Priceless (21 page)

“But what is the conspiracy?”

Rubbing his forehead, he said, “I don’t know. Everything so stinks of dishonesty in Change Alley, it’s hard to distinguish a conspiracy from a plot.”

“Then maybe it’s nothing serious, not worth your attention.”

He dropped his hand. “Haven’t you been listening? If all the rest is not enough for you, then think on this. The South Sea Company has hired cutthroats to ‘encourage’ other companies to leave the market.”

She flinched. Here was the core of her worry, tossed at her like a scrap to a beggar. She couldn’t restrain the anxious query that rose to her lips. “Are you endangering your life?”

Belligerence, confidence, and his mad male relish for a fight merged on his face. “I doubt it.”

Furious with him for his lack of caution, furious with Walpole for asking for such a sacrifice, she snapped, “How dare Robert Walpole ask you to spy for him out of mere friendship?”

“For what other reason would I do it?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Bouncing up, she said, “I don’t know, but I want you to stop.”

“To stop? Stop, when I am so close? Stop, and break my word to my friend?” His hands closed over her shoulders, and he dragged her close. “Why should I stop? Is it because you think the counterfeit stock will disappear from Change Alley if I do?”

She fastened her hands on his wrists. “Don’t be an ass.”

His fingers dug into her skin as he asked, “Are you worried your relationship to a counterfeiter will ruin your reputation?”

Tugging as his grip tightened, she said, “You’re being stupid. My reputation is already ruined.”

He dropped her like a stinging nettle.

One look at his frozen face assured her she’d said it poorly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He picked up his waistcoat and overcoat.

She flew off the bed and grabbed his arm. “You can’t walk out like this.”

Paying her no attention, he opened the door. She dug in her heels, but her puny weight impressed him not at all. She couldn’t follow him down the stairs, not naked, and she shouted after him, “I meant my moral reputation.” He didn’t turn. “Coward!” was her parting shot.

He flinched, and she gained comfort from that as she dressed for the day. Adam was a reasonable man. Surely he’d think about her words and realize why she sought to dissuade him from pursuing this quest. He’d know she worried about his safety. He couldn’t believe she was so shal
low as to care how his reputation affected hers. And, oh God, he wouldn’t take her taunt of “coward” as a challenge to put himself in danger.

Awake before the rest of the household, she crept to her desk. She laid out her manuscript, her sheets of paper. She sharpened her quills, uncorked the bottle of ink—and stared out the window at the mist of rain. Translation held no interest for her today. Instead the quill in her hand scribbled everything Adam had confessed, everything she knew about the South Sea stock. Henriette’s words, too, came to haunt her, and she wrote them at the top of the page. Idly she underscored them.
He’s going to kill a man by dropping a stock on him.

What did it mean? She had already concluded the stock could be—must be—the South Sea stock. Adam said he thought the conspiracy revolved around the hunt for power. Someone lusted after power, and they would stop at nothing.

She blinked. Greed, money, an English politician who spoke out against the men who promoted the nefarious South Sea bubble…

Her throat closed, and she lifted her hand to ease the constriction.

Robert Walpole.

Nonsense. She shook her head to clear it. If someone wanted to kill Robert Walpole, why hadn’t they done it sooner? But wait. Walpole was out of town. Wasn’t he?
Wasn’t
he?

She rushed out of the room, slumped against the wall. Pressing her cold hands on her hot face, she groaned. Another attack of nausea? Another dizzy spell? The sleepless night, the early rising, the tension of the weeks: they all contributed to her state, but, oh God, she had no time for this now. After groping up the stairs, she rapped at Rachelle’s door. Rachelle’s grouchy voice did not dissuade her; she only rapped harder. “Rachelle, it’s Bronwyn.” She
listened, but heard nothing. “Rachelle, I need to know something.”

She knocked again, and finally the door opened. Rachelle’s sleepy glare gave her pause. She took a few deep breaths, but nothing could quench her now. “Forgive me for waking you, but I have to know something.”

Rachelle adjusted her nightcap with a yawn. “Such a rush, child,” she rebuked. “I thought I had cured you of that.”

“Is Robert Walpole out of London?”

“
Cherie
…” Rachelle groaned.

“It’s important.” Fervor returned a bit of her good health, and Bronwyn insisted, “The gossip in the salon last night…did anyone mention Walpole’s return?”

