The Royal Occult Bureau

by Barbara Russell

“It’s unusual for a client to ask a girl out, but Charlotte seems particularly fond of this man for some reason.”

  The brougham rolled off, the front lamp swaying right and left. My heart clenched for Charlotte.

  “Did anything unusual happen recently?” His breath feathered against my cheek, and a traitorous flutter started in the pit of my belly.

  Even his breath smelled good. No stench of alcohol, tobacco, or opium. Not even a clergyman was so pristine. Besides, some of our clients were God’s ministers.

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Do you mean aside from a client who paid a small fortune to sit in my armchair?”

  I might be wrong, but I could swear that a corner of his mouth quirked up.

  “Aside from that.” He frowned while leaning closer to the window.

  “This is a whorehouse. Unusual things are our bread and butter. You have to be more specific.”

  He gave a shrug that caused his shoulder to touch me. “Anything that comes to your mind.”

  The cool, measured tone of his voice and the menacing calm of his posture were a stark contrast with the manners of my clients. Mr Blond’s attitude fascinated and infuriated me at the same time. I wanted to shake him and demand him to tell me what he was thinking.

  I decided to indulge him. “Well, Wheezer—”

  “Wheezer?” He turned his attention to me.

  “We call this man Wheezer because he keeps panting hard while dirty-puzzling. He’s a flapdoodle if you ask me, completely incompetent in the art of sex. I can hear him even when he’s with Fanny in the other room, so hard he breathes.”

  A golden brow shot up. “And?”

  “He’s one of the easy clients. Everything is done in a matter of minutes, but last time, he exhausted Charlotte, apparently. In fact, she grew impatient with him and almost threw him out of her room.” I glanced at the window again. Bertie might be an exceptional good lover if Charlotte was so crazy about him.

  Mr Blond didn’t smile. If anything, he became even more brooding.

  “And then there was the . . . bird.” I pointed at the window.

  His head snapped towards me. “What bird?”

  “A black thing, faster than a street urchin snatching coins. It scratched the wooden frame of my window this morning.”

  “Where?” The urgency in his voice shot a thrill up my neck.

  “I’ll show you.” I fumbled with the latch until I opened the window.

  A gust of cold air rushed inside the room as if it’d been waiting for this moment to enter.

  “Here.” I touched the rough spot where the bird had carved the odd circle in the wood.

  Mr Blond slipped behind me, his hard chest almost pressing against my back. His fingers touched around the spot.

  He drew a breath and stilled. “Hellfire.”

  “What is it?” I spun and found myself inches from him. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “Shadows,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  He leaned over the window and searched the street, muscles tensing. “You said that it’s unusual for clients to ask a girl out?”

  “What does it have to do with anything?”

  “Answer me, please.” Now he sounded like a copper.

  I exhaled sharply. “Yes. I think it’s the first time I see a client taking out one of us.”

  “Stay here.”

  Another order, but I didn’t have time to protest because he stormed out of the room.

  “Where are you going?”

  The answer was the door shutting.

  ~ * * ~

  AFTER MR BLOND LEFT, I pressed two fingers on my pounding temple. The man was as mad as hops. Bedlam was surely missing one of its patients.

  Another chilly gust rushed inside, and I closed the window when a shadow flickered in the street next to entrance of the public park in front of De Luna House.

  A man in a dark cloak stood on the opposing pavement, hidden by the darkness. Only the flapping of his coat gave away his presence. He stepped out of the shadow, and the light of a streetlamp hit him. From his build and the cast of his shoulders, he might be the dark-haired man who had come with Mr Blond.

  I pulled the curtains tight and faced my empty bedroom.

  Maybe Mr Blond was right. I should enjoy this break in the routine. In his hurry, he’d forgotten his coat. It lay on the armchair, and yes, curiosity made me its prey again. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I cast a glance at the door. He might be here any moment. I had to be quick.

  I searched the pockets like a thief. No keys, no wallet, and no clock. Typical of Mr Blond. My pulse spiked when I touched a piece of paper. Golden letters shone on a pearly calling card. The hard paper was smooth and glossy, and a crown was embossed in the middle.

  R. O. B.

  The three letters seemed to taunt me, to challenge me to discover their meaning. Could they be the initials of Mr Blond? No. The crown would be out of place in a personal card. It might be his working card. Violet had said he worked for the government.

  I tapped the card on my palm and rolled my bottom lip between my teeth. Jean-Pierre was a Parisian diplomat who worked at the French embassy. Meeting English politicians and government officials was his bread and butter. He met the prime minister regularly.

  I had every right to be curious and to investigate. Mr Blond was spending too much time in my room doing nothing. It was suspicious. And what did it mean he wanted to keep me safe? Safe from what? And why had he stormed out of the room?

  Grunts, moans, and thuds filled the corridor when I opened the door. The noises were nothing unusual. Holding the card half hidden under my wide sleeve, I tiptoed to Fanny’s room and put an ear on the door.

  She was stammering in French through a poem I couldn’t recognise.

  “Jay sue,” she said.

  “It’s not ‘jay’, mon Dieu, it’s je suis. And don’t chop the vowels like that,” Jean-Pierre snapped. “You British grit your teeth too much!”

  I rolled my eyes, knocked, and pushed the door. “Sorry to intrude.”

  Fanny, flushed and wearing only her garters, sat on the bed with a book on her lap.

  “Thank goodness.” She sagged when I sauntered inside. She sprawled back on the bed, and her large breasts bounced.

  “My Asia.” Jean-Pierre smiled and opened his arms. “Are you tired of the blond oaf? I wouldn’t mind if you join us.”

  I ignored his comment and showed him the card. “Do you know which section of the government uses cards like this one?”

  His smile dropped, but he took the card and turned it. He was naked too and ready for action, judging by the stiffness of his male part. A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “I happen to know something about this card.”

  “Yes?”

  He wiggled a finger to say ‘no.’ “Everything has a price, ma chérie, as you taught me.”

  Oh, I learned this lesson many years ago when I lived in the streets. “What’s yours?”

  Jean-Pierre patted his lap. “Sit here.”

  Gathering my skirt, I did as told and nestled on his lap. His lean arm wrapped around my waist while his hand slid under my dressing gown and stroked the garter.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t steal you from the oaf all night,” he whispered.

  His hand travelled up, but I stopped him.

  “Tell me about the card first.” In case he was bluffing and wanted to dirty-puzzle free of charge.

  He kissed me and bit my bottom lip hard. “You little vixen.”

  “Well?” I squirmed and rubbed his shaft to torment him a bit.

  His eyes closed for a moment, and he groaned. “It’s a secret department,” he finally said in a husky voice. “Maybe it has to do with espionage. I’m not sure.”

  Espionage? I stilled. Could Mr Blond be a spy? That would explain his warrior-like body and his air of mystery. It didn’t explain what he was doing in my room unless he sus
pected me to be a spy.

  Jean-Pierre’s hand resumed its journey and cupped my breast.

  “Is that all you know?” I asked.

  “No.” He rubbed my nipple gently with a thumb. “There’s something else.”

  “What?” I removed his hand and glowered. Years of negotiating prices and services had made me an expert.

  A huff came out of him. “Femme impossible.”

  “Well?” I teased his shaft again.

  “You know I have a . . . How do you say? An affair with the wife of the minister of defence.”

  Most likely, he had more than one affair with more than one wife.

  “Once, I was in her bedroom when her idiotic husband arrived, and I had to hide inside the wardrobe.” He snorted. “So unoriginal and humiliating.”

  “But he didn’t catch you,” Fanny said, her big brown eyes filled with glee.

  “No, but I heard a conversation. The husband said something about this R. O. B and that he was going to meet its head at 12 Eaton Place. He repeated the address twice because he wanted the wife to hire a cab for the next morning, ready to drive him there, and she wrote down the address.”

  No. 12 Eton Place wasn’t far. I could easily walk there tomorrow.

