Page 66 of Scandalous

“Tattersalls,” he ordered, climbing into the dark, filthy carriage.

He considered Graaf’s last words to him—about seeing him during the Season. The man had been speaking in jest. Even with Martín’s vast fortune, no hostess would entertain a man with his lineage. And if people did not know his true background now, they would certainly learn of it if he remained in London long enough.

The ancient vehicle rumbled along, and Martín considered the possibility of an ex-slave whore actually moving among the ton. He looked at the signet ring on his left hand. Its red stone winked at him in the dim light of the carriage, as if it were amused by his pretensions.

He was a fool.

He rapped on the carriage roof with his cane.

The vehicle slowed, and the small hatch slid open.

“Aye?” the grizzled coachman asked.

“I’ve changed my mind. Where is the best place to get a meal, a bed, and a wench?”

The old coachman smiled—a gruesome sight. “I’ve just the place for you, sir.” The hatch closed with a snap.

Martín sat back against the tattered leather seat. Ramsay would understand when Martín didn’t show up at Tatts. He would know where Martín had gone.

* * *

The cab stopped in front of a structure that looked very similar to the bank Martín had visited earlier in the day. In general, Martín did not hold with the notion of giving his valuables to strangers for safekeeping, but several years ago Ramsay had prevailed on him to deposit at least some of his money in such an institution.

Martín eyed the bland-looking building. Had the driver misunderstood his request? Or had he heard Martín’s accent and decided to play foul with a Frenchie?

The hatch slid open, and the man gave him a toothless grin. “Here ye are, sir. The Cherry Pit. The finest place in all London.” Martín gave him a skeptical look, but stepped out of the cab.

“The finest ladies in London, sir. Jes up that walk, knock on that black door, and they’ll take care of ye.”

Martín paid the man and mounted the steps. A bewigged and powdered lackey answered his knock.

“Good afternoon, sir. Please, come inside.” He took Martín’s hat and cane and led him up a flight of stairs before depositing him in a drawing room to wait.

Martín poured a drink from one of the decanters on a small table. He took a sip. It was quite fine brandy. A small shelf of books caught his attention, and he was reading the titles when the door opened. For a moment, he thought a young girl had entered the room. But as the woman came closer he saw that she wasn’t a girl at all. In fact, he would place her age close to his.

“I am Mrs. Hensleigh. Welcome to the White House.” Her voice was low for such a tiny thing.

“Bonjour, madam, I am Captain Bouchard.” He bowed over her hand. “I am worried that maybe I came to the wrong place?” He smiled down into her upturned face. She wasn’t merely the size of a doll; she also looked like one. Her guinea-colored curls framed a heart-shaped face with large blue eyes and small bow-shaped lips. She bore a remarkable resemblance to the porcelain doll he’d brought back for Ramsay’s daughter.

But then she smiled, and he realized the only thing innocent or doll-like about her eyes was the color. The expression in them was as old as sin. “I believe you have come to the perfect place,” she countered, taking a seat on the delicate settee and gesturing him to the wing chair across from it.

“This is the . . . Cherry Pit?”

“That is not my choice of name, but it seems to have stuck. Tell me—how did you hear of my establishment?”

“A hackney driver delivered me to your doorstep when I asked him to bring me to the finest establishment your city offered.”

She smiled slightly. “We are unique; there is no denying that. But we are unique in a way that is not to everyone’s taste. The women who work here do so of their own free will. We do not cater to men interested in virgins, nor are there any women here younger than eight and ten.” She cut him a direct look from eyes like blue glass.

“I am not interested in young girls, and I certainly do not want a virgin.” A sudden vision of Sarah intruded on his business negotiations. One virgin was enough to last him a lifetime.

“Excellent. Also, we do not allow any roughness. Any such behavior will be dealt with immediately.”

“Bien sûr, madam. I do not enjoy beating women.”

“I can see we shall deal exceedingly well, Captain. That is quite enough business for the present. Let us turn to pleasure. What is your preference?”

“Your best room, two girls—any but brown-haired—two bottles of your best red to start and one of this brandy, and a meal for three—unless you would like to join us?” He liked the knowing look in her eyes.