Plainly irked, Rachelle snapped, “You expect me to pay heed to the comings and goings of one insignificant man?”

“Please?” Bronwyn pleaded. “You remember everything, and Adam says Walpole is going to be prominent.”

“So Walpole says, also. He has convinced quite a few people, it seems.” Rachelle closed her eyes and thought. “Walpole came back to the City yesterday and was visited by his financial advisers.”

“Why?” Bronwyn’s peace of mind hung in the balance.

“They say he has lost money in the South Sea scheme.”

“The devil take the man! How dare he fall into their hands so neatly?” Her indignation left Rachelle with open mouth. Making her decision, she said, “I have to find Adam. I’ll go to Change Alley, find Adam, tell him…I’ll make him listen to me. Will you order a sedan chair?”

“Of course,
ma cherie
.” Rachelle eyed her skeptically. “I trust you know what you are doing?”

“I haven’t got much choice,” Bronwyn said. “If I don’t tell Adam, Walpole’s life could be in danger.”

Rachelle never doubted her. “Send a note to Walpole,” she urged.

The fever of alarm touched Bronwyn’s face. “Adam’s life could be in danger.”

“Then you must go. I will get you a sedan chair and rouse Gianni to run beside.” Rachelle gave her a push. “Get your cloak.”

Bronwyn hurried to the entry and with dismay realized her illness had not yet completely fled. The excitement that drove it from her returned it twofold when she hurried or even moved with too much vigor. Cautiously Bronwyn lifted the maroon velvet from its hook and slipped it on. Her purse contained enough to pay the sedan chair and to bribe those with information of Adam’s whereabouts. There were no other preparations she need make—except to banish this creeping affliction and steel herself for the confrontation with the man she loved.

She peered out of the front door and waited. The rain fell with a dreary rhythm. Vapors wafted on dismal breezes. She concentrated on what she would say. “Adam,” she’d say, “I know you think I’m a treacherous hussy.”

No. Perhaps she shouldn’t remind him that he thought her treacherous. How about “Adam, I’ve discovered the key to your mystery.”

In her mind she fantasized the meeting between her and Adam. They would embrace. They would explain, all would be well….

Not even her fertile imagination could see it. More likely Adam would be cold. No one could be colder than he. Even now she could feel the imagined chill of his displeasure.

A large covered carriage rolled up and stopped. Painted shiny white, it sported a gilt trim that made it appear big and embarrassingly gaudy. Fashioned of stained glass, each window pictured classical Italian architecture. In size and shape, the coach resembled a traveling Gypsy lodge, yet this type cruised London streets more and more. The South Sea boom had brought such wealth to the common
folk that they bought madly, greedily, looking not to practicality, but to ostentation.

Eagerly she waited for a glimpse of the guest who rode in such a monstrosity and who visited so early in the morning.

No one descended. The coachman leaped down, opened the door, bowed to her without a word.

Of course. Rather than a sedan chair, Rachelle had ordered a carriage and had secured one whose owner had already slipped back into the ranks of the impoverished. How kind of Rachelle to consider the effect of the rain. How extravagant.

Locking the town house, Bronwyn gave the coachman her hand, ascended the step, and stopped. Dizziness halted her, and she put her hand to her head. “’Ey, move in,” the coachman advised without respect, and thrust her inside. Unsettled by her ailment and his rudeness, she blinked as the door slammed. The windows made it dark inside, and when she glanced out, the colors of the ancient world stained the landscape. The carriage jerked into motion, and she sat down hard.

Oh God, she’d forgotten to give the coachman her direction. She reached up to rap on the roof, then faded back onto the seat as a wave of nausea rocked her.

The footman. She remembered now. Gianni had told the coachman where she wished to go.

Closing her eyes, she noted gratefully that the dim interior smelled of something besides body odor and dung. Such odors made her queasy, and the mingled scents of powder, perfume, and tobacco were almost pleasing. For a hired coach, it was unusually well sprung. Yet…

Above the clatter of the hooves and the splash as the wheels emptied the puddles, she thought she could hear breathing.

Was someone in the carriage with her? No, for anyone else would have spoken up when she entered.

