Page 64 of An Inconvenient Duke

He had to find a way to convince her to stop working with Nightingale. He wouldn’t survive if anything happened to her.

“It is my business if we have to use her to uncover more answers.” Pearce’s voice held a low warning. “If she’s still keeping secrets from you.”

“She isn’t.” Marcus trusted her more than any other woman he’d ever known. “And we won’t use her like that. Not again.”

“We might not have a choice.” Pearce frowned. “We found out where John Porter worked. He was on the payroll there two years ago.”

Marcus’s hand stilled in midroll on his sleeve. His gaze darted to Pearce. “Where?”

“Venus’s Folly. A brothel in Covent Garden. Merritt’s there right now, trying to dig up more information. Ever hear of it?”

He shook his head and continued to dress, tugging on his braces over his shoulders from where they’d dangled around his hips. “There must be dozens of brothels in Covent Garden, and all of them changing their name on a regular basis.”

“This one’s special. Apparently, it caters to influential gentlemen—those with titles, wealth, judgeships, connections—and provides all kinds of entertainments.Allkinds. All you have to do is ask and pay well, and they’ll make whatever arrangements you want. Virgins, whips, ropes…” Pearce bit out, his anger and disgust barely hidden, “Children.”

Good God.

“You name it, they’ll arrange it, even right in your own home to avoid all that bother of having to travel to the brothel in the first place.” Pearce paused. “Or to cover up any other unusual predilections you might have, including beating the woman half to death before tupping her.” His voice turned mocking. “They’ll cater to all your needs, General, from orgies to tamer pursuits.”

Pearce’s words triggered a memory in the back of Marcus’s mind. Tamer…tame.

He wheeled around to face Pearce, a possible connection between Hartsham and Elise rearing its head like a viper. “Hartsham offered to make arrangements for me with women if I wanted them. And not so tame ones, in fact.”

Pearce’s eyes narrowed. “You think he’s connected to the brothel?”

He was damned well going to find out. “Where’s Porter? I want to speak to him.”

“You can’t.”

Christ!He was tired of being told what he couldn’t do. “He’s the only person who knows for certain what Elise was—”

“He’s dead.”

The news struck the air from his lungs with the force of a punch. “When?”

“About four months ago. He was attacked in an alley, his throat slit. His tongue was cut out and nailed to the wall above his dead body.” Pearce arched a brow. “Whoever did it wanted to make a point.”

“Apparently.” Marcus yanked on his waistcoat but didn’t bother with the buttons. “A murder like that didn’t draw anyone’s attention?”

“He’d been in prison several times, arrested for all kinds of crimes, including smuggling. He wasn’t exactly one of England’s finest. Who would notice a man like that, except the men he worked with?”

Elise.Because she’d been purposefully looking for someone with connections to the brothel and the women she wanted to help. Someone with exactly that kind of background. His head swirled with all the secrets she’d kept from him, and he struggled to find a way to sort through them all. “Was there a wife, a lover, landlord—anyone who might have known what he’d been doing with Elise? Anyone else we can talk to?”

Pearce dourly shook his head. “Most likely John Porter wasn’t even his real name.”

A dead witness…a dead end. Marcus bit down a harsh curse. “Then our only lead is the earl.” He rubbed at the knot of frustration forming at his nape. “But why would he be involved with a brothel? What could he gain from it?”

“Blackmail,” Merritt Rivers answered as he strode into the room, dressed head to toe in black and his boot heels making no sound against the floor. He eerily reminded Marcus of those ghost stories adults told children to make them behave, those tales of black wraiths who flew through forests at night under cover of darkness. Dressed as he was, with what was surely a brace of pistols beneath his greatcoat and a dagger up both sleeves, he could certainly be someone’s nightmare.

Merritt nodded his greetings to Pearce, then tugged off his black gloves as his gaze settled on Marcus. “While Pearce was tracking down what happened to John Porter, I investigated the brothel. Their clientele might have been compromised.”

Marcus puzzled, “Compromised—how?”

“I believe that someone’s keeping records of select gentlemen—and even some ladies—who have made use of their special services. A thorough list with names, dates, and services rendered.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I spoke to several of the women and found a pattern.” Tucking his gloves inside his coat, Merritt leaned against the wall. “After every special service”—he didn’t bother hiding the distaste in his voice—“the women are questioned, either by a stranger who pays them well for their information or enticed from them by the next gentleman who pays for their skills. They need the money, and they don’t want problems with the clients, so they share what they know, including everything that was done and said. And I meaneverything. Some of it’s depraved enough to destroy lives if word of what these men have done is ever revealed.”