Emotions played across the older woman's hard, powdered features. Anger, ambivalence... and ah, yes, the leverage Marianne had been counting on. Greed.
Mrs. Wilson said in brittle tones, "So 'tis my own dear Corby you're after then, eh?"
God, yes, Marianne wanted Andrew Corbett. Not for carnal purposes, but for his possible connection to her daughter's disappearance. After the years of searching, of dead ends and betrayal by those who had promised to help her, Marianne had no other leads left. Corbett was her last hope.
"'Twould be a loan of one night, Mrs. Wilson." She kept her tone calm; it wouldn't help negotiations to seem too eager. Smoothing a wrinkle from her gloves, she said, "I confess I am curious to experience first-hand what all the brouhaha is about."
The other woman sniffed. "The talk ain't exaggeration, if that's what you're gettin' at. My Corby's a cut above the rest. A prince amongst men."
"And the price for an audience with his highness?" Marianne inquired.
"You can't afford 'im."
"Try me."
The bawd's blackened eyelashes lowered. When she raised them, the candlelight glinted like guineas in her pupils. "A thousand pounds."
"Five hundred."
"Won't let 'im go for less than nine."
"Let us split the difference. Seven hundred pounds for one night. My final offer, Mrs. Wilson." Seeing the other's lips tremble, Marianne felt the thrill of victory. In truth, she'd have paid a thousand for Corbett, but had bargained to appear less keen.
"We 'ave a deal." The madam held out a hand.
Marianne withdrew crisp, folded banknotes from her reticule. Predictably, Mrs. Wilson counted the stack. The bundle disappeared into her pink chiffon skirts.
"Come this way," the bawd said.
Marianne followed the proprietress down the plush corridor of scarlet and gilt. Paintings of couples tangled in sexual poses lined the walls, the air heavy with the scent of musk and roses. As they passed a series of doors, Marianne's belly tightened at the sound of muffled moaning, yet she kept her step sedate, her expression indolent. The corridor came to an end at a pair of ebony doors painted with golden stars.
"You'll 'ave the Arabian Suite—nothin' but the best for Corby." Mrs. Wilson dangled a key from her fingers. "Room and food's extra."
No doubt Marianne would be paying through the nose for half-rate caviar and watered champagne. Nonetheless, she inclined her head. "Of course."
"And there's to be no namby-pamby talk of love or any such thing." Mrs. Wilson's lips thinned as she raked a glance over Marianne. "Usually talk o' a lady's looks is exaggerated, but youarea stunner. I got eyes to see why the Mayfair lot's fallen elbows o'er arse for you." She paused, the menace in her tone unmistakable. "But my Corby's 'eart's off limits, you 'ear me?"
"I have no interest in that particular organ," Marianne said.
Mrs. Wilson sniffed. "You 'aven't seen 'im as yet."
"Surely you trust your paramour, if not me?"
"TrustCorby? Why would I do that?" The bawd snorted. "'E may be a prince, but 'e's still a man."
And men could not be trusted. On this issue, she and the madam were in perfect accord. Experience had repeatedly proven to Marianne that putting faith in any male led to disastrous consequences; she'd never make that mistake again.
"Go on in, then," the other woman grumbled as she unlocked the doors. "I'll 'ave Corby fetched."
Alone in the chamber, Marianne tamed her anticipation by perusing her new surroundings. Mrs. Wilson certainly had a knack for setting the stage. At the center of the room, sheer ivory panels cascaded from the ceiling to create a tent-like effect. Jewel-toned reclining cushions lined the interior of the canopy; at the thought of the activities conducted upon those pillows, Marianne cringed and made note to carry out the night's business standing.
She walked the perimeter of the room, searching for viewing holes in the gold-on-gold damask wallpaper. She found four. From her reticule, she produced small squares of black velvet and a tiny bottle of adhesive, and she proceeded to plug the cavities.
For seven hundred pounds, she expected a modicum of privacy.
She would need it for the subject she planned to discuss. Her palms dampened as she reviewed her options for interrogating Corbett. She planned to begin by luring with honey rather than vinegar. Yet if sweetness and money failed, she had an alternate plan. One that rested, pearl-handled and loaded, in the hidden pocket of her skirts. She was no stranger to the use of weapons; her jaw hardened as she recalled the last discharge of her pistol.
For months, Marianne had paid a Bow Street Runner named Burke Skinner to help her find Rosie. He'd kept her subsisting on crumbs of information—and all the while he'd kept the loaf to himself. He'd bled her for more and more money, and desperate for any news of her daughter, she had paid. But when he'd wanted more than coin for payment, when he'd had the temerity to demand that she perform sexual favors for his services...
