Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“You will drink with the gentlemen, if they wish it, and converse pleasantly with them. Do not let any of them monopolize you. The more gentlemen who see what delights you have to offer, the more money they will bid, and more money will be yours. They are not to fondle you, for it is against the rules. As all of you know, there are only very wealthy gentlemen present. If you are truly skilled, it is possible that the man who buys you will wish to keep you for his mistress.”

There was a low buzz of excited speculation among the girls. Dear God, Giana thought, they want this. All of them. But they were so very young, as if they had just emerged from a classroom.

“Remember,” Signora Lamponni continued, “when it is your turn on the dais, you may remove your clothing seductively, or play the innocent. You are all virgins, despite your varied skills, and it is that fact that makes you so valuable. When you are alone with your gentleman, you will, of course, behave in whatever manner he wishes. You are all trained well enough to know what to do.”

“What a pity that one cannot grow a maidenhead every day,” one of the girls said.

“We would all be rich in a month,” another added, laughing.

Signora Lamponni clapped her hands. “Enough chatter. It is time for your debut, ladies.”

Giana trailed slowly after the girls into a large salon, brightly lit with candle chandeliers. It was a magnificent room, with high vaulted ceilings adorned with classical scenes, and beautiful marble fireplaces set at each end. Rich crimson velvet curtains covered the long windows, and lush carpets were scattered over the inlaid parquet floors. Everything smelled of beeswax and lemon. The furniture was light and delicate, in the French style. At the far end of the salon was a square dais. About thirty men, all dressed in elegant black evening wear, were seated about the room in small groups, some smoking and drinking, all conversing with their friends, as if they were spending a relaxing evening at home. When the girls filed in, a hush fell over the room.

Giana heard a sudden laugh, and a burst of renewed conversation. The girls appeared to study the gentlemen, as if deciding who pleased them most. Giana watched them preen proudly and swish their wide skirts as they walked toward the men, engaging smiles on their lips.

Giana’s hands were clammy and cold, and she rubbed them on the skirt of her gown. She could not imagine displaying herself to these strange men, inviting them to assess her charms, inviting them to buy her. She saw Daniele, but when she started toward him, he frowned and shook his head. Giana knew she could not continue standing like a rigid puppet, doing nothing. She felt fear bubble up within her. She was being a fool, she told herself, thrusting the fear away. These men could do nothing to her; she had but to speak to them as she did at Madame Lucienne’s. It would all be over soon.

Alexander Saxton motioned to a servant and took a glass of sherry. He sipped the smooth wine and watched with indolent amusement as the bevy of girls giggled and pranced among the men, their faces alight with anticipation. Anticipation of earning a good deal of money, he thought with sudden annoyance, stubbing out his cigar. Why in the name of heaven he had agreed to come to this ridiculous display of Roman decadence was beyond him.

“Now, there’s a little sprite,” Santelo Travola remarked to him, pointing toward a raven-haired girl whose full breasts pressed against the high-necked white gown she wore. “The bidding on that little beauty will be strung out, you may be certain. None of the gentlemen would want to deprive the others of seeing her lovely body.”

“She already looks like a whore,” Alex said.

“You are too severe, my friend. Ah, one of the girls is coming this way. I beg you to be civilized, Alex.”

Giana stopped suddenly and sucked in her breath in consternation. She recognized him as the man she had seen at Madame Lucienne’s with Margot, the one who had made her feel as though it were she beneath him. Her face flushed scarlet at the memory. He looked up and caught her eyes with a frankly uninterested gaze. Then he smiled, a lazy, mocking smile, and cocked his forefinger toward her.

Giana looked about wildly, but Daniele was speaking to another gentleman and paying her no heed. She looked back at him, and saw his black brow arch, frankly assessing, as he watched her hesitate.

A gentleman spoke to her, but she paid him no heed. She knew she had to do something, talk to one of them. She squared her shoulders, drew to an uncertain halt in front of him and gazed into his dark eyes. There was something about him, a barely leashed savagery that warred with the elegance of his dress. He was too large, too overpowering.

“What is your name?” he asked, negligently sipping his sherry.

“My name is Helen.”

“I suppose it is as good as any.”

He changed suddenly from Italian to English. “Do you wish a glass of sherry?”

Giana shook her head.

“You are not trying terribly hard to please me Helen.”

She said sharply in English, without thinking, “I do not care if I please you, sir.”

“Ah, the wench has claws. Beware, Alex. This one does not seem impressed with your charms.”

“Or my money, it would appear, Santelo,” Alex said, his eyes sweeping over Giana. “You are English,” he said, his eyes studying her face.

Giana reeled back, realizing too late that she was being stupid. She answered swiftly in French, her voice curt, “Non, monsieur, je suis française. Il faut—excusez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”

“No, I will not excuse you,” he said in English. “I wish to speak with you, Helen. Sit down, here, beside me.”

She looked at his outstretched hand, bent her trembling legs, and sat down.

“Now, what is an English girl, an English virgin, doing selling her wares in Rome?”

“What are you, an American, doing in Rome?” she shot back in her clipped English, realizing it was useless to pretend.