Silliness. She would open her eyes, see that she rode alone. It took a greater effort than she’d realized, but her courage could not fail so early. She pried her lids up, turned to look—and saw the gleam of two eyes in the dusk.

Heart pounding, she muffled her shriek with her hands.

A skinny, feminine hand clamped onto Adam’s wrist and twisted him behind a barrel.

“Yer Ludship, ye amember me?” The prostitute from the day before gawked at him. Her hair dripped little rivulets onto her face, and trickles of dirty water ran off her chin.

Squinting through the gloom of the day, Adam said, “Indeed I do. Have you information?”

“Indeed I dew.”

Her imitation of his accent made him grin. Was
that
what he sounded like?

“I got th’ ‘ore what sold me th’ stock, an’ she showed me th’ man what sold it t’ ’er.”

That wiped his grin away. “Have you told him about me?”

“Nary a word.” Pointing her grimy thumb at her chest, she boasted, “A woman doesn’t get t’ me place in th’ world without some smarts, ye know. I knew ye’d want t’ talk t’ ’im all unawares. Now come on.”

Gripping his walking stick firmly in his hand, he followed her. He stepped around barrels and over garbage but couldn’t resist asking, “What is your place in the world?”

With fierce satisfaction she said, “I ain’t dead yet, am I?”

A grim reflection on society, he supposed. “And I’m grateful you’re not.”

Taking him to the edge of a long dock where a merchant ship bobbed at rest, she pointed her finger. “See that line o’ men, all gruntin’ an’ strainin’? See th’ big lout with th’ red kerchief ’round ’is neck?”

“I see him.”

“’E’s th’ one. ’E’s Jims. ’E sold th’ stock t’ me friend.”

“Thank you.” He expected her to fade away, but she hung close as he strode across the slimy boards. “Do you plan to introduce us?”

“I want t’ see.”

“To see what?”

“If ’e knows ye or not.”

Lifting his head to the rain, he laughed aloud. He’d left Bronwyn in anger, but his anger hadn’t lasted. The night before had been long and fulfilling and too sweet for resentment. His confidence had returned, shiny bright and beneficial. Today he would get to the bottom of this madness.

At the sight of a gentleman on the dock, the workers faltered to a stop. Boxes dropped to the ground. The stevedores stared as Adam removed his wide-brimmed hat, tossed back his cape, placed his fists on his hips. A living challenge, he stepped up to Jims and waited. The big man glanced from side to side. “M’lord? Did ye want somethin’?”

“Don’t you know me?” Adam demanded.

Bewildered, uneasy, Jims shrugged his massive shoulders. “I…m’lord, should I?”

“So I hear.” From the corners of his eyes, Adam saw a battalion of prostitutes move close. He heard the whispers as his harlot acquainted them with the story; he noted how the stevedores strained to hear.

“Are ye some kind o’ reformer?” Jims asked. “Because I ain’t done nothin’ t’ be ashamed of.”

Adam chuckled, amused by the mound of gnawing discomfort before him, sure of his imminent victory. “I am not a reformer, not interested in your morals or lack of them. I am simply trying to settle the issue of my identity. Look well on me. Are you sure you don’t know me? Don’t recognize me? Have never seen me before?”

Still uneasy, Jims said, “Naw.”

“Yet my name is known to you.”

“Naw.”

“I am told it is.” Taking a breath, he announced, “I am Adam Keane, viscount of Rawson.”

A smile broke across the stevedore’s broad face. “Ye’re not.”

Realizing what his denial meant, the assembled whores gasped. Adam bared his teeth in a savage grin and insisted, “I am.”

Jims snorted vigorously, wiping his dripping face on his sleeve. “Naw, ye’re not. Lord Rawson is a shorter gennaman, with a wig”—he indicated massive hair—“an’ th’ dammest face I ever seen.”

Adam dropped his guise of cocky self-confidence and gripped his walking stick with a kind of knowing disgust. “What kind of face?”

“All plastered with powder an’ drawn with colors.”

With his hand, Adam indicated a height. “About so high in his heels, elegant and—”

“Bald,” Jims finished. “Bald as a’ egg. When th’ wind kicked up off th’ river, ’is wig lifted an’ I could see ’is bare ’ead—”

“Judson,” Adam groaned. “That bastard Carroll Judson is saying he’s me.”

From the corner opposite her, Carroll Judson said, “A
fortunate coincidence, that you and I should be going the same way.”

