The Price of Temptation

by M. J. Pearson

  “Nah, lad. Tell him it was your back—you’re not used to this work yet, he knows that. Ten or twelve hours shifting crates would put me to bed for a week.”

  “Fourteen hours on Tuesday,” Jamie muttered. “But never mind. The more hours I put in, the quicker I’ll be out of here.” He wrapped the blanket more tightly about him, shivering. “I can’t believe I’ve lost a day’s pay through my foolishness.”

  “Oh, well,” Bertie said, looking away. “I heard something this morning about another job that might suit you. Come on, I’ll tell you about it over tea. Rumor is the pay’s good.”

  Jamie rose and straightened his crumpled clothing as best he could, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it. “Really? Whatever it is, I’m interested. I can’t believe I’ve been in this hole for a week—the quicker I’m out of here the better.”

  Tomorrow you’re out of here. The thought pricked at the remnant’s of Bertie’s conscience. By next Thursday, you’ll be—He couldn’t finish that notion, even to himself. Why couldn’t Julian’s prey be the prissy little bastard the actor had made him out to be? The lad wasn’t half bad. They’d had some laughs at the pub last night. Mister Julian. The dresser forced his thoughts back to his employer. The most gorgeous man in London, and Bertie got to see him naked daily. Better yet, play with him, too, whenever Julian was bored enough. He’d be a fool to risk losing his post. No matter what it meant for someone, who, after all, he barely knew. And would hardly miss.

  Bertie cleared his throat. Jamie had nibbled the bait, time to hook him. “Come on, lad, let’s have some tea. Now, about that job. There’s this foreign lady who runs a business, needs help with her accounts...”

  The weak winter sun was in Stephen’s eyes as he exited the coach, drawn up before the stables behind St. Joseph House. “Thank you, Abby,” he said. She nodded, silent as usual, and began the process of unhitching the horses. Stephen stared up at the back of the house, feeling sick with disappointment and unbearably tired. He supposed it was proper that he go around to the front door, but it seemed far too long a walk. Blast it, it was his house. If he wanted to use the servants’ entrance, he would. He started up the path to the house, barely registering the stakes and twine where the foundations of the greenhouse were being laid out at last, in the back corner opposite the stables.

  Stephen was nearly to the back door when the gate behind him clanged loudly, and he turned to see a woman, hooded and cloaked, hurrying toward him with her head down. Not tall enough for Rebecca, too much so for Betsy, far too spry to be Mrs. Symmons. “Careful, Maisie!” He caught her by the shoulders just before she barreled into him.

  She gave a cry of surprise, raising her face, which looked even more careworn than usual, the eyes red and hot. “Oh, my lord! Please tell me you found Mr. Riley. Please tell me he’s safe.”

  Stephen tried to smile. “I went to the docks, but he wasn’t there.”

  “Wasn’t he?” Maisie swallowed. “I’m terribly afraid that I may know where he’ll be tomorrow.”

  The back door jerked open, revealing an anxious throng of faces. He watched them fall as they took in the fact that Jamie was not with him. Rebecca bit her lip. “You both look like you need some tea.”

  “She wasn’t a bad girl, my daughter,” Maisie said, once they were settled at the kitchen table. “Laurie just got tangled up with the wrong lad. He put her on the streets, he did, and then when he left her, she had no other choice. She went to Madame Novotny. And then...” She stared at the table, a single tear trickling its way to drip from the end of her nose. “Then she just disappeared. Nobody cared.”

  Charles, his warm brown eyes sympathetic, nodded as he figured it out. “You’ve been going out at night, trying to find out what happened, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been working at the brothel, nights.”

  Stephen raised his brows. Fascinating, of course, but what the hell did this have to do with Jamie? “You... work there?”

  “I clean, my lord, and see to the lads and girls as work there.”

  “What have you found out?” Stephen tried not to let his growing impatience show

  “A little. They don’t want to talk about it, do they? But one of the girls told me the last time she saw Laurie, she was nervous. Madame had booked her with a customer who wanted her in one of the dungeon rooms.”

