Aphrodite’s was sober by daylight; more like a boy’s grammar school than a disorderly house. Vivianna tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and considered her options. The hackney cab had gone—she had sent it away, afraid that if she didn’t she would change her mind and turn craven at the last moment.
This was no time for second thoughts and doubts. If she was to sway Oliver to her will, she must use every weapon she possessed, but she must understand the game first.
With a deep breath, Vivianna climbed the steps to the door beneath the portico and gave it a resounding rat-a-tat-tat. The echo reverberated within, and in moments heavy footsteps approached.
The doorman peered out at her. His battered face looked tired, his graying hair was not so neat, the neckcloth at his throat was untied and dangling, and his coat was plain black. But his gray eyes were sharp, and they narrowed in recognition.
“Oh, ’tis you,” he said, and swung open the door, though he remained in the way, blocking her entrance with his broad-shouldered form. “What do you want now?”
“I want to see Madame.”
“You want to see Madame?” He appeared amused rather than surprised. “What do you want to see her for? She don’t take no respectable women here, only the unrespectable ones.” And he smirked at his own wit.
Vivianna refused to be intimidated. “I don’t want to work here,” she retorted, “I just want to speak with her. Now let me in.”
He eyed her a moment more, his eyes sparkling with humor, and then with a shrug he stepped back. Pretending that her nerves were not stretched to their very limit, Vivianna followed him inside.
Polished wood shone richly; there was a strong scent of roses from a Chinese vase upon a pedestal. The sound of a piano being played drifted down the staircase. The doorman continued to observe her, as if her reactions were a source of fascination to him. He was beginning to annoy her.
“This ain’t any old academy,” he informed her with an air of pride. “Miss Aphrodite runs a superior establishment. Not any old riffraff are allowed in here, only gentlemen, and only those who got the class and the blunt. Plenty so-called ‘gentlemen’ call themselves gentlemen and ain’t. Miss Aphrodite, she’s a real lady herself, and she knows what makes a real gentleman. She were famous in her day, she were. A famous courtesan.” He drew it out as if it were three words. “She had earls and dukes visiting her every day of the week, she did. A Frenchie, a prince it was, gave her a chateau just for spending one night with him. Miss Aphrodite, she’s a great lady.”
“Dobson!”
He froze, his battered face comical in dismay, and turned around. Vivianna also turned toward the voice.
Madame—or Miss Aphrodite, as Dobson had called her—was standing in the gallery above, dressed in another simple but very elegant black gown, her hair arranged in soft ringlets about her face and drawn into an intricate knot on top. Jewelry—a gold and emerald and topaz necklace—circled her throat, and her fingers flashed with precious stones. As she descended the stairs with a rustle of silken petticoats, Vivianna wondered whether the display of wealth upon her person was a reminder of her past glory.
“Miss Greentree? I did not expect to see you here again. Have you come for your cloak? Surely you could have sent a servant for such a trifling task?”
In truth, Vivianna had forgotten all about her cloak, but she used the excuse now. Better to tread carefully, she thought. If she blurted out her real reason for being here, she might find herself once more out in the street and the door to Aphrodite’s closed firmly behind her.
“I hope you do not mind me coming, Madame?”
The woman smiled, and there was something in it at once comforting and yet startling. As if a beautiful and inanimate painting had suddenly come to life. The floor rocked beneath her feet, and then steadied. Vivianna took a sharp breath, wondering if the London air was beginning to disagree with her.
“You may call me Aphrodite, if you like, Miss Greentree. It is my real name, though rather a mouthful, don’t you think?” Her accent was faint but attractive. She must be in her late forties. Perhaps she came to England after the Revolution, as a child, with so many of the other escapees of the Republic. A blue-blooded émigré turned courtesan? Vivianna supposed it was not beyond the realms of possibility.
“She insisted on seeing you,” Dobson said. “She looked harmless enough.”
Aphrodite gave him a bewitching smile. She was still beautiful now, but in her youth Aphrodite must have been breathtakingly so. Surely, if anyone could help her to bring Oliver to heel, then it was she.
“My faithful Dobson has been with me for many years,” Aphrodite said, and her gaze warmed as it rested on the doorman. “When he was young he fought with the 12th Light Dragoons at Waterloo. He is a hero. That is very good, is it not, for a boy from the Seven Dials?”
Dobson rolled his eyes, but he had turned pink with pleasure at her praise. “Them days is long gone, Miss Aphrodite, as you well know. Besides, I prefer the peaceful life in me old age.”
“You are not old, my friend. Young enough, at least, to keep order in this house. Sometimes the ‘gentlemen’ are unruly, are they not? There are fistfights.”
“Very unruly, but they’re still gentlemen. They don’t know what a real fistfight is.”
“Non, they don’t.”
Vivianna had the strangest feeling that although the two of them were speaking in words she understood, there was an undercurrent of something more. And then Aphrodite’s dark gaze drifted back to her and grew curious.
“I do not think you even remember your cloak until I mention it, Miss Greentree. Perhaps you would enlighten me as to why you really came to see me?”
It was now or never.
“I want to speak to you about Lord Montegomery,” Vivianna said in a rush.