Bronwyn pressed her hand to her heart to still the frantic thumping. “Mr. Judson, you frightened me.”

“Not I,” Carroll Judson denied. His voice sounded deep, significantly masculine, suave.

What are you doing here? The demand hovered on her tongue, but some wisdom stopped her. He’d been watching her since she’d entered the carriage, and he’d said nothing. She didn’t like it, or him, but for the moment she was trapped. “I didn’t realize you were here. Foolish, I know, but the day has been quite insane, and I snatched a moment of rest….” She bit her lip to still her nervous chatter. “I’ve been warned so often of the dangers of traveling the London streets alone, our meeting is a fortunate coincidence. How did you come to be in my carriage?”

“’Tis my carriage.”

He was so emphatic, she found herself babbling again. “Did you know I needed a ride? Did the footman tell you?”

“Gianni did indeed tell me.” In the dim light she could see Judson’s teeth gleam in a smile. “Madame Rachelle’s footman and I are in close communication.”

Bronwyn didn’t want to understand his intent, didn’t like the sound of any of it. “You’re on your way to Change Alley, also?” she asked tentatively.

“Why should you think that?”

“That’s where I wish to go. If you’re in such close communication with the footman, surely he told you—”

“I don’t care where you wish to go,” he answered.

She wished she could see him, see more than the glint of eyes and teeth. She wished she hadn’t chosen this moment to remember her last encounter with him, the way she’d slapped his face. She’d not put it past this man to take her to the seamiest part of town and push her out to fend for herself among the cutthroats and drunkards. “Then could you stop and I’ll seek other conveyance?”

“That’s quite impossible.” He moved closer; she moved back, her skin crawling in an instinctive reaction. “I said I was in close communication with Madame Rachelle’s footman. Wouldn’t you like to know why?”

“I doubt it.”

“But I want to tell you.” He laughed, again with that deep, impassioned tone. “He’s in my pay.”

Nausea began to inch up her throat. “For what reason?”

“His instructions were to send word to my rooms—my rooms located so close to Madame Rachelle’s—when you decided to go out.” His breath fanned her face as he leaned toward her. “I wanted to make sure you accepted my hospitality.”

She turned her head away. “A slap on the face is hardly worth a kidnapping.”

“A slap in the face?” He smirked. “A slap in the face? My dear, you underestimate me. I do not kidnap you for that puny defense of your friend. No, no, not at all.”

He hadn’t denied it. He’d repeated the word she’d flung at him. Kidnapping. This man was kidnapping her. Oh God, why?

His soft leather glove caressed her cheek. She wanted to
spit at him, but her queasiness pressed her too hard. She clamped her mouth shut, tried to relax the knots of her muscles, took deep breaths untainted by his air. She soon realized he played a waiting game. He wanted her to ask, to draw him out, to inquire about his plans. And what choice had she? She must distract him as she reached for the door. Jumping out onto the cobblestones frightened her, but Carroll Judson frightened her even more.

“Then why do you kidnap me?” Deliberately she used the word again. Easing around, she used her skirt to hide her fingers as they crept toward the handle.

“Well, not for your fortune.” Throwing back his head, he cackled as if at a great witticism.

She laughed, too, an unconvincing chuckle. “No, no one wants me for my fortune. Is it, perhaps, to settle a grudge with Lord Rawson?”

“Ah, yes, Lord Rawson. My dear old friend Adam.” He lifted his handkerchief and sniffed. “He does seem to be fond of you—such a dividend. At first, you realize, I feared I’d be doing him a favor by disposing of you.”

Disposing of? Her hand halted its journey. Shocked, she heard the thumping of her heart in her ears, felt it in the pulse at her throat.

He seemed not to notice. “My valet called you quite plain. Then Madame Rachelle worked her magic, Adam was entrapped, and I knew that this time, I would—”

She hit the door with her shoulder, the weight of her body behind her. It yielded—to a point. Then bounced her back inside. She ricocheted against the seat, sprawled on the floor.

“—win.” He finished his sentence with appalling confidence.

Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t flinched during her rush for freedom. Fussing with the fingers on his gloves, he said, “I had the coachman tie the door closed. You’d better come up here, or you’ll miss my surprise.”

