by D. M. Quincy
“Was Wendy reluctant to accept?”
“She took a realistic view. Ma was gone and Da insisted he could not afford to keep feeding Wendy for much longer.”
“So she accepted Vessey’s offer.”
“Yes, but she was smart about it. She negotiated with Lord Vessey before she agreed to go with him. He was tight-fisted, but she managed to get most of what she wanted.”
“Did she come to regret their arrangement?”
Mrs. Booth shrugged. “He was mostly kind to her, and Wendy appreciated the deference she enjoyed as his mistress. But of late, she had become restless. My sister was frustrated with Lord Vessey because he was not free with his money. They argued a great deal over her spending.”
“Did your sister spend freely?”
“What is the point of living in sin with a wealthy nobleman if you cannot spend his money?”
Atlas saw her point. “Did Wendy mention that she had been offered a great deal of money to perform at Covent Garden?”
“Had she?” Mrs. Booth’s brows drew together. “She was certainly partial to singing, but my sister never mentioned any intention of taking to the stage. The money would certainly have appealed to her. Lord Vessey refused to settle a sum on Wendy and the children to ensure a comfortable life once his lordship tired of her or upon his death. They fought about it for months.”
Atlas wondered why Vessey had been so reluctant to secure Wendy’s future. It was common enough for noblemen to bestow annuities on their long-time lovers to ensure that they would always be looked after. “Did Vessey tell your sister why he refused to make any such provision for her or their children?”
“No, she was truly vexed about it. Wendy had a friend, a mistress of an important lord, who received a very generous annuity. Her name was Mrs. Walker and her marquess even attempted to persuade Lord Vessey to provide an annuity for Wendy and her children, but Vessey refused to be persuaded.”
“Do you know the name of this lord? Mrs. Walker’s protector, the man who spoke to Vessey on Wendy’s behalf?”
She considered for a moment. “I believe she said it was something such as Roxford or Roxman.”
He stilled. Could it be? “Not Roxbury?”
She pointed a finger at him. “Yes, that is it! Roxbury.”
Surprise filtered through him. “The Marquess of Roxbury?”
“Yes, the marquess. Are you acquainted with his lordship?”
“Somewhat.” Not so long ago, the Marquess of Roxbury had been determined to make Lilliana his wife.
Mrs. Booth sighed. “As I said, despite the Marquess of Roxbury’s urging, Lord Vessey refused to settle any funds on Wendy. It was after that, about a fortnight before her death, that Wendy told me she had made a decision about her future.”
“She told you that she intended to wed. What did she say about the man she was going to wed?”
“Only that she had finally fallen in love with a man who worshipped her and was desperate to make her his wife.”
That certainly seemed to fit the rather hysterical romantic picture the clergyman had painted about his association with Wendy. But why would a woman who enjoyed luxury place her fate and future in the hands of an impoverished clergyman? Had Wendy valued respectability over financial security? Perhaps she’d intended to marry her clergyman while also accepting the offer to perform at Covent Garden. “Did she tell you the name of her betrothed? Or anything else about the man who had won her heart?”
“No, she planned to tell me everything the next time we met.” She gave a sad smile. “Of course, there never shall be a next time. I must be content, I suppose, to know you intend to bring her murderer to justice.”
“I give you my word that I shall do my best.” He paused. Brown had said that he’d planned to take Wendy away from London. “Did Wendy perchance say anything about possibly leaving London for good?”
“No, but it would have surprised me if she had. Wendy did not enjoy the quiet life. She appreciated the liveliness of the metropolis.”
Atlas thanked Wendy’s sister for her time and departed just as an ominous roar sounded from the sky. Glancing up at the brooding clouds hanging low in the sky, Atlas hurried along Fish Hill Street and managed to hail a hackney just as the rain started.
