“Enter.” At once, a loud, mechanical whir set the gate in motion. It opened wide, allowing me to drive up the long, cobblestone driveway. I left the van in the care of a bored-looking valet and jogged up the marble steps to the dark wood door.

When Byron had said “brothel,” I’d imagined an Old West style whorehouse, with red, flocked wallpaper, old-time lamps with beaded fringe and prostitutes draped over velvet chaise longues. When a uniformed butler opened the door, I was pleasantly surprised. Despite the stodgy English exterior, the inside was decorated like a home from Architectural Digest. Long, white runners protected the hardwood floors and sweeping staircase. The walls were painted in very modern white, and track lighting highlighted the hanging artwork.

“The madam will be with you in a moment, madam,” the butler informed me. I almost expected a rim shot to follow his repetitive statement. His face remained humorless, as if he didn’t recognize his pun.

I refrained from pointing it out, and walked slowly through the foyer. To my left and to my right, huge double doors blocked me from further exploration, but the hallway that extended behind the curling staircase seemed to be public property. I strolled leisurely, perusing the artwork. A tall, gilded painting in an ostentatious frame stopped me in my tracks.

“Klimt.”

The rough voice startled me. I turned toward the source of it, a short, generously curved woman with long, springy gray curls cascading over her shoulders.

“Yes, I know,” I said, recovering quickly from my fright. “It’s not the original, is it?”

“You’re damn straight it is.” I couldn’t tell if she was upset by my question or enthusiastic about her property.

Smiling, I sought to correct my faux pas. “My old sire owned a lot of art, but it was all fake, so I find pretty much anything suspect.”

“Oh, shit, honey, I don’t care.” The woman came to stand beside me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the sleeve of her flowing caftan. “If it was fake, I’d tell you.”

“I didn’t want to offend.” Though my apology probably did offend her. Something in her body language suggested she lived within a “no bullshit” zone.

The woman’s eyes lit up with a spark of amusement. “Did I hear you right? Did you say, ‘old sire’?”

That was a stupid mistake. “I didn’t catch your name.”

A knowing smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Because I didn’t give it. I’m March. I’m what you’d call the ‘pimp’ around here, but we say ‘madam’ because it’s more genteel sounding. Don’t worry about your little slip. I like secrets, so long as they don’t drag trouble onto my property.”

I cleared my throat and glanced at the high, arched ceiling. “Your house is beautiful.”