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Annie glanced up at the cynicism in her new girl's tone. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that note of disdain for men—not only from Cynthia, but from many of her girls. She understood it well. She also understood, however, that its manifestation had no place in their line of work. Therefore, all her girls had strict instructions to leave their personal grievances outside the paying customer's door. And Cynthia was no exception.
In every other way, however, she was.
Cynthia had been in Annie's employ just shy of a week, but it had taken less than a day for the men to start clamoring for the creamy-skinned beauty, and less time still for Annie to realize that Cynthia was far too refined to be a prostitute.
Adhering to her usual policy, Annie asked no questions, not even when the brothel was quiet and she could hear Cynthia's muffled sobs echo from behind her tightly closed door. No, whatever ailed the new girl was none of her concern, Annie told herself. Cynthia commanded a good price, and her past—along with any heartache it contained —was her own business.
And speaking of business . . . "Wouldn't hurt you to stroll back there," Annie suggested shrewdly, gesturing toward Rem and Boyd. "Rem is rich as hell and handsome as sin. He's an earl."
Cynthia's slender brows rose. "A member of the peerage, is he?"
"Yes, why? Do noblemen entice you?"
A bitter laugh was her reply. "Hardly, Annie. I assure you, in bed, all men are alike. And there's nothing noble about them."
"He pays well. . . and he's good. Just ask Katrina. She swears he spends more time satisfying her than—"
"I understand," Cynthia interrupted. "I'll make it my business to stop by the earl's table and see if I appeal to him."
Annie surveyed Cynthia's warm, wheat-colored hair, the startling contrast of her jet-black eyes and thick, sooty lashes, the regal features and delicate curves that belonged more to a lady than a whore. "Honey, you appeal to everyone."
Cynthia didn't smile. "Thanks." She walked off to do her job.
"Rem. Good. You're here." Boyd leaned forward eagerly to greet his friend.
"I came as soon as I got your message. I take it we heard from Knollwood." Briefly, Rem glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room through narrowed eyes. After a minute he turned back to Boyd.
"We sure did." Boyd was unfolding a sheet of paper, his tone laced with sarcasm. "He got word that you're in need of money, and he'd like to help."
"Let me see." Rem took the scrawled message. "That was certainly fast."
"Parasites have many ears," Boyd replied dryly. "And I have many sources. I used them all."
"How did you handle my proviso—demanding that Knollwood contact me solely through you?"
"Simple. I specified that you're desperately trying to salvage the remains of your reputation ... a futile effort, should anyone link your name with his."
"He voiced no objections?" Rem pored over the note.
"None—as you can see for yourself." Boyd took an angry swallow of gin. "Evidently, Mr. Knollwood is a most reasonable man, until he owns your very soul. Then, he becomes the miserable gutter rat he really is."
"Ummm ... we're to meet in the alley at the west end of Wentworth Street near Petticoat Lane."
"A charming neighborhood." Boyd scowled. "Watch your pockets, Rem—and your back."
"Three a.m.," Rem continued. "Tonight."
"That's why I sent a messenger to drag you out of the theater. We have very little time to plan our tactics." Boyd paused. "How was the opera, by the way?"
"Fine."
"And Samantha?"
"Driving me crazy."
Boyd chuckled. "You're fighting a losing battle, I fear."
"Let's stick to the subject at hand, shall we?"
