studying to be the type of crack reporter who eventually won the Pulitzer, I knew I had to learn more. I
started digging.
At first, everything I found came up dry bones. Rumors, vague whispers, some ancient documents in the
school vaults written during the Colonial Period. None of it concrete. But eventually it led me to some
journals kept by the city elders around the early part of the Seventeenth Century, when New York City
was little more than a collection of ambitious Dutch, Irish and English immigrants. Eventually I found a
solid lead in the form of a man named Tiberius Sloan, a British importer and ex-soldier who’d taken to
writing extensively about his and his wife’s travels around the world. He had included very detailed
information on “the Society,” as he called it, an exclusive collection of powerful New York businessmen
who kept “courtesans,” or paid companions.
Naturally, I was intrigued. An ancient sex trade taking place in Colonial New York, right under the noses
of its citizens? You bet I would be.
A few more trips to various libraries and some visits to underground clubs proved useful. The Society
was still around, I discovered, nearly four hundred years after it had been established, and there were still
regular monthly meetings at this old, secluded colonial on Long Island. The hard part would be getting
inside, getting the exclusive. But if journalism teaches you anything, it’s how to work the angles.
Tonight I’d gotten in dressed as a server before quickly ditching my costume for the borrowed evening
gown I’d brought along. Everyone was wearing masks—even the courtesan presently bound to the
bedpost—so that made things even easier. I could be anyone’s courtesan. I just needed to act the part and
stop fidgeting and being so nervous.
Yeah, right.
“Are you enjoying the show?” A soft, course male voice said low in my ear. The way he said it made it
clear the words for my ears alone, and the sound sent a flush of gooseflesh crawling down my back.
I stood stock still and said, “It’s very…interesting.”
“What do you find interesting about it?”
The man was standing very close, almost on my heels. His was big, and his presence made my nerves
jangle. His voice had a strange, alternating inflection, the clipped briskness of an English accent with
something else underneath, something foreign and exotic. I thought about moving away, but I was already
on the group’s fringe. If I moved forward, I would be deeper in the crowd. If I moved back, I would
literally be stepping into his arms. I took a deep breath to calm my flitting heart and half-panicked
thoughts and stayed where I was. “They’re very pretty together,” I said lamely.
The man behind me put his big hands on my shoulders. The scent of his cologne—light, breezy, foreign,
incredibly masculine—enveloped me. I could literally feel the adrenals picking up in my blood. He put
his mouth very close to my ear, so close I could almost sense the roughness of his chin, and said, “I should
put you over my knee and spank you for what you’ve done, my dear. You don’t belong here.”
My heart seemed to stick in my chest. Speaking was impossible. Moving was a fantasy. I shivered
instead, and he responded to that and tightened his grip on my shoulders as if afraid I might bound away
like a frightened rabbit.
“Give me one good reason why I should not alert everyone here as to who you are?”
I realized I had one of two choices—I could scream bloody murder and alert everyone that I was an
unwanted guest, or I could try and negotiate with the brute standing behind me, ready to unmask me,
figuratively speaking, for the pleasure of the Society. After I got my panic swallowed down to a
manageable level, I whispered in a shaky voice, “What…what do you want with me?”
“Come with me,” he said. His big hand enveloped my elbow, his grip powerful enough to make me wince
and prove he meant business as he turned me around. A part of me wanted to resist, to fight him, but I had
this fantasy of being dragged, kicking and screaming, away. I wasn’t sure I could deal with the humiliation
of that anymore than I could deal with the idea of being tied up and caned in public for the delight of some
of the most powerful men in New York.
The gentleman dragged me toward one of the playrooms. As I looked up to see what breed of man had
captured me, I wondered if screaming wouldn’t have perhaps been the smarter thing to do.
***
Read an excerpt from Blood & Lace (Blackstone Hall #1) by Eden Myles:
Chapter I
As we passed a dense forest of fine, old oaks on our way to Blackstone Hall, I leaned out the window of
our coach and noticed that many of the trees were tall and proud, with strong limbs, good for climbing.
My father, seated on the cushioned bench beside me, said, “Marie. You mustn’t.”
“Mustn’t what, Father?” I asked innocently, biting back a grin. I didn’t turn to look at him, lest he see my
secret smile.
“Climb trees or do anything which might be construed as unladylike.” He took my hand and squeezed.
“You’re almost twenty years old, girl. I’m counting on you to be on your best court behavior.”
“Yes, Father.”
The coach jostled along the uneven road, throwing us back against the braces, but my father’s coach was
so luxurious that the padded velvet seats made the ride—almost seven hours thus far—more than
bearable.
“We shall be there shortly, my dear,” Father said as if concerned I might be losing patience.
I wasn’t. I more than enjoyed watching the landscape drifting by, the deep, old forests—it was so
different than the colder, craggier Northlands where our estate resided. There the trees grew short and
farther apart, the people were brutish and covered year-round in animal furs, and the horses shaggy. There
were mountain orcs that were a constant threat to my father’s people, but I hadn’t seen such creatures
here. I wondered if there were Fae in these forests. “No more than an hour yet,” he added.
“Yes, Father.” Once more, I leaned out the window of the coach, seeking out both the familiar and
unfamiliar in this strange land.
Where we lived, in the lands several hundred ticks to the north, the squatty pines shivered in the heavy
snows. The people were fair-haired and blue-eyed like my father (except for the gypsies who regularly
passed through) and there were still a few remaining ice dragons slumbering deep within cairns in the
earth. On a cold morning one could stand on a balcony and spot their breath pluming up through small
cracks in the earth.
But I’d heard that Lord Elric Rothschild’s lands were warmer, the oaks and elms soaring and rotund,
spreading their lush green boughs to the heavens like supplicating hands. I’d heard there were dwarves
and tall, slender people of a swarthier complexion here. Food was bountiful, war scarce, and the people
more congenial and trustworthy. Stone dragons still occasionally circled the skies. It was a pretty land,