Chapter 9
Nell’s stomach tightened with mingled fear and anticipation. They hadn’t been permitted entry into the previous two brothels. Not even for a fee. But Nell’s beauty was a different form of currency. She hoped it might prove sufficient to get them the answers they were looking for.
Holding fast to Miles’s arm, she accompanied him up the steps and through the front door into a small tiled hall decorated with vulgar plaster statuary. They were met by the overpowering stench of eau de cologne. It permeated the air, a sweet-sickly odor, with a hint of foulness underneath.
“Through here.” Mrs. Pritchard motioned for Miles and Nell to precede her through a doorway off the hall. It led into a dimly lit parlor.
Know your surroundings. Know your opponent. Know yourself.
The words echoed in Nell’s mind as she swept a discreet glance over the room, taking a careful inventory of the gilded French furnishings, glittering pink crystal lamps, and faux Renaissance paintings (middling reproductions of Venus in all her forms) that adorned the crimson-papered walls.
It was so much garish luxury for such a dilapidated place.
And yet, there was no carpet on the floor, only a vague rectangular outline on the wood of where a carpet had recently been.
Mrs. Pritchard brushed past them to turn up the oil lamps. She motioned to a red velvet upholstered settee with a sardonic flourish. “Do sit down. We’re not used to entertaining the gentry.”
Nell watched the woman from beneath her lashes as Miles escorted her to the settee.
The gown Mrs. Pritchard wore was made of patterned silk velvet, the seams finished with exceptional skill.
It was all of a piece with her coiffure—a lavish style of padded rolls and false curls that Nell suspected could only be attained with the assistance of a lady’s maid.
Expensive accoutrements for a Whitechapel madam.
And ones that hadn’t always been available to her, judging by the ravaged lines that etched her face, and the unforgiving slash of her tight-pressed mouth.
“Madams is hard people,” Miss Jean had said. And here was surely one of the hardest. Nell had the sense that this woman could order violence at the drop of a hat—or possibly stoop to doing violence herself.
Nell’s fingers curled on the handle of her cane as she perched on the edge of the settee. Miles remained standing beside her.
Mrs. Pritchard sat down in the wing chair across from them, while her henchman took up a place by the door.
“I won’t ask your name,” she said to Miles.
“We’re a discerning house, as well as a discreet one.
We protect our gentlemen’s privacy. As for our girls—we’ve only the finest and freshest here.
If that’s what’s brought you to my door—”
“That’s exactly what’s brought me here,” Nell said. “I understand you often take girls newly up from the country?”
Mrs. Pritchard’s eyes hardened with swift suspicion. “You’re not a country lass. Not by the sound of it.”
“I was once,” Nell said. “I’ve since made something of myself.”
“A striver, are you? I don’t discourage it.
Though you could do with a bit of help in the way of clothes.
You’ll catch no men dressed like a dried-up spinster.
What you need is black lace and silk chiffon, which I’ll provide.
That, and lodgings. All to be deducted from your earnings.
As for that cane—it will disgust most men even to see it.
” Mrs. Pritchard flashed a narrow glance at Nell’s skirts.
“What is it that’s wrong with you? Is it your leg?
Your hip? Or are your woman’s parts at issue? ”
A scalding blush rose in Nell’s cheeks. “My leg,” she said tightly. “And I assure you, it won’t be an issue.”
“Yet your protector has brought you here to dispose of you,” Mrs. Pritchard observed. “Tired of her, are you?” she asked Miles. “Or is it that she’s failed to please you in the bedroom?”
Nell was too mortified to breathe. She dared a fleeting glance at Miles. His dark eyes were the coldest she’d ever seen them.
“I have no complaints,” he said.
Nell let out the breath she’d been holding. So long as he was willing to play along, they still might hope to get somewhere. “It’s nothing of that sort,” she said to Mrs. Pritchard. “It’s my own entrepreneurial spirit that compels me to strike out on my own.”
“A wise decision, while you still have a few good years left,” Mrs. Pritchard said.
“More than a few,” Nell replied, on her dignity. “I’m but three-and-twenty.”
Mrs. Pritchard snorted. “That old?”
“Are your girls so much younger?” Miles asked.
Mrs. Pritchard’s thin lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “I give the gentlemen what they want, sir. As for my girls, I keep them close. They’re bound to me by contract, just as you’ll be, milady.” Her attention turned from Nell back to Miles. “I assume you’ll be wanting a finder’s fee?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, ma’am,” Nell said. “I can’t commit to an arrangement until I’m confident it will suit me.”
“Nothing to say on that score, sir?” Mrs. Pritchard asked Miles.
“It’s her decision,” Miles said. “I’ll not stand in her way.”
“I see.” Mrs. Pritchard’s mouth compressed so tightly it all but disappeared. “You wish to negotiate.”
“What I wish,” Nell said, “is to speak to some of your girls.”
The woman’s expression turned dangerous. “Did you hear that, Silas? She wants to speak to the girls.”
Silas’s broad form filled the doorway. “I heard, missus.”
“So,” Mrs. Pritchard said to Nell. “It isn’t a negotiation you want. It’s my secrets.” She signaled to her henchman. “You’ve entered my house under false pretenses.”
Nell’s blood ran cold. She cast an alarmed glance at Silas as he came forward. “Not at all, but you must see—”
“I see an upstart madam who’s looking to open her own establishment,” Mrs. Pritchard retorted. “One who wants to steal my trade.”
Silas stopped beside Mrs. Pritchard. He cracked his knuckles, awaiting her orders.
Miles set a hand on Nell’s shoulder. An outwardly proprietary gesture, but one she recognized at once as silent reassurance. Her growing apprehension eased. He might be a newspaper editor rather than an East End brawler, but he was still a man, and one of intimidating size.
He addressed Mrs. Pritchard with all the formidable authority Nell had heard him use at the offices of the Courant.
“What you see is a lady unwilling to sign an employment contract without first discovering if the other employees are content in their positions,” he said.
“I would expect nothing less from a girl of Miss Trewlove’s intellect. ”
“Intellect!” Mrs. Pritchard mocked. “Bless my soul, look at her. As bright as the whist-playing dog at Cremorne, isn’t she, Silas?” She stood in a swish of silk velvet. “You may speak to one of my girls. But only one. And you’ll do it in my presence. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”
“I accept them, of course,” Nell said. She remained in her seat as Mrs. Pritchard swept out of the room. Silas marched after her.
Miles looked down at Nell. “That took a turn,” he said quietly.
“Indeed,” Nell replied in equally low tones. “Did you notice the carpet?”
“The lack of it,” Miles said. “A strange omission in a room where no expense appears to have been spared.”
“A recent omission. There’s still dust present along the edges of where it used to be.” Nell gave him an anxious look. “I have a bad feeling about this place, Miles.”
“You’re not alone,” he said. “I advise that we go.”
“We can’t,” Nell said. “This is our only chance.”
Miles’s expression sobered. He must know as well as she did that there would be no coming back to Mrs. Pritchard’s after this.
Word of their visits to the other brothels would soon reach the madam’s ears.
She’d learn that they’d been asking a very different sort of questions at those places.
Questions accompanied by a sketch of the recently departed Mr. Cowgill.
“It might be,” Miles allowed. “But no information is worth putting you at risk.”
“I can handle myself,” Nell promised him.
Mrs. Pritchard returned before Miles could respond. She was accompanied by a voluptuous young woman in a dyed purple dressing gown. Her pale cheeks were rouