“My father owns a—a—”
“He only owns the property. The ‘a—a—’ is mine. He also inherited a minority partnership, of which he had no interest. He receives the rents and his share of the profits, and ignores us.”
Padua’s head felt as if someone had doused it with cold water. The shock just grew and grew.
“When it went to him as a legacy, we were already here. He did not facilitate the opening by letting it to us. Our lease is a long one. He could not remove us even if he wanted to.”
“Of course he could. He need only have asked the magistrate to close the business.”
“I assure you the magistrate already knows all aboutthis house. Everyone does. I opened twenty-five years ago. Mrs. Lavender’s is a fixture in London, well respected, and our visitors include gentlemen from the best families. Many a future peer has had his first appointment with Venus here. Their fathers send them.”
She was an idiot. An unsophisticated, ignorant, trusting child. No wonder Papa had never told her much about the inheritance. No wonder he did not like having her in London. She might stumble upon the discovery that he was a partnerin a brothel.
“I would still like to see the property, if you do not mind.” Someday it would be hers, and it would not remain what it was now. Perhaps she would have a school here, if the house were as big as it appeared. Maybe she would live here herself.
“If you wish. I cannot show you most of the bedchambers. The young ladies are sleeping.”
Of course they were. Padua followed Mrs. Lavender out of the office.
If she had seen the drawing room upon first entering, she might have guessed the business conducted here. It contained a lot of big chairs and several chaise longues. A sidebar held a good number of decanters. A riot of feminine patterns and colors combined to create a flamboyant and exuberant decadence. The library beyond it was more of the same. She wondered if any of the young women ever used the books, or if they had come with the house and had never been moved since then.
By the time she had peeked into all the chambers onthe first two levels, she could tell which were used to entertain guests and which served as true living spaces. The dining room appeared simple and functional, the back morning room contained no fur rugs, and the garden would be fitting for a prosperous merchant family.
Mrs. Lavender led the way to the third storey. “We have ten small chambers up here. One is vacant. A girl got married two weeks ago. That rarely happens. She was very popular, and profits will be down this month until I replace her.”
The one vacant chamber was not large. Padua suspected larger ones had been broken up. Other than a bed and washstand, it contained nothing, not even a writing desk.
They went up one more flight of stairs. “This area is forbidden to our guests. I have my chamber up here, and the servants sleep here as well. Lest you think I lure innocents to their doom by first hiring them as servants, I want you to know that I am very strict that no servant ever moves downstairs, even if she wants to. They come and go by these stairs outside, and never set foot in the drawing room after five o’clock in the evening.”
“That is commendable.”
“I do not expect you to approve, or to understand, Miss Belvoir. I long ago ceased attempting to justify myself to women like you.”
“Did you attempt with my father? After all, he could have closed this place down, even if the magistrate turns a blind eye.”
“It took your father two years to realize whatoccurred here. I told him I ran an informal inn for women. We all need to lay our heads on a hired bed sometimes, do we not? If not for an unfortunate episode regarding one of the girls and a boy who sought to protect her from herself, your father might have remained ignorant forever.”
Padua could imagine that being true. Even if he saw that drawing room, half his mind would be on some arcane calculation, and he might well have only thought it oddly furnished.
Padua paced down the narrow corridor flanked by servants’ chambers. She had overcome her shock, but in its place an ugly humor had taken hold. Her view of herself, of her father, of her world had been so wrong. Ironically so. She thought she was the daughter of scholars. Instead she was the daughter of a whoremonger.
“How much?” she asked. “How much do you send him?”
“The rent is—”
“Not the rent. The rest of it. How much?”
Mrs. Lavender’s lids lowered. “His fair share.”
Padua looked her straight in the eyes.
“Every quarter he received thirty pounds.”
“I will want to see the accounts that show that is his fair share,” Padua said, continuing down the hall.
“Excuse me? Your father—”
“My father cannot see to his affairs right now, so I will be doing it. I am far more practical than he. He would never question his fair share, but I am the sort who likes to see proof. There is no insult in the request.”
