“Someone saw something,” I said quietly, “but thought nothing of it. Or if they did, they chose not to involve themselves.” I met Rosalynd’s gaze. “They have done this before. By now, they are well practiced in their scheme.”
Rosalynd turned toward the tall windows at the far end of the music room. A faint breeze stirred the lace curtains, carryingthe cool scent of the garden inside. She moved closer, as though drawn by something beyond the glass. Moonlight traced the line of her shoulder as she leaned in, listening.
“Steele,” she murmured, glancing back at me.
I stepped toward her, but she lifted a hand in a sharp, silent warning. Her attention fixed on the open upper pane, her posture gone utterly still.
Before I could speak, voices drifted in from the night air beyond the window.
Male voices.
Young.
Careless.
Untroubled by walls or consequence.
“…a Venus Grotto of sorts…exclusive…the finest girls in London…some untried…”
“…where—”
“…invitation only, old man…only those with deep pockets allowed…”
“…I could speak to my uncle about a loan…”
“…doubt that would be enough…”
“…no harm in trying…”
Rosalynd stiffened. A chill cut through me, sharp and immediate.
Another burst of laughter followed—soft, indulgent. Ugly.
“…they’ve been well trained…”
“…obedient as clockwork…”
“…will do anything you wish them to do—or have done to them…”
A low whistle of appreciation.
“And by anything, I mean anything.”
Rosalynd’s hand curled against the windowsill. Her breath caught, barely audible.
“…worth every sovereign…though some break too easily…”
“…they replace them quickly enough…”
The words slid through the open pane, each more revolting than the last.
The final word had barely drifted away when I leaned close to Rosalynd. “Come.” I caught her hand and drew her with me toward the garden door Claire and Cosmos had used moments earlier. She moved without hesitation, her steps quick and soundless, the shock of what we had heard driving us forward.
The door opened onto cool night air and a stone path lit by softly glowing lanterns. Their light brushed the beds of early roses and the clipped yews framing the lawn. From the terrace beyond, the music of the ballroom throbbed faintly, muffled but insistent.
We hurried to the patch of garden beneath the music room window.
No one was there.
