“My love? What should I do?”
“You must send her in, Jemmy.”
Chapter 13
Francesca had never been to Aphrodite’s Club. She’d never seen her mother in her true setting. The only times she and Aphrodite came face to face were when her mother made the journey from London to Greentree Manor. Francesca dreaded those visits. In the familiar and comfortable surroundings of the manor, the courtesan seemed out of place; far too exotic a creature. They had nothing in common. Francesca would do her duty with a few grudging words, and then escape onto the moors and stay there until suppertime. She always breathed a big sigh of relief when Aphrodite went home again.
And now it was her turn to step into Aphrodite’
s world, and she was beginning to appreciate how difficult a thing it was. Was this how Aphrodite had felt when she journeyed north? Did she worry over what sort of reception she would have?
I am here for Rosie, Francesca told herself. This is nothing to do with what is between Aphrodite and myself.
“Are you all right there, Miss Francesca?” Dobson had returned and was watching her, his gray eyes cool and assessing and, yes, sympathetic. As if he understood her turmoil. Although Francesca doubted whether he either knew or cared why she was here. What was he, after all? Just the latest in Aphrodite’s long line of lovers. Although he had lasted longer than most.
“Can I see my…her now?”
He smiled, his eyes creasing up, and suddenly she felt there was something warm and friendly about him, and instinctively she liked him. “Of course you can. I’ll take you to her. She’s workin’ in her office.”
Startled, Francesca hurried after Dobson. “Working?” she repeated. “I thought she’d be resting,” she added, when he gave her a puzzled look. “The club is open all night, is it not?”
Dobson chuckled. “Your mother does far more than stand about looking beautiful, you know, miss. This club requires a great deal of work and energy to keep it running. It’s Aphrodite’s Club in every sense of the word. She oversees every detail, gives the orders, and makes the decisions. She’s a clever woman.”
The rebuke was mildly spoken and he was still smiling, but the expression in his eyes told her he would not listen to any implied criticism of the woman he loved.
Francesca felt like a child again. Not a good start, she thought, as she passed by him and into the room. The door closed behind her with gentle finality.
Aphrodite was seated at a desk with the windows behind her. For a moment she seemed so familiar that Francesca was taken aback; it was like meeting a friend. But this was Aphrodite, and the only reason Francesca was here was that she had no other choice.
The office was small and austere, a place for working in and not for public show, like the large and mirrored salon she had glimpsed. The only touch of color and scent was a vase of white roses, overblown and dripping petals.
Francesca was surprised to see her mother like this. Whenever she imagined Aphrodite “at home,” it was as the grand courtesan, indolent, smiling, naked in the arms of her many lovers. And careless of the welfare of her children.
Now, suddenly, she was confronted with a totally different picture. This woman, seated at her desk, in a plain black silk dress with no frills, had circles under her tired eyes and ink stains on her ringed fingers. She was just like every other middle-aged woman…well, not quite. Aphrodite would never be ordinary.
“I did not know you were in London, Francesca,” Aphrodite said at last, her voice warm but not overly so. Francesca realized that the courtesan had been examining her, too.
“My moth—that is, Mrs. Jardine and I have come to stay with Mr. Tremaine. He’s been…difficult since she remarried, and taking it out on Mrs. Russell. It’s only a brief visit.” I hope.
It was as if Aphrodite heard the unspoken caveat, because she smiled. “I know you do not like London, Francesca. You must be longing for home.”
“One does what one must.”
“Very true, petit chaton.”
Little kitten! No one was less like a sweet, furry kitten, Francesca thought, than she. But before she could respond, Aphrodite pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She was not as tall as Francesca, and so slim as to be almost thin, but there was still a marked resemblance. As she came around the corner of the desk toward her, Francesca realized her mother was going to embrace her and felt herself go rigid with dismay. Aphrodite must have sensed it, because she changed her mind, and rested her hand briefly on her daughter’s shoulder before moving on to the bell rope by the door and giving it a tug.
“You have time to drink coffee with me?”
Francesca blinked. “Eh…yes, thank you.”
Aphrodite gestured for her to be seated in one of two chairs in a compact corner before an unlit fireplace. It had all the appearance of the kind of intimacy that struck fear into Francesca’s heart. She and Aphrodite having a cozy chat? But for Rosie’s sake she must do it. Francesca sat down, fussing with her skirts in a way that was totally alien to her, just to gain some time.
Ask her! Just ask her. If she says no, then so be it. You can leave
“Will you visit a modiste while you are in London?” Aphrodite asked politely, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her fingers steepled under her chin, and her dark eyes fixed on Francesca.
“I expect so. Yes. Why do you ask?” she added suspiciously.