  “The dungeons.” Stephen took a breath. He’d heard rumors that Madame was willing to cater to the darker ecstasies, but surely she’d never allow anyone to go too far. “It’s just for playacting. Games. Isn’t it?”

  “My Laurie went down there, and no one saw here come out. I’ve been trying to find out who it was that took her there, and I finally got a glimpse of Madame’s books for that night. There were three men that booked dungeon rooms: their names are Harrington, Cosgrove, and Taylor. One of them killed my Laurie.”

  “But Jamie—what does this has to do with Jamie?”

  “Someone’s gone and reserved a dungeon room for a whole week, starting tomorrow, and everyone was afraid that meant one of them was going to—to be the one down there. And Madame told ‘em not to worry, that the patron was bringing in his own play thing. A young man nobody was going to miss, what had just run away from the Earl of St. Joseph.”

  Stephen felt his heart stop, for a moment he couldn’t breathe. “No,” he said. “No. We’ll find him first, if we have to—”

  “Stephen, pay attention.” Charles was shaking him. “If there were a thousand of us, we could search maybe a quarter of the city properly. But we know where he’ll be tomorrow. He’ll be brought to Madame Novotny’s—we just have to get there first, and make sure nothing happens to him.” The valet looked around the table. “We can do that. We have to.”

  “But how?” Mrs. Symmons’ mouth quavered. “How can we? What can we do?”

  “Maisie,” Charles said urgently. “Do you have any idea of what time this is supposed to happen?”

  “I don’t know when they’re bringing Jamie in. But the patron is expected by midnight.”

  “By midnight, or at midnight?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I could find out—sometime around midnight. And I still don’t know who booked the room, but I’ll wager it’s the same bloke as did my Laurie.”

  Charles drew a breath. “And we know it’s the dungeon, so—”

  “A dungeon. There’s eight different rooms down there. I don’t know which one he’ll be in.”

  “Right.” Rebecca squeezed Maisie’s hand. “That will have to be enough. Now, we need a plan.”

  Lady Matilda sat at her writing desk, staring at the copy she’d transcribed of her great-nephew’s contract with Julian Jeffries. Stephen’s valet had brought the original to her a few days back, and she’d agreed that it was likely the actor could be caught breaking the exclusivity clause. As soon as possible, she’d contracted a couple of Bow Street Runners to shadow him, and two more to trace the whereabouts of Jamie Riley. Her tame Runners had just made their daily reports, and their information had been interesting indeed.

  Because the two investigations had intersected at the same bookshop in Soho, where a confused young clerk couldn’t understand why he was suddenly of so much interest to the Law.

  Yes, he’d told the Runners, a young man fitting Riley’s description had applied for a position, but he had lost the slip of paper with his address. Mr. Shelby had flushed so deeply at this point that a follow-up was warranted: it turned out that the paper might just be in the possession of a particular customer who had visited the shop at about the same time.

  A Mr. Julian Jeffries.

  Matilda set down the contract with a sigh and picked up a pen, dipping it in the inkpot and beginning to write a note. The Runners had observed young Shelby’s extreme embarrassment at the inquest into Jeffries’ visit, but could not get him to admit that anything untoward had happened between them. Not that it mattered. The clerk’s word against Jeffries’ would not be enough to break the contrac
t. But the larger puzzle was: what could the actor want with young Mr. Riley? Perhaps he just wanted to keep track of a potential rival, perhaps he had worse plans in mind.

  Matilda rang for her butler. “Hargreave, take this note to Bow Street. I need the watch on Jeffries tripled.” If the actor did try anything, he would lead them straight to Jamie. If not, well, eventually she would catch him with another man, and find the Riley boy some other way.

  “Certainly, my lady. I’ll arrange it at once.”

  There was one other consideration, however, and as much as she hated to spend money where she didn’t have to, it was best to have a back-up plan. “Hargreave? Would I happen to have a thousand guineas lying around the house?”

  “Not at present, my lady. Shall I call at the bank, as well?”

