“What I mean to say,” she continued, “is that I’ve been here long enough to have met the previous tenant at No. 12. He was also a policeman. A Mr. Stanley, I believe. We never learnt what happened, but one morning, there was a ‘to let’ sign in the window, and our Mr. Stanley had vanished.”
“How very curious,” Aubrey remarked, storing the information inside his nearly perfect memory. “And how soon after did my cousin move into the house?”
“Almost right away!” she exclaimed whilst pouring a quarter cup of tea, which she then topped to the brim with gin. “I remember that day very well. Early February of ’78 and a dismal day it was, too. Cold and rainy. I noticed two wagons drawing up to the house and remarked to Mr. Howard—he was our usher at the time—well, I said to Mr. Howard that it looked as though someone had let No. 12. That house is the jewell of the entire block, or so I’ve always thought. The other terraced houses are so very plain, but twelve has its own personality. I told Mr. Howard that I hoped someone nice was moving in.”
Aubrey smiled, picturing Hansen’s face when she first observed a twenty-two-year-old Charles Sinclair, then called St. Clair, descending from one of the moving wagons. His cousin’s impressive height and deific physique, coupled with a face that sent many a lady into the fainting room, must have done more than cause the madam’s heart to skip beats. Indeed, the prospect of introducing such a handsome and fit young man to her female banquet surely sent Hansen into a financial reverie of Medici proportions!
“And when did you first meet him?” the earl asked his hostess.
“Later that same day,” she replied, not surprising Stuart in the least. “I took over a small basket with fruit, a few sandwiches, and a bottle of champagne. One never has the time to prepare food when moving, does one? He appeared to be on his own—a bachelor, so I thought—and I wanted to make sure he had a meal after all that very energetic unloading.”
The peer had to work hard not to laugh, but he maintained an outward expression of mild interest. “Yes, I can imagine how such a day might sap one’s energies. That was very thoughtful. I’m sure Charles was most appreciative.”
“Actually, he was,” she answered after taking a deep swig of her ‘tea’. “Poor man was all alone. He explained that his wife and son would be arriving that Monday week, and that he’d wanted to arrange the house for them first. To be quite frank, Lord Aubrey, my experience with men has taught me that thoughtfulness such as that is most unusual. The young inspector, for that is what Mr. Sinclair—I mean Lord Haimsbury, of course—well, that was his rank at the time. He explained that he’d wanted a larger home for his growing family, and the house came up quite suddenly for lease. We shared the wine and sandwiches, and I promise you that not one moment of our evening was untoward. Not one!” she added, a hint of regret crossing her powdered face. Sighing, the madam continued, “Mrs. St. Clair arrived the following week with their son. I wonder, would her name now be Sinclair?”
“I rather think it would still be St. Clair, as that was her legal name when Amelia died. My cousin has since had all pertinent records changed to reflect his birth name, of course. But as you and he became instant friends, I imagine any activity across the way must still draw your notice. Recently, there was a break-in at No. 12. Did you know that?”
“In fact, I did!” she whispered, leaning close in conspiratorial fashion. “One of the marquess’s own men came by to enquire about that housebreak. I imagine Lord Haimsbury worried that our house might have suffered from the same criminal hand. As I say, Charles Sinclair is a very kind, considerate man.”
“Yes, so he is.”
“As are you, my lord!” she sang back, intentionally touching his hand. “But this gentleman who called. He told me that No. 12’s back door had been forced, and that it was assumed items stolen. The next day, we noticed crested wagons parked outside the house, and that same gentleman, as well as three others, loaded all the furnishings and dozens of packing boxes. His name was Granger, I believe. Hamish Granger.”
“You’ve a remarkable memory,” he told her, admiringly. “And you saw no one else? Perhaps, knocking upon the door?”
“No one at all. Of course, I don’t make a habit of watching the doors of my neighbours. Sir, am I under suspicion of something illegal? Outside of the obvious, of course.”
