In reply, Stewart slid a pistol into his greatcoat pocket.
After paying their entry fees, the two men crossed the threshold of the infamous brothel. Smoke made the air hazy, the rich scent of roses emanating decadence. Candles saturated the main room with a muted glow and cast shadows upon the gilded furnishings done in a vaguely French style. Well-dressed gentlemen mingled with wenches who wore candy-colored wigs, paint … and little else.
"I don't see 'im anywhere," Stewart said. "'E must be upstairs in one o' the rooms."
"Messieurs,quelle plaisir." The silky voice coiled around them like a snake. Gavin turned to see a small, sharp-eyed woman wearing a towering powdered wig and dressed in the costume of Louis XIV's court. Her accent was as authentic as the beauty patch above her hard mouth. "I don't recall seeing you here before. First time?"
Gavin gave a curt nod.
"Bienvenue,je suis Madame Antoinette." She performed a low curtsy, her wide skirts skimming the floor. "Here you will find thatla joie de vivre,"—she fingered the thin scarlet ribbon around her neck—"is the night's only purpose. Now tell me,messieurs, have you a particular fancy in mind?"
Gavin recalled his brief interview with Alfie. Shaking his head, the urchin had said,That Lyon, 'e's a queer git, alright. Visits a wench by the name o' Polly Whippit—Alfie had snorted—and 'er name says it all. Gor, who'd spend blunt on a thing any schoolmistress or fishwife be 'appy to give for free?
"I'm told you have a girl here by the name of Miss Whippit," Gavin said.
"Mais oui,she is one of my most popular ladies-in-waiting." The bawd's eyes took on a calculating slant. "But I'm afraid she is occupied at present. May I instead recommend another disciple of the art, Mademoiselle Birchim?"
Beside Gavin, Stewart shook his head in disgust.
"I've heard Miss Whippit is the best." Gavin removed a bag of coins, allowing them to clink. He saw the madam's eyes widen. "I want nothing but the best."
"And you shall have it," she said, holding her palm out. He let the bag drop, and the money disappeared in a blink. A smile stretched her lips. "Follow me,s'il vous plaît."
She led the way through the main rooms and up a wide curving staircase. On the first floor, they passed by a half-dozen naked wenches posed upon pedestals. A few cooed bawdy suggestions for the evening's entertainment.
Madame Antoinette arched her brows at Stewart. "Perhapsmonsieurwould like companionship as well? You look like you could use a girl—or two." She gestured to a pair of tarts who were giggling and fondling each other's rouged nipples. "Juliette and Monique are twins, you know."
"I'm just 'ere to watch my friend's back," Stewart said with a scowl.
"Like to watch, do you? Well, to each his own," the madam said airily.
Beneath his beard, Stewart's face turned a dull red.
"What about you,monsieur?" Madame Antoinette turned to Gavin. "Perhaps you'd like to spice up your visit with a merry ménage?"
Gavin could not help but take note of his reaction—or the lack thereof. Being a hot-blooded man, such depravity might have tempted him once and despite the night's mission. But now, he felt nothing but distaste. The sordid business of paid pleasure soured his stomach; he wondered how he'd ever found satisfaction in it. After tasting a goddess' ambrosia, he could never again drink from the common well.
"I'm here for Miss Whippit," he said shortly. "Let us proceed."
They continued on their path. Gavin thought of cornering Lyon tonight and anticipation unfurled. Once he figured out who wanted him dead and why, he could put an end to the mayhem. Then he could get on with more important matters—namely, how to make Percy his. For the first time, he imagined a tantalizing light at the end of the dark tunnel he'd inhabited most his life. Aye, he'd get his answers tonight, even if he had to beat it out of that whoreson Lyon.
"Here we are," the bawd announced.
They'd reached a pair of doors at the end of the corridor. A pair of columns flanked the entrance and supported a plaster pediment in the manner of a classical shrine. The bawd unlocked the door with a key and bowed with dramatic flourish. "I give you,messieurs, The Temple of the Rod."
The high-ceilinged room was supported with columns and painted with frescoes to resemble a holy place of antiquity. The activities currently taking place, however, bore no resemblance to any ancient worship Gavin was aware of. Clad in skimpy tunics and golden sandals, the molls here wielded various instruments of torture: birches, paddles, even the occasional cat-o'-nine-tails. The hiss and snap of leather and wood elicited groans of pleasure from the bound, naked male patrons.
"Blimey, these sods belong in Bedlam," Stewart muttered under his breath. "They can't be right in the upper storey. No sane man would allow such a thing—'tis a bloody disgrace."
Gavin had to agree. His shoulders tensed as a whore with a shiny black whip landed a particularly robust blow. It reminded him all too keenly of the hulks. The punishments meted out for the amusement of the guards and the endless struggle for dominance amongst his fellow inmates. He couldn't fathom yielding control to another, much less finding pleasure in such a thing.
In sexual matters, as with everything else, he would always be the one on top. A scenario flashed in his head... of Percy bound and begging for his touch... Even as his groin tightened, he acknowledged that what he wanted from her transcended ropes and cuffs. Those trappings were mere symbols of his deeper need: to have her complete surrender. To know he didn't need to tie her up for her to stay. To know without a doubt that she belonged entirely and only to him. Forever.
Madame Antoinette approached a brunette who was busily employing a leather crop to the reddened backside of a man bound face-down to a table.
"Cherie," the bawd said, "have you seen Mademoiselle Whippit?"
The brunette paused, tapping her chin with the tip of the crop. "Earlier, she came in with one o' 'er regulars, a ginger-'aired fellow. They're in one o' the back rooms, I reckon."
