"Well technically I’m not hired yet. I’m here to see Lady Beatrice. Preferably in her bedroom."
Her eyebrow inched upward slowly.
"Bedroom?"
"Er, not bedroom. Her meeting room. Or wherever it is that she conducts interviews."
"You mean the drawing room."
"Right. The drawing room. That’s what I said."
"You said bedroom."
"I misspoke. The point is I’m here to replace Bregg."
She blinked. "Replace him? What happened to Bregg?"
"He fell," I said. "Hit his head on a bucket. He’ll be out of commission for a while."
Jeana stared at me for a moment. Then she rolled her eyes so hard I was surprised they stayed in her head.
"That absolute idiot. Serves him right, honestly." She said it with the particular venom of someone who had very specific and recent reasons to be annoyed with Bregg. She cleared her throat. "Well. If you know Bregg then I suppose you’re nobody suspicious. You’ll want to see Lady Beatrice about the position. Unfortunately she’s occupied at the moment. I’ll take you to the drawing room and you can wait for her there."
"Much appreciated."
I followed her down the corridor, watching the way her uniform moved as she walked. Above her head, floating beside her seduction bar, was the number zero. She hadn’t even looked at me twice yet and the bar was already sitting comfortably at the halfway mark.
This one was going to be easy. Almost unfairly so.
Though I had reservations about going in after Bregg. The man had demonstrated poor self-control and questionable hygiene. I filed it under things to think about later and kept walking.
Jeana settled me in the drawing room and disappeared. I sat in the chair, stretched my legs out, and stared at the ceiling. The room was warm compared to the cellar. Obscenely warm. I could have wept.
She came back sometime later carrying a tray with tea and a plate of cookies, moving with the careful efficiency of someone who’d been doing this long enough to do it without thinking. She set the tray down on the side table and began to pour, and I caught her eyes drifting sideways toward me twice in the space of ten seconds.
The seduction bar ticked upward without me lifting a finger.
"What is it?" I said. "Is there something on my face?"
She went pink immediately. Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth.
"I ... I think you’re very handsome," she said. Quietly. Like she was confessing something.
I looked at her for a moment. Then I patted my lap.
"Come sit with me then."
She gave me a sideways look. Sly. Considering. Then she set the teapot down and came over, and that was essentially that.
One thing led predictably to another. She ended up on her knees in front of me, her ribbon coming loose from her hair, her maid cap tilting sideways on her head. She’d freed herself from the top of her uniform and was working enthusiastically, her massive G-cups pressed together around me, hands rolling and squeezing as she looked up at me with wet eyes and an expression of intense concentration.
"I don’t usually do this," she said breathlessly, pausing to drag her tongue slowly up the underside before pulling back. "It’s only because you’re so handsome."
I looked down at her. "Do you say that to every man you sleep with?"
She frowned up at me, deeply offended.
"I am a chaste woman."
"Of course you are," I said, and patted her on the head. She leaned into it slightly, like a cat. "Tell me about Lady Beatrice. What kind of employer is she?"
Jeana slowed her rhythm but didn’t stop, glancing up at me with mild suspicion. "Why do you want to know about her?"
"She’s going to be my employer," I said. "Assuming the interview goes well. I’d like to know what I’m walking into."
She considered this. Then she stopped entirely, sat back on her heels, and thought about it properly with her hands still resting on her thighs.
"She’s strict," she said. "Very strict. Quick to anger. She doesn’t forgive mistakes easily and she doesn’t make exceptions. But she pays well — better than most houses in this part of the city. I’m grateful for the position, truly. I grew up without much, and with the war dragging on the way it has, finding steady work is—"
I yawned.
She stopped.
"Sorry," I said. "Not your life story. Something more specific. Does she have any vices? Particular habits? Things that make her feel comfortable, or uncomfortable?"
Jeana tilted her head. "That’s a strange thing to ask."
"I like to know how to handle people. It’s a personality trait."
She studied me for another moment. Then she picked up where she’d left off, and the conversation continued at a more comfortable pace for both of us.
"What I really want to know," I said, keeping my voice casual, "is whether she has any secret desires. Hidden kinks. That sort of thing."
Jeana stopped again and looked up at me with wide eyes.
"Why on earth would you want to know that?"
"It turns me on," I said. "Hearing about other people. Gets me going."
A slow grin spread across her face. Lewdly delighted.
"You naughty boy."
"Yup," I said, stifling a yawn. "That’s me."
She laughed softly to herself and went back to work, picking up the pace this time, using her hands and chest together in a rhythm that made it increasingly difficult to maintain a neutral expression. She drooled deliberately onto her chest, slicking everything up, watching my face for a reaction as her areolas blurred with the speed of her movements.
"Alright," she said, almost to herself, like she’d made a decision. "I’ll tell you something. But you absolutely cannot tell her I said it. Swear it."
"Swear."
"My sister works near the Red Lantern District. You know what that is?"
"I can guess."
"All the sex shops and bars and that sort of establishment. Very seedy. Not somewhere a respectable woman would be caught dead." She paused for emphasis. "One evening my sister was out — buying milk, of all things — when she saw a woman in black coming out of one of the brothels. Veiled. Face completely hidden. Very deliberate about it. But there was something about the way she carried herself, something regal, like she was used to people stepping out of her way."
"And?"
"And then a gust of wind came and lifted the veil." Jeana raised her eyebrows. "My sister swears on our parents’ graves it was Lady Beatrice. She’d recognise her anywhere. She’s seen her at enough public functions."
"Interesting," I said. "What kind of brothel?"
Jeana’s grin widened. She was enjoying this now. She slowed down and teased the tip with her tongue, working it in a slow circle before pulling back and looking up at me with glittering eyes.
"Not your standard establishment. This one caters to a very specific clientele. Women who want to be dominated. Spanked. Talked down to. Humiliated." She let that sit in the air between us for a second. "Our Lady Beatrice, the most untouchable woman in this district, the woman who had you thrown in a cellar and threatened to have your head removed — is a closet masochist."
She ran her tongue slowly up the length of me one more time, eyes locked on mine.
"Juicy, isn’t it?"
"Very," I said.
Then I finished all over her chest and she made a sound like she’d been mildly surprised by rainfall.