Settling back against the timeworn leather seat, Atlas thought about Mrs. Booth’s confirmation that her sister had intended to leave Vessey for another man. At the very least, Wendy’s abandonment would have been a public humiliation. If Vessey had actually cared for her, losing Wendy to another man could have also been emotionally devastating.
The threat of abandonment, coupled with public humiliation, gave Vessey a strong motive for murder. God knows he’d killed Phoebe for far less.
CHAPTER 9
When the hackney arrived at New Bond Street, Atlas quickly alighted in the pouring rain and dashed inside to take shelter.
As he passed the tobacco shop beneath his apartments, he caught sight of Charlton leaning up against the long counter, chatting with Mrs. Disher. Shaking off the rain, he went up the stairs to find a bright-eyed Jamie eagerly awaiting his return.
“Why do you look as if you have just won the lottery?” he asked, shedding his greatcoat.
“I inquired about Lord Vessey’s … er … private life.”
“And what did you learn?”
“I went to a coffee house Vessey’s servants often frequent in their off hours.”
“And?”
“It seems their master was … is … very, very well acquainted with many different women.”
“I see.” Confirmation of Vessey’s faithlessness did not come as a surprise. “Did he set any of them up in their own house?”
“Not that they know of. “
Atlas handed his topcoat to Jamie. “It makes one wonder whether Vessey has a younger, fresher mistress waiting in the wings to take Mrs. Pike’s place.”
Jamie looked puzzled. “Would he have to kill Mrs. Pike to take a new mistress?”
“No, not necessarily.” Noblemen often exchanged their long-time mistresses for someone younger and fresher. Perhaps Wendy’s concern that Vessey might grow tired of her was why she’d prevailed upon Vessey to make a settlement on her.
A thought came to him. “Jamie, run and find Mr. Brown.”
“The clergyman, sir?”
“Yes, he gave me his direction.” He strode into his bedchamber and pulled open a drawer. Atlas handed the calling card bearing Mr. Brown’s information to his manservant. “Please ask him to call upon me at his earliest convenience. This afternoon, if possible.”
“Very good, sir.”
Atlas followed Jamie out the door, but while the boy went out into the deluge, Atlas proceeded only as far as the tobacco shop. He greeted Mrs. Disher as he passed the counter, and continued back to the smoking room, where Charlton held court with several other men.
“Atlas.” Charlton greeted him cheerily while taking a languid puff on a hookah that Atlas had secured for Mrs. Disher after she’d shown an interest in offering the experience to her smoking-room patrons.
“Do you have a moment,” Atlas asked, “for a private word?”
Charlton took a last draw before removing a mouthpiece from the pipe hose. The earl was a fastidious man who insisted upon his own personal mouthpiece. The men gathered around him seemed to be sharing one mouthpiece among them. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen.”
They stepped out of the smoke-filled, glass-enclosed room. “This way,” Charlton directed. “We can have some privacy back here.”
Atlas was hesitant to enter Olivia Disher’s private accommodation behind the shop, but Charlton appeared to have no such qualms. Atlas knew the earl spent some evenings here with Olivia. He’d seen the earl departing in the early morning hours on more than one occasion. They entered to find a snug space with modest yet comfortable-looking furnishings.
“It is gratifying to see you have not decided to give me the cut direct on account of my practic
ally nonexistent friendship with your former brother-in-law,” Charlton remarked. “I called the day before yesterday, and no one came to the door, not even that boy servant of yours.”
Atlas vaguely recalled someone pounding at his door during his brief, self-imposed exile from the world. “I believe Jamie was at your residence.”
“Was he? My valet made no mention of it. Why? Were you away?”
“You could say that.”
“What is so important that you have decided to seek me out despite your displeasure?” Charlton asked. “Do not tell me your sister’s hearty husband has met with a tragic accident and Mrs. Palmer is now a widow.”
Charlton’s caustic remark took Atlas by surprise. It was hardly a secret that Charlton had once held a tendre for Atlas’s very married sister. But Atlas assumed his friend had since transferred his affections to Mrs. Disher.
