“I suppose Fournier Street is also off-limits.”
“Fournier?”
“Johnson said you’re seeing a woman there.”
“I see a lot of people. I see you.”
“But you don’t take me to Vauxhall. Still have a thing for those people. I haven’t found one of them worth anything but a good toss.”
His cousin baited him, Wycliff knew that, but there was something extra. Nickie had always tried to best him.
Wycliff sat back and shrugged. “Maybe you haven’t found the right one.”
He delivered the line as Nickie would’ve expected, but then Wycliff saw it.
The glimmer in the man’s eyes, then a subtle smirk. “I’ve some experience. Madame Talease and such. I found the act lacking. But you always had better luck.”
Wycliff’s mind shot to Mr. Croome’s warning about finding Ruth in a brothel. Then to Mrs. Johnson. She’d said she and Ruth had roomed at Madame Talease’s bawdy house.
Was his cousin insinuating that he’d been a patron of Ruth’s?
“Wycliff, are you sure there’s nothing I could tell you? I’m sure I have some information that might be of use.”
“Like what?”
“What if your wife did not die? What if she was last seen at a bawdy house? Wouldn’t you want to know that? Would you pay a huge reward to find her?”
“I’ve moved on, as you said. But bring the little woman if you have her. Four years in a bawdy house, I’m not sure I want to see what’s become of her.”
Nickie balled his fists, then eased them to his side. “I don’t know where she is, but Madame Talease does. The shrewd woman’s been reclusive lately, staying at her bawdy house outside of town. I’m sure she knows what happened to your wife.”
“I’ll have to fit in a visit in a week or two, after Uncle’s business has collapsed and he’s jailed. Maybe we can go together, if you are not with your father in Marshalsea.”
His cousin ran a hand through his sad, dark hair. “Nothing disturbs you. I tell you your wife could be alive, and you do nothing.”
“You come with a story that sounds like a fairy tale. I don’t live in fantasies. I like facts and figures, like how much you are losing every day as Uncle’s shipments rot on the docks.
Nickie wandered to the sideboard. “Wycliff, you are cold.”
“I’m blackhearted and you, Uncle, Johnson, and Nacknel made me this way. Enjoy.”
His cousin poured a glass. Hopefully, he believed Wycliff’s act of indifference. “Tonight is Uncle’s only opportunity. I’ll see you at Drury Lane Theater.”
“No, Wycliff, here or—”
“Or where, Nickie, some darkened road? Finish your drink and go. Leave two bits for the service.”
“Madame’s prices are higher, but this tastes better.”
Wycliff was too practiced in keeping his emotions buried. His face didn’t reflect the acid he wanted to spew. “When the appraiser comes to Uncle’s, set aside a few pieces of Wedgwood for me. Tell them I’ll pay top dollar.”
Nickie downed the glass and slammed it on the desk. It wobbled a few times before stopping.
But Wycliff wasn’t done. “Oh, don’t fret. I won’t buy anything of yours. You’ve never known the difference between fine art and trash.” Wycliff tapped the ugly porcelain statue that he’d left on his desk. “Yet, I do like this bride thing. Reminds me of not letting things slip through my fingers.”
“Drury Lane is your only offer? Fine, we will meet you there.”
The man started to leave.
