Dair swivelled. “What a damn ill-fitting jacket.”
With a quirk of lip and tip of head, Miles made to follow, endeavouring not to march but saunter as though he was an earl with nothing better to do of an eve than prowl the London streets in search of amusement.
Webb headed east and onto Queen Anne Street, an even quieter middle-class residential area, but as they crossed Regent Street, the abodes became more stunted, the streets without corner lamps.
It was pitch as Hades but one’s eyes adjusted.
“Damn it,” Dair muttered. “We’ll be in Saint Giles’ parish soon, and I’m not wearing the clobber for that.”
Which meant he did in fact own the clobber for that. But not the moment to quibble as Webb had paused outside a house with a lit candle in the window.
Miles and his cousin ducked into an alley between numbers eight and ten, almost opposite, as Webb knocked on the door.
He was admitted without discussion and Miles frowned.
Was he paying for more thugs? Was he in debt?
“Is this Windmill or Percy Street?” whispered Dair.
“Windmill.”
“Hmm. I think…” Dair’s physog scrunched. “I seem to recall…”
“I’m going over to knock. See who answers…”
“I don’t think…”
Miles crossed the street to Number Seven.
It appeared innocuous enough, like a hundred other small terraced houses that the workers of London and their families rented.
He tapped on the door.
A pretty woman in her thirtieth year or thereabouts answered, tall and slim with a dark complexion. And for some reason, from somewhere within the house, strains of a violin could be heard.
“Ooooh, wot an ’andsome face,” she gushed, twirling a ringlet. “I’m Miss B. Who gave yer our address?”
Miles took one step back as she shimmied her hips.
“Don’t be shy, lovie.” But this instruction had come from a second female who’d appeared at her shoulder in an exceedingly low-cut bodice, plump and fair, a…birch rod slapping the palm of her hand. “We’ll be ever so gentle…”
“I…”
Giggling.
“Fer a first visit, half a guinea gets yer ten slaps or a guinea for twenty-five. We can make yer plead for mercy.”
“I’m quite sure you can, but er…” Miles bowed with a flourish. “I rather think I’ve been given the wrong door number.”
“Oh, sod it,” said the fair one. “I bet yer after Miss Whittaker at Number Eleven. Her ostrich feathers can–”
“Yes, that was it,” said Miles in a rush. “Feathers. That was her. I wish you both a pleasant evening.”
The birch rod slapped. “We’ll be here if yer get bored along there. I can make yer–”
Thankfully Miles was out of earshot but he did slam straight into Dair.
“I’ve remembered!” he said, clapping Miles on the back. “That’s the address of the divine Birching Sisters.”
