Gilley grunted. “No. A boy.”
“Ah.” A few more moments passed. “Would it be a problem for you if I were kissing a man?”
Another grunt. “Nah. I know plenty of mollies. Would prefer they stick to their own, that’s all.”
“But a boy?”
“I’d beat your ass from here to Scotland and back.”
Another silence. “You know that is what I think happened to Timothy Surrey.”
“Ya. Figured that’s why you and Morgan went at it. Ever’body knows he pulls ’em off the street.”
“If he’s found them here, I want it stopped.”
“He’ll hang for Bill.”
“Then I need to talk to him first.” More silence. “Gilley?”
“Yassir.”
“I’m going to need your help a great deal in the coming days. This is going to get rough.”
“It already has. But we will be with you.”
Robert looked at his friend. “Let’s start in the office, then I need to pay some calls.”
Gilley nodded. “Mrs. Campion has sent for you.”
Robert let out a long breath. It was going to be a monstrous day.
Chapter Eleven
Monday, 18 July 1825
The apartment of Madame Adrienne Chenevert
Eight in the morning
“Sherry or coffee?”
“Coffee. No milk, no sugar.” Eloise huddled in on herself, groggy and sore. She had shed the masculine disguise and donned a blue muslin day gown borrowed from Adrienne’s ready stash of completed but unsold frocks. She had gathered her hair into a simple braid, which hung almost to her waist, without the energy to do anything more. Now that the headiness of the previous hours had eked away, she found that Robert’s enthusiastic ardor had left her unexpectedly achy in a variety of muscles—and other places.
“Long night.” Not a question, but Adrienne’s words were tender.
Eloise watched as her best friend poured coffee into cups from a small pot she lifted directly off the stove in the corner of her tiny kitchen. The modiste’s rooms above her shop were tidy and efficient—the narrow kitchen, a decent-sized sitting room, her bedchamber with a small dressing room. While a far cry from the country estate where Adrienne had been raised, the arrangement was perfect for the modiste who had been disowned by that landed gentry family when she had dashed their hopes of a marriage into the peerage. The warmth of the cozy room and the lingering scents—some of Eloise’s favorites—comforted her as much as the ones from the shop: laundered linen, cardamom, mint, coffee, fried gammon, and hot bread. The round table at the edge of the kitchen was barely big enough for two chairs, but perfect for an intimate conversation. “What have you heard?”
Adrienne picked up the tray with two steaming cups and brought it to the table. “It’s not every night your closest friend sees someone murdered, then beds one of the most handsome and nefarious rogues in the city.”
“Adrienne—”
“All of Covent Garden and far beyond is a-stir with the news of Bill Campion’s death. Rumor has it that there are already two wagers on the books at White’s on who will inherit.” She stirred a dollop of milk into her own coffee.
Eloise squinted as she took her first sip of the bitter liquid. She did not normally drink coffee, but the heat bloomed through her, easing some of the tension—and soreness—in her body. She took a second swallow, savoring the feeling, but squirmed a bit as she peered at her friend over the top of the cup. “How exactly do you hear these things in the middle of the night?”
Adrienne sipped, then gave her a half smile. “Little birds.”
Eloise grinned. “And what else have your little birds told you?”
