Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

reen shot silk dress she had worn all day. Changing would have meant delay, and the news she carried seemed too important to wait. Besides, this might be her only chance to speak to Aphrodite privately, and Marietta meant to take it.

The doorknocker brought a man in a red military style jacket to the door, his thick graying hair neatly combed, his gray eyes quizzical in his rugged face. This was Aphrodite’s faithful Dobson—Marietta knew him instantly from Vivianna’s description. And just as her sister had said, he looked as if he had been involved in a great many fistfights over the years.

“What can I do for you, miss?” he asked sternly, in the accent of the London streets. “Do you know where you are? Maybe you’re lost, is that it?”

Marietta smiled. “No, I am not lost, Dobson. I am Miss Marietta Greentree, and I have come to see Aphrodite.”

Dobson’s eyes gleamed with intelligence behind his rough mask; his mouth did not smile but it looked as though it wanted to. “She’s in the salon at the moment, Miss Marietta.”

“Oh, is she?” Marietta’s curious gaze flicked past him. “I came to tell her good news, Dobson. Vivianna and Oliver have had a son, and I thought Aphrodite would want to know immediately.”

Now Dobson did smile. “Why, that’s wonderful news! Aphrodite will want to know all right. You wait here, miss, and I’ll go and fetch her.”

And he dashed off.

Marietta stood alone in the vestibule. Really, she hadn’t expected a bordello to look so…so ordinary. Nothing exciting appeared to be going on, or if it was, then it was all happening behind tightly closed doors. She could hear music and talk and laughter from the salon, but even so there was nothing here that was different from any other large, fashionable, London establishment.

Almost a disappointment, Marietta admitted to herself.

A curving staircase rose up to a gallery circled by a black and gold balustrade. There were boudoirs up there, she supposed. Perhaps they were gaudy, perhaps they were occupied. Marietta sighed. Alone on her chair in the vestibule she felt very removed from it all, just as she had felt removed from life for the past four years.

The doorknocker rattled.

Marietta stared at the closed portal. The knocker sounded again, louder this time, and she shifted nervously. Elsewhere, apart from the faint laughter and music, the house was silent. No footsteps hurrying closer, no Dobson returning. Perhaps whoever it was would simply go away…The knocker sounded again, impatient that no one had answered.

There is no one here, she wanted to shout. Only me.

The knocker clattered furiously.

Agitated, Marietta reminded herself that this was her mother’s house. Although it was not considered proper for a young lady of Marietta’s social status to open a door—especially the door to a disorderly house—the person on the other side could not possibly know who she really was.

Marietta gave a quick glance down at herself, and then removed her cloak. Her red and green shot silk skirt was creased but reasonable, the square collar and matching cuffs were clean if a little limp. She patted her hair, and found that the soft curls were still in place.

The knocker rattled again, one last furious attempt to rouse Dobson, and then she heard steps, beginning to move away. Perhaps it was an important guest? Someone Aphrodite would be upset about losing?

Marietta hurried over and flung open the door.

A tall man in a top hat had descended the stairs, and was already moving toward the street—evidently leaving in frustration.

Marietta called out, “Sir? Please!”

He stopped and turned to look at her over his shoulder. The gaslight from the street was bright and against it he was nothing but a dark shadow—a tall shadow with broad shoulders.

“I am sorry you had to wait. Come in. Let me…eh…” What did one say to welcome a gentleman into Aphrodite’s? “Let me make you comfortable, sir.”

He went still for a moment, as if considering her proposal, and then he began to retrace his steps toward her. The lamp in the hall shone out through the door, a pool of light fell low onto the ground. It illuminated his shoes first, showing the dark shine of the leather, and then the legs of his black trousers. He wore a black buttoned coat, tailored to fit his broad chest and shoulders, while his white shirt looked to be of the finest linen. Above his black necktie his jaw was strong and square and cleanly shaven, and there was a little scar on his chin. Odd. Almost familiar. In fact, everything about him was strangely familiar. His nose was straight and aristocratic, and his lips were narrow, without the hint of a smile, while his eyes…

His eyes were mahogany brown, and they were watching her beneath lowered black brows with startled disapproval.

“Miss Greentree?”

Marietta gasped. “Max!”

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, and now he was close enough to her that she had to look up into his gaze.

“I had a message for Aphrodite,” she said and knew it sounded stupid. Then, as her mind began to free itself from the shock of seeing him, “You’ve come to visit one of her protégés, haven’t you?”

Max stared at her, and his brows drew down even more. “Miss Greentree, I really don’t think that’s a question you should be asking me.” He drawled the words out in the sort of patronizing manner she loathed.