, how the brothel had all the appearance of every other house he’d ever entered—be it the home of a well-to-do merchant or proud, destitute aristocrat.

The ancient wood floor was polished to a high gloss and covered with rugs that glowed like jewels. Delicate furniture was arranged around a marble-clad fireplace that generated the exact amount of heat necessary to combat the damp chill of the building without being stifling. Paintings of idealized landscapes hung on cream-silk covered walls. All in all, it was the kind of room he had striven to replicate in his country house, but failed miserably.

The door opened and he turned.

“What an unexpected pleasure, Gareth.” Venetia Hensleigh was one of the smallest women he had ever seen. From across the room she looked like a human doll with her guinea gold curls and wide blue eyes. But as she approached him, her hands outstretched, the look in her eyes and sensual curve of her bow-shaped lips was enough to make a man begin to harden. Or at least she had always done so before. But tonight, he was not aroused, merely relieved to see her.

“Venetia, thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He took her delicate hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze before bowing over them. He had learned to accept and enjoy her touch, not an easy task for a man who avoided human contact the way others avoided angry hornets or rabid dogs.

“Come,” she said, taking his arm before he could offer it. “Let us go somewhere more private.”

Gareth knew he was the only man she invited into her inner sanctum because she’d told him so, years ago, when he’d first approached her. He was not unaware of the honor she accorded him and knew many of her patrons had offered outrageous sums to spend only one night with the notoriously private madam of the most exclusive brothel in London.

Venetia led him through her private study, where a panel concealed a door to her quarters.

“It has been some time, Gareth. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Business in the north and also the new estate in Kent.”

“Ah yes,” she said, cutting a glance up at him, her head not reaching his shoulder. “I should tell you that Sandy Featherstone has been noising your name about.”

He gave her a look of surprise. “He came here?”

She chuckled. “Lord no, he doesn’t have two shillings to rub together. Keller saw him at Beacon’s new hell. I gather he was playing deep while in his cups.” She shook her head. “If I had known you’d employed him I would have warned you. Who recommended him?”

“Beech.”

She groaned. “That man is a delightful architect but a fool in every other way. If you are looking for help at your country home I would be happy to recommend somebody.”

She stopped and Gareth opened the door that led to her library, the room that had inspired his at Rushton Park. Venetia Hensleigh was a notable collector of first editions and had knocked the ceiling out of the building to construct a library that rivaled that of any great house.

She released him and went to a sideboard laden with decanters. “Would you like to try a new whiskey? I’ve only managed to latch on to one barrel.”

“Please.”

Venetia was the only woman he knew who smoked and drank hard spirits. She was considered a connoisseur of both. She brought two glasses and then moved toward the oxblood leather couch that occupied a place of honor in front of the mammoth fireplace. Gareth had a fondness for this particular item of furniture as they had enjoyed several very memorable evenings on it. But tonight it did not send blood coursing to his groin, nor did his breathing quicken with anticipation of the evening ahead.

“Sit,” she said, grinning up at him and shoving him onto the couch, but—oddly—taking the chair beside it instead of sitting next to him. “You have come to say goodbye.”

Gareth should not have been surprised by her insight; Venetia had always read him as easily as any of the thousands of books that lined her walls.

She warmed her glass between her hands. “Tell me about her.”

To his horror, his cheeks heated—as if she were rubbing his face between her small, wickedly skilled hands.

She chuckled, a laugh far too low for a woman her size. “I do not think I have seen you blush before, my friend. At least not unless it was from exertion.”

Gareth smiled at her teasing reminder of their many—and adventurous—sexual encounters.

“Ah, and one of your very rare smiles, as well. I am fortunate this evening.”

Gareth took a sip and considered her words. It was true that he rarely smiled. Each time he did he was immediately struck with terror, as if he would be made to pay dearly for such an indulgence.

“I did not know I was coming to say goodbye, Venetia. As usual, you are aware of my desires and needs before I am.”