Page 50 of A Treacherous Trade
“Seeing as how the night is young, I think you should make your way home to change, and then to The Velvet Glove. I doubt anything will be gained by your presence here.”
“I agree.” Standing, I tugged my ripped sleeve up my bare shoulder, feeling a sudden chill. “Oh, I just remembered. Night Horse left this. I’m told you’re owed a cut.”
“You keep it all, my dear.” Beatrice heaved herself up and bustled to the door. “You’ve certainly earned it, and more. I’ll add tonight’s adventures to your fee, of course.”
If I passed anyone on my way down to the dressing room, I didn’t notice, as I was caught in a stupor of unexpected anxiety.
The last time I’d seen the Hammer, he was tied to an altar, the flesh being carved from his chest. He’d avoided me for these several months after, and I thought he’d prefer to continue to do so indefinitely.
After what he’d been through, if he pictured me at all, I was certain it was in his nightmares.
ChapterEleven
If The Orchard whispered of sensual decadence, The Velvet Glove screamed it.
Beatrice Chamberlain had to keep the entry to The Orchard meticulously subtle so as not to advertise the proclivities being paid for inside. She relied on discretion and even shame to make certain her business was never fodder for public outcry or police attention. Tucked away beneath the veneer provided by a respectable inn, she existed for those who would maintain the illusion of decency.
The Velvet Glove dimmed the stars—even the moon—as it brooked no competition for attention. Shining like a lighthouse, a beacon against the night, it bade the denizens of the midnight hours to lose themselves in its magnificent menagerie of pleasures.
To partake. To indulge.
Music spilled onto the Strand along with the golden light from the open doors. The sprightly piano and fiddle beckoned to me as I stood out in the grey of the midnight hour, feeling anything but merry. A patina of frost covered the cobbles and glittering crystals of moisture hung in the air, as if decoration summoned for just such a night.
I did my best to blend with the revelers, wrapped in the height of fashion, drifting toward the place like the keenest of moths to a flame. They made artful poses for a handful of journalists and photographers before allowing the brilliance of the grand entry to swallow them whole.
Only thedemimondecould behave thus. Wealthy wastrels and second sons, celebrity artists, actors, and authors. Enterprising entrepreneurs.
New money.
When one was as powerful as the Hammer, one didn’t need shadows in which to hide. He was safest in the spotlight, where one had to step into it with him if one wanted to challenge his supremacy.
If he was feeling kind, he’d illuminate the skeletons in your closet. If he wasn’t, then he’d leave your skeleton for me to dispose of.
I didn’t feel ready to see him. When in the presence of such strength, such power and resplendence, I could hardly help but be both drawn to and repelled by it. By him.
Like with Night Horse, there wasthat nightto address. And I didn’t know if I could bury the hatchet, so to speak, with both of these men in the course of one eventful evening. I was already exhausted.
A spurt of anxiety invaded my belly as I approached the door and was surrounded by those clamoring for a look or a comment from anyone of prominence or renown. I needn’t have worried as I was neither, and able to weave my way through without incident.
Almost.
Gathering my shimmering lavender gown at my thighs, I lifted the hem enough to take the few steps up to the grand landing. As one does, I looked down to make certain of my footing, and was impeded by a hand clasped around my gloved elbow.
Gasping, I looked over at a stranger—a disheveled man with a preposterous mustache—who released me at once to retrieve his pencil and poise it above a notepad.
“Are you anybody?” he demanded impatiently.
I stared at him in disbelief. Had I ever been asked a more outrageously insulting question? Surely not.
I knew what he meant. Was I anyone of consequence? Did I possess a name his readers would buy a paper or periodical to learn about?
Thousands of people were born and died every day in this empire, and were as inconsequential as a teardrop in the Thames. If they were on fire in the middle of the street, most Londoners would be angrier at the resulting inconvenience of traffic than the loss of life.
Unless… you weresomebody. Someone noteworthy.
“Are you?” I snapped back.
He put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just a teller of stories, madam, wondering if you have any good ones for me.”
