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Chapter Seventeen
Helping many women with their varying problems meant Chastity could not help but be aware of this area of London. That, and the fact her husband frequented it meant she had almost intimate knowledge of the taverns here.
However, she had never actually set foot in any of them.
A fact she would not admit to Valentine. The tension oozed from him. She felt it in his taut arm and saw it in the set of his jaw. When they walked down the quiet alley, she heard his teeth grinding.
Now she heard nothing but laughter and a poorly played ribald tune of a browbeaten husband. She forced herself to keep her expression worldly. She would not have Valentine think her some lady of delicate sensibilities after arguing so fiercely to be here.
The interior of the building proved no more inviting than the exterior—the building appeared functional rather than attractive; slightly crooked walls and an angled doorframe, the black paint peeling from it to reveal flecks of rotting wood beneath.
Beams hung low above them, forcing Valentine to duck the occasional crooked one. How the upper floor remained supported on the wonky and uneven wood, she did not know, but the appearance did not appear to concern the many, many patrons here. Most were of the working class, their clothes filthy and their faces tired from a day’s work. Unlike her, they likely did not get days off.
The handful of women were as tired and dirty as the men, even those who were here to pedal their wares. She eyed the woman straddling a scrawny man while he chugged an ale, letting it spill down the front of his shirt before burying his face into her cleavage.
Chastity glanced away. Perhaps this had been a mistake.
“This was a mistake.” Valentine pulled her closer to him.
“No,” she murmured.
She would not let him think of her as some fragile female. Once upon a time, he might have been correct but not anymore. She had come a long way since her marriage—mostly thanks to the investigative society.
“We need to find this woman.” She pulled on his arm. “Come, we are drawing attention. Let us at least look as though we wish to be here.”
She led him through the crowds of unwashed bodies and forced herself to breathe through her mouth rather than her nose.
When they reached the bar, they waited to grab the attention of the overworked man behind it, and she peered around. Candles lit in sconces upon the walls shimmered, offering splashes of flickering light alternating with darkened corners. She was fairly certain one couple was using the shadows to indulge their desires and the faintest of moans cut their way through the off-key singing of the gentleman nearby. Her stomach churned. Had John really preferred such places to spending time with her? Was she really such an awful wife?
“Chastity.”
Blinking, she met Valentine’s gaze. His stern gaze flickered with concern and for once, she was grateful for his glowering manner. It offered something of an anchor. When all was unsettled within her, he could be counted on to be glowering. She eased out a breath.
“Do you think any of these could be the woman?”
“Our only way to find out is ask I suppose.”
His mouth pulled into a thin line. At least Valentine did not seem any more at ease here than she did. They were both out of their element. And that meant Valentine did not frequent places like this. She should not care what he did, but she could not help herself.
The fellow behind the bar made his way over to them, glancing them over but revealing nothing but disinterest. If either of their expensive clothing caught his attention, he did not show it. His upper lip and forehead shone with sweat and meaty hands grasped a tankard before Valentine could say anything. He poured an ale from the earthenware jug and wordlessly shoved it toward Valentine.
Valentine looked to Chastity and she swore she heard him sigh. “And one for the lady,” he demanded.
Chastity managed to keep herself from grinning. It seemed he knew her better than she realized.
The barely perceptible twitch of an eyebrow was the man’s only reaction when he poured another ale. The only true interest he revealed was when Valentine pressed a crown across the scarred wooden surface of the bar. “Do you know of a Daisy Miller?”
The barman swung the briefest of glances between them, his steel-gray gaze remaining neutral. “I do.”
“And?”
The man folded his arms. “Not got much to say about her.”
Valentine met his gaze and shrugged. “Very well.” He went to slide the coin back into his pocket and the man set a hand upon his.
“Wait!”
Removing his hand from the coin, Valentine rocked back on his heels. “Yes?”
