by Cara Elliott
Lowering his voice, Gryff asked, “Are you and your friends interested in making a bit of blunt on the side?”
Georgie’s expression sharpened. “Does a right cross to the kidney hurt like bleeding hell?”
He smiled. “Excellent. Let’s go somewhere a bit more private to talk, shall we?”
A twitch of the ex-boxer’s broad jaw indicated an alcove near the far corner of the saloon. “I was jest about te go fold the towels, sir.”
Gryff followed along into a narrow nook behind a storage cabinet. The still air was rife with the smells of lye and soap and sweat.
Muscles rippled as Georgie cracked his massive knuckles. “Need a few heads bashed, milord?”
“Perhaps,” answered Gryff. “But to decide that, I first need to gather a bit of information about the fellow in question.”
“Who?”
“Brighton.”
The towelman spit on the floor. “Clutch-fisted bastards, both him and that smarmy cousin he hangs around with. Thick as thieves, they are. Unlike you, sir, they never leave a farthing for us hard-working coves.”
“Yes well, Brighton’s not only a nipcheese, but I have reason to suspect that he’s putting the thumbscrews on a friend of mine.”
On the walk over from the publisher’s office, Gryff had been mulling over the situation. Watkins, a man of sound common sense, had an intuitive faith in Lady Brentford’s character. And despite all the evidence to the contrary, he simply could not imagine her being involved in any criminal activity, especially one involving art. Her love of the medium was too honest, too joyous. She would never disrespect it in such a sordid way.
And yet Cameron had a discerning eye, and would not make allegations lightly.
There was only one explanation that could reconcile the conflicting facts—Lady Brentford was working under duress.
“Oy.” Georgie spat again. “I don’t much like it when someone tries te bully one of me friends.”
“Neither do I.” Gryff took a small purse out of his pocket, the chink of gold making a heavier sound than copper. “I imagine you know a few people who are privy to what’s going on in the flash houses in Town.”
Georgie’s eyes widened as the money plopped into his hand. “Aye, milord. That I do.” He caressed the soft leather. “And with this to grease a few palms, I should be able te learn whatever ye need.”
“I want to know what rig Brighton is running,” replied Gryff. “Quickly, but discreetly. I’d prefer he have no inkling that anyone is making inquiries into his activities.”
The towelman touched a finger to the side of his mashed nose. “Don’t ye worry, sir. I’ll keep it silent as the grave.”
“Excellent. There will be more for you and your friends when you’re done.”
“This be plenty, milord. I don’t want te pick yer pocket. Not when yer already so free in spending yer blunt on the likes of us.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll consider it money well spent.” Gryff patted him on the shoulder. “You know my direction. Send word to my townhouse as soon as you know something.”
The purse jingled as Georgie fisted his fingers. “Don’t ye worry, sir. Ye won’t have long te wait.”
Chapter Nineteen
The ooze of decay rose up from the river in thick curls of dirty gray fog. Eliza hunched deeper into the seat of the carriage, wincing with every clip-clop of hooves upon the bridge. The sounds struck her as a funeral dirge of sorts. Indeed, it felt like her spirit was crossing the River Styx, moving out of the land of the living and into a world of gloomy shadows where the dead floated in ageless lament for their sins.
“And there’s no doubt that I have sinned,” she whispered.
Strange though, she didn’t feel as if her soul had shriveled and died. Despite the surrounding darkness, her lovemaking with Haddan was a small, bright flame, a flicker of warmth that she kept alight in her heart.
Even though his opinion of her had turned black and cold as yesterday’s embers. A visit to Mr. Watkins had confirmed that the marquess was aware of her identity. The publisher had also admitted that the book project was in jeopardy, for Haddan had appeared angry and undecided about whether to continue.
The marquess’s change in heart was not hard to pin down. His friend must have heard something about Brighton’s plan. Men talked among themselves—perhaps even more than women—especially while they were in their cups.
