He was expecting to be admitted by some aging heavyweight from the Fancy. Instead, the door was opened by a thin middle-aged woman with a high-necked puce silk dress, brightly rouged cheeks, and dyed eyelashes. “Good evening, kind sir,” she said in the stentorian tones of a woman who is always onstage. “Do come in.”
From a secluded alcove came the sound of a harp gently plucked by skilled fingers. He stepped into a parlor with fading green silk curtains and striped settees that might have graced the drawing room of a countess down on her luck. Mildew bloomed in the once fine gilded mirror hanging over an empty hearth. The air smelled of wax candles and fine brandy only faintly underlain by the musky tang of sex and rising damp.
While most prostitutes in London picked up their men off the streets or from such traditional stomping grounds as the theater and Vauxhall, before taking them back to rooms, the residential brothels still had their place. They appealed to women who shied away from the rough and dangerous competition on the streets, and they appealed to men leery of venturing into back alleys or up the darkened stairs of an unknown house.
From the smoke-hazed room to Sebastian’s right came the gentle murmur of voices and the whirl of cards. Glancing through the arched doorway, Sebastian recognized Sir Adam Broussard and Giles Axelrod among the half dozen or so gentlemen seated around a baize-covered table. Yet the flash cove disappearing up the far stairs with a bottle of wine and a buxom, golden-haired girl was obviously no gentleman. Despite its emphasis on pseudogentility, the Orchard Street Academy was not class conscious when it came to its customers. Its only criterion was the ability to pay, and to pay well.
“You’ve not visited us before, have you?” said Miss Lil, her blue eyes assessing the gold fob on his watch chain, the silver head of his walking stick.
Sebastian shook his head with a smile. “No. Your establishment was recommended to me by a friend.”
Miss Lil spread her hand in an expansive gesture that took in the three Birds of Paradise who had appeared to lounge casually around the parlor. They were dressed in gowns of jewel-toned silks with plunging necklines from which spilled ripe breasts. The silk hugged every curve, leaving little to the imagination, while neat ankles peeked from beneath too-short hems. It had been eight months since Sebastian had known a woman’s touch—years since he’d thought of having any woman except for Kat. He wasn’t thinking of it now.
Something of his lack of interest must have shown on his face, because Miss Lil said, “Perhaps you would like to order a bottle of wine to share with the ladies. Get to know them some before making your selection?”
The three Cyprians stared back at him with the bold assessment of women for whom a man is just another customer, a mark. One, a tall, ebony-skinned woman with a regal neck, smiled at him and said in Jamaican- accented English, “I’m Tasmin.” Beside her, a plump, heavily rouged Impure with the jet-black hair and pale skin of Ireland pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. The third, a dainty gamin with a riot of short flaxen curls, wrinkled her childlike nose and laughed merrily. The impression was one of youthful innocence. But looking into her rainwater gray eyes, Sebastian suspected she was considerably closer to twenty-five than to fifteen.
“A burgundy would be nice,” said Sebastian.
Miss Lil nodded to the flaxen-headed Cyprian. “Becky will fetch it.”
“I’m interested in a woman my friend was telling me about,” said Sebastian, going to settle on one of the striped silk cushions. “A tall, thin woman with light brown hair and green eyes.”
Becky, who had reappeared bearing a bottle of wine and glasses on a tarnished tray, faltered for one telling instant, her gaze flying to meet the Jamaican’s startled stare.
“Oh?” said Miss Lil, calmly pouring the wine.
“I think he said her name was Rose,” Sebastian continued, “although I could have that wrong.” It had occurred to him that the woman might easily have made up a new name to give the Quakers at the Magdalene House. “My friend claims she is charming, with the manners and accent of a duchess.”
From upstairs came a thump and a woman’s startled scream, quickly cut off. None of the women in the room even turned her head.
“Your friend must have made the acquaintance of Rose Fletcher,” said the abbess, handing him a glass of wine. Her fingers when they brushed his hand were unnaturally cold, as if the woman never saw the sun. “Unfortunately, Rose is not here this evening. But I think you’ll find Becky an entertaining substitute.”
Sebastian took a slow sip of the wine. It was surprisingly good. “If I come back tomorrow will Rose be here?”
Sebastian was aware of the dark-skinned woman, Tasmin, studying him with a fixed expression. But not a breath of emotion showed on the abbess’s carefully made-up face. She stretched her lips into a smile. “I’m afraid Rose has left us. You know how restless some girls are: never content to stay in one place. If Becky doesn’t capture your fancy, then I’m sure you’ll enjoy Tasmin.”
Sebastian raised his wine to his lips again. “Any idea where Rose might have gone?”
Miss Lil’s smile stayed plastered across her face. “I’m afraid not.” For one brief instant, the abbess’s steely gaze flickered to the Jamaican. The girl rose gracefully to slip from the room.
“What a pity. I quite had my heart set on the girl.” Sebastian cast a searching glance around the parlor. “My friend also asked me to give Mr. Kane his regards. Is he here?”
“Mr. Kane?”
“That’s right. Mr. Ian Kane.”
Miss Lil’s pale blue eyes held his. The tension in the room had suddenly become palpable. She set aside her wineglass with a snap. She was no longer smiling. “It seems none of our girls strikes your fancy. I think the time has come for you to leave.”
Sebastian stretched to his feet. From somewhere overhead came the sound of a door slamming and a woman’s drunken laughter. “Thank you for joining me for a glass of wine,” he said. He dropped a coin on the table to pay for the bottle and inclined his head to the two remaining Cyprians. “Ladies.”
Outside, Sebastian paused at the top of the house’s steps and let the cool breeze blow away the lingering, suffocating odors of the place. A couple of linkboys darted past, lighting the way for a carriage drawn by a nicely matched team of grays, their torches filling the air with the scent of hot pitch.
He had learned three things from his visit to the house. That Rose “Jones” had indeed practiced her metier at
