Rogue in Red Velvet (11 page)

Dankworth shrugged and picked up his glass. “We don’t see the need. We’re signing the contract soon.” Oh yes, the bastard knew. He would dispose of Connie’s claim on him swiftly and then grab his heiress before she could change her mind.

He’d see about that. While he didn’t want Louisa Stobart for himself, she didn’t deserve a cad like Dankworth. Nobody did.

As soon as he found Connie and had her safe, he’d write to the Downhollands, who would have a great deal to say about the proposed match. He prayed that Connie had a clause in the contract so she could void it. Of course, if Dankworth signed a second contract before the first was legally voided, that would do the trick. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the abduction, but needs must. If he needed to, he would. “Out with the old, on with the new?” he murmured languidly.

Dankworth sneered. “Something like that. It would have been a perfectly adequate match for me to marry Connie. But you must agree that she isn’t the most exciting of women.”

Alex kept his composure, but only years of practice enabled him to do so. “I found her interesting, attractive and a pleasure to talk to.” And beautiful, alluring beyond compare.

“You sound like a lover yourself. Well, she is a widow. Fair game, I’d say.”

A chorus of “Oh-ho’s” made the rounds.

Despite his reservations about the earliness of the day, Alex accepted a brandy. He needed something. Fury roiled inside him and if he weren’t careful, he’d pick a fight and end up on the Heath in the morning with a smoking pistol in his hand and a price on his head. Dankworth wasn’t worth it. Alex had more important things to do.

“Ripley likes high flyers,” Denbigh informed Dankworth in a
sotto voce
so loud anyone standing on the other side of the room could hear it.

“One at a time and exclusive,” Alex admitted, “Even though they want to rule the roost. And although they are admittedly the most charming and the most civilized of whores.”

Dankworth snorted. “They’re all whores. What does it matter what they’re like outside the bedroom? All I ask is that they’re clean and they spread their legs when I tell them to. I don’t expect good conversation while they’re doing it. In fact I prefer their mouths full of something that impedes speech.”

If Dankworth had hurt Connie, he’d destroy him. And more. Jasper Dankworth would hang for his crimes. After Alex had killed him, of course.

There was no stopping Dankworth now. “Virgins are generally sweet and succulent and they can be tutored.”

“Plan to turn your future wife into a whore in the bedroom, do you?” That came from Fox, who didn’t sound amused.

“Not at all,” Dankworth responded. “Respectable women have to be approached differently. But eventually I prefer them on their knees. It just takes a little longer.” He took a deep draught from his glass and reached for the decanter. “Heard about the event tonight?”

A few people murmured a name Alex didn’t recognize, “Cratchitt.”

Dankworth brightened. “I’ve never been to a slave auction. I’m looking forward to it. There are some virgins for sale, I believe and the others are new to the market.”

“Few of them are real virgins.” Alex working hard not to show his interest. This was it. That was what the blackguard had done. If Connie appeared in public offering herself for sale, that would prove her lack of morals. “Where is this house?”

“Covent Garden.”

“The Garden itself?” Houses on the piazza and bordering the square were more expensive than the ones on the nearby streets, or the shacks by the market. Alex went to one house in that area for the gaming and he half hoped, half dreaded to hear it would be held there. “I haven’t heard of it. Is it Mother Dawkins’s?”

“Next door,” Fox said. “And Dawkins is furious about it. She says it brings down the tone of her side of the square.” The gathered crowd sniggered. “She’s worried the new woman will take her custom. She has that glorious Academy on Wednesday nights and her girls are always exquisite, but sometimes a man wants something a little—wilder.”

Alex didn’t, though he wasn’t about to mention that now. He had a healthy male appetite for a lovely woman but that was as far as it went. Dankworth was positively salivating and his blood ran cold.

Now he knew when and where Connie would show up. But he didn’t know how. Or where she was now. He had the rest of the day to make his plans but it wouldn’t be easy. Whatever it took, he’d do it. He needed to call on the magistrates in Bow Street and then to Mother Dawkins, who owed him a favor or two.

Chapter 8

Alex stood on the steps of the best whorehouse in London, taking in the arena of his upcoming battle. Covent Garden was in many ways the center of London, especially at eleven in the evening. The whole world ended up in Covent Garden sooner or later. This was later.

Standing on the corner of the Garden and King Street, Mother Dawkins’s establishment plied its trade. The flambeaux either side of the door illuminated the visage of one of the bullies she employed to keep order, scarred and weathered but dressed neatly in a parody of livery. Alex nodded to him and the bully returned the favor.

He was leaving the house, not entering it. He’d made a bargain with the madam, using all the advantages he had, preparation for what he hoped would happen next.

He’d dressed carefully and gorgeously, in crimson figured velvet and gold. Nobody would miss his presence tonight. Even Mrs. Dawkins, who had seen men come through her doors in full court finery, too eager to go home and change after visiting St. James, remarked on it.

A large ruby glinted at his throat and another on his finger. In his pocket he had a richly enameled snuffbox and a small, loaded pistol, while the small sword at his side while decorative, was no mere ornament. He was dressed to kill, if necessary.

He strode past the flambeaux, down the steps and went next door, where a similar set-up waited for him. He glared at the footman, not at all intimidated by his beefy presence and the man opened the door. Alex entered.

Mrs. Dawkins’s house held flamboyant furnishings and bright décor but it was done with wit, as if someone knew they were doing too much, cramming too much fine furniture into a space. This house held no irony, and Alex didn’t feel like smiling at the green striped wallpaper, the cherries tumbling down the white stripes and the extravagant mahogany furniture. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, winched too high because there wasn’t room for a full drop otherwise. The lady of the house came forward, hands outstretched.