  Jean-Pierre’s stroking me cut off my train of thoughts. He kissed me deeply while fondling my breasts. Fanny watched us with wide eyes.

  While Jean-Pierre kissed me, I wondered if I should return the card to Mr Blond’s coat. He’d probably notice it was missing. Jean-Pierre pinched my nipple, and I swatted his hand. “Ouch!”

  He smiled and pinched me again. “Punishment, femme. So you learn to take another client in my day.” He kissed me again, harder.

  His hand slipped between my legs and untied the ribbons of my drawers. As his expert fingers stroked my nub, a pleasant shiver made me moan into the kiss.

  There was a soft noise and a click.

  “Asia,” Fanny whispered.

  I broke the kiss that was tiring my lips. “What?”

  A long shadow loomed over me and Jean-Pierre. Mr Blond leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest.

  Damn. Twice in a row. I was becoming sloppy. When I’d barged in here, I forgot to close the door.

  I smacked Jean-Pierre’s probing hand away and closed the dressing gown while trying to slide the card under my sleeve. A hot flush set my face on fire.

  “I’m sorry to intrude again, but I need a word with Asia.” The cold tone of Mr Blond dropped the temperature of the room a few degrees.

  “Rabat-joie,” Jean-Pierre muttered. Spoilsport. “Only he could want you to talk.”

  Swallowing the lump of shame in my throat, I jumped off Jean-Pierre’s lap. If Mr Blond had doubts about my morality, he wouldn’t have any now. The moment he’d left, I’d thrown myself into the arms of another man. He’d consider me a woman with an insatiable sexual appetite. If only he knew the truth.

  I shut the door behind me, staring at my feet. The urge to apologise built up inside me, but on second thought, why should I apologise? He was merely a client, a client I lusted after, but still a client. “What did you want to tell me?”

  As a perfect gentleman, he held the door of my bedroom open for me. “Please.”

  The warmth of my room didn’t bring any relief to my numb limbs. The door closed with a thud, and we were alone.

  Anger flashed in his emerald eyes. His fists clenched at his side, and a vein in his neck pulsated. If he hit me, I’d fight back. Felicity didn’t spend hours training us only to make us look prettier. She taught us how to parry blows and punches. He was taller, heavier, broader, and certainly more expert in fighting, but I’d give him hell.

  His gaze narrowed. “You’re scared.” He stepped closer.

  “You’re angry.”

  He stopped in his tracks so abruptly his boots squealed on the polished wooden floor. “Are you afraid I might hit you?” His tone was amused.

  I stuck out my chin in reply.

  “All right.” His stance slackened as if all the energy was leeching from his body. “I would never do that.”

  Holding up his palms, he withdrew to the usual armchair.

  Relief washed over me. I hadn’t realised how much tense I was until he sat and watched me from the other side of the room.

  “What do you want to tell me?” I asked again.

  “Charlotte. I need you to keep an eye on her.”

  Not what I expected. “What?”

  “Can you do that?”

  “What does ‘keeping an eye on her’ mean?” I always looked after her, but I wasn’t going to spy on her for him.

  His muscles snapped back to tension. “See if she loses appetite, sleep, or weight. If she becomes suddenly tired and quiet.”

  I licked my dry lips. He was describing Charlotte’s situation. “You have to tell me more. You can’t expect me to spy on my fellow whores without a good reason.”

  “It’s not spying.”

  “I need to know what you’re up to.” If he worked for the secret service and was involving me in a dangerous affair, I wanted to know.

  A long exhalation hissed from him. He slouched back into the armchair and rubbed his forehead. “I have reasons to suspect that the man who was with Charlotte tonight is a dangerous criminal.” There was a hesitation before he said ‘criminal.’ “I want to help Charlotte if the man is who I think he is.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  A smile flickered on his sculpted lips, but it lasted a moment. I wasn’t even sure it’d been there at all.

  “You can say that I’m a sort of cop.”

  Blimey. He really was a spy. A cold sliver of fear shuddered through me. “Is this why you are here? To catch this bad man?”

