Mr Blond stood in front of him. Strands of golden hair peeked from under his hat. “It’s not easy.”
“What isn’t easy? For God’s sake, you only have to fuck her!”
I clamped a hand on my mouth to suppress a gasp, wondering what the meaning of that was.
“You don’t like her?” Dark-hair went on. “She’s a delicious morsel with her big grey eyes and spectacular tits.”
I liked compliments as much as the next girl, but his words didn’t sound nice at all.
“I think my presence in her room should be enough,” Mr Blond said.
“This isn’t how it works, and you know it. Just spread her legs and dip your cock in her, dammit! It’s not complicated.”
Mr Blond’s stance stiffened. “I’m not sure I can react quickly enough in case of an attack. If I get distracted, she could—”
“Die? Who gives a damn?” Dark-hair’s voice roared loud and clear. “She’s just a bloody whore.”
Before I could process what they were saying—me dying if Mr Blond had sex with me?—Mr Blond lunged and slammed Dark-hair against a tree.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” he hissed.
Dark-hair shoved him back with enough strength to dispatch Mr Blond against another tree. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to not shout. That shove and that strength weren’t normal.
“Don’t you ever attack me again,” Dark hair said as Mr Blond groaned in pain. “The captain ordered you to do one thing, and you’re having scruples for a little, insignificant whore.”
Mr Blond straightened. Although I couldn’t see his face clearly, the anger tensing his face muscles was obvious enough. The two men glowered at each other just like the stand-off between Jean-Pierre and Mr Blond earlier. Except that Mr Blond hadn’t been as menacing as he was now, with his big body tense and teeth half-bared. If I were at the receiving end of that glare, I’d jog off faster than a thirsty Scotsman drinking a mug of ale.
They breathed hard, and I gripped the tree bark hard enough to hurt my fingers.
Then Dark-hair loosened the collar of his shirt. “Damon and Jasper are keeping an eye on the brothel, waiting for the black brougham. Jasper said he wants you to check Jasmine House and see if anything happened. If tomorrow night, you don’t fuck Asia, I’ll do it myself.” Dark-hair strode away without a glance at Mr Blond.
Once alone, Mr Blond put his hands on the tree, shoulders hunched. “Dammit!” His punch on the tree jolted me.
He must’ve cracked his hand with that thump.
Panting, he pushed off the tree and marched away, swallowed by the darkness.
Jasmine House. Every whore in town knew the renowned brothel where the legendary Miranda had worked. The most paid whore in history. The gentlemen had trampled over each other to have her. Violet often talked of Miranda’s beauty and grumbled about the popularity Jasmine House still benefited from Miranda’s fame, even though the woman was dead. Unfair competition, Violet called it.
I left my hiding place in time to see Mr Blond jumping in a cab. If the other two men Dark-hair had mentioned—Damon and Jasper—were around here, it was hard to tell, but they might spot me. So, I exited from the other side of the park.
A tempting cab was parked at the curb as if waiting for me. The coins Jean-Pierre had given me rattled in the pocket of my coat. More than enough to pay for a ride to Jasmine House. What could I do?
I slouched in the cab’s seat, throwing glances around and trying to catch a glimpse of the two men. The ride lasted only a few minutes, but it long was enough to shatter my nerves. It wasn’t the first time I was wandering the streets at night alone, but the conversation between Mr Blond and Dark-hair had rattled my nerves.
“You work here?” the driver asked after I paid him.
“None of your business.” I jumped off the cab a few yards away from Jasmine House, in case Mr Blond was around.
With its tall oval windows, the Grecian columns adorning the façade, and the golden light spilling in the street, the brothel looked like a five-star hotel instead of a pleasure house. I stopped in a dark corner from where I had a full view of the house’s front door. Gentlemen streamed in and out of the brothel with footmen and valets fussing around them. I even recognised a couple of my clients.
On the pavement, a tall figure cut through the small crowd of servants busy to help their masters out of the landaus. The large build gave Mr Blond away. He walked along the pavement of Edan Court and rounded the corner to an alley.
