CHAPTER ONE
London, 1762
The madam of an infamous brothel has to handle many types of difficult men, Coral Smythe reflected. Drunken lords, arrogant merchants, callow youths teetering on the crumbling edges of their own personal disasters, and just too many men with more money in their pockets than sense. But few men were as irritating, provoking, vexing, or aggravating as a puritanical naval captain.
An attractive puritanical naval captain.
With one finger, Coral touched the gold mask covering her face, checking as she always did that it was in position. Thus satisfied, she descended the staircase into the gilded hellhole that was Aphrodite's Grotto. Business was brisk tonight. The curving grand staircase spilled into the main hall. At the far end were the great double front doors to the Grotto, with Aphrodite herself frolicking overhead in painted pink clouds, surrounded by her well-endowed mythical lovers, and below...
Well, below was bedlam of course.
