She tried to think logically. Unfortunately, the brandy rather muddled her brain. One thing was obvious, however. It would be best if there were no more kisses. It would be extremely foolish to become involved in an illicit affair with Anthony Stalbridge. No good could come of it. Illicit affairs always came to bad ends.
A sense of gloom replaced the nervy fear. She gripped the edge of the window, leaned her forehead against the glass panes, and closed her eyes. What would it be like to be loved the way Anthony had once loved his dear Fiona? She knew that she would never learn the answer to that question.
16
Daisy Spalding awoke to a sea of pain. The opium concoction she had taken last night had worn off, leaving her to the anguish of her bruised and battered body. She sat up cautiously on the narrow cot and took stock. She had survived another client, but only by the skin of her teeth. If one of the other customers had not heard the noise through the walls and come to investigate, she would have been dead this morning.
The client last night had been the most violent one yet. She had seen the madness in his eyes when he had tied the gag around her mouth and bound her hands behind her back. She had been terrified, but by then it was too late.
She had worked in the brothel for only a few weeks. She did not think she would last the month. After Andrew had died, the man to whom he had owed money told her that she could repay the debt by going to work in Phoenix House for a couple of months. She had considered the river for the first time then, but the creditor had persuaded her.
“Phoenix House is not like other brothels,” he assured her. “All of the women who work there come from respectable backgrounds, just like you. They earn excellent money because they occupy a station far above that of the average streetwalker. They are courtesans, not street whores. Gentlemen are willing to pay well for the company of refined ladies.”
But a whore is a whore, Daisy thought. She had been a fool to think the business would be different just because she had once been a lady.
Terrified of landing in the workhouse, she had accepted the offer. She did not discover until much later that when she went to work in Phoenix House, her husband’s creditor had received a handsome fee from the proprietor, Madam Phoenix.
Madam Phoenix had explained to her that she was not pretty enough for the regular customers. The only opening was for a woman who was willing to take on the rough trade. Some of the gentlemen liked getting a bit violent, she explained. It aroused them, but no serious damage was done.
Daisy got to her feet, cringing, and looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were black and blue. Her jaw was badly swollen. She was afraid to examine the rest of her body.
This time the damage was serious. Next time it might well prove fatal. If she was doomed to die at the age of twenty-two, she preferred to take her own life. Damned if she would give that privilege to a gentleman who would likely have a climax if she expired because of his brutality.
In spite of her bleak determination to seek the ultimate escape, however, her will to live prevailed. She had heard whispers of an establishment in Swanton Lane where women of the street could go for a hot meal. Some said that the woman who ran the place could sometimes help a girl find respectable work under another name.
What did she have to lose? Daisy thought. But she would have to be very careful. Madam Phoenix was cold and utterly ruthless. It was whispered that she was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of the former madam. And the hard-eyed man she entertained in her private quarters looked even more dangerous.
Daisy shuddered. If Madam Phoenix discovered that one of her prostitutes had fled to the Swanton Lane establishment, there was no telling what she might do. She would consider it a very bad example for the rest of the women of Phoenix House.
17
The note from Miranda Fawcett arrived the following morning. Anthony was still at home when he got word from Louisa. He whistled for a cab and went to Arden Square immediately.
Anticipation and a disturbing heat flooded through him as the vehicle halted at the steps of Number Twelve. It dawned on him that the prowling excitement he was feeling had nothing to do with the coming interview with Miranda Fawcett. He was aroused at the prospect of seeing Louisa again, of sitting close to her in the carriage.
Damnation. What was happening to him? He could not recall the last time he had felt this way simply because he was about to take a ride with a lady.
Louisa was waiting for him in a black gown, black gloves, and a black net veil that concealed her features. He wondered if the clothes were left over from the death of her husband. The thought that Louisa had once loved another man irritated him for some reason. He pushed it aside.
He had to admit the gown and veil made an excellent disguise. Until now he had not realized how perfectly anonymous a widow in full mourning was on the street.
“Do you often find it necessary to go about incognito in the course of your work?” he asked, handing her up into the carriage.
“I have discovered that widow’s weeds are quite useful on occasion,” she said, settling onto the seat.
He sat down across from her. She looked at him through her veil, more invitingly mysterious than ever. He forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“What did you learn from Miss Fawcett?” he asked.
“There was only a name and an address in Halsey Street.”
She handed him a piece of paper. He glanced down, reading quickly. “Benjamin Thurlow.”
She crumpled the black netting up onto the brim of her black hat and looked at him. Her face was flushed. Behind the lenses of her spectacles her eyes were bright with excitement. He wondered if she looked that way when she was in the grip of passion or if it was only her work as a journalist that inspired such enthusiasm.
“Are you acquainted with this Mr. Thurlow?” she asked.
He reflected briefly and then shook his head. “No.” He stood, raised the trap, and spoke to the driver. “Halsey Street, please.”
“Aye, sir.”
The vehicle rumbled forward into the fog.
“Clearly the next step is to interview him,” Louisa declared. “But we must be subtle about it. We do not want to tip our hand.”
“I understand, Mrs. Bryce,” he said politely. “I will endeavor to be discreet. I feel certain that I can succeed by following the excellent example you set. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the training in investigative work that you are so graciously providing me. I was certainly very fortunate to meet up with you. Who knows what grave mistakes I might have made had you not come along to set me straight in the fine art of making subtle inquiries.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me. I should not have presumed to lecture you. I fear I am not accustomed to working with a partner.”
“It appears we must both make adjustments.”
“I suppose so.”
He stretched out his legs and folded his arms. “You take your profession very seriously, don’t you? It is not a lark or a game to you.”
“Did you think it was?”
“It is difficult to imagine why a woman in your obviously comfortable situation would undertake a career as a journalist.”
“I find it very satisfying.”
“Yes, I can see that. Do you have informants other than Miranda Fawcett?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Miranda is extremely helpful, of course, and, as you have seen, I also have the advantage of Emma’s social connections and her knowledge of Society.” She paused. “But from time to time I also rely on another source.”