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It had all seemed so fortuitous at the time. Sally was also visiting from London and had a brother, Charles, who was eager to be a part of Cora’s latest business ventures but had been unable to gain an audience with her or any of her associates. The reason for the denials had been Charles’s terrible reputation for absconding on his debts, but Sally had captivated Cora. By the time she returned to London, Miss Fraser was in Cora’s bed and her brother in her business dealings.
Cora became consumed and was outrageously careless. Dismissing appointments to discuss matters of the duchy to run off to the country estate with Sally. Kissing in gardens in front of staff. Making love to Sally in parlors. All the while, Sally continued to ask for small favors for her brother. Just a little loan here, to put in a word there. The mere thought of how stupid she’d been made Cora’s face burn.
After months of ruinous conduct, of neglecting Alfie, Sally finally informed Cora that she would be marrying. That the Viscount of Demming had been courting her for over a year and that, now that she had a dowry—thanks to the recent boon in Charles’s financial situation—she’d accepted the man’s hand.
Cora did not receive the news well and made a spectacle of herself. She caused a scene, wept openly in front of the servants, begged Sally not to marry. Offered to give her anything she asked for, if only she didn’t leave her. When Sally had turned her away, Cora had lowered herself further and gone to Charles, that spineless pustule, to intercede on her behalf, gone down on her knees, degraded herself—to a man—but once his finances were back in working order, he turned her away like garbage.
By the time she realized she’d been quite literally had, Cora had decimated her reputation so thoroughly that she’d had to leave London altogether. Not even her growing notoriety as an avid investor could undo the damage. She’d closed the house in Belgravia and brought Alfie and Tia Osiris to Paris. She swore never to be swayed like that again. She also vowed only to return to London when she’d accrued so much money and garnered so much power that no peer would dare turn her or her stepson away or even whisper the name Sally Fraser.
Sally had been so unassuming and would hang on to every word out of Cora’s mouth. She was neither flirtatious and tempestuous like Manuela nor direct and assertive like Cora. She was comforting, gave herself to Cora so easily, at a moment when she’d craved that kind of simplicity. Cora had long thought that was why she’d fallen for her. Sally was so wonderfully uncomplicated at a time when everything in Cora’s life felt like a series of cyphers.
And now here was Manuela Caceres Galvan, with whom nothing was simple. Unlike Sally, who allowed Cora to remain in control at every step, Manuela was as manageable as a tornado. Every time she thought she had a path laid out to deal with the heiress, she ran off in a completely different direction. She knew the hellion was taunting her and just this once, because itwasher damned prerogative, she’d take the bait. She was not going to Montmartre to make a scene; she was going there to make a statement. To remind Miss Manuela Caceres Galvan who it was that she was dealing with.
If the island princess claimed to want her fill of sexual exploits before she returned to her life as a society lady in Venezuela, Cora would impress upon her just how out of her league the princesa was.
The moment the carriage stopped in front of Claudine’s she hopped out of it without help and ordered her driver to come to the back entrance of the building in ten minutes. She expected the whole business to be done in five but, knowing Manuela, there would likely be interruptions. She strode to the door of the building, not caring who saw that the Duchess of Sundridge was at one of the most notorious lesbian establishments in the city. She never hid her preferences and was a regular at Le Chat Tordu, which was why the moment she stepped up to the door, Helene, the gatekeeper to the establishment, waved her through.
“Duchesse,” the imposing blonde greeted Cora in her Germanic-laced French, “Miss Cassandra told me to expect you.” That was added with a knowing grin, which she decided to ignore. But instead of making her way into the brasserie, Cora remained at the threshold, wavering.
“What’s all this waffling about, Duchesse?” Helene asked, cannily. “This isn’t like you. Whenever you arrive here, you say hello and sod off to hunt down some pretty girls. Not that I don’t appreciate a bit of stimulating conversation.” Cora rolled her eyes, but Helene was right. For all her bravado on her way here, she was suddenly hesitant to go inside. What if Manuela’s note had not been about getting Cora to chase after her? What if she’d found someone she preferred to Cora? Her gut clenched at the thought, and if she had any sense, she’d turn on her heel and go home.
