At Sebastian’s entrance, Kane glanced around. The girl jerked, but Kane said, “Don’t move,” and she froze.
“Nicely done,” said Sebastian, coming to look at a half-completed charcoal sketch somewhat in the style of Ingres.
From the room below came the sound of breaking glass and a man’s hoarse shout. Kane reached for a rag and calmly wiped his fingers. “I presume you started that for a reason?”
The faint echo of a Lancashire burr was still there in the brothel owner’s speech, but he’d obviously made considerable efforts to eradicate it in the ten or fifteen years that had passed since he’d fled the mines. His breeches, coat, and waistcoat could only have come from the best Bond Street tailors. Sebastian could easily see Pippa from the cheesemonger’s shop taking this man for a gentleman. However nefarious the nature of his current businesses, Kane was working hard at obscuring his origins. But unless he’d dyed his hair, Pippa was unlikely to have described him as “dark.”
“I thought our conversation would be more congenial without the presence of one of your gentlemen of the Fancy,” said Sebastian. He wandered the room, his gaze roving over the series of canvases on the wall. Done in oils in much the same style as the charcoal sketch on the easel, the paintings included both London street scenes and views of ships on the Thames. One particularly striking image of the church of Allhallows Barking caught in a stream of sunlight was only half finished. But most of the paintings were of naked women in a variety of languid poses.
“I suppose that’s one of the advantages of running a brothel,” said Sebastian. “There can’t be many artists with such ready access to a houseful of women who are more than willing to take off their clothes.”
Kane merely set aside his rag and grunted.
“I wonder,” said Sebastian, “did you ever paint Rose Fletcher?”
“Who?”
“Rose Fletcher. Up until last week she was one of the dashers at the Orchard Street Academy. I understand you’re the proprietor.”
Kane picked up a short piece of charcoal and traced a neat line along the hip of the figure in his sketch. “I have more than one house and employ scores of women. Do you think I know them all?”
From below stairs came a loud thump, followed by a bellow of rage. Sebastian said, “This woman left your house precipitously and went into hiding. I’m wondering if she was hiding from you.”
“What do you think?” said Kane, keeping his attention on his work. “That I stock my houses with traffic from some nefarious white-slave ring?” He had a slickly handsome face and a wide mouth full of straight white teeth he showed in a smile. “Why would she hide from me? Every soiled dove on the street would have you think she was kidnapped and forced into the trade. It’s all a fantasy. The girls in my houses are there because they choose to be, and they’re free to leave whenever they want.”
Sebastian glanced toward the Cyprian on the divan. She made a small movement, then lay still, her rosy-tipped breasts rising gently with each breath. A faint flush of color had spread across her cheeks. It was one thing, evidently, to pose naked for Ian Kane, but something else to do it in the presence of a stranger.
Sebastian said, “You weren’t angry that she left?”
A muscle jumped along Kane’s suddenly tight jaw. “Whores leave all the time. They usually come back. But even if they don’t, do you think I care? There are always more where they came from.” He jerked his head toward the street below. “You can’t walk a block without tripping over half a dozen strumpets.”
“Perhaps. Yet Rose Fletcher was undoubtedly afraid of someone.”
“Most whores are afraid of someone. A husband maybe, or a boyfriend who’s a little too handy with his fists.” Kane cocked his head to one side, studying the sketch before him. “What I’m wondering,” he said, carefully smudging the line he’d just drawn, “is why a fine gentleman like yourself would take an interest in a piece of Haymarket ware. Surely you don’t fancy her for yourself?”
“Not exactly. She’s dead. She was one of the eight women murdered at the Magdalene House last night.”
The suggestion that the fire at the Magdalene House was no accident didn’t seem to surprise Kane. But then, word traveled fast on the streets. Without looking up, he said, “You think I did that?”
“I think you’re hiding something.”
There was a pause, after which the brothel owner appeared to come to a decision. He reached for a finer piece of charcoal. “You’re right. Rose Fletcher was at the Academy. She was there the better part of a year. I don’t know why she left. She never gave any indication she was unhappy there.”
“Rose Fletcher wasn’t her real name, was it?”
“Probably not. They all take noms de guerre.”
“Do you know where she came from?”
Kane gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Women like her are a commodity. You think I care where they come from? We’re not talking fine wine here. The provenance is immaterial.”
Sebastian glanced toward the naked woman on the divan. The flush in her cheeks had deepened.
“Did Rose ever have trouble with anyone at the Academy?”
“You mean customers?” Kane shook his head. “We’re very careful with our clientele. Those who like it rough learn to go someplace else.”
“Did she have any special customers?”
“She was a popular piece of merchandise.” His eyes narrowed as he layered in defining detail to his sketch of the woman’s breasts. “But as a matter of fact, there was one particular customer that I know of. He was so enamored of her that he offered to buy her away from the house.”
“Buy her? I thought you said these women aren’t slaves.”
Kane shrugged. “She had some debts. Most whores do. They work to pay off what they owe.”
It was the usual practice: Advance the women just enough money to keep them in a perpetual state of debt so that they couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. It wasn’t technically slavery, but that’s what it amounted to.
Sebastian studied the man’s smooth face. He had a faint blue line, like a tattoo, that ran across his forehead. Sebastian had seen marks like that before, on miners. Coal dust settled into healing cuts, leaving a mark that never disappeared. Kane had obviously spent some time in the mines himself as a lad, before fleeing to London. Sebastian said, “What was the name of the customer who tried to buy her?”
“O’Brian. Luke O’Brian.”
“Who is he?”
Kane flashed his white smile. “You think I’m going to give you everything?”
“Actually, I’m wondering why you’ve told me as much as you have.”