“I’ll be as understanding as you like when you do what pleases me.”
There was a long silence.
“I will not sleep with you,” she told him, in a choked voice.
“What? Fuck, no. What in God’s name made you think I’m interested in sex?”
“I’m sorry.” She seemed genuinely embarrassed. “I ... old assumptions, I suppose. It tends to be what men wish of me.”
And of me.Though Micha did not appreciate the parallel. “Trust me, I have absolutely no desire to sleep with you. What I want is for you to bring me a bottle of laudanum. First thing tomorrow.”
“Is that truly what you want?” The wretched woman was actually looking at him with pity.
“For now.”
She perched on the far edge of his bed. Her movements were so decorous and restrained, it was hard to imagine she had once been the toast of Whitechapel. “You know, you could break this dependence.”
He glanced up sharply. “Does he know?”
“I’m not sure. He would help you, though, if you wished.”
“I don’t wish.”
“I know you dislike accepting aid, but you could use this opportunity to—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to break my dependence, as you put it. Opium’s my only pleasure. The only thing that makes this filthy fucking world bearable.”
“Oh Micha, I’m sorry for it.”
The softness of her voice, the understanding in her eyes, acted on him like salt rubbed into an open wound. “Don’t be. It’s my choice.”
“How can it be, when you no longer have the power of choosing?”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you. You’ll bring me a bottle of laudanum, and you’ll say nothing of this to His Reverence.”
“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “I won’t do it. I won’t deceive Mr. Mandeville, and I will certainly not be coerced.”
Micha snorted. “You’re already deceiving him. Everything you are is deception. You’re just like me, worse than me, and you’ll do as I damn well say.”
“Or what? You’ll tell him who I am? And reveal yourself as well.”
“I’ll say I used to fuck you for coppers. Men always believe other men over women. Even the supposedly decent ones.”
“You can’t prove—”
“All I need him to do is look into your references. Even if he doesn’t believe you’re a whore, he’ll know you’re a liar.”
“Are you sure,” she asked weakly, “it’s worth the risk?”
“I’m a charity case he scraped off the street. When he tosses me out like so much refuse, I’m no worse off than I was before. But you, Mrs. Clark”—he threw the name at her like an obscenity—“you have your position to consider. You have something to lose.”
She closed her eyes, tension visible in the lines that gathered at the corners. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
“I doubt that. Loss has had his way with me like anyone else.”
At last, she looked at him again. The shadows in the room danced starkly upon her face. “I have a daughter. For myself, I don’t care what happens. But I wish to give my child some chance at life beyond the gutters of Church Lane.” Her voice rose in sudden passion. “Please, don’t ruin that. Please.”
That was unexpected. As was the direct entreaty. It was strange to be pleaded with, thrilling and discomforting at once.
