Page 50 of Honor Unbound

Mr. Burton’s face creased in relief when we exited the house. He opened the carriage door and handed us in. “Where to now?”

“I need to attend to my club.” I ran through all the questions that remained unanswered. “But I have a task for you.”

Burton rested his arm on top of the carriage. “Yes?”

“We need to know how Miss Rogerson’s handkerchief got to Mr. Trent’s study.” Had she been there and lied about it, or had Mr. Trent brought it to his house himself for some reason? “See if you can do a better job of running her down than I did.”

“We’ll find her.” Marie nodded stoutly.

I exchanged a look with Burton. “I think this task is better accomplished by Mr. Burton alone, my dear. Peg Rogerson will probably be more communicative with a handsome young man without you along.”

That apparently was the wrong thing to say. “I see.” The iciness in Marie’s voice lowered the temperature of the coach several degrees.

I settled back on the velvet seat, trying not to feel annoyed. I couldn’t be always stepping gingerly on account of the girl’s feelings, not when there was a killer to be found.

And it felt like each day that passed without answers, the more likely the murderer was going to escape justice for his crime.

Chapter Nineteen

Brett

Brett could neverhave conceived that watching a whorehouse all night would be a duty of his employment. After witnessing a depressing number of men enter and exit the front door, he was finally rewarded. The local errand boy, one who seemed much too knowledgeable about the goings-on in a brothel, straightened from the box he was sitting upon and jerked his head toward a woman walking down the street to the building.

Miss Peg Rogerson, Brett presumed.

Brett straightened from his own post, a wood beam supporting the small portico over the morality committee’s office, and crossed the street to meet her. “Miss Rogerson?”

She was quick to replace the startled look on her face with an overly welcome smile. “Yes? You’re an eager one, aren’t you?” She examined him from his boots to his top hat. She must have noticed that his garb wasn’t of the highest quality, for her smile dimmed.

“I was hoping to speak with you about Mr. Trent.” When she started for the door, he slid in front of her. “I’ll pay you for your time.” He actually didn’t know what the going rate was for a London light-skirt, but Lady Mary had given him provisions.

“Pay. To talk.” Raising her eyebrows, she chuckled harshly. “Sure.” She swept her hand toward the door of the bawdy house. “Let’s go talk.”

Heat crept up the back of Brett’s neck. If it weren’t for Marie, he wouldn’t have minded entering the lion’s den so to speak. But he had an intended now. Marie might not know she held that position, but Brett was certain of it. And a man with a betrothed shouldn’t enter into whorehouses, even if it was only for conversation.

“Perhaps a coffeehouse?” Those usually stayed open late.

“How much are you paying me?” She held out her hand, palm up.

He dropped a coin in it.

Her expression didn’t change.

He dropped another.

She snapped her hand closed. “There’s a tavern around the corner. You can buy me an ale.” And she turned on her heel and led him away.

Brett flipped a coin to the boy. “Thanks, Harold.” He followed after the prostitute. Miss Rogerson made a lovely figure, he had to admit. She didn’t have the bounteous curves that his Marie did, and her strawberry-blonde hair was just a paler imitation of Marie’s fiery curls, but he could understand why she had appealed to Trent.

Many men agreed, as several eyes latched on to Miss Rogerson when they entered the Leaning Oak. This obviously hadn’t been her first time in this establishment as once she’d led him to a corner table, the barman came without asking and placed two pints before them.

“Thanks, Bob.” She nodded to the proprietor and raised her glass with her left hand.

“How’s your arm?” Brett asked. He took his own sip and pursed his lips. Not bad.

“You know about that, do you?” She rolled her right shoulder. “It won’t ever be the same. He should have given me something. Restitution,” she enunciated. Her eyes had a slightsheen to them, and Brett realized this might not be the first pint she’d imbibed that night. “I deserved rest-i-tu-tion.”

“And Mr. Trent wasn’t willing to provide it?”