  He nodded.

  Still, it didn’t make any sense. Why would Charlotte lose her appetite? If Bertie was a criminal, wouldn’t he simply kill her? And once again, I wondered what Mr Blond was doing in my bedroom.

  I took a shawl from a chair and wrapped it around my shivering shoulders. “Charlotte already shows the symptoms you talked about. Her main client is . . . Well, I don’t know his name. We call him Bertie because he looks like Prince Albert.”

  Perhaps this man poisoned whores? There were crazy men like that out there. Society always vented its frustration on us.

  Mr Blond rose from the armchair inch by inch as if worried he might scare me. “Did you meet him?”

  “Once or twice.” I shrugged.

  “Have you been with him?” Again, that cop attitude.

  “He asked, but I refused.”

  “Why?”

  So many questions. Curse my damned tongue. I shouldn’t have mentioned Charlotte. “I don’t like him. Every girl here thinks he’s the most handsome man alive, but I think he’s cold, and his eyes are cruel.”

  My answer must have worried him because he pressed a hand over his temple.

  “What does my impression of Bertie have to do with anything?”

  He adjusted his cravat. “When she’s back, I’d like to ask Charlotte a few questions. You can be present if you want.”

  I loitered, fiddling with the shawl. Perhaps I was putting her in danger. I couldn’t be sure he wanted to help her.

  “I swear on my honour,” he said, putting a hand on his chest over his heart. “I mean no harm to her.”

  He sounded honest. Maybe he could really help Charlotte. If she’d been poisoned, we might save her.

  “All right. How do I contact you?”

  “You don’t.” He donned his coat and pulled up the lapels. “When she’s back, just tell her to stay here until I arrive. See you tomorrow night.”

  “Is Charlotte in danger? Did that man poison her?” I strode to him.

  He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. A tingle started when his knuckles brushed my cheek. “Don’t leave your room, stay warm, and have a good night’s sleep.”


  It wasn’t an order this time. Kindness and concern laced his words. But I took them as a ‘yes’ to my question.

  “Why shouldn’t I leave my room?” I asked, a note of irritation creeping in. “It’s barely midnight. Clients are piling up in the foyer as we speak.”

  “Are you eager to go back to the Frog? I paid for the entire night.”

  “But you’re leaving.”

  Pressing his lips, he adjusted his coat. “Be safe. Don’t do anything reckless.”

  With that, he walked out of the room.

  I lingered in the corridor as he went down the stairs. Jean-Pierre’s French curses and grunts of pleasure echoed. He must’ve abandoned his idea to let Fanny read poetry and decided that bedding her was better. Other noises and feminine squeals resounded, but Mr Blond moved silently on his feet despite his build.

  Once the front door was shut, I put the card on the nightstand, sprinted to the window, and pulled the curtains an inch, just to peek outside. Mr Blond crossed the street and joined the man standing behind the tree. They dallied there, watching the street. Mayhap they were waiting for Bertie to come back.

  If I sneaked behind them taking a shortcut, I could listen to what they were saying. If Bertie was indeed a criminal, I wanted to know.

  Six

  COLD BIT MY HANDS by the time I’d run along the alley that led me right behind Mr Blond and his companion. The shortcut went around the house and sneaked through the small park that bordered the street. I slowed my pace to not warn them of my presence, but the gravels of the path crunched under my feet. Clouds obscured the moon, and aside from the blurry shapes of the trees, there wasn’t much else I could see. The wheels of a carriage rattled on the cobbles, and my heart sank.

  Most likely, Mr Blond and the man had called a cab and left. Cursing in a way that would’ve shocked even Violet, I pulled my hood over my head and shoved my hands in my pockets. Male voices drifted from a corner, and I skidded to a stop.

  The wind blew gently in my direction and carried a word: Asia.

  They were talking about me.

  Shifting my weight on my toes, I crept onwards and hid behind the trunk of a large ash tree.

  “What the hell are you doing with her?”

  The voice of the dark-haired man was easy to recognise. It held too much ice to be forgotten.