Page 35 of The Marriage Method

Her hand tightened on Miles’s arm as they walked toward it.

Seeing them approach, the oversized man straightened from the door. The plaid cloth of his coat strained across the meaty expanse of his heavily muscled shoulders as he came forward to meet them. There was a fresh scratch down the side of his face, red and angry, from his eye to the edge of his mouth.

“Is this Mrs. Pritchard’s establishment?” Miles asked him.

The man’s menacing gaze flicked from Miles to Nell and back again. His eyes were so dark they appeared black. “Who’s asking?”

“We’d like to speak with her,” Miles said.

“We, is it?” The man’s attention returned to Nell, lingering on her face. His lips curled in an oily smile. What teeth he had were discolored with decay. “What’s your name, luv?”

Nell felt Miles stiffen beside her. She ignored him. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d told him that her beauty was a weapon. And while it was true she may not have much experience deploying it in the field, there was a first time for everything.

“Penelope,” she answered, instilling a touch of velvet in her reply.

Miles’s head jerked sharply in her direction.

“Penelope,” the man repeated, devouring her with his black stare. “That suits you.” He shot an ominous look at Miles. “And who’s this? Your protector?”

Miles took a step forward. Nell pressed his arm, silently urging restraint. At the first two brothels, he’d taken the lead. Now it was her turn.

“Something like that,” she said ingenuously. “Do you suppose Mrs. Pritchard might spare me a moment?”

“Oh, I more than suppose, luv,” the man said with a chuckle. “Wait here.” Turning, he disappeared into the house.

The instant the door swung shut, Miles pulled Nell to face him. He glared down at her, his voice a furious whisper. “What the devil are you playing at?”

“Did you see the scratch down the side of his face?” she whispered back. “Something’s happened here, and recently, too.”

“Yes, quite. All the more reason for us to be careful.”

“I’m being careful. And logical. Mrs. Early wouldn’t speak with us. We can’t afford to risk the same result with Mrs. Pritchard.”

“That’s no cause to imply that you’re—” His jaw visibly clenched. “That I’m—”

“What better cause than a missing girl? Or a dead reporter? If that’s not excuse enough to endure such trifling insults, I don’t know what is.”

A muscle worked in his cheek. “Your protector, by God.”

Nell had never seen Miles offended before. She wouldn’t have thought he was capable of it. “It’s not entirely inaccurate,” she said. “A husband is a protector, is he not? Or should be one. In any event, it isn’t as if you’re really going to sell me to this place.”

Miles’s face darkened like a thundercloud.

Nell again pressed his arm. “We agreed to respect each other’s strengths,” she reminded him. “And here, I believe it’s mine that will rule the day.”

Before he could utter another word, the door creaked open again on its hinges. An older woman emerged, with the large man close behind her. She was tall, and thick about the midsection, with a long face and upswept brown curls liberally streaked with gray. She gave Miles only a cursory glance before fixing her flinty gaze on Nell.

Nell felt the woman’s callous scrutiny like an unwelcome touch, moving from the brim of her fanchon bonnet, down the fitted bodice of her brown traveling dress, and all the way to her hem.

“You didn’t tell me she was a cripple,” the woman said to her henchman.

Anger kindled in Nell’s breast. A surge of humiliation followed after it. It wasn’t pleasant to be judged like a piece of livestock at a village fair. Certainly not in Miles’s presence. And a cripple, for heaven’s sake! No one had ever described her in such stark terms before. She found she didn’t like it one bit.

But this wasn’t the moment for taking umbrage.

If she was to have any hope of finding Flora Brent, she’d have to dispense with her pride. Lifting her chin a fraction, Nell gave the woman an unobstructed view of her face. “Are you Mrs. Pritchard?” she asked.

The woman’s eyes took on an acquisitive gleam. “Those accents! Straight out of the Queen’s drawing room, aren’t you, my fine lady? Yes, I’m Lily Pritchard. Someone sent you to me, did they?”