“I am sorry to disappoint,” he said, “but Palmer is heartier than you or I, and Thea remains very much Mrs. Palmer.”
Charlton scowled. “Very well then. What is it that you would like to know?”
“I am interested to learn more about Vessey’s liaisons with other women.”
“What exactly are you asking?”
“Was there a particular woman who engaged his interest? Perhaps a younger woman he wanted to move into Mrs. Pike’s place?”
“I cannot say.”
“Surely you can tell me how I would go about finding out. Before Olivia, you were certainly a man about town.”
“If that is your polite way of saying I frequented brothels, that is true.”
“Where would a man like Vessey find other women to cavort with?”
Atlas knew there were plenty of carnal enticements available to aristocratic men in London. One could find prostitutes anywhere, from St. James Park, down the Strand, and into Covent Garden. There were even discreet sporting hotels just outside these doors, on New Bond Street, that catered to wealthy noblemen. The London sex industry was so vast that Atlas had no idea where to begin.
“There is a house in Soho Square that I believe Vessey prefers to use.”
“Is it a house he keeps specifically to engage in liaisons with women other than Mrs. Pike?”
“No, it is not a private house. It is a bagnio called Tom’s that is well known for its discretion.”
“Does Vessey engage the women who work there? Is there a particular one he prefers?”
“No, no. Tom’s is not that sort of bagnio.”
“I was not aware that there are brothels without women on the premises.”
“That is because you are practically a saint,” Charlton said.
“I may not frequent brothels, but I am familiar enough with the concept to comprehend that the point of visiting one is to engage in carnal relations with a woman, which is where, as I understand it, Vessey’s tastes lie.”
“Just so. Tom’s keeps a book where women of an obliging sort write down their name and their direction. They are sent for when needed and pay the proprietor five shillings for each use of a room. They are independent operators of a sort.”
Atlas had never heard of that sort of business arrangement. “One has to admire their industriousness.” At least these women kept what they earned. In a proper brothel, the proprietor helped himself to most of the profits.
“If you are trying to ascertain whether there is a woman, aside from Mrs. Pike, that Vessey retains a particular interest in, Tom’s would be an excellent place to start.”
* * *
From the outside, Tom’s bagnio gave every appearance of being an aristocratic townhome. Inside was much the same, boasting luxurious furnishings with gleaming surfaces, the air tinged with notes of lemon and beeswax.
The butler who answered the door escorted Atlas to a well-appointed drawing room with plush furnishings and original artwork gracing the walls. Atlas, who had never been inside a brothel before, had expected something far less decorous. Running a bagnio was obviously a profitable enterprise.
“Mr. Catesby.” A well-dressed man, who would not have looked out of place in any of Mayfair’s finest gentleman’s clubs, hurried into the room, with Atlas’s calling card in hand. He was about Atlas’s age, with smiling eyes and a few extra pounds around the middle. “I am Tom. Welcome! I do hope you have not been kept waiting for overlong.”
“Not at all. I was just admiring your paintings.”
“I am gratified that you find them pleasing. Might I offer you a brandy?”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps you prefer whiskey?”
“Nothing at the moment, thank you.”
“I see.” A knowing look came over Tom’s face. “Perhaps you would like a look at the book?”
Atlas presumed Tom referred to the ledger containing the names of accommodating women. “Yes, I believe I would like to see your book.”
Tom produced a surprisingly small notebook from his pocket. “I presume you are interested in nothing but the finest we have to offer.”
Atlas held out his hand. “May I?”
Tom handed the book over and stood silently as Atlas flipped through the pages. The handwriting was neat and contained. All of the names appeared to have been written by the same hand. He turned one page and then another. He recognized none of the names, not that there was any reason that he should.
“Do you see anything of interest?” Tom inquired. “We offer something to all tastes.”
“Hmm. There is such variety.” Atlas regretted not asking Charlton to accompany him. He had no idea how to conduct himself when it came to transactions of the flesh.