Aubrey laughed. “Madam, I’m not with any branch of law enforcement. That honour lies with my cousin, but even if I were, the Metropolitan police rarely pursue the sort of crime in which you and your ladies engage.”
“That’s a great relief,” she told him. “If I may confess, we have a few policeman who call here now and then. Just to make certain all is well, you know.”
“Indeed. I’m sure it is gratifying to have their protection. Which leads me to another question. There is a particular lady whom I prefer, but I fear she’s gone missing. Miss Ida Ross. She was once one of your own, was she not?”
“Ross,” the woman repeated, her mind grappling with why he might ask such a question. “Yes, she did serve here for a few months. Long ago. She became ill and could no longer work, if I remember rightly. In fact, Ida was taken to hospital at Bedlam.”
“Oh, that is a pity. I blame myself. I should have kept in contact with Ida. I cannot remember where we met. A party, I believe. In Westminster.”
“Might it have been Grosvenor Square, by any chance?”
“Yes. Of course, it was. Clive Urquhart’s home.”
The madam nodded. “Yes, Sir Clive often orders our girls for his parties. I’m not surprised a man of your distinction and obvious taste for the exotic would attend parties there. I’m told they are riotous!”
“You’ve no idea,” he said, winking. “Tis a pity about Miss Ross, though. She has a particular manner that... Well, let’s just say I miss her many talents, and I’d hoped you might know her current location. Whilst here, though, I wonder if I could speak with your other ladies.”
She set down the cup and saucer, dabbing her rouged mouth with a lace-trimmed serviette. “Is your interest professional or personal, my lord?” she asked, her eyes glinting with flecks of avaricious anticipation.
Aubrey had spent time in many brothels since becoming a field agent for the inner circle, and he knew precisely how to handle a cautious woman like Margaret Hansen. “It is both, actually,” he told her, his dimples deepening as he smiled. “As I say, my peculiar tastes appreciate a woman of talent, but I am also a businessman. It must be exhaustingly expensive to maintain such a beautiful hotel, madam. Investors are surely welcome, are they not?”
Her delighted expression made it clear that his words had found fertile soil. “Investors? Do you refer to others or yourself, my lord?”
“Either and both. Are all of your ladies present today?”
“All but Joanna Marlowe.”
“I pray she is not ill. Diseases spread so readily in such houses, and the investors I represent prefer not to expose themselves or their influential friends to illness.”
“I understand completely, Lord Aubrey. Joanna is not ill. She is working, enjoying a lengthy visit with a favourite gentleman in the West End. It is but one of the many services we offer, and all with complete discretion! Shall I ask my girls to come to you in here, or do you prefer something more private?”
“Private, I should think,” Aubrey answered with a practised smile, and it was as if sunshine entered the dimly lit room.
The thirty-three-year-old earl’s beard had begun to grow once again with the pressures of the last week, but the deep dimples in his shadowed cheeks had no trouble penetrating the dark hair. Women had been known to faint when Paul Stuart offered such a glance, and not even the hardened heart of Meg Hansen was immune. On the contrary, it surrendered fully to the earl’s considerable charms.
“My lord, I—well, I should be pleased to make any and all of my ladies available for your inspection. Where
would you like to begin?”
She stood as did he. “Let’s take each floor individually, shall we?” he asked. “That way, there’s no danger of leaving anyone out. I shouldn’t wish to miss any of the delights your hotel has to offer, madam.”
“You promised to call me Meg,” she reminded him coquettishly, taking his offered arm and leading Stuart towards the stairs. “We have only parlours on the main floor, of course. Along with our registration desk. Mr. Honeywell keeps the ledger. You did sign, I hope?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, let’s begin with Kitty. She’s a lovely girl who came to us from Bristol. Her story’s rather tragic, but I’m sure it’s one you’ve heard before. So many of our girls descend from poverty, and often their families show little care for them.”
Stuart followed her into the upper storeys of the hotel, where they entered a series of rooms and suites, beginning with Kitty Nelson’s small apartment and ending with a large suite sometimes used by Redwing members (though the proprietress said nothing of this). Hansen hesitated before unlocking the door.
