Gayle Wilson – Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart (страница 12)
Morgana needed a woman who could teach Lucy how to conduct the business, how to set prices and mode of payment. Morgana had no knowledge of such matters.
That lack of knowledge paled in comparison to her ignorance of how such women lured men in the first place. How did they display their ‘wares’? She could not send Lucy to promenade outside Covent Garden. That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.
She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.
With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.
A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.
‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’
True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.
‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’
‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’
Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’
Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the
Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’
Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’
Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’
Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no
The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.
Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.
‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.
‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’
Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.
‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’
Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’
Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’
‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.
She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’
Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.
‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’
‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.
Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.
He was a damned fool.
It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.
He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.
The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.
This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.
He peered into a nearby wine merchant’s shop, pretending to examine its wares, but keeping an eye on the glove-shop door.
The door opened, and the same two women came out, female screeches from the inside ringing behind them. They glanced around the street as if uncertain what to do.
Sloane approached. ‘Pardon me, miss. Do you require assistance?’
He directed this question to the young woman he’d recognised correctly—Lucy was her name, he recalled. She did not answer him.
From behind a great deal of netting attached to the hat of the other female came a familiar voice.
‘Mr Sloane!’
‘Miss Hart!’ Sloane’s stick slipped on the pavement, but the lady stood very composed while Lucy hid behind her and peeked about furtively. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
She lifted her chin. ‘We were on an errand.’
He could barely make out her features through the haze of net. ‘Are you mad? What errand would bring you to this street at this hour of the day? To this place?’ He pointed to the glove shop.
‘It is an errand of a private nature, sir.’ Her tone of voice was excessively dignified. ‘If you truly wish to be of assistance, you might procure a hackney coach for us. I do not see one about.’
He gave her a very stern stare. ‘You would be lucky indeed to find one here. There will be an abundance of them on St James’s, however, but that would require walking down that street past White’s and Brooks’s.’
Any respectable lady put her reputation in jeopardy by walking in this part of town at this hour. What the devil had she been thinking of?