I didn’t dare come any closer to him. He’d spotted me so easily when I’d followed him that morning, and I didn’t want to be caught twice.
A streetlamp provided enough illumination to offer me a glimpse of him in the side alley away from the hassle of the main road. He stopped and tilted his head up towards the wall of the house.
My muscles stiffened with cold as minutes passed. What in Hades was he doing there? He stepped farther and stopped again, staring at the wall.
I blew warm air on my hands and crouched to massage my ankle. What a great idea I had. Following Mr Blond in the middle of a night in a dark alley, thinking I would discover something about him. Instead, I was freezing to the bone while he played the statue, admiring Jasmine House’s wall.
When I straightened, he was gone.
I searched the alley and Edan Court, but he’d vanished. Yet, the alley had no exit, and he couldn’t have walked back to Edan Court without me noticing him. He should’ve walked right in front of me.
Then a scraping noise came from above me. I tipped my head up and stifled a gasp. Mr Blond was climbing Jasmine House’s wall like a spider. There were thieves in London able to climb four stories without any rope or aid. They could go up and down a building, even if the walls seemed as smooth as butter. But the way Mr Blond went up, so fluid and fast, had something . . . unnatural about it like, Dark-hair’s strength.
He perched on a ledge and remained there for a few moments, then climbed down until he stopped at the ground floor. Minutes passed while he froze again.
With an elegant leap, he landed on the pavement, silent and agile. He wiped his hands and walked away.
Heartbeat pounding in my ears, I waited for his silhouette before rushing to the spot where he’d paused. Prickles of pain stung my numb legs. I winced and stopped in front of the window he’d dedicated so much attention to. My blood chilled but not for the cold. On the wooden frame, a circle with a line slashing it had been carved, just like the one in my window.
Horses’ hooves hit the cobbles, and I averted my gaze from the symbol and pulled the hood of my coat over my face. A carriage rolled past and slowed.
“Hullo, little whore,” a raspy male voice said.
The driver of a black brougham smirked from the box. The red scarf wrapped around his neck covered his chin but left his ugly mouth bare. A tooth was missing, and his long nose wasn’t straight.
I ignored him, but my heart thudded faster. The brougham was too similar to the one Charlotte had taken: Bertie’s carriage.
“Seven little whores beggin’ for a shilling,” the driver chanted. “One stays in Edan Court, then there's a killing.”
My knees weakened, and my mouth grew dry. I sped up. Just my luck that the pavement of Edan Court was empty. Not a footman in sight now that I needed help.
“Six little whores, glad to be alive. One sidles up to Jack, then there are five.”
I ran, as fast as I could, the driver’s song hunting me. The brougham followed me, and panic sliced me like a hot blade through butter.
“Five little whores, shivering with fright, seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night. One is taken by a wild boar, and then there are four.”
I ran with every ounce of energy I had. My lungs burned for lack of air, and my side hurt, but I didn’t stop despite the slippery ground. Darkness engulfed me when I turned into another side street. The brougham was too big for the narrow alley cutting Edan C
ourt. It wouldn’t chase me here. If it was the same brougham of Charlotte, the driver would head to De Luna House to catch me, but I’d use every shortcut I knew and beat him.
Sweat trickled down my back, and mud covered my legs. Every time the rattling of a carriage ripped the night, my heart skipped a beat. The light of the lampposts became a yellow blur through the thin fog hugging the city. Footsteps ricocheted off the walls, but I didn’t pause to see if I was being followed.
I took a sharp turn, and the lights of De Luna House twinkled into view. A laugh tore out of me when the familiar red brick walls appeared through the fog. I threw the door open and rushed inside the foyer. With a yank, I shut the door behind me, leaning against it.
Sweet air filled my lungs and burned my parched throat. I grew up in the streets, but panic had never eaten me alive like tonight. When my heart stopped pounding in my ears, and my breathing slowed to a normal pace, the driver’s face flashed in my mind. There was something about him that sounded familiar. The missing tooth, the crooked nose, the greasy appearance . . .