“Oh là là, Duchesse.” Helene was smiling wide at her expense now. “I don’t think I’ve seen that expression on your face since those idiots came to start trouble here.”
“Don’t remind me,” Cora grumbled.
Six months earlier, on a busy night, two men had entered Le Chat and assaulted the women there. They’d been visibly intoxicated and rambling about not allowing so-called tribadists to make them irrelevant. They injured three women and struck Claudine in the face before some of the clients overtook them and beat them to a pulp with whatever they could find. By the time the police had arrived the men were worse for wear, but it had made Claudine as well as the women who frequented Le Chat too aware that their little utopia was not as safe as they liked to think.
The reminder of that sent a frisson of unease up her spine at the thought of Manuela anywhere near a situation like that. She needed to find her. “Speaking of trouble, there’s something inside that is currently under my purview, and I’d like to get it back.”
Helene’s lips tipped up like the Cheshire cat. “If the thing you’re referring to is that delectable caramel-skinned morsel with the sweet mouth and luscious chest...” The woman cupped her hands in front of her own generous bosom to the delight of the crowd gathered on the street. Cora refused to be amused. “She came through the door about an hour ago with a frowny friend in tow...” Cora had to clench her teeth when she thought of those lush hips swaying as she made her way through the room. She was probably climbing on tables looking at Claudine’s art on the walls, falling on some unsuspecting woman, and...
“That would be Manuela,” she sighed and Helene’s grin reached her eyes.
“Then, I suggest you pick up the pace, Duchesse. The last time I looked in, the girls were circling like sharks.”
Cora was already reaching for some coins in her pocket.
The doorkeeper raised an eyebrow in question.
“Empty the back stairs for me.”
“The back stairs?”
“Yes,” she sweetened the request by sliding a few coins in the woman’s hand. “And tell Claudine to send a bottle of champagne to my carriage. My coachman will be at the back door in ten minutes.” Helene tucked the money in her pocket and gave Cora a mocking military salute.
“At your service, Your Grace,” she called as Cora disappeared through the hallway leading to the main room. “Wishing you luck! That one looked like she’s left her fair share of casualties in her wake.”
Cora’s lips tipped up, despite herself, at the wisecrack. The woman was not wrong. Manuela was dangerous. Dangerous and seductive...and likely the greatest mistake Cora would ever make. All the same, she walked into that room prepared to admit defeat in the war she’d been waging with her self-discipline. The hair on the back of her neck rose, and her muscles tightened in anticipation of what was to come when she finally cut the strings holding her back. In a single second her feet were propelling her across the crowded dance floor in search of the one thing that could get the Duchess of Sundridge out of her house and up on this hill with only a few short sentences.
Fourteen
It wasn’t that Manuelawas bored, it was that she was frustrated. Frustrated and annoyed at herself, for her absolute lack of interest in the bounty of women who were at that very moment doing their utmost to lure her to join them in the three things she’d said a thousand times she wanted to do in Paris: discuss art, drink champagne and flirt...with other women.
It was a waste. An utter disgrace to sulk for the past hour because every single thing she heard or saw made her think of Cora. It was completely ridiculous, and an absolute ordeal, to finally be exactly where she’d dreamed of being and squander it by staring at the door lamenting her note to Cora hadn’t worked.
“Ugh, Aurora, you reek of chicken,” Manuela said peevishly while her friend nodded and bit into a chicken leg. “If you eat one more piece, we’ll have to start checking you for feathers.”
“I know.” Aurora was, in an ironic twist of fate, having the most amazing night of her life. “It’s delicious, and one of these lovely barmaids said she could put one in a parcel to take with me.” To hear Aurora speak, one would think the chickens were made of gold. “Leona, I never knew life could be this way. I just talked about contraceptives for thirty minutes with two doctors and met an architect who had wonderful suggestions for my clinics. There is an Eden on earth, where the women wear trousers, and they serve roasted chicken.” Manuela’s lips twitched at the utter joy in Aurora’s face.
