Chapter One
November 1816
London
He’d asked for the oldest whore in the house.
Beckett Steele knew this wasn’t the most outlandish request ever made, not even in a single night of any bawdy house. However, he was not here for the usual reason men patronized London’s many brothels.
“Y’aren’t here to take off an edge?” The whore settled back against the head of the bed, her wrinkled skirts hiked up to her knees. Her iron-gray hair was a tangled mess. She combed it with her fingers as if suddenly self-conscious. Such was a whore’s thinking. If he had walked into the room and plowed into her, she’d not have given her looks a thought. But those hadn’t been his actions. He’d told her he hadn’t sought her out for a poke.
The room—indeed, the whole house—smelled of tallow candles, unwashed bodies, whisky, andsex. When he finished with this evening, he’d bathe as he had every night for the last three months, trying to rid himself of the sour, heavy scent.
The whore’s surprise that he wasn’t going to drop his breeches shifted to a tired, shrewd knowing. “Wot are ye then? A watcher? A crier? A talker?”
Crier?That was a twist Beck hadn’t heard before. In truth, the woman wasn’t a bad-looking sort, considering her age, which was perhaps fifty? He hadn’t met many as old as her, and that meant she might know the answers to his questions.
Instead of answering, he took out a stack of coins and set them on the bedside table next to the candle. The money was for her alone. Clients had to pay the whore mistress before they were even allowed to climb the stairs. She’d have to work weeks for what he’d just given her.
She eyed the money. “I don’t do the odd nonsense. I don’t let cocks do anything that is annoying. And I’ll not let you hit me.” She pulled a knife from under the bedclothes where she kept it hidden and let him see it before secreting it back in place.
“Quite wise,” Beck answered politely. Respect was not something women in this profession received often. A bit of it could go further than money. “I have a few questions, that is all. I won’t even come near you.”
Her eyes lit up. A smile showing missing incisors spread across her face. “I ’eard about you. Askin’ after some whores from what—years ago?”
“At least twenty-five.”
“I weren’t around that long.”
“I asked for the oldest lady in the house,” he said. “Perhaps you may have heard stories over your years in the trade?”
“Aye, I’m the oldest.” The whore shrugged. “It’s yer time and ye’ve paid for it.” Her loose dressing gown dropped away to reveal one naked shoulder as she took the money and tucked it close to the knife. “Ask.”
“There was a brothel in London where the walls and all the furnishings were dark green, like a forest. Does that sound familiar? The whore mistress liked being called Madam, and dark green was her favorite color. All her girls had to wear it, too. She said the color matched her eyes. The brothel was known as the Greenhouse. Have you heard of it?”
“Houses change names. And they are all called Madam now,” the whore answered. “’Cept for those who call themselvesMadame.” She said the word with an exaggerated French pronunciation. “Their accents are fake, too. Showy bitches.”
“She had a bruiser working for her called Dervil. Have you heard of him?”
She searched her brain a moment and then said, “Nah.”
“What of the name the Marquess of Middlebury?”
She adjusted her position on the bed. “A marquess, eh? Fan-ceee.” She drew out the word mockingly. “But I can tell ye, yer wasting your time. Even if we did know, why would we tell thelikes of you?” She indicated with a long finger his polished boots, his black, well-cut coat.
He understood. The appearance of wealth carried great weight in such establishments when it came to passing through the door. However, it earned little trust, something only honesty could overcome. “Because I’m one of you. I lived in that brothel. I helped in the kitchen, emptied chamber pots, did whatever.”
Her gaze narrowed as she studied him with this new information. “Whatever?” she echoed, a challenge.
Beck didn’t take the bait. Some patrons liked young boys. Madam had protected him from their ilk. She’d said he was too young. He had known even back then he had been lucky. “I believe one of the women working there was my mother.”
“So yer lookin’ for yer ma?” She made a clicking sound against her teeth and shook her head. “Don’t, not if she was one of us and didn’t keep track of ya. Ye look like yer doin’ well. Go on with life. That’s wot she would tell you. It’s wot I’d tell one of me own bairns if they ever came for me. They won’t, though. Too much time has passed.”
Beck wasn’t here for advice, and there were two other brothels on the street he wanted to investigate before he turned in for the night. Although in truth, he was tired. This was grim work. He reached for the door handle, but she stopped him.
“Wot’s ’er name? Yer mam?”
“I don’t know.”