Katy! She’d said his last client was the valet of a rich family and that he had a long nose and was missing a tooth. Her client was the driver of the dark brougham, and the brougham belonged to Bertie. My brain couldn’t elaborate more than that though. It wasn’t the moment to speculate on the connection between Bertie’s valet, Charlotte, the brougham, and me.
I needed a sherry. After having been chased through half London, watched Mr Blond climbing a wall with his bare hands, and spotted the same symbol of my window in Jasmine House, I deserved it.
Seven
ONE GLASS OF sherry became three, or maybe four. I lost count. A blissful slumber fell over me, and the world ceased to exist.
Someone shook my shoulder, and the kitchen table where my cheek rested scraped my skin. Also, the table smelled of garlic and onion, not a nice combination for my sensitive stomach since I was waking up with more sherry than blood in my veins.
“Asia.” Katy’s voice sounded as strong and loud as a church bell.
Dash it. I blinked my eyes open and regretted it. Bright, burning sunlight hurt me. Darkness was better. Where was London dull, grey weather when I needed it? I groaned as my stomach roiled.
“Are you all right?” The shaking came again.
I tried to swat her hand away, but the gesture lacked energy. Slowly, I straightened up. The bottle of sherry lay half empty in front of me. I’d never been an optimistic person.
Katy lifted the bottle and cocked her head. “You? Drinking sherry? Oh, blazes, what happened? I thought you believed that alcohol was a vile potion that made men behave live savages and made women fat.”
“And that gives whores a splitting headache.” I rubbed my aching temple.
The wonderful, heavenly scent of freshly brewed coffee distracted me from the pain.
“Here, have some.” Katy put a steaming cup in front of me.
I hadn’t even realised she was making coffee.
“You angel,” I croaked. The first sip helped reduce the nausea clenching my stomach.
“How’s your head?” she asked, sitting next to me.
“Which one? I feel like I have three of them.”
“What happened?” Katy leaned closer with the same eagerness she showed when she was about to learn a juicy piece of gossip.
A thousand thoughts crammed my mind. Where to start to answer her question? From the weird fact that Mr Blond had to have a fumble with me for some reason? That he could climb walls like a spider? That Bertie’s black brougham chased me while his driver sang creepy songs? Every answer sounded crazy.
“I had a bad night.” I sipped more coffee even though it was a bit too hot.
“I gathered that much. What did the blond chap do to you? Is he one of them sadistic bastards?”
“Yes.” At that moment, I only cared for her to shut up and leave me with my coffee. Surely, that answer should make her fall silent. How wrong I was.
Katy scraped her chair closer. “What does he like? Did he tie you down and spank you? I bet he’s full of energy with that strong body.”
The image of Mr Blond actually doing those things to me flashed in my mushy mind, and despite the nausea and the headache, a little illicit frisson started in my lower abdomen.
Fanny barging inside the kitchen spared me from giving an answer. In a flutter of loose brown hair and blue skirts, she crossed the kitchen without as much as a good morning. Her shirt was buttoned improperly, and its lapels hung outside of the skirt. She snatched the sherry and drank from the bottle.
“Hey, slow down, girl.” I took the bottle and lowered it. A bit hypocritical of me, considering I’d been nursing that bottle for a few hours, but Fanny had never been a drinker too, not to mention that if Violet saw us, she’d reduce our wages for a week or two.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s like I said.”
“What?” Katy and I said together.
“Don’t you read the newspapers? There has been another one. Closer!” The high-pitched note of hysteria in Fanny’s voice wasn’t welcome by my poor ears.
Katy scoffed. “What are you talking about?”
“Another bint.” Fanny pressed her knuckles on the table. “Closer. Edan Court. She was found dismembered, as if an animal had eaten her. Edan Court is a shot from here, and Jasmine House is there! The killer is targeting brothels and is coming here.”
My blood chilled. Even the headache diminished. What did the song the driver chanted say? Something about little whores, Edan Court, and a killing.
