Page 5 of Doxy for the Ton
London, December 1818
How in thename of the devil’s cock have I ended up in this godforsaken part of town?
Alexander stumbled, wincing at the pain in his leg. The numbness brought about by the liquor had all but gone. In fact, it had transformed into the most almighty pain behind the eyes. Doubtless he’d wake up with a shocking megrim that his friends—his few remaining friends—would say was richly deserved.
He caught his foot on a paving slab, tripped forward, and slammed into a wall.
Fuck, that hurt.
He hurt all over. His leg, his head, and his right eye…
He grimaced at the memory of someone—Foxton, if he recalled, or was it Westbury?—planting a shiner on his face before marching him out of White’s and tossing him onto the pavement.
Curse him—curse them all!
Alexander righted himself and glanced about, the familiar thirst tearing at his throat. Surely there must be a tavern nearby—wasn’t every other building near the docks supposed to be an inn, or a gin parlor? Nothing but liquor would dull the agony brought about by guilt over what he’d done—the deaths he’d caused. He needed to render himself unconscious to silence the little devil in his mind that told him exactly how much of a bastard he was.
But there was nothing to see other than the squalid little houses in this dingy little street with the ditch running through the center, glistening with slime and clumps of mud.
At least, he hoped it was mud—the odor that churned his stomach spoke of something far less palatable.
Blurred figures moved ahead, and Alexander caught a murmur of voices—the drunken slur of a man, punctuated by the high-pitched, coaxing tones of a woman. A street whore, most likely, offering her wares to the sailors who wandered about the docks looking for a little companionship and a good, hard fuck.
He stumbled forward and collided with a figure, wrapped in a scarlet shawl.
“Mind how you go, sir.”
The figure turned, and Alexander caught sight of a painted female face with bone-white-powdered skin and ruby-red lips, plump enough to wrap around a man’s cock.
“Forgive me, madam,” he slurred.
Her eyes widened and he let out a silent curse. In this part of town, his Society accent gave him away.
Her mouth curled at the corner—a smile or a sneer, he knew not—and he braced himself for the inevitable offer of her body for a shilling or two. Instead, she shook her head and frowned.
“You shouldn’t be in this part of London, sir. Not if you value your life.”
“My life is mine to do as I please with,” he said, inhaling sharply at the wave of nausea.
The stench from the road thickened in the air. No wonder whores wore cheap perfume—not to be more alluring to their customers, but to cover the stench of shit.
“What about your coin?” she said, extending her hand. “Or that pretty fob watch I see—would you care to lose that? I’ll wager a gentleman such as you has more to lose here than his life.”
I’ll wager?
What sort of talk was that for a street whore from the wrong side of London?
And her accent…
Perhaps she sought to ingratiate herself by imitating a lady’s voice. Doubtless some men paid extra if a whore screamed their name in the accent of thetonas she climaxed.
He let out a snort, which finished in a hiccough as his body convulsed. “You speak fine words for a whore who makes a living spreading her legs for all comers.”
“Better that than a lord who makes no living at all.”
Her accent had shifted back to the harsh notes of the slums.
Alexander stepped away and grimaced at the pain in his leg.