  “That would be most excellent, Hargreave.” Her lips curved into a smile. One way or another, she was going to get Stephen out of the clutches of that conniving whore.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Oh, come on, Jamie. Madame needs someone like you!” Even now, making their way on foot to Madame’s establishment, Bertie’s prey was in danger of slipping the trap. He had to think fast and persuade the lad otherwise. “The operation has grown too large. It’s not just the lads and lasses she sells, it’s food, drink, gambling. Money-lending. Madame can’t keep track of it all anymore.”

  “Bertie, I know the money’s good, but...” Jamie seemed to sink further into himself the closer they got to the brothel. “There’s someone I know who frequents the place, and I cannot run into him there.”

  “You could work during the day,” Bertie said. “I assume things are quieter then, with less chance of running into your friend. And tonight, we’ll sneak you in through the servants’ entrance, in case your fellow’s there.”

  “I suppose.” Jamie pulled at the collar of his shirt, borrowed from Bertie for the occasion. “I wish I could like it better, though.”

  Bertie shook his head. “Damn! If I could even pretend I had a head for figures, I’d be jumping at the opportunity. She’s willing to pay out the arse. Enough to get you on your feet right away.”

  “It’s an ugly business, the selling of flesh, Bertie. I don’t mean to be a prude about it, but I suppose I am. Someone—someone I was close to sold herself, and it destroyed her. It would dishonor her memory to—”

  “Oh, well. The poor kids, then.” Bertie sighed. “I was hoping you could help them.”

  “Help... who?”

  “Who do you think suffers when Madame can’t figure out where the money is going? If she thinks she’s short, it comes straight from the whores’ wages. It’s not like they can complain.”

  “I didn’t think of—”

  “I wanted to keep my family stuff personal, but I see it’s time to put all my cards on the table. My cousin Timmy works there. He came to me just the other day about it, about how Madame docked his pay yet again. Tim works hard for that money—they all do—and there Madame is getting rich off their efforts, while they barely have enough to put food in their mouths. Or their children’s.”

  “Children.” Jamie took a painful breath. “Bertie, I—”

  “It’s not even so much that Madame means to cheat them—she just can’t reason from the bar to the beds, if you get my meaning. What comes in from the liquor sales gets mixed up with what comes in from the whores, and when it’s time to pay out the vendors…” He shook his head mournfully. “If the sheets don’t balance, they all have to spend more time between the sheets.”

  “Oh, God. I don’t know. Maybe I should…”

  Bertie put an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, giving him a friendly squeeze. “No harm in meeting with the lady, taking a look at her books. You don’t have to decide this minute.”

  Jamie’s smile was sheepish. “You’re right, of course.” He took a breath. “Are we almost there?”

  “Almost,” Bertie said, looking away. “Almost.”

  Charles grinned to himself as the hansom cab rolled along through the streets, carrying him and Mr. Symmons to their destination. Such a serious endeavor had no right being so blasted fun. After much discussion, the household had decided to approach Novotny’s singly or in pairs. Maisie was going to sneak Rebecca in as a newly-hired prostitute, her job to get information from the other girls while Maisie herself talked to the kitchen staff. Mr. Symmons would meet up with Sam to check out the gossip in the second-class gaming rooms; Stephen would do the same in the first-class equivalents. Abby Sawtell seemed to have a plan of her own, and either couldn’t or wouldn’t disclose it.

  And Charles, lucky Charles, got the job of approaching the young lads for hire to find out what they knew. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to have sex with any of them, but it felt naughty just to play the part of an interested customer. “But you know,” he’d murmured to Sam before they left St. Joseph House, “I’ll expect a suitable reward for my restraint.” The baker’s reply had been non-verbal, and left Charles weak at the knees. He shook his head. And after eight years, too.

  Mr. Symmons stared, stone-faced, out the carriage window, obviously wondering how fate had arranged things in such a way as to send him to a brothel tonight. Charles stifled a smile. The butler must be mortified. Well, they would all laugh about it later.

  His smile faded. Assuming everything went well tonight.