Katy stared at her cup, chewing her bottom lip.
“How many other killings have there been?” I asked.
Fanny’s eyes rolled up, as if she wanted to look inside her skull. “Three, there have been three. This bint is number four.”
I licked my parched lips. “Where were the other three girls found?”
“Close to a brothel,” Katy answered. The mocking tone was gone from her voice. “Fanny is right. Each body was found next to a whorehouse.”
Fanny took another sip of sherry. “The first victim was close to the Velvet Fang, the second to the Tickle and Feather, and the third to Aphrodite’s Wish.”
The killings started from the north east of London and were moving anti-clockwise towards us. I helped myself with more coffee, trying to remember the next line of the song. It had something to do with a jack.
With trembling hands, I put the cup down. “Is there a brothel with the name ‘Jack’ or similar?”
“The Jack-knife,” Fanny replied. “I worked there for a couple of years before I met Violet. A nasty, dirty place if you ask me.”
“Is it far?”
Fanny shook her head. “Three or four blocks after Jasmine House.”
Maybe it was only a stupid song, and my imagination was working too much. But Mr Blond’s had been around Jasmine House last night and while talking with Dark-hair, he’d mentioned I was in danger. “Were the victims whores of the brothel where their bodies have been found?”
“I dunno.” Fanny took another swing at the sherry, and I didn’t stop her. “Them coppers don’t give any information. Probably because they don’t have any. They’re tighter than a Tory’s wallet. They don’t give a damn about us. I bet they aren’t investigating.”
“Or,” Katy said, “they don’t want to reveal too many details because they’re too gruesome to be published and don’t want to cause panic among the population. God knows if with the bloody Irish rioting every other day, and those Scottish and their Jacobite ideas, London doesn’t need a moment of peace.”
Guilt coiled in my belly. Charlotte. How could I have forgotten about her? I was sitting here drinking coffee and complaining about my head, and I hadn’t checked if she was back. I sprang to my feet quickly enough to knock the chair back.
“Hey!” Fanny protested. “What’s the matter?”
I ran up
the stairs two steps at a time and had to slow midway. My head spun so badly I staggered. Nausea burned the back of my throat. I gripped the bannister and dragged myself up.
Every step towards Charlotte’s room produced a drop of cold sweat on my back. Wheezing, I paused in front of her door and didn’t bother knocking. “Charlotte?”
The grey quilt on her bed didn’t have a crease. Makeup bottles and jars formed straight lines on the vanity, and her shoes were neatly arranged on a rack. She wasn’t back yet. Maybe she fell asleep in the sitting room. When we were exhausted, we often dropped onto the sitting room couch in front of the smouldering fire.
I took a deep breath and put a hand on my stomach. Going downstairs wasn’t easier, and I had to grip the bannister again. I would never, ever touch sherry again.
Aside from Butterscotch, Violet’s ginger cat licking his paws, the sitting room was empty. The smell of brandy and cheroot lingered in the air and triggered a fresh wave of nausea. My heart beat an erratic rhythm as I rushed, or rather slogged to the gymnasium. Nothing. Not even Felicity was there. Panic cleared my head and helped steady me as I went up again.
I knocked on Violet’s office, trying to keep my rising fear down.
“Come in,” she croaked.
“I can’t find Charlotte,” I said, striding inside the office.
Violet gazed up from the bills and documents on the desk. A frown appeared between her brows when she eyed me. Most likely, I had dark circles around my eyes, hollow cheeks, and I was stinking of sherry.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked.
“I can’t find Charlotte,” I repeated, putting my hands on the desk.
“Then she isn’t in the house.”
“She left with that client, Bertie, in his brougham and didn’t come back. Isn’t it strange?” Why was she so calm?
“I’m sure she had an arrangement with the client.” Violet’s cheeks paled. “She wasn’t forced to go out. Probably, she’s sleeping among silk pillows and scented bedsheets in a suite at the Ritz.”
The Royal Occult Bureau Page 7
