Damian didn’t care who saw him entering the establishment, but he cared what the gossips said about Scarlett. “I can speak to Joshua alone if you’d prefer to wait in the carriage.”
They were standing on Russell Street, a mere three feet from the door to the house that from the outside looked like any other respectable townhouse. If the walls could talk, they would tell a somewhat different story.
“I’ll not sit in the dark while those women try to entice you with their whips and chains. Besides, I’d like nothing more than to drag a confession from Joshua’s lying lips.”
“Assuming he’s here.”
A whole day had passed before they received news from Cavanagh that Joshua Steele planned to visit the brothel tonight. Having paid the bawd fifty pounds for the information, Wycliff was to pay a further two hundred to gain entrance. It would have been vastly cheaper to hire a harlot and go snooping around the rooms.
“But the madam assured Mr Cavana
gh that Joshua would keep his usual appointment.”
Damian arched a brow. “The woman would recite gibberish to earn fifty pounds.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the face beneath the dim light of the street lamp.
“What time is it?”
“A little after nine.”
“We shouldn’t have too long to wait.”
They waited for five minutes. Damian considered knocking on the door, but the bawd had insisted she’d not have her patrons witness such a blatant breach of privacy.
Another few minutes passed before a woman—dressed in a purple gown as fine as anything worn by an aristocratic lady—opened the door and ushered them quickly inside.
“I believe the price to visit our friend in his chamber is two hundred pounds.” Damian kept his voice low. “No doubt you seek payment in advance.”
“I’ll not talk here,” the madam murmured. “Follow me.” Scanning them both with some suspicion, the bawd—who looked no older than thirty—directed them to a room further along the hall.
They passed a drawing room decorated with sumptuous gold furnishings. Women dressed like innocent debutantes sat playing cards and sipping sherry while awaiting their gentleman friends. One played the pianoforte. Another appeared engrossed in a book.
“Are you certain we’re at the right place?” Scarlett whispered.
Damian drew her closer as they followed the madam into the room at the end of the hall. “Deviants like to appear respectable.”
Scarlett raised her chin in acknowledgement. “That explains the surprising air of normality.”
The bawd gestured to a desk sporting a fancy ink pot and quill. “Two hundred pounds for the key to your friend’s room, and your word you’ll not mention my kind act to another soul.”
Kind act? The woman demanded an extortionate sum.
Damian flicked his coattails and dropped into the seat at the desk. He withdrew the crisp notes from his pocket and flattened the corners. “And what name shall I scribe?”
The bawd gave a coy grin. “Here, I’m known as the mistress of every manoeuvre, but you can make the notes payable to Iris Blyth.”
Damian dipped the nib of the quill in the pot and scratched the woman’s name along with his signature. “You may take the notes in good faith. Coutts is a reputable bank.”
The madam snatched the notes from the desk. She made sure the ink was dry before folding them neatly, hiking up her skirts and placing them in her petticoat pocket.
“The lord you’re looking for declined the use of our basement baths. Heather took him up to the room on the second floor.” She reached into the porcelain pot on the desk, retrieved a key and handed it to Damian. “Turn left once you reach the top. Give the key to Heather before you leave.”
“How long has our friend been upstairs?” Better to interrupt the lord whilst he was restrained in an embarrassing position.
Iris Blyth glanced at the mantel clock. “Half an hour.”
“Then it’s time we interrupted the party.”
They were about to leave the room when the madam called after them. “I have girls free tonight if you find yourselves a little curious.”