“We’re here, madam,” called the driver from his perch, his voice muffled by the inky gloom. His boots scraped against the footboard and the butt of his whip knocked against the seat. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Thank God for her stalwart friend Margaret, who provided a coachman and horses without any questions. Had she been asked to explain her mission, Eliza would have had a hard time putting her thoughts into words. “That’s because I ought to be taking myself to Bedlam, instead of a brothel,” she murmured wryly, gingerly setting a foot down in the foul-smelling mud. “Clearly my wits have wandered to the very edge of dangerous delusions.”
The alleyway was deserted, the impenetrable shadows still and silent. Hurrying across the short distance to the iron-banded door, Eliza mustered her flagging resolve and knocked with more authority than she felt.
If ever a foray could be described as a fool’s errand.
The beefy porter gave her an unfriendly look and reluctantly ushered her down a dimly lit corridor and into the same small back office where she had been sequestered on her previous visit to The Wolf’s Lair.
“Wait here,” he growled.
Eliza pushed back the hood of her cloak and shuffled her feet, breathing in and out as she watched the flames of the sconce candles undulate in the draft from the door. The red-tinged light played over the erotic etching, teasing her thoughts to an unwilling recollection of her first encounter here with Haddan.
He had jested about the oversized phalluses, the inventive positions. And then he had pressed a gossamer kiss to a spot of bare skin just above her glove…
Rubbing at her wrist, Eliza quickly moved away to the sideboard. The Redouté rose was nowhere to be seen. Miss Hawkins must have taken the advice to sell it.
A wise decision. In any language—secret, silent, or spoken aloud—love was a very uncomfortable sentiment.
She blinked. Love. Oh yes, love hurt. Like the thorns of a rose, it could prick painfully into the flesh. But of course, it could also be softly sensual, like the touch of a velvety petal or the whiff of an ethereal sweetness. Perhaps the contradiction was part of its allure.
Love. What an odd place to be thinking about the subject. So far, she had managed to avoid delving too deeply into her feelings. What she had experienced with Haddan was lust, pure and simple. Their bodies had coupled for a fleeting interlude, and then come apart to go their separate ways…
“Lady Brentford.” Sara Hawkins closed the door quietly behind her. “If you are looking for your brother, I can tell you he’s not here tonight. Indeed, I haven’t seen him for the last week or so.”
“No, I’m not looking for Harry,” she replied. “I—I was actually hoping that I might have a word with you.”
“Of course.” Sara gestured to one of the chairs by the desk. “Shall we sit? If ye don’t mind me saying so, ye are looking a little shaky on your pegs.”
“I suppose my knees are knocking just a bit. It isn’t every day that I enter an establishment like this one.”
Sara chuckled. “I should hope not.”
Eliza’s fists clenched even tighter in her lap. “H-how do your girls come to you?” she stammered, not daring to look up from her whitening knuckles.
The sound of amusement stopped abruptly.
“And h-how m-much can they make a week at a place like The Wolf’s Lair? I—I have heard that men are willing to pay a high price for pleasure at the most exclusive places in Town.”
Sara allowed only the tiniest flicker of surprise before masking her reaction with a quick cough. But Eliza had a great dea
l of experience in watching facial expressions. What she saw was enough to make her wish she could sink through the floorboards. What madness had made her come here?
“Ye can’t be thinking of seeking employment here, Lady Brentford,” said Sara gently.
No, of course not—it was a ludicrous idea. Eliza looked away. “I know I’m not pretty—”
“Now wait a tic. Ye think yer not pretty?” exclaimed Sara.
“I know I’m not pretty.”
“Ha! Take my word fer it, you’ve got the type of looks that drive a man wild.”
Eliza opened her mouth to protest.
“No, hear me out. First of all, physical appearance isn’t what makes a woman desirable. Look at me—I’m no raving beauty, but I had gentlemen fighting fer my favors. And ye want to know why?”
Eliza nodded. “I…Yes, very much so.”