Marshaling what dignity she could, she crawled back on the seat. She peered out the tiny bit of clear window beside her, trying to ascertain her route, but the houses and shops slid past too quickly for her eyes to follow. Her forehead slipped forward to rest on the cool glass; she noted, in some corner of her mind, that it was clean. Not encrusted with a hired coach’s smoke and spittle. “But you still haven’t told me why.” Even as her lips formed the words, alarm stiffened her spine.

She recognized the street outside, recognized it even as she denied it. Surely she was mistaken. Surely this was some trick of the light. She would not see, at the corner, an inn called the Brimming Cup.

Yet there it was. A plain, common place, where she should never have stayed. There she’d broken into a room, saved a woman from a lonely death, and started a chain of events that had brought her to this.

By slow degrees, she turned to look at Carroll Judson. He held a silver mirror up to his window and swept powder over his face with a pad of sheepskin. The feeble light reflected onto his features, lightening them to an abnormal whiteness.

Yet he didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a dandy, a gossip, a fool. What had Adam said of him? A well-fed rat? The son of a corrupt father?

Not even Adam suspected what hid in the scurrilous corners of Judson’s soul. Remembering Henriette’s battered face, her twisted body, Bronwyn covered her mouth to contain her nausea.

Judson lowered the mirror. “So. Now you know.”

“Are we stopping there?” Her hand muffled her words, and she lowered it cautiously.

“When the landlord saw the blood in the room, he proved to have some rather inconvenient scruples.” He pursed his full red lips in a pout. “And an eye for blackmail. I’m afraid he doesn’t know my true name, nor where
I live. Despite my own nostalgic leanings, I’m afraid we’ll have to go to my flat.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Nonsense, of course you do. Everyone says you’re intelligent.”

She found herself unable to restrain her sarcasm. “If I were intelligent, I wouldn’t be here now.”

He sighed with exaggerated patience. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why did you take me? I didn’t know who had killed Henriette.”

Even now she hoped he would deny knowing Henriette. Her heart sank when he said, “She may have told you.”

Seeking the cool air, she loosened the clasp of her cloak. “If she had told me, you would be imprisoned even now.”

“True.” He pouted sympathetically. “I am afraid you’re going to have to put the blame for your demise on Adam’s broad back.”

“On Adam’s back?”

“Do you know, when I heard you were betrothed to him, I laughed, my dear, just laughed.” Giving an airy chuckle to illustrate, he continued, “Adam is such a churl. I knew he’d ignore you, perhaps even send you away. I knew he’d never lower himself to speak to you, and certainly never pay attention to your prattling of murder.”

“You admit it was murder?”

“Of course it was murder. What else would I call it?” She had no answer, and he brushed it aside. “Murder is of no consequence. I’ve seen worse.”

She only stared, sickened by his breezy dismissal of Henriette’s bloody death.

“I’ll never understand what you did to Adam. At Madame Rachelle’s he danced attendance to you, he
courted you and showed all the signs of a man infatuated. My dear, I found myself feeling betrayed.” At her instinctive objection he insisted, “Yes, betrayed! I had depended on Adam’s personality to keep me safe, and somehow you’d made a gentleman out of him.”

“I’m sorry,” she said faintly.

“So you should be.” He fanned himself with his handkerchief. “Adam, with his license to sell stock, knows too much about the South Sea Company. You knew too much about Henriette. That combination was volatile. I had a decision to make.”

Made shrewd by necessity, she asked, “Was it not your own jealousy that decided the matter?”

“Jealous? Of you?”

“Of Adam.”

“Of Adam?” His mouth drew into a thin line. “Why should I be jealous of Adam?”

“At Madame Rachelle’s you compared yourself to him, and he seemed not at all flattered.”

He sat straight, lifted his chin. “He should have been. I move in society’s highest circles. I no longer need to deal with merchants and street scum to obtain the finer things in life.”

“Adam doesn’t have to hide his face for shame behind a mask.”

He lifted the mirror to his face and squinted at it anxiously.

“A mask?”

“A mask of powder, of paint, of wigs and silks and satins, to hide his degeneracy.” She touched his cheek. His cosmetics flaked off onto her finger, and she displayed the results to him.

With that one gesture she broke his facade of superiority. He threw the mirror to the floor, where the glass shattered, grabbed for her wrists, and missed, leaving long scratches on her hands. She stared at the blood welling up, looked at him. He’d given her a warning, one she must heed.