“We reserve these rooms for special occasions. They are comfortably expansive, suitable for whatever pleasures one might seek, similar to those provided by the West End’s finer establishments, but this suite does cost more.”
“My dear Meg, there is no finer establishment than your own. Even Amante Secret cannot compare to the Empress!” he assured her, his arm through hers.
Hansen’s own lashes fluttered in flattered delight. “My lord, how very kind of you! I do not fancy myself equal to Madam Ferrell’s remarkable luxuries at Amante Secret, but we endeavour to please. A wealthy patron would allow us to rise to the level of the grandest French maisons.”
“Money is always the limiting factor, is it not, dear Meg?” he whispered, intentionally placing his hand at the small of her back and then letting it slip, ever so slightly towards her bustle. “Oh, do forgive me!” he whispered impishly.
“Sir!” the whore runner gasped in delight. “You have a very light touch.”
“Not always,” he teased.
“Really?” she breathed back huskily, patting her upswept hair. Had the mistress been less jaded, she might have blushed, but instead she merely sighed, imagining a long and pleasant night in the earl’s muscular arms. Still thinking of his embrace, she turned the key without another thought.
“As you can see, this apartment contains every luxury to which a man such as yourself is accustomed. An en suite water closet, three bedchambers for privacy, and two large salons for cards, conversation, drinks, whatever one might desire. The walls were painted by the same mural artist who created the magnificent scenery in many a Westminster peerage home, though our themes are more, shall we say, inspiring? I’m sure you know the artist’s name, sir. The room evokes the popular chinoiserie enjoyed by so many on the continent, but with a provocative twist. The brocades are the finest silk, the mirrors gilded, and we use only the highest quality beeswax candles in all the chandeliers. We have no gas laid on in this house, as you can tell. I find that it smokes and causes too many fires.”
Aubrey smiled, his left brow arched mischievously. “Sparks amongst your guests surely cause fires of their own, madam. Particularly, from someone as well-rounded as yourself.”
“Oh, sir! You will have me reaching for my smelling salts!”
He kissed her hand and bowed. “I speak only truth, madam. You are fairer than a summer’s breeze. Tell me, have I met all your ladies?”
Fanning herself, Hansen breathed deeply, intentionally causing her ample bosom to mound over the tightly laced corset. “Ah, well, there is one other, but she is indisposed today, my lord. A toothache.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Do you think she would speak to me briefly? I promise to take only a few moments.”
The woman realised that she’d given the earl far greater access to the house than her Redwing patrons would deem safe, but as he’d already spoken with the others, how could one more matter?
“Of course, my lord. This way. The young woman arrived only a few days ago from Paris. Her references are quite good, however, and she is lovely. Auburn-haired and fair-skinned. I’ve many clients who prefer such a combination.”
“As do I. Redheads always inflame the passions,” he whispered to the aging businesswoman, whose henna-dyed hair shone a fiery red in the corridor’s candlelight.
Hansen giggled again as she led him up a narrow flight of stairs to the third storey. “I keep my newest girls up here. Once this one establishes a clientele, I’ll move her to an apartment of her own on a lower floor.” She knocked. “Miss Fabien?” No one answered, and Hansen knocked again. “She is there, I know it, sir. She might be sleeping. I’ll just have a little peek.”
Margaret unlocked the door. Inside, the room stood in semi-darkness, and a flowery smell filled the air.
“Typical Frenchwoman. She soaks herself with strong perfume,” Hansen explained. “Miss Fabien? Elaine, are you awake?”
The door to a connecting bath opened slightly. “I’m afraid I’m still unwell, Mrs. Hansen,” a woman with a thick accent replied from behind the door.
“But this gentleman wishes only a moment, my dear. When you arrived here, you expressed a sincere desire that I should offer you a place. If you wish to remain with us, then you must make yourself available. He is a handsome Scotsman. Titled and with a great deal of influence.” She turned to Aubrey. “Sir, I shall leave you to it. Don’t remain too long. Ring if you wish for drinks or anything else.”
