Page 36 of The Notorious Lady

“We have a salary as well,” she said with a shrug.

“You mean the owner pays you for your labor beyond what you earn from your clients? That is unprecedented.”

“Yes. I know it can be unfathomable, to share with one’s employees so that they can afford housing, food, beautiful clothes, and”—she gasped dramatically—“even entertainment. I know you don’t deem harlots to be humans worthy of life outside their profession—”

“I never said that.”

“But you implied it. We are not slaves to work for an ‘owner’ and be able to afford nothing but food.”

He tended to agree that workers doing any work deserved a proper wage. But in his time working as a thief-taker, harlots were perhaps the most abused type of workers. At least, they were in the top ten. “Yet, experience teaches us differently, doesn’t it? Most other brothels don’t operate this way. If yours indeed does that—”

“Do you still doubt me?”

“—for all the harlots, then it is in the minority. In fact, the only one in London. I agree that the pay for harlots should be fair. But should it be as high as you’re implying?” He shrugged. “I do not think I do.”

“See?”

“Not because I think harlots are less deserving. I just think that sort of work shouldn’t exist in the first place. I think women should be able to find other work, worthy of their time and talent. Something where they’d contribute to society.” Just like he did. Ford was a self-made man. When his parents passed away and didn’t leave him much in the way of inheritance, he used his skills and talents to catch criminals instead of becoming one.

She let out an airy laugh. “Contribute to whom, exactly? The wealthy? Is that what you would rather I do? Become a maid? Scrub the floors dirtied by aristocratic men? Work from dusk till dawn until my hands are raw and my knees collapse for a pittance and barely any rest days? How is that better?”

“That’s not the only type of work available.” How did their conversation take this turn? He’d wanted to tease her, to goad her, to ruffle her. And he had achieved his goal. But she was far cleverer than he gave her credit for. She was able to argue her point without letting any unnecessary facts slip. Still, she didn’t speak like a harlot. She spoke like a woman in charge.

“Oh, yes, there’s also work in factories, where women sew their hands bloody, or taverns where they carry heavy trays for hours on end while contributing to the inebriation of the working population.”

“Perhaps that sort of work is more grueling—”

She huffed a breath. “You do not say.”

“But women in those occupations have a future. A possibility to find a match, to have a family.”

She snorted. “You think all women dream about is to have a match. Perhaps all we want is beautiful gowns and free nights to attend the opera. To be able to buy art supplies and books and spend quiet evenings by ourselves.”

“I do not pretend to know what women want. But I suppose it is a common human desire to have a person to share their life with. A family. Children. I am more than certain that most working men dream of coming home to a warm hearth, to have a spouse, a companion to spend the evenings with instead of constant loneliness and the cold.” He knew he did.

She paused for a little while, her features unreadable. “Firstly, it is easier to say from the male perspective as you lose nothing when you marry. Women, if we have anything, lose everything to our husbands and become property ourselves in the process. But let’s say you’re right, and a harlot might want a family at some point in her life. Do you truly think no one would take her for a wife?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t.” The words left his lips without thought. Those words truly didn’t require thought, at least they hadn’t before now. He realized that he had offended her, and he wished he could’ve taken the words back. Not because he hadn’t meant them. He did. But because he didn’t want to hurt her.

She shouldn’t have been offended, surely.

Ford always wanted to have a family. And when he imagined his wife, he always thought of a pastor’s innocent daughter or a shy seamstress across the street. Innocent. Shy. Untouched.

Only now did he realize that those words were always a part of his ideal future wife. Why did it matter if his wife was a virgin? He sure wasn’t.

Perhaps he needed to reconsider. Even if he did, it was a far cry between a woman who had had a couple of lovers in her life and a professional harlot.

As if reading his thoughts, Madame Tricheuse picked up his train of thought. “So, you’ve never been with a harlot? Or are you implying that harlots are good for a night but somehow not beneath you for a lifetime?”

He pursed his lips. “I’ve been with a harlot once, but it was a lapse in judgment as a youth. I mean no disrespect. But I could never kiss my wife at the end of the night without wondering how many men she’d pleasured with her mouth.” He was being crass. But Madame Tricheuse didn’t even flinch.

“Her past activities would matter that much to you?”

“I believe one’s past informs the future.”

“What a narrow point of view”—she waved her hand airily—“judging someone for their past. Not even their past mistakes, but the things they had to do to survive.”

“These are called consequences of their actions, darling. I am a thief-taker. What did you expect me to think?”