Lord of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle

his waistcoat pocket. “Yes. I’m afraid someone mistook me for the Marquis de Sade. Happens all the time. Even though the bastard has been dead since 1814.”
    Alexander rolled his eyes, knowing Caldwell was referring more to his own father than to de Sade. For as fate would have it, both deviants had died in the same exact year.
    In the end, perhaps he had overreacted. What did he care who Miss Charlotte associated with or why? He already had more than enough females in his life to worry about without adding one more to the list. And as for Caldwell needing to disclose his secret …uh, no.
    It was time to go.
    Alexander stepped up onto the landing beside Caldwell and clapped him gently on the back. “So sorry. I really should not have overreacted the way I did. And though I fully support whatever path you choose, with whichever sex you choose, I am simply not that sort of a friend, and I hope you understand.” He paused, quickly removed his hand, and pointed straight at the carriage behind them. “And I should go.”
    Caldwell jerked toward him, his expression lethally serious beneath the rim of his top hat. “Don’t flatter yourself, you asshole. Even if I was that sort— which I’m not —you’d hardly be worth my time. Now I’m asking you to be patient with regard to this situation. I know none of this makes sense. Hell, it still doesn’t make any sense to me, either. But it’s already complicated enough without you turning it into bleeding Waterloo.”
    Alexander’s brows rose. By God. What sort of trouble was the man in? Caldwell only referenced Waterloo when things were downright bad. That, coupled with the urgency in both Caldwell’s tone and dark eyes, was what ultimately kept Alexander from leaving. “All right. I’ll stay.”
    Caldwell hissed out a breath, withdrew his calling card from his breast pocket, and snapped it out toward the butler. “We’ve an appointment.”
    The portly, gray-haired man observed them rather dubiously from beneath the thick, fuzzy tufts of his brows, then reached out and took the card. After reading it, he glanced over at Alexander, then averted his gaze back to Caldwell.
    The servant cleared his throat again. Only this time a bit more theatrically. “I apologize, but the appointment is set for only one. No one else, no matter their esteemed lineage, is permitted to enter at this time.”
    “Mr. Hudson.” Caldwell stepped toward the butler. “Madame de Maitenon and I have an agreement. Surely, she must have informed you of it.”
    Alexander’s brows came together. Madame de Maitenon? Miss Charlotte wasn’t French, was she? He paused. What if Miss Charlotte no longer lived here? Actually, what if Miss Charlotte had never lived here? Oh hell. That would explain all the returned trunks. Aside from that corset he sent, that is. That thing somehow never did make it back.
    The butler glanced over his shoulder, toward the open door behind him, then quickly turned back to them, nobly setting his plump, aged chin. “Forgive me, Lord Caldwell, but I don’t recall a thing.” He lowered his chin down onto his stiff collar, grouping the loose folds of skin beneath his neck all into one, and whispered, “Though a few pounds might help.”
    “Pounds?” Caldwell muttered something beneath his breath, dug into his inner coat, and withdrew his leather satchel. “Whatever happened to a man asking for a shilling?” Yanking out several coins, Caldwell tucked the satchel back into his coat pocket and held out the coins for the man. “Here. Take it, you mercenary. We’ll talk about this later.”
    The butler paused, then brought up a gray-gloved hand and rubbed his fingers together. For more.
    Caldwell grumbled, “I must be mad,” then pulled out the satchel and shoved it all at the man. “Here, you bloody thimblerigger. Now let us in! Thanks to you, all of London already knows we’re here.”
    The butler tsked. “Such language.” The old man peered past them and