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This was the reason Ian always came here on Saturdays an hour before closing. Because if he were to be observed, it would be for a short amount of time. Most of the men who frequented this establishment left long before closing on this day. After all, they had a church sermon to attend early Sunday.

Ian turned away from the wall and started shedding his clothes. His hat and coat went first as he threw each item onto the chair, discarding them one by one. His waistcoat followed, and then his cravat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. Ian ran a hand over his hair that was tied in a queue at the back. It’d be better if he were fully undressed when she came in.

He wanted to avoid awkward glances, the unnecessary touches because, of course, she would offer to undress him.

She would not be fazed by this. He was.

Given how many times he’d come to this place, he shouldn’t have been. But this feeling of awkwardness and discomfort didn’t just go away.

It was like the fear of performing.

Ian let out a chuckle. It certainly was a fear of performing. Although not exactly the performance one might be thinking of.

When Ian was younger, he had been encouraged to perform poetry readings at social functions. He wasn’t talented enough to do anything else, and he was terrified to look into the audience and see the dozens of pairs of eyes staring back at him. His palms perspired now, just at the thought. His heart drummed in his ears, and his breathing grew shallow.

Ian discarded his shirt, sat on the edge of the empty chair, then started working off his boots.

The thought of performing in front of people still made him anxious all these years later. No matter how many times he did it, the fear did not go away.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons the job he had chosen for himself was one where he got to hide in plain sight. Not to say that it didn’t require him to do unpleasant, sometimes dangerous, and at times embarrassing things. That wasn’t to say that fear and anxiety never bothered him at his job. It did. But he pushed through it every time. And it was a part of the thrill.

He quickly shed the rest of his clothing and stood in the dimly lit room, completely naked, except for his rings, which he never took off outside of his home, and rarely even then.

He threw a glance at the wall, hiding peepholes with odd illustrations.

I hope you’re enjoying the show, you bloody lecher.

At that moment the door opened, and Ian’s attention was drawn to the woman who now stood on the threshold.

Grace.

He doubted that was her real name, but it suited her perfectly. Her movements were fluid, graceful, and almost soundless, no matter what she did. Taller than most women, she stood proudly, her powder-white wig only adding to her height. She wore a magnificent gold-laced red mantua, the black stays peeking out from under it in place of a stomacher. The sheer white petticoat flowed gracefully, revealing glimpses of her stunning long legs clad in black silk stockings. Beautiful red slippers completed the ensemble.

Her face was heavily painted, akin to the other women in the establishment, but her dark, penetrating eyes seemed to hold a depth of knowledge that went beyond any facade. After giving him a quick once-over, her expression remained inscrutable, betraying nothing. Then she closed the door behind her and deftly slid the lock into place.

Grace walked over to the chair upon which Ian’s clothing was resting and unhurriedly unclipped the chiffon overlay that served as a petticoat in her ensemble baring her legs. She made a show of folding it between his clothes before turning toward him.

She had a beautiful figure. Ian could never deny that. Those long, lean legs hugged by the black stockings, the shapely thighs peeking out from above them and begging for his touch.

Ian swallowed. His cock moved of its own volition, growing and swelling with need.

Her eyes followed his rising erection as she studied his form. “Are you ready, then?” Her voice was dispassionate, low.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Ian cleared his throat.

“Good.” The woman came closer with torturous slowness, her eyes still studying his form. “What shall we do today?” she asked softly, curiously.

“No need to play games, Grace,” Ian murmured.

Her eyes darted toward the unsightly wall. “Don’t we?”

“Just the usual,” Ian gritted.

She shrugged nonchalantly before pushing him toward the wall. She reached him in a stride and took his wrists in her hands. “Very well, then.”

“How did it go with Lord Hardgrove?” Ian whispered as she started strapping his wrists to the leather strips on the wall.

“Very well.” Her voice held a note of pride. Good! “You’ll find the map to his cellar in your pocket.” She started working on his other hand.