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Jane’s hands trembled, the grandeur of the high-ceilinged hallway closing in on her. Richard stood there, a vision of manly beauty with his defined jaw, chiseled cheekbones, and blazing blue eyes, emotion deepening their color to an intense navy. Hurt lay hidden behind those captivating eyes, and a vise clutched around her heart. An errant lock of auburn hair fell over his forehead, his breathing as unsteady as hers.

She detested causing him pain, yet it seemed kinder than feeding him false hopes. “And so what if it is?” she replied, lifting her chin in resolve.

“You can have it. You can build ten schools and run all of them. I won’t restrict you. In fact, I’ll help you.”

His words were a soothing balm and a sharp sting all at once. Why did he have to be so perfect? Her heart pounded against her ribs, which threatened to splinter from the strain. He was offering her every woman’s dream—a man who not only accepted her ambitions, no matter how unconventional, but also pledged to aid her.

His pledge effectively negated her excuse. With a downward glance at her extravagant gown, she smoothed the luxurious fabric nervously. “It’s not just about that.”

“Then what’s it about?”

She waved a hand around, indicating the surroundings. “All this. The balls. The soirées. The political games of invitations and exclusions. The incessant gossip. A single misstep, and a woman’s reputation—her entire life—is destroyed. This is your world. And you’re part of it.”

“As are you.”

“But I don’t belong to the ton anymore. And your kind have made that abundantly clear. Women are still glaring at me when we go out. There are rumors circulating about you having to marry me because I’ve been compromised. Some say you must have been very drunk indeed to want such a mouse as me.”

“Jane—” Richard began, his voice softer now, but she was determined to make her point.

“And yet,” she continued, “back in Whitechapel, children relish every bit of learning they receive. The sheer joy of someone reading them a book. Everything is harder but also simpler.” His expression softened as he listened. “I belong in Whitechapel, Richard. I’ll never fit in Mayfair. Perhaps five years ago I would have. But not anymore.”

“But you fit with me,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

The hope in his voice was like a lighthouse in a storm. She wanted to believe him, wanted so desperately for his words to be true. But with a shake of her head, she said, “Let’s just finish what we started and part ways. We can find Reuben tonight at Elysium. He’s there every Wednesday. He might be more receptive to talk.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and retreated to Calliope’s room, gently closing the door, severing the fragile connection between them.

25

Jane’s heart drummed as she and Richard walked through Elysium later that night. For five years, she’d been forbidden from these walls by Thorne, but at the same time, she could have come here at any moment. It was only a door away.

The truth was, she hadn’t dared.

It was her first time in a world drenched in debauchery and forbidden indulgence, and the sights were a little overwhelming.

Bathed in the dim halo of the club’s ambient lighting, the centerpiece of the room stood tall: a marula tree, crafted exclusively for Thorne. Its silken leaves mirrored reality behind the glass wall surrounding the tree. Coiled around its sturdy trunk, a python danced a slow, languid ballet, its scales shimmering under the candlelight.

Decadent food and drink sprawled across the tables. The tempting aroma of roasted meats, cheeses, fruits, pastries, and wine intermingled with the potent scent of expensive perfumes, coffee, and the faint musk of animals.

Around them, the women—stunning creatures—perched on patrons’ laps, their gleaming skin exposed. Giggles and whispers layered the air, accompanied by the intermittent roar of a caged panther. Jane’s presence here was a rebellion against Thorne’s explicit orders, his disdain for her fraternizing with the club’s workers a reflection of his skewed morality.

At the corner of the establishment, gentlemen huddled around tables, engrossed in card games while a symphony of sensual music swelled above them from a balcony. The melody was an ode to Vivaldi’s “Summer”—wild, passionate, beautiful—its poignant strains making her eyes well up with unshed tears. It was a painful reminder of all that she was denied, the freedom and wild abandon reflected in the music.

Thorne catered to male clientele with all tastes and preferences, recognizing that some gentlemen visited to find and be with lovers of their own gender. There were several male couples kissing in the room, and one of them went into the alcove. Jane stared at them in surprise, having never seen this before, and having heard this was against the law.

Richard looked around as they passed through the room. He stopped and stared at the man with a large pot belly sitting leisurely on a chair with a curvaceous blonde on his lap, her breasts on display. Jane frowned at Richard, a ping of jealousy stabbing at her. As the woman took the man by the hand, stood up, and led him to an alcove with dark velvet curtains in the corner of the room, Richard narrowed his eyes, following the large figure of the man.

He muttered, “The prince regent?”

Jane sighed, relieved that this was where Richard’s interest lay. “I’m not sure. I’ve never met him. Thorne did mention he frequents Elysium, though.”

Jane’s gaze finally landed upon Reuben. Nestled at the far end of a lavishly adorned table, he looked like a weary beast, cradling a glass of brandy in one hand, his other supporting the drooping weight of his head.

As they neared, Jane motioned Richard to hang back. She needed to coax information out of Reuben, and she knew she stood a better chance if she approached him alone. Despite his misgivings, Richard agreed.

Jane steeled herself and pressed forward.

“Janie, what are you doing here?” Reuben grumbled, his expression clouded with worry. “You know Mr. Blackmore will not be happy.”