come for the plums,” Ellingsworth said.
“We haven’t any,” was her answer.
“Peaches will suffice.”
Tom frowned, dimly recognizing the exchange from someplace, but he couldn’t quite recall where he’d heard it. A moment later he realized the phrases came from Alone with the Rogue. He’d read the erotic novel—penned by the mysterious and wildly popular Lady of Dubious Quality—cover to cover, and then reread it almost immediately after turning the final page.
For all its pretense at secrecy, the Orchid Club certainly had good taste in literature.
The masked woman opened the door wider. “Come in, friends.”
Tom and Ellingsworth stepped into the vestibule and the woman firmly shut and locked the door behind them. A single candle burned in the candelabra on a small table, but Tom could still make out the details in the entryway. It resembled any other in a well-to-do home, with nondescript but well-rendered paintings of exotic flowers hanging on the walls, and a large unlit chandelier hanging overhead.
“Is this your first time at the Orchid Club?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” Tom replied.
Ellingsworth said, “My name’s—”
She held up a hand. “No names here. The club abides by a code of strictest privacy. All are equal within these walls.”
Tom’s brows lifted. An egalitarian club was astonishingly progressive. Clubs were supposed to be strongholds of elitism, or so White’s would have anyone believe.
“The only person at the Orchid Club who is permitted a name is our proprietress, Amina. But you are not to ask anyone else for anything that might identify them. Is that understood?”
Both Tom and Ellingsworth nodded.
“There is one other rule which must be obeyed,” the woman said. “Everything must be consensual. No one shall be persuaded, coerced, or bullied.” Her voice firmed. “Whoever does not submit to this will be summarily escorted out and banned from returning.” She snapped her fingers and two brawny men emerged from the darkness, their faces impassive behind their masks. “These gentlemen are here to enforce the rules. I pray you do not make me summon them. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do,” Tom said. His mind spun, trying to determine what exactly transpired at the Orchid Club that required these rules.
“How much to enter?” Ellingsworth asked.
The woman spread her hands. “That is at your discretion. We operate on the largesse of our guests and ask that you pay as much as you are able.”
Tom took a crown from his pocket and held it out to the woman. She plucked it from his fingers and dropped it into a pouch at her waist, then turned her gaze to Ellingsworth, who shot a wry grin in Tom’s direction.
Chuckling, Tom dug out another crown and gave it to the woman. Ellingsworth’s allowance as a third son was comfortable, but his friend went through it at an alarming rate. It hardly mattered to Tom, as he had more than enough to cover their nightly expenses, and then some.
After the woman tucked the second coin into her pouch, she waved toward the hallway branching off the vestibule. “You may enter, friends. Enjoy yourselves.”
His pulse hammering, Tom strode down the dark corridor, Ellingsworth at his heels. A low hum of human voices flowed out of a room ahead, and beneath that came the lilting strains of music. Then came the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning in pleasure.
“What in God’s name have you gotten us into, Ellingsworth?” Tom asked lowly.
The possibility of a brothel had already been ruled out, and Tom was something of an expert in the noises women made when in the throes of passion. He could tell when they were feigning pleasure, and when they were sincere. The moaning coming from ahead was most assuredly genuine.
“Patience,” his friend said. “All shall be revealed.”
They both stepped into the doorway of a large parlor. Tom’s heart jolted in his chest, and blood rushed straight into his groin.
Everywhere he looked he saw exposed flesh. Women’s bared breasts, men’s upright cocks, abdomens, arses, limbs. It was a bounty of people barely dressed, or completely nude save for their masks. Men and women tangled together on low sofas, sprawled on thick carpets, or leaned against walls in groups that ranged from couples to quintets. A man in laborer’s clothing fucked a genteel lady from behind as she bent over a table. Three women formed a complex knot as they lapped at each other’s quims, while a gentlewoman unbuttoned the falls of a man’s breeches so that another man could suck his cock.
Sex. Everywhere, sex. The humid air was thick with the smell of it, and with the sounds of unrestrained sensuality.
Meanwhile, masked servants bearing pitchers of wine or platters of sweetmeats walked between the couplings, calm and disinterested. Clearly, they were quite used to the spectacle.
Tom wasn’t. Though he was no stranger to small parties that evolved into group sex, he had never before witnessed so many people from such an array of classes all engaged in public displays of carnality. He’d seen and done everything that London had to offer, but the Orchid Club was entirely new. And entirely wonderful.
“Bless you,” Tom said to his friend. “How did you learn of this place?”
“One of my old comrades in arms told me. It’s an open secret. Been around for years, actually, but it manages to stay hidden.” Ellingsworth’s lips quirked. “I see it pleases you.”
Tom watched as a man reverently stroked and kissed a woman’s arse while another man fondled her breasts.
“This is Paradise,” Tom said reverently.
Ellingsworth grinned. “None of the thoughts I’m entertaining are at all angelic.”
“Shall we explore the rest of the club?” Eagerness hummed through his body—at last, after years of exploring all of London’s most thrilling facets, he’d found a new experience.
A brunette reclining on a divan in nothing but her shift and a white mask crooked her finger at Ellingsworth.
With a grin, his friend clapped him on the shoulder. “I leave the investigation to you. A pressing matter has come up.” Ellingsworth walked quickly toward his waiting lover.
Less than a moment later, a blonde dressed as a dairymaid swayed over to Tom’s side.
“Shame you being on your own,” she said as she trailed her fingers down his waistcoat. Her accent held the rough consonants of East London. “Shame that I’m on my own, too.”
His body answered with a quick throb of lust, but he softly took her hand between his and pressed a kiss to her rough fingertips. So her garb and accent weren’t disguises. She truly was a dairymaid.
“Forgive me,” he said with a smile. “I’m still getting my sea legs.”
“Don’t need balance if you’re lying down.” She winked and