Thin, bony hands. Alex bowed over one. Chicken skin covering the skeleton. He straightened and examined his hostess with experienced eyes. Good imitation Brussels lace but since lace was the most expensive part of an ensemble bar the jewelry, he’d forgive her that. A slight edge of crudity was evidenced in her clothes, although they appeared reasonable. Or maybe he would think that of anyone who ran a house like this. No, he shouldn’t blame her. She might be an innocent party in all this.

Who was he trying to fool? He certainly didn’t fool himself. She
must
know. Had she a crop of drugged virgins from the country? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened in the Garden; many men had depraved tastes the people here in these establishments were only too pleased to cater to.

“My lord, I’m delighted to see you here tonight.”

“Dankworth assured me of a good seat,” he murmured and she smiled broadly in response, almost cracking her heavy maquillage. “You know who I am?”

“Who but a lord could dress in such a refined fashion and with such excellent taste?” The woman spoke like a Londoner trying to talk like his people. Too refined, or
refained
, as she pronounced it, to be real. She enunciated every word carefully, every syllable precise and clipped. In other circumstances, he might have found it amusing but he was so far from being amused tonight that he thought he might never laugh again.

“Very perceptive, madam. Your name, Dankworth says, is Mrs. Cratchitt?”

“Just so, sir.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” The woman, who must have been in her fifties by the look of her, gave Alex a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes and a grin that made him shudder. He’d known good-looking fifty-year-olds, but Cratchitt wasn’t one of them.

Seeing a creature of Cratchitt’s age simper gave Alex shivers and not the good kind. “I’m not alone in this venture, my lord. I have powerful backers. I hope you will visit us often. We offer the discerning gentleman a measure of something he will not find elsewhere.”

People in these houses needed considerable outlay to set up in this way. So somebody or several people with money to spare had helped her. Alex filed the information away in case he needed it later.

“You have girls fresh to the trade upstairs, I heard?” He hadn’t, but it was a reasonable guess.

“Indeed we do, sir. They are eager to enter their new profession. I have girls fresh from the country.” And other parts of London, most likely. She leered. “Virgins, my lord. The auctioneer knows the value of his charges. We have rooms available to enjoy your purchases any way you wish, equipped with a variety of playthings.”

The house had previously been a notorious House of Correction, which had moved to larger premises on the other side of the square after public demand led to overcrowding. Mother Dawkins had complained when the screams grew too loud but they’d rubbed along well enough for the most part. Perhaps they’d left some items behind.

He forced a smile. “It sounds charming. And how do we pay for our purchases?”

Her crimson-bedaubed mouth turned down at the corners. “We ask for a note of hand for the auction, my lord, or valuables. After that, you may use credit up to a certain value, to be redeemed at the end of the month.”

“At a good rate of interest, I presume?”

“Naturally, my lord.”

He waved his hand negligently. “It’s acceptable.”

The bully came forward to take him upstairs. Alex couldn’t hope to take these men on his own. He could try but he had a few other tactics to use first. And pockets full of guineas. He’d tried to get into the house earlier in the day in the hope of getting Connie out before the auction, if she was there at all, but it was barred tight and a maid had yelled out of a window for him to come back tonight. He had no choice but to play it Dankworth’s way.

Up to a point.

Alex’s heart sank when he entered the room, though he ensured no one would deduct anything from his demeanor. The great, the wealthy and the debauched filled the room, all three qualities often embodied in the same person. About thirty gentleman, at his best guess, none of them his close allies but all of them members of society. And two who had been at that benighted house party at Lady Downholland’s. Damn. That meant they’d recognize Connie, should she appear.

Not including Jasper Dankworth. Alex gave him a curt nod and moved on.

The bully showed him to a chair towards the rear of the room. Alex made great play of flicking his handkerchief over the upholstery and then settling the wide skirts of his dress coat before he sat. He leaned back, affecting every appearance of boredom and waited on events.

They began the proceedings with a hackneyed show of half-dressed house girls chained together, whipped by a slave driver. Their appearance would gratify the gentlemen present whose tastes swung that way.

Alex yawned, using his handkerchief to cover his mouth, flourishing the white cloth in a way he knew would garner attention. The madam stood by the door, watching the proceedings. At least the man had given him a seat with a good view.

Years of keeping his emotions private came to his aid now, as Alex affected the appearance of a man of fashion vainly looking for amusement.

Dankworth leaned forward in his chair. A slavering dog couldn’t have made a better display of excitement. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth and his bloodshot eyes were wide and avid with excitement. He clasped his hands, the knuckles white.

Shouts and catcalls greeted the show until one of the women bared a breast. Mrs. Cratchitt finally moved forward when approving whistles replaced the catcalls. “These ladies will be available for personal visits later, gentlemen. They will be serving drinks during the auction. We don’t want you dying of thirst, do we?”

One wag called out, “Is this a long auction? Should we send out to a pie shop?” It got more laughter than it deserved. Alex spared a tight smile. He couldn’t have cracked a laugh at the moment, not to save his life. Only to save another.

The ribaldry dispensed with, a man in white draped skirt and heavy copper jewelry, presumably the slave master, freed the serving girls. The girls took the trays of wine set on a sideboard and circulated. They smiled and answered the men’s pats and pinches with saucy comments. They skipped past grasping hands and seeking mouths. A woman had to be sober and quick-minded to elude some of the men present tonight. So, girls of the house.

Mrs. Cratchitt clapped, like a schoolmistress calling a class to order. The audience indulged her. Probably because they were looking forward to the treat.

“First on the block we have Vivi, a beauty from the far East!”

A lovely Indian girl was led forward to a podium that looked too much like an executioner’s block for Alex’s liking.