Hansen left and shut the door. Aubrey assumed she’d deliberately abandoned him to the charms of the newcomer, in hopes that the young Frenchwoman might ensure his patronage.
“Forgive me, Miss Fabien,” he began sweetly once the door had shut. “I wish to talk, that is all.”
Silence.
Aubrey approached the door, standing beside it politely. “If you are ill, I should be happy to take you to a physician, or bring one here, Miss Fabien. Please, will you not speak to me? I assure you, my intentions are honest.”
The door creaked as it slowly opened further. “Only if you do not light any candles,” she whispered in heavily accented English. “And do not look at me. My face is swollen. I am hideous.”
“I shall abide by your rules,” he promised. “I shan’t keep you long. I wish only to talk.”
The woman kept her face turned away as she walked past him into the parlour, taking a seat upon a small, velvet settee. The cold room lay in dense shadow, lit only by a dwindling fire, with all draperies shut.
“What is it you wish to say, and why do you wish to say it to me? I am no one.”
The earl paused near a chair. “May I sit, mademoiselle?”
“Oui.”
Stuart chose a comfortable wingback, taking care not to stare or cause her to bolt. “Thank you. Have we met before, Miss Fabien? Your voice sounds familiar. Perhaps, you and I met in Paris?”
“Oui. Peut être. Is possible.”
“Which maison, may I ask?”
“I cannot say,” she insisted, her face turned aside. “Ask your question, m’sieur. I am tired and want to sleep.”
The earl said nothing immediately. Instead, he took to his feet again, a series of thoughts tumbling through his mind. A large grandfather clock ticked steadily in a corner of the room, accompanied by muffled traffic sounds from the street below. Wheels of coaches, passersby, costermongers hawking their wares.
“I do not think French is your native tongue,” he said at last. “Rather I think it is English, and Elaine is not your name at all.”
Lord Aubrey strode deliberately to a silver candelabrum that sat upon a table beside the hearth, where he found matches inside the table drawer. He lit one. The yellow phosphorus tip flared and ignited a series of pinpoints as he touched the wicks of each candle of seven.
/> He turned and faced her. “Hello, Lorena.”
The next five seconds passed like lightning. MacKey rushed towards the bath, knocking over a table to block his path. Aubrey easily avoided the obstacle, chased after, and caught her before she could gain the door. Angered by her deception, he damaged Lorena’s shoulder as he yanked her forearm to stop her from slamming the door in his face.
“Demonic hellion!” he shouted, forgetting that they might be overheard. “If you wish to remain alive, then you will tell me where Elizabeth is and why you helped to abduct her!”
“I did no such thing!” MacKey shouted back, but he paid no heed.
“Did Trent post you here to keep watch on the house?” he seethed as he shook her shoulders with both hands. “Was I supposed to meet you on Sunday so that Charles would be left without aid? You are a heartless witch! My cousin may die because of you!”
Lorena began to weep, partially from the pain in her shoulder, but also from the anguish caused by his hate-filled words.
“Say something!” he ordered, his strong hands clenching her upper arms.
“Did you say that Charles might die?” the pale woman managed to gasp.
“He is Lord Haimsbury to you!” the earl shouted. “You have one chance to redeem yourself. Tell me every detail of Trent’s plans, now! Or by all that is holy, I will shake it out of you!”
The uproar brought one of the house’s burly guards to the door, accompanied by Hansen, who unlocked the apartment and lumbered into the room, all giddiness vanished.
“Sir, you have overstayed your welcome. Do not force me to have Mr. Bertram eject you.”
To Paul’s surprise, rather than denounce her attacker, MacKey stepped in front to protect him.
“Madam, I’ve a confession to make. I came to your hotel beneath a shadow of lies. Lord Aubrey is my... He’s... He is my cousin, come to take me home, and we argued, as cousins often do, but he is right,” she added, turning to face him, “and I beg my family’s forgiveness. Cousin Paul, I know you’ve no cause to answer yes, but may I still come home with you? Please?”
Realms of Stone Page 11
