Read The Red Velvet Horse (Siren Publishing Allure) for Free Online Page B

grate.
    It is almost six months now since my great happiness was so cruelly shattered, and my fortunes dashed on the hard unforgiving face of fate.
    For not only did Jeffrey Sutton turn out to be a bounder who deserted me on the very eve of our wedding, but a scoundrel who absconded with all my invested resources as well.
    I took all of this exceedingly hard, and retreated to my bedchamber for weeks. The shock and disappointment gnawed at my insides like flittermice feeding on the carcasses of cattle.
    How could he use me so cruel? I sobbed inconsolably, refusing to eat the meals that Mattie brought up for me. And indeed, often sweeping the tray from the bedside table in my state of misery and rage.
    But on the day when there was no more coal for the fire, and the larder was depressingly bare, I had no choice but to rise up, wash my tear-ravaged face and soldier on.
    Unable to pay the rent, we moved to smaller, meaner accommodations on Parliament Street. What followed was a long and bitter winter. Every bit of jewelry and furniture that would fetch a half-decent price was sold. Even my trousseau went on the public auction block.
    I was fretful, but Mattie at least proved loyal and remained with me, although I could no longer afford to pay her wages.
    I tried to get as much sewing as I could to see us through until spring, but the work was slow in coming, and what pittance I did receive for my efforts was immediately gobbled up by our meager expenditures.
    “The butcher says he won’t give us any more credit until the bill is paid.” Mattie informed me one snowbound January day, when icicles dangled from the rooftops like candles.
    I cursed Jeffrey Sutton for a heartless rogue and scoundrel, as we huddled around a mean fire in the ugly broken grate.
    There was only one thing for it, I decided bitterly. And it was an action I had resisted taking from the outset of our present problems. I would have to go back to work in a bawdy house.
    So it was that I dressed carefully in the freezing bedroom, my hands blue from cold as I applied a liberal coating of powder and rouge. I had heard of a house of ill repute over on Jarvis Street. And that’s where I made for, shivering both from fear and the elements, through the premature dusk of a frigid and ice-bound afternoon.
    “Well, I think you’ll do nicely, dearie.” The pock-faced old Madam looked me over like a prime piece of meat. “The house keeps fifty-percent, remember, and don’t try to gyp me, sweetheart, or you’ll be sorry, if you get my meaning?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Cloud,” I replied obediently, transfixed by her sharp black eyes and raddled features. For I was certain that a disease contacted through sexual intercourse had left her thus. And dreaded that some such awful sickness would also do for me in the end.
    “I run a class establishment here,” she informed me flintily. And indeed, as I looked around at the plush upholstery and thick Turkish carpets, I had to agree.
    She then gave me something of a guided tour of the premises. On the ground floor, there was a spacious red velvet lounge where the women greeted their clients. A nude statue of Aphrodite holding Eros stood in the far corner.
    There were about a dozen bedrooms or “knocking-shops” as they were popularly called, upstairs. Then, with a significant amount of pride and an air of mystery, Mrs. Cloud opened the double red doors at the end of the hallway.
    “And this is where we keep the specialty of the house,” she informed me proudly, stepping to one side, so I could enter.
    It was a medium-sized chamber hung with rich draperies, and devoid of all furnishings save for a strange looking contraption sitting directly in the middle of the room, a plush and well-padded red velvet horse, the type of thing that acrobats vault over at the circus.
    “The girls call him Neddy.” Mrs. Cloud had an unpleasant leer as she gave the lewd looking thingy a suggestive pat. “He’s used for a score of kinky