“Gentlemen like…well, Lord Haddan calls it spirit—a girl’s inner spark that lights up her whole being. It’s hard te describe, but it’s wot makes a man want te be around her, ye know? They aren’t just looking te have their pump handles diddled. They like te talk. Te laugh.”
“Oh.” Eliza stared thoughtfully at the lamp flame’s sinuous dance.
“Ye got fire, Lady Brentford. In spades.”
Her mouth quirked. “Is that a good thing?”
“Very,” Sara assured her.
“Then why can’t I work here?”
Sara rose and moved to the sideboard, where she uncorked a decanter and poured two measures of sherry. “Look, we are both practical females,” she answered, once she had set down a glass in front of Eliza. “Te be frank, even if I was tempted te let ye ruin yer reputation, such a move would be very bad fer my own business. Men would find it horribly uncomfortable te be around a lady of their own class—someone who might be their own sister. They would go somewhere else.”
After pondering Sara’s words for several long sips of the wine, Eliza let out a long sigh. “I see your point.” She swirled her wine, and its spinning seemed to suck her deeper into confusion. “But the trouble is I need money. Lots of it. You are clearly a good businesswoman. Have you any ideas what I might try, other than shackle myself to a lifetime of crime—which at this point seems my only choice?”
Sara smoothed her skirts. “Ye had best start at the beginning, and tell me all about it.”
Eliza haltingly explained about her brother’s debts, her own hard-fought struggle to save enough for her dream of independence, and Brighton’s terrible ultimatum. “I won’t marry him, of course. I’d rather starve in the streets. But I thought that if I could find lucrative employment, I could pay off Harry’s debts and salvage something of the family reputation by keeping him out of debtor’s prison. I have half the funds from my artistic endeavors, and I figured Brighton would accept the rest in installments, if you will. It’s that or nothing, and given the baronet’s greed, it seems likely he would agree to the terms.” She let out a sigh. “And then perhaps I can start saving again for that little cottage in the Lake District.”
“I can see you have thought this out very carefully,” said Sara slowly. “But unfortunately the question of, er, wages is not quite so simple. Ye see, without dipping into a great deal of detail, there is a wide range of positions within the demimonde, as well as a wide range of remunerations.”
Eliza inched forward in her chair. “I suspected as much, but to tell the truth, I am not as clear as I should be on the differences.”
“I shan’t describe the most primitive parts of the business—I daresay you can imagine that on your own. Let’s just say that the girls here are well cared for and make a decent living. But only the most expensive courtesan could aspire to make the sort of sum you mentioned.”
“A courtesan?” repeated Eliza. The evening was proving educational, if not a financial success.
“A cher ami, a ladybird high flyer, who has a single protector,” said Sara. Seeing Eliza’s questioning look, she blew out a small sigh and went on. “It works like this—a gentleman offers such a female a slip on the shoulder. That is, he sets her up in a snug little house, pays for servants, showers her with fancy clothes and baubles. In return, she entertains him. Exclusively, if ye get my meaning.”
“I see.” Eliza pursed her lips. “So courtesans are the aristocracy of the lightskirts.”
“Aye, that’s a good way of putting it. And it takes a rich man to afford the best.”
She twitched at the hem of her glove, thinking back to a lordly smile gilded in the smoky lamplight. “I imagine a gentleman like the Marquess of Haddan has a finely feathered friend tucked away in some love nest.”
Sara’s brows pinched together. “Haddan? No, actually he doesn’t.” A soft laugh stirred the shadows around them. “I suppose the Deerhound was always too busy running to and fro in Town. Chasing the does, ye see.” She set her glass down. “Though in truth, he was never quite as much of a Hellhound as the gossipmongers made out. Beneath the rakish reputation, he’s always had a heart o’ gold. His quiet acts of kindness fer the girls here aren’t talked about in those fancy newspapers. They just want to report on the scandals.” She tapped meditatively on the table. “And even those have died down. Of late, he seems to have tired of all that. He says that he’s grown older and wiser.”
Eliza looked away, hoping to swallow the lump in her throat without making a complete fool of herself by sniveling.