“Perhaps you could tell me what you are looking for.” Tom pointed to names on the list. “Miss Jones is a strong, plump girl, very eager to please. I am told that Mrs. Baker is very lusty, a very agreeable congress.” He paused. “Perhaps you prefer a virginal beauty. A young girl fresh from the country?”
Atlas cut the man off. “No, that shall not be necessary.” His cheeks burned as if he’d spent the day basking in the intense Mediterranean sun. “My brother-in-law, the Marquess of Vessey, recommended a particular woman that he … er … very much enjoyed. But I fear I have forgotten her name.”
Tom nodded knowingly. “You would be speaking of Edith Hayes. His lordship has enjoyed sharing Mrs. Hayes and her wide array of talents with other members of his family in the past.”
“He has?” Atlas’s stomach churned at the thought of that sort of familial bonding.
“Shall I send for Mrs. Hayes? She resides nearby.”
Atlas thumbed through the book, looking for her name. He soon came upon it, but as with the others, there was no direction for her. The only way to expediently find Mrs. Hayes was through Tom’s.
“Yes, please do call for her.” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. “And while I wait, does that offer of a whiskey still stand?”
* * *
Within the hour, Atlas found himself alone with Edith Hayes in a sumptuous above-stairs chamber.
She was at least a decade younger than Wendela Pike and could not be described as beautiful, but her skin was smooth and her brown gaze clear and bright, and the intensity with which she stared straight into Atlas’s eyes made him feel as if he was the only person in the world. “I understand that Lord Vessey sent you.”
“Not exactly.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey and set the glass down a bit more forcefully then intended.
“It does not matter who sent you.” She gave him a look of pure sensual desire, her musky perfume permeating the air. “Let us begin, shall we?” She drew off her cape, revealing an expensive-looking silk grown that showcased pale shoulders and other admirable womanly assets. “What would you like? You will find that I can be very accommodating.”
He gestured toward the bed. “Not that.” He was eager to stop her practiced seduction. Atlas could see why this woman might appeal to Vessey. She had a way of making a man feel seen, as if he were the most appealing person she’d ever met. “
I am here for information, and I am prepared to pay your usual fee in order to obtain it.”
“Is that so?” She eyed him speculatively. “What sort of information?”
“I am looking into the death of Mrs. Wendela Pike.”
She dropped any pretense of wanting to bed him in much the same manner as she’d dropped her cape. The chemistry she’d created between them fizzled like a brilliant candelabra doused with a bucket of water. “I will take double my usual fee, and you may ask anything you like,” she said matter-of-factly, all business now. “However, to be frank, I doubt I will be of much assistance. I never met Mrs. Pike.”
“But Vessey does visit you here regularly?”
“He does.”
“How long have you been … associated … with the marquess?”
“I suppose he has been coming to see me weekly for about eight years now.” She smiled with supreme confidence. “I am very good at what I do.”
Atlas believed her. “Did he ever speak of becoming your protector?”
She pondered the question. “Are you thinking that Lord Vessey killed Mrs. Pike in order to create a place for me in that grand house of his?”
“I am wondering about that possibility, yes.”
She laughed and made herself comfortable, lounging on the bed, propping her curvaceous form up on one elbow. “No, he never talked of an exclusive arrangement, but even if he had, I would never have agreed.”
“Why ever not?”
“I enjoy having control over my own affairs. I would only take on a protector who could guarantee my future.”
“In the form of an annuity.”
“Exactly. And Lord Vessey was well known to be rather frugal with Mrs. Pike.”
“Do you believe him capable of violence?”
“Against Mrs. Pike?” She shrugged her snowy shoulders. “I believe he was truly fond of her, but one never knows. If you would care to know about his amorous abilities and his sexual preferences, I can be of much more assistance. Now if you inquire about that son of his—”
Atlas could not have been more surprised. “You are acquainted with Vessey’s son?”