Page 27 of An Unexpected Earl

“Not that kind of favor,” he half growled, then immediately regretted his snap.

But damnation, he was on edge. Had been since this morning when he spoke to Amelia—no, since before then. When he first saw her at the masquerade.

Now he was in a brothel, his frustration not helped by thoughts of Amelia in that red dress and the sounds of wanton pleasure rising around him. She hadn’t been the first girl he’d ever kissed, but he’d been the first man to kiss her. Her first kiss, her first touch… If they hadn’t been caught that night of her sixteenth birthday, he would have been her first everything.

He began to pace, but the room was too small, the distance between the red-velvet-papered walls too short to take more than three decent strides. None of his frustrations were helped by Merritt, who lay on the bed, calmly sipping whiskey and watching him as if he were a lion at the Tower Menagerie stalking in its cage.

“Something’s on your mind,” Merritt called out. “If I had to guess I’d say…a woman.”

“Not a woman.”A girl.The girl to whom he’d once given his love, even when he’d never been good enough to deserve hers.

Orphaned tavern rats like him weren’t meant for beautiful daughters of wealthy industrialists. They might as well have tried to invert the world order as to think they could continue to be together. Even as children, they’d both known that their friendship would eventually have to end, that he would go off to work and she would marry a better man.

Now, though, hewasthat better man. Fate had turned him into the kind of successful and wealthy gentleman she’d been meant for. Yet, apparently, it still wasn’t enough for her to leave the past behind and trust him again.

The door opened. Madame Noir paused in the doorway, sliding her left arm up the jamb while her right dangled at her side and curving her body sinuously into the frame. But of course she did. The woman had distinguished her brothel from the hundreds of others in greater London by her clever use of the dramatic. Based on the diaphanous gown she wore under her open dressing robe, whose sheer material revealed every secret beneath, she hadn’t yet lost her flair.

Or her figure.

“Brandon,” she purred. “How thoughtful of you to visit.” Her cat-like eyes traveled slowly to Merritt, who didn’t bother getting off the bed at her arrival. “And you’ve brought a friend.” Her red lips curled. “How delicious.”

Merritt grinned and lifted the glass to her in a toast.

At the pair’s antics, Pearce bit back a harsh breath. “We’re here on business, actually.”

She shrugged, and the robe slipped down to reveal a bare shoulder. “Everything in my world is business.”

She stepped into the room and closed the door with a throaty little laugh.

“I haven’t seen you in far too long,” she commented as she slipped past Pearce, running her fingers down his bicep.

In truth, she hadn’t seen him at all inside her brothel. Not since he’d first returned to London after the wars ended, when he’d been forced into the life of a peer. He’d been just restless and foolish enough during those dark days to buy his way into pleasure, and Madame had been happy to oblige by introducing him to a young widow named Patrice who was discreet in all things and desperate for funds.

But for all her beauty and knowledge about how to satisfy a man, Patrice hadn’t been able to tamp down his rising restlessness. Only those boxing matches in the East End had been able to do that.

“And who are you, pet?” She extended her hand toward Merritt, who climbed to his feet and greeted her by bowing over her hand. She trailed her gaze over him, shamelessly lingering at his breeches. “I daresay that Brandon needs to bring his friends by more often.”

“Merritt Rivers.” He smiled at her warmly and folded his long fingers around hers. “Barrister with the Honourable Society of Lincoln’s Inn. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame.”

“A barrister?” Her expression hardened, and she slowly pulled her hand free in disgust, as if she’d put it into filth. Her eyes not leaving Merritt, she called out to Pearce over her shoulder. “You’ve brought a snake into my henhouse, Brandon. How discourteous of you.”

With an annoyed tug, she yanked her robe shut and tied it, covering both the sheer gown and the temptations beneath. She took the glass from Merritt’s hand.

“Customers only,” she explained, all the warmth she’d shown him earlier now gone.

Merritt tsked his tongue. “Don’t be like that. Just because I have the power under the Disorderly Houses Act to have you arrested and put on trial, your brothel closed and property confiscated, and you transported if found guilty—why shouldn’t we be friends?”

With a dark laugh, she tossed back the remaining whiskey in the glass. “What do you want? I should warn you that if you’re looking for bribes, my business isn’t as lucrative these days as one might think.” She muttered as she refilled the glass, then kept it for herself, “Damned religious reformers think they have the right to tell the rest of us how to live.”

“Keepsmein a living,” Merritt drawled ingenuously as he leaned back against the wall with a shrug.

“Yes,” she purred icily, “I’m certain it does.”

Merritt had the audacity to grin.

“I need information,” Pearce interjected, bringing the conversation to the business that had brought them here. “A member of Parliament is selling his influence. I need to know if he’s doing it willingly or being blackmailed.”

“How interesting,” she purred, delighted at the scandalous nature of their conversation. “That’s the second time today that someone’s asked me about blackmail. Must be a veritable plague of it gripping Westminster.”