Sara sat in sympathetic silence, letting the low flicker of flame and shadow dance across the walls, until Eliza composed herself enough to quirk a wry smile. “Would that age automatically brought wisdom. Unfortunately, it feels as if my thinking has been growing more muddled by the minute. Please forgive me for coming here and taking up your time.”
“I’m sorry te disappoint ye, Lady Brentford, but the truth is, lifting yer skirts ain’t going to earn ye the blunt yer looking for.” She paused. “For what ye’ve told me, I gather that ye possess special talents as an artist. Is there no way to use them to earn the funds ye need—legally, of course?”
Eliza shook her head, seeing no point in mentioning Haddan’s book commission. The afternoon visit to Mr. Watkins had all but confirmed that the project would never make it to paper and ink. The marquess had been gentlemanly enough to imply it was because of her sex rather than her criminal activities.
“There are not many opportunities for a female. My publisher is one of the enlightened few, but even though my work garners accolades, I have to hide my real identity with a pen name.”
“How unfair. Ye ought te be recognized for yer talents.”
“When males make the rules, it’s not likely to happen.”
Sara sniffed. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“In any case, my book illustrations mostly earn only modest amounts. And now, even that outlet is closed to me,” explained Eliza. “I cannot ask my publisher to suffer if I am plunged into scandal, so it would be wrong to ask for future work.” She cupped her glass, wishing the heat of the wine could seep through her skin. “There must be a way to keep my dream of happiness alive. I just have to be clever enough to find it.”
“Let me think on it.” Sara raised her glass in salute. “Te happiness. And te the girls who dare to dream that it’s within their grasp, if only they are brave enough to reach fer it.”
The clink of crystal rose above the crackling of the coals.
“Thank you,” said Eliza. She rose and refastened her cloak, suddenly feeling ashamed at the pettiness of her own problems. The other woman probably dealt with far grimmer situations every day. Life, death. Real sufferings. And here she was, mooning over a bruised heart.
“Once again you have been kind—more than kind—in seeing me,” she added.
“Ye have a place te stay tonight?” asked Sara.
“Yes, a dear friend from childhood has been generous enough to offer me quarters when I come to London. Her husband is away on a diplomatic mission, so she claims my company is most welcome. However, I hate to
impose on her generosity more than I have to. I will return to the country tomorrow, and well…” Her sigh blew out the closest candle. “Somehow I shall figure out how to go on from there.”
“If ye need a bit of blunt…,” Sara offered.
Eliza smiled. “You are truly kind, Miss Hawkins—”
“Oh, please call me Sara. All me friends do.”
“Sara, then.” The name came very easily to her tongue. “You are very kind, but for the moment I have enough to manage.”
“Very well. But if that changes, don’t hesitate te come here and ask fer help. Despite its outward appearance, The Wolf’s Lair is always a safe haven fer females in trouble.”
“Thank you.” Eliza moved to the door. “Please don’t bother to summon your porter from his duties. I shall see myself out.”
Keeping close to the dark wainscoting, Eliza made her way down the corridor, grateful that this part of the Lair was deserted. A curl of gunmetal gray smoke wafted overhead, the only other flutter of movement, save for her own skirling skirts.
“Thank God, I’ve no witness to my folly,” she whispered—and then bit her tongue as the private entrance opened to admit a figure.
Flattening herself against the wall, she turned up her hood and prayed that her presence would go unnoticed.
Bootsteps thudded over the Turkey runner, hurried paces that echoed the pounding of her heart.
Shrouded in shadows, the approaching shape was naught but an indistinct blur of long legs, flapping coat, broad shoulders, tall-crowned hat…A male. That much was clear just before Eliza squeezed her eyes shut and offered up a silent prayer.
Keep going, keep going.
The thuds grew louder, louder, and then it seemed that the danger was about to pass. However in the next instant the steps came to an abrupt stop.
She burrowed her head deeper into the folds of the fabric.
“Lady Brentford?”
