Page 8 of A Treacherous Trade
Or perhaps it was the woman in the midst of the wicker and lace that put the background to shame. She was unlike any bawd of my imagination. Not only did she have the style and sobriety of any society matron, but a wealth of steel-colored hair and a build of bosomy practicality I’d not at all expected. Tall enough to be considered statuesque, she emanated an atmosphere of formidable brilliance and brusque insouciance that must alternately intimidate her customers as well as put them at ease. Ifthiswoman gave one’s perversions her permission for a price, then all desires were acceptable, surely.
She and Amelia held their arms out, greeting each other like old friends with a warm kiss on the cheek and a hug that clung too long, belying any pretense of composure.
“I cannot tolerate such loss, pet,” the lady said, in a surprisingly sophisticated accent, as she wiped beneath her eyes with a bent knuckle. “Not my girls. My family. In my own house, Amelia. This was no back-alley violence… but an execution. I will spill blood for what was done, so help me God. I—”
The woman bent at the waist for a moment as a few bone-racking coughs stole her breath and therefore the wind from her sails.
Amelia took her elbow and settled into the deep corner of a lavender wicker couch, perching next to her and keeping one hand enfolded in her own. “If someone is after the girls, I will do everything I can to help, sweet Bea. Where’s your medicine?”
“Oh, it’s just my asthma. It’s always worse when the winter inversion keeps the coal smoke in the air like this.” Bea waved her away with a flick of a lace-lined handkerchief she produced from her sleeve. From it, a medicinal, camphor-like aroma permeated the air.
“Did you bring that brilliant brother of yours, Amelia? My old eyes could stand the sight of him on a day like this.” Eyes so light blue they might have been silver searched the doorframe behind me, somewhere above my head—which was where she might have found Croft if he’d accompanied us. “Protective brutes often irritate me, but I suppose they have their uses,” she finished, laughing herself into another bought of coughs.
Amelia shook her head. “Grayson cannot investigate in a borough to which he is not assigned without being requested or obtaining permission… and you know what a stickler he is for the rules, God love his stubborn, principled hide.”
“He’s always had a bit of that in him, I suppose,” the elder woman responded fondly. “Even when he was at his worst.”
This bawd knew Croft?
From before?
I supposed she would, being his sister’s former… employer and all. Though it appeared she had a more recent interaction with him as well.
Not for the first time, I wondered where Croft, an unmarried but worldly man, warmed the sheets with women…
Here?
I thought about the brothel and its opulence, where all doors were visible from the gathering room, and so, too, would be the persons disappearing behind them.
Something about The Orchard didn’t feel like Grayson Croft…
It was too open here. Too visible. Or was it vulnerable?
Surely he didn’t fornicate sharing walls with others. Nor would he be led up those spiral stairs by a pretty doxy with a flirtatious smile.
He was a man who took his pleasures in dark, smoky corners with a hand over his mouth to dispel the wicked sounds he might make.
I blinked and gave a cough of my own, choking on my wicked thoughts.
Where in Blighty had that come from? I gave my head a good shake, dispelling Croft like smoke from his pipe, the alluring scent of which still clung to my high-necked wool bodice.
“I’ve brought you something, Bea,” Amelia said, reaching for the wrapped gift she’d set on the chaise behind her.
At that, Bea raked her gaze over me once, twice, and then dismissed me with a littleharrumphthat stung more than it should. “I’m too distraught to consider a replacement for the girls just now, Amelia. I’ll grant you, she’s a pretty thing with elegant tastes and a sort of… wholesome appeal. But she looks like a widow in mourning, and I don’t think I am in need of that at the moment. Besides, she’s no match for the two beauties I’ve lost. I could still pass Jane for a teen, and I’d eat my hat if this one is under four-and-twenty.”
She cocked her head to the side as blood rushed from beneath my collar into my cheeks. I knew that I could remain stoic when need be, but my Irish skin always gave me away, because emotion splashed me with a blush so intense some might call it a rash.
The bawd gave me a second look, this one slower and more insultingly thorough. “Her hair is a sensual garnet, though, and those breasts could—”
“You’ve got it all wrong.” Amelia surged to her feet and crossed over to me, her package forgotten on the chaise. “Beatrice Chamberlain, allow me to introduce Miss Fiona Mahoney, London’spremierpostmortem sanitation specialist. I’ve brought her here to help with poor Jane.”
“Oh. Indeed?” Without any sign of remorse for her unkind assessment of my appearance, Beatrice stood and held her hand out, encouraging me to cross the room to take it. She shook with the firm confidence of any man, her grip warm and strong through the thin lace of her glove. “It always gladdens my heart to see a woman at the top of her field.”
“It’s easy to be the best when you’re the one and only.” My modesty was far from false, as I’d come up with the title all on my own. Very few others performed my sort of services, mind, but I couldn’t imagine what they called themselves.
I’d never met one.
Mostly it fell to family members or property owners to clean up after their dead.
