Page 15 of Honor Unbound

I twisted my wedding ring around my finger.

Perhaps all one could hope for was to be remembered as a generally good sort of person. That we’d helped more than we’d hurt in this life. And perhaps, if I found out who killed Mr. Trent, I could add another positive mention to my ledger.

Chapter Six

Lady Mary

“Idon’t believemy eyes.” I stared at the building before me, my mouth gaping. Ernest had stopped the carriage across the street from The Red Chemise, and in front of a modest one story office building. A small bakehouse was on one side of the building and a haberdashery on the other. And right betwixt the two was the home of the London Society for Morality and Decency, the name of the organization painted in neat letters above the office’s blue door.

I’d known the society had kept an office, but I’d had no idea where. Of course, it would be across from the one place I would least want the president of the morality society to see me enter. The neighborhood was slightly worn but the denizens tried to keep it neat. A neighborhood where a toff wouldn’t feel degraded to visit, but where none of his acquaintances were likely to see him. The perfect place for a brothel for men of a certain status.

And I just knew my adversary had chosen his office space across from a den of sin intentionally.

I stepped lightly around my coach, hoping the man in question wasn’t looking out his office window.

He was not. He was standing by my rear axle, a loaf of bread in one hand and a shocked expression on his face. “Lady Mary! You are the last person I would expect to find in this neighborhood. Have you come to see me?”

I blew out a low breath, my stomach twisting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ryder.” I forced a smile up at him. He was a tall man, with an attractive face and bearing, one that had always seemed at odds to me with his person. It didn’t seem right that a moralizer who had planted himself in opposition to me should look so kind. “I must confess my ignorance that your little society was located here. I’m here to visit someone else.”

Mr. Enoch Ryder and his morality society had led a campaign to shutter the doors of my Minerva Club. He’d had a misconception about the activities that took place under my roof. Our relationship had ebbed from the active hostility his attack on my club had engendered to a wary détente. I didn’t think my reason for being in this neighborhood would endear me to the man.

He tucked his bread under one arm and offered me the other. “Let me escort you to your destination.”

I flapped my hand, my reticule swinging heavily. I should have left the can of preserved food in the carriage. “No need. It isn’t far.”

“I insist.” He waggled his arm and grinned, the smile crinkling his milk-chocolate eyes and deepening the laugh lines around his mouth.

My stomach spiraled to the ground. Unfortunately, this man was a match to me in determination. If he meant to escort me to my destination, I saw no way to dissuade him.

“Very well.” I tried not to sound churlish. I took his arm. “I am heading just there.” I nodded to the brothel.

He hesitated. “Surely not.”

“Surely so.” Well, if I couldn’t stop the man from knowing my destination, I may as well delight in his discomfiture. “There is a woman there I wish to speak with.”

He sighed but led me across the street. “This has something to do with the man who died on your doorstep, doesn’t it?” At mysurprised glance, he nodded. “Yes, it is much talked about.The Timesmight not have mentioned you by name, but someone in the magistrate’s office must have let it slip. Tongues will wag.”

I pressed my lips together. Wagging tongues were the least of my problems. “The victim, Mr. Trent, is said to have had a liaison with a woman who works here.” I raised my walking stick and rapped smartly on the brothel’s front door. “I was told the affair didn’t end amicably.”

Mr. Ryder removed his hat, the sun glinting off the silver threaded through his golden-brown hair. “Just because a man dies near your house—”

“At my house,” I corrected.

“—doesn’t mean it is your responsibility to discover what happened to him. Can you not for once leave the matter to the authorities?”

The door swinging open saved me from a tart response. I pasted my most businesslike smile on my face and turned to the man.

If he was the owner of the establishment, he made a poor showing of it. His brown suit was rumpled, his cravat loosely knotted and askew. I peered closely. And a bit of egg had dried in his beard.

I drew my shoulders back. “I’ve come to speak with one of your workers. A Miss Margaret Rogerson.”

The man eyed Mr. Ryder and me with suspicion. “She don’t work fer me.”

“This gentleman is employed here. As steward.” Mr. Ryder cleared his throat. “The manager of the establishment is a woman, a Mrs. McKendrick.”

“A woman who doesn’t have time for your nonsense,” a voice called from down the hall. It was followed up by an older woman with unnaturally dark hair and a bosom I could have served teaupon. “As I told you last month, and the month before that, my girls have no interest in your type of saving, Mr. Ryder.”

“It would be honest work,” he protested. “I know the manager of the factory personally, and he treats his workers with respect.”