  But it bloody well had to.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The night was chilly, but not too cold as they made their brisk way through the streets. Jamie hummed to himself. He had all but convinced himself to take the position. Helping the prostitutes was a major consideration, of course, but he also couldn’t overlook the benefits of the enormous salary Bertie assured him he would receive. He would move to respectable lodgings, keep himself in clean shirts, find decent and bearable employment. Working at the docks had given him an idea: the port of London was enormously busy. There must be endless need for shipping and warehouse clerks to keep track of the bustling trade.

  And then, once he had established himself, proved he could stand on his own two feet, he would call on Stephen. No, he would write first. He was good at letters. Dear Stephen...

  Bertie nudged him. “That’s the place, over there.”

  “It looks like a hotel.”

  “I think it was. Come on, servants’ entrance is round the back.”

  Jamie followed him to the back door, where Bertie rang the bell. It was evident they were expected; the girl who opened the door nodded with familiarity to Bertie, and gave Jamie a curious glance.

  “Downstairs. Number Three. You know the way?”

  “Aye.” Bertie jerked his head in a nod, his hands jammed into his pockets. He led the way through the enormous kitchens, where an army of servants labored at the cook stoves and cutting boards. Bertie looked at a rack of knives and shuddered. “Come on, keep up.”

  “I’m still here,” Jamie said mildly, wondering what had gotten into his friend. Perhaps he was having second thoughts about encouraging him to work in this place. They proceeded through a doorway and into another part of the building, older, quieter, cooler. Down a set of stairs was an enormously thick door. Bertie wrestled it open. Inside, more stairs led down.

  Jamie held back. “Are you sure this is the right way? This seems to be some sort of sub-cellar.”

  “Madame keeps her office where it’s quiet and out of the way, of course. Can’t be distracted by all that upstairs.” Bertie waved his hand vaguely.

  “I…suppose that makes sense.”

  Another enormous door at the base of this stairwell, too. This one led to a dark stone corridor, barely lit by flickering torches. The effect was positively medieval. Jamie shivered. It was also much colder down here.

  “Number Three,” Bertie muttered to himself, taking an audibly deep breath. “Let’s go, then.” He paused at the third doorway. “Jamie. Remember when I asked you if there was ever something you wanted so badly, that you’d do something bad to get it?”


  Jamie thought he understood. “It’s all right, Bertie. I’ve come to terms with the idea of this place.”

  Bertie pushed open the door.

  “You’re here early tonight, my lord. It’s barely nine o’clock.” The front door steward took his overcoat. Stephen had come in the coach, driven by Abby as usual. When she handed him down he had clutched her hand for a moment, staring at the front door of the brothel. His love was in there somewhere, or would be soon. What if they couldn’t find him in time? What if…?

  Abby squeezed his fingers. “Strong,” she said.

  Did she mean Jamie was strong, or that he should be strong for Jamie? Either way, she was right, and he smiled wordlessly in appreciation. Abby nodded back. For once, their communication was perfect.

  The coachwoman had given the reins to her son, then entered the brothel behind her employer, striding on long legs down the corridor to the left without waiting for the steward. Alex remained outside with the horses, where he could keep an eye on the door and send a message in if he saw anything unusual. The other members of the household were coming singly and together; on foot or by hansom.

  Now Stephen looked around the front hall, finding that it all appeared different tonight. The décor hadn’t changed, it was still quietly furnished in dark wood and rich crimson fabrics, resembling nothing so much as the foyer of a first-class hotel. But always before, it had seemed welcoming. The idea that Jamie would be in danger within these walls made the darkness threatening, gave a tinge of blood to the red upholstery.

  “Early? Yes, but I was damned bored. Any action tonight?”

  The steward shrugged. “Depends on what you’re interested in.” He nodded towards a set of doors on the right that led into the upper-class gaming rooms, where only the titled or very wealthy were welcome. “Too early for much play. We’ve put together a few tables of out-of-town gentlemen if you’d care to join one of those.” Madame kept her patrons carefully segregated by class: the doors on the left-hand side of the foyer went to the second-class rooms, which catered to middle-class businessmen. There was a separate entrance outside for tradesmen and clerks; while common laborers, servants and worse had to go all the way around to the back.