Page 67 of One Night with a Rake

Lackaday Lane was even more quiet than usual. It was early enough for the streetwalkers to be abed yet. No window sashes were thrown back to reveal any young women waiting to tempt a customer to come to her love couch. The entire block seemed subdued after one of their own was found murdered.

A black wreath hung on the door to the House of Sirens. Nathaniel was pleased to discover the locksmith had already been there and he was unable to simply push his way in. His knock was answered promptly by a girl whose hair was soberly plaited and her gown demurely cut.

“Oh, my lord, we’re that glad to see you, I’m sure.” The girl gestured him in with nervous, birdlike movements. In her somber black dress, she looked more like a starling with clipped wings than a former prostitute. “Mrs. Throckmorten is in the back, supervising the dyeing. She says we’re to mourn Vesta for six weeks, good and proper, so them what didn’t have a black dress is boiling up one now. Mrs. T. will be wanting to thank ye proper for sending Mr. Hock round to replace Mr. Bagley so quick-like.”

Nate started through the narrow house after her. “Since Mr. Darling’s replacement has come, I assume he has already left for Yorkingham House.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said. “The lady come by earlier and he left with her.”

“The lady? Lady Georgette, you mean?” he said through clenched teeth.

The girl dimpled prettily. “Yes, my lord. That’s the one.”

Even during the day, Lackaday Lane was not safe for one of Georgette’s station. Even setting aside the fact that two residents of this crooked little street had been murdered, it wasn’t unheard of for young women of good families to be abducted if they happened to wander into poorer quarters. Then they could be forcibly wed to fellows who merely wanted to get their hands on the lady’s wealth.

I will take her over my knee and paddle her bare arse, so help me God.

“Where did the lady and Mr. Darling go?” he asked.

“To Madam Bouchard’s.”

***

Once Georgette recovered from her initial shock over Madam Bouchard’s candor, she was fascinated by the woman’s considerable abilities as a storyteller. Apparently, she’d been a young courtesan in Paris during the days of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror.

“Of course, I couldn’t let my noble protector be taken,” Madam Bouchard continued with her story as she plied Georgette with a plate of light scones. “So I let le Comte de Ferre down the well in the garden. Poor man! He stood shivering in the bucket until I could talk the gendarmes back out the front door.”

“Weren’t you afraid?”

“Terrified,” the old woman admitted. “But fear only lets you know you are alive. And I was wondrously alive in those days.”

“However did you manage to distract them away from your lover’s hiding place?”

Madam Bouchard smiled slyly. “They were men, my lady. And men are very easily distracted if one knows what to use. I took them to my love couch, one after the other, and opened the liquor cabinet for those waiting their turn. Believe me, they all left with smiles on their faces.”

It was a scandalously wicked story, but against her expectations, Georgette found herself liking the madam very much for it. “What would have happened if le Comte had been found hiding in your well?”

“I expect we’d have gone to Madam Guillotine together,” she said blithely. “But I was young then. I thought I would live forever.” The aging whore’s expression turned sober. “And it seems sometimes that I have, but I certainly didn’t expect to grow so old while I was doing it.”

The conversation flagged then and Georgette rose from her seat. She put her bonnet back on. She hadn’t expected to stay quite so long at Madam Bouchard’s, especially since the proprietress of the House of Pleasure hadn’t been able to say with certainty who might have been responsible for Vesta’s death.

“I must be going now, but I thank you for your hospitality,” Georgette said, extending her hand to her hostess. “If you think of anything at all pertaining to Vesta’s death, please send me word.”

“Of course.” The madam took Georgette’s hand between hers. “Thank you for caring about what happened to Vesta, my lady. Not many would.”

“It is my duty to care.”

“No, it’s not,” Madam Bouchard said. “But I’m glad you feel it so.”

Georgette took her leave, making her way down the dim staircase without being too aware of her surroundings.

What an odd mix of light and dark we all are.

Madam Bouchard’s protector claimed noble blood, yet he hid like a craven coward while his low-born mistress faced down a death squad with nothing more than guile and a smile. She must have cared for the Comte deeply.

Georgette was born a lady, yet she’d lain down with a man and spread her legs like any lightskirt on Lackaday Lane, because she couldn’t bear not to know what it was like to give herself willingly to someone for whom she cared deeply.

Cared deeply. There’s an understatement.