The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom & Their Lover. Victoria Janssen

wine from her belly and breasts. A couple copulated in the chair nearest the door. The woman, bodice pulled down to her waist, gripped the arms of the chair to raise and lower herself on her partner’s swollen red cock, her white buttocks flashing as her minuscule skirt fluttered with each stroke. Henri gaped, amazed that they were allowed to do that in the common room, even in a brothel, until he saw a ring of watchers. This was some staged entertainment, like the two women arranged on a chaise by the fireplace, one daintily fondling the other, who plunged an ivory dildo into herself. One of the male whores was massaging her feet. She looked up, as if awaiting orders. Henri followed her gaze to the center of the room and saw the duchess.

      He had seen that court gown at a distance, and the outline of her hair confined within its tiara was familiar to him from the coin he’d just placed in a eunuch’s palm. The skin around his cock tightened automatically. Except—she could not be here. She would not be here. He looked closer, and of course the duchess was only Madame Hubert, was only a whore.

      If he emptied his savings and paid her fee, he could have her. Well, almost. In a year or two he would have enough. For a moment he considered it; but it would be a mockery. He felt ashamed even for letting the thought cross his mind.

      He hurried down the corridor and exited into the quiet rear yard. The bathhouse occupied almost the entire space; the narrow alley between its wooden walls and the tall fence had been planted with wandering roses. Their scent flooded his nostrils, clearing the indoor stench of perfume and wine and sweat, and sweetened the woodsmoke which rose from stoves at the rear. He followed a white gravel path to the entrance and pushed open the door.

      The bathhouse was unusually quiet; he could hear water lapping and trickling. The pre-supper crowd had already departed, and visitors to the brothel would not yet have emerged for a sluicing before they returned home.

      Henri stepped onto a rough straw mat in the narrow corridor running the length of the building. To his right was an alcove with hooks and benches where he hung his clothes and left his boots. The child who normally guarded belongings was sleeping on a pile of towels in the corner. Henri let him be; he had nothing of value to steal, anyway, except his boots, which were mired in horse muck. He took a towel from a shelf and entered the next room along the corridor. The floor in there was limestone, just rough enough to avoid getting slippery. The sluicing room held stools and stone bowls of soft, gritty soap, the cheapest kind. Smooth perfumed varieties had to be purchased separately; Henri always used what was provided. It did well enough.

      He hung his towel and scrubbed off. His shoulder and elbow were scraped where one of the upper grooms had shoved him into a wall that afternoon for being late. He washed the wounds gently, but they had stopped bleeding hours ago and the bruises were emerging. He’d barely noticed them at the time, and if they’d known the reason for his being late, it would have been much worse. A few bumps and bruises were a small price to pay.

      Pipes trickled warm water into flagons; when they overflowed, the water drained through a hole in the center of the floor. During peak times, the time saved in heating separate containers of water balanced out the waste of it, and the brothel didn’t need to worry about their water supply running out since they controlled a natural spring, a secondary source of Madame Hubert’s wealth. The duke had a spring, too, somewhere in the bowels of the palace. To lay siege to a place with its own pure water supply would be the purest folly; that was one reason he held so much power. Or so people said. Henri thought it would be easy enough to take the palace, from the inside. But the people inside the palace lived in luxury, and were likely well satisfied with their lot in life. They wouldn’t want to tear it apart. Well, maybe the duke’s servants weren’t satisfied, but if he were one of them, he would go after the duke, not the palace. He’d want the palace for his own afterward. Any smart person would. A treacherous thought intruded: he would want the duchess for his own, as well.

      Pouring water over his head, he didn’t hear the bathmaid enter. He shook his wet hair from his eyes and startled at the quiet figure standing near the door. She was perhaps his own age or a little older, with short-cropped ebony hair over a beautifully-shaped skull. The short cut made her dark eyes seem even larger than they really were. He didn’t often see this girl working in the evenings; usually it was the one-legged man, or the girl who never stopped talking.

      She wore a thin shift that hung only to her knees. It clung damply to her small breasts and curving hips and a darker shadow between her legs. Sometimes the bathmaids worked in the nude, but Henri found her minimal clothing a thousand times more enticing. Her breasts looked like round peaches, just the size to cup in his two hands. She smelled of soap and roses.

      He realized he was standing with his mouth open, soapsuds running down his legs, and a flagon dangling forgotten from his hand. He deliberately did not look down at his cock. It had risen as he handled it to wash, and he did not want to draw the maid’s attention to it. She likely had to deal with lecherous men all day, every day. He did not need to add to that. He’d had a tumble already. With mild hysteria, he thought of explaining to her that he was having a bath because that afternoon he’d fucked the duchess.

      She said, prompting, “Are you ready for the tub, sir?”

      Henri nodded. He hurriedly reached to place his flagon on the floor, but she took it from him, chose a full one, and said, “Stand still. There’s more soap.”

      Henri closed his eyes as she doused him, head to foot, twice more. The water trickling down his body could have been her fingers, small and chapped from constant washing. He didn’t usually have this much trouble in the baths. Of course, usually the room was full of other men, and they would be dousing each other with careful courtesy. He wasn’t used to being alone with a bathmaid, much less a pretty one. He tried to think cold thoughts, and his erection did subside a little.

      The bathmaid wrapped his towel around his waist before leading him to the next room. He’d never received such a service before. Perhaps she thought he was someone important? Or just hoped for a good tip. Or thought he was too slow to do it himself, and she wanted him to be done and clear out. She said, “My name is Nicolette. Nico.”

      “Henri,” he said. Or perhaps she was being friendly.

      She smiled at him and said, “I know. I’ve seen you here.” In the flickering lamplight, he watched the curves of her bottom move as she walked ahead of him and bent to turn a stopcock. Steaming water gushed from the pipe and into the copper tub. She tested the water and added cold water from a bucket, then tested it again. At her gesture, he climbed inside.

      He’d worked hard all day, both before and after his visit to the duchess. The heat flooded his tired muscles like the rush of orgasm. “That’s nice,” he said, reaching out his legs and wiggling his toes.

      “Let me wash your hair,” Nico said. “Here, lean back onto this towel.”

      “I didn’t pay for—” He hoped she would not get into trouble for offering a free service.

      “It’s all right,” she said. “We haven’t any other customers right now, and Suzette will tend to them if we do.”

      “If you’re sure it’s all right,” Henri said, already tensing in anticipation of an unexpected treat. He leaned back.

      “Suzette told me you work in the duke’s stables?”

      Suzette had to be the one who never stopped talking. “I care for the horses that the duchess rode,” he said. “I hope someday she will ride them again.”

      “I do, too,” Nico said. “I’ve always admired her. She seems so strong and dignified.”

      Henri tried to think of a neutral comment. “She rides beautifully,” Henri said. “I’m lucky to learn from her horses.”

      “Annette—she’s the midwife in the brothel—Annette has actually met her. In the palace, the duchess didn’t come here, of course. I asked what she was like. Annette wouldn’t tell me. She only looked sad. Annette never looks sad, that’s one reason why we…why I…oh, no. You’ll think I’ve turned into Suzette, if I keep on like this. You’re a good listener. Close your eyes.” She poured