Page 51 of A Treacherous Trade
I could tell him things that would make his eyes bulge out of his head. The media frenzy over the Ripper was one unparalleled in our city, and if he knew I had been at a scene, handled a victim…
Even a few years later, he’d be desperate for every detail. It’d make the front page. That was how much power the Ripper’s name still held over the city.
Instead of answering, I turned away and hurried up the steps and into The Velvet Glove, already planning my escape through one of the more discreet back entries.
Warmth enveloped me instantly, and I blinked against the dazzling opulence of the place. Though this was a house of ill repute, the grand ballroom might be any society party at first glance.
But upon closer inspection, the cracks in the façade began to show. Beneath the winking chandeliers, menandwomen milled about billiard tables. They watched each other with lascivious eyes as people bent and contorted to make the best shot, exposing the curves of their bodies in salacious poses.
Others gathered around artfully arranged tables playing cards or chess, or drinking from the finest crystal whilst flirting with each other in the open.
Women employed by The Velvet Glove wore luxurious gowns in one color: crimson. They matched the damask walls and the hue of the lavish furniture. Not the comfortable bohemian hodgepodge Bea offered her patrons, but upholstered to bring to mind the one thing for sale.
Sin.
I stood out of the way, surreptitiously scanning the ballroom for a sign of Jorah, assuming he’d be holding court on his throne by the grand staircase. The dais he reserved for himself and only the most prominent of guests was full of both partygoers and their paramours, but the man himself was nowhere to be found.
Letting out a relieved exhale, I began to catalogue the women on the floor, trying to ascertain if Sophia was close by. Beatrice had given me a rudimentary description: dark hair and eyes, lean and tall, with elegant limbs and a conspicuous beauty mark above her right eyebrow.
A bevy of brunette beauties graced the room, but I could not make out anyone with even a scant freckle. Perhaps it was time to strengthen the lenses of my spectacles.
“Would the lady like champagne?” A footman in white-tie finery brandishing a silver tray of the effervescent beverage appeared at my elbow as if from nowhere.
“Thank you, no.” I smiled politely, still searching the ballroom.
“What would you like to order, then?” he queried, his politeness far exceeding mine.
“Nothing, thank you. I’m neither hungry nor thirsty.” I was famished, all told, but something wouldn’t allow me to partake of what was offered at The Velvet Glove. I couldn’t say why, exactly.
“No, madam,” he persisted, this time with meaning. “I’m asking what your pleasure would be for the evening. Have you a requisition I could acquire for you?”
“Oh… erm…” I looked at him then, expecting eyes narrowed in judgment, and finding only a practiced air of patience.
“I’m happy to help you, madam, as one is not wont to patronize The Velvet Glove if one does not partake in its singular delights.”
I understood him with no mistake. I’d have to spend money or get out. This was not a place for people to loiter and enjoy free champagne.
“Actually, perhaps you can help me. I would love to speak with Sophia. Is she here tonight?”
He brightened at this, though his expression arranged itself into one of most sincere regret. “Sophia is engaged at present. Is there something else here that might tempt you?”
The question irked me. Perhaps it was the way he offeredsomethingand notsomeone.
Even here, women were things. Not people. Requisitions.
“I’m only interested in Sophia,” I said, my politeness cooling into barely crisp civility. “When will she be available?”
“There are three visitors ahead of you, madam, but as always, you are invited to meet the premium to avoid the queue, though another customer will have a chance to best your price.”
My brows drew together, and I ended up reaching for a glass of champagne. “Like an auction?”
He flushed a little, frowning at me as if I’d personally offended him. “Just so.”
“How much?”
The number he quoted caused me to choke on my champagne, and I did my utmost to keep the resulting coughs delicate behind my glove.
It occurred to me to ask for the Hammer, but it spoke to the intensity of my reluctance to see him that I’d rather pay the price than beg a favor.