“You’re very pale,” he pronounced.

In a frightened, little-girl voice, she said, “You hurt me.”

He preened. He actually preened, like a boy who’d just discovered his manhood. Or like a man who could realize his manhood only by inflicting pain. She had to get away, but how?

“If you had to”—she hesitated, then used his term—“dispose of Henriette, why did you do it so gruesomely?” She knew she shouldn’t speak of Henriette, yet she found the French girl’s fate filled her mind to the exclusion of all else. “Why not shoot her and get it over with?”

“Dear lady! That wouldn’t have been at all interesting. You see that, don’t you?” Sweat sprang out on her brow, and he waved his handkerchief before her face. With what seemed to be genuine concern, he asked, “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

“No,” she denied automatically. Realizing weakness could be an advantage, she said, “Perhaps. I don’t know.” Closing her eyes, she slumped against the seat.

With a rustle of silks, he moved close and patted her cheek. “Oh, dear, she is going to faint. She’ll be no fun at all.”

At his touch, her nausea rose. “I’m not going to faint. I’m going to be sick.”

He leaped back. “Be sick?”

“Vomit,” she said succinctly.

As she’d hoped, he gasped, “In my carriage?”

“Have I a choice?”

He didn’t answer, and she wanted to peek and see his reaction. Did he suspect her ruse? Of course he did. He was too clever not to. But she was pale, she knew. Her fear made her perspire, and that, too, was a symptom. And if he would not let her out, by God, she felt ill enough to actually—

He rapped on the top of the carriage. “Stop!” he bellowed. “Stop the carriage and let us out.”

“The stock has dropped more than two hundred points in five days.” Like a boy walking with his father, Northrup skipped along beside Adam, splattering the puddles without conscience. “Look at all these people. London is in a panic. Countless families are faced with bankruptcy and ruin. Rumors of suicide already are making the rounds.”

Adam grunted, peering into a dark, noisy coffeehouse.

“Don’t you want to know?” Northrup cried.

“It’s no more than I expected. Has anyone seen Carroll Judson?” Adam’s annoyance bubbled over. “Damn the man! When I don’t want him, I can’t avoid him.” Gripping Northrup’s arm, he dragged him along until they reached the street where the crowds were thinner and less wild-eyed. “Now, Northrup—”

“Someone’s calling your name, sir. Can’t you hear them?”

“Of course someone’s calling my name. They’re like hounds with a fox at bay, thinking they can blame me for counterfeiting stock and bringing disaster on them all.” Wiping the grime of the wharf from his cuffs, Adam tried again. “Northrup, I want you to—”

A girl tugged at his sleeve. “Lord Rawson?”

“Good woman,” Adam said impatiently, “I had nothing to do with your stocks. Now be so kind—”

“No, my lord, you don’t understand.” She smiled with bold admiration. “I come from Madame Rachelle’s salon.”

Adam pushed back her cloak to reveal her face. The rain had slackened, leaving a murky day draped in clouds, but by degrees he recognized her. “Daphne, isn’t it?”

The girl’s eyes flashed with a disappointment he didn’t understand. “Don’t you even remember me?”

“Of course I do. I just called you by your name,” he said impatiently. “Why are you here?”

Her fists clenched.

“Who sent you? Was it Madame Rachelle? Or was it Cherie?” With his very tone, Adam caressed the name.

Daphne’s chin dropped, she fumbled with her purse. “Here.” She thrust a piece of paper at him and swung away, disappearing into the mob.

Adam stared after her. “An odd girl.” He ripped open the message and read the contents. Vaguely he heard Northrup call his name and knew he’d betrayed his emotions. Right now he didn’t care. Right now he didn’t even know what they were.

“Sir?” Northrup grasped Adam’s shoulder. “Sir, are you well?”

“Madame Rachelle’s footman was caught packing his bag and preparing to leave after putting Bronwyn into a covered carriage.”

Northrup looked blank. “Bronwyn? Bronwyn Edana, your betrothed?”

Unaware of Northrup’s blossoming wariness, Adam agreed.

“What was Bronwyn Edana doing at a place like Madame Rachelle’s?”

“She lives there, you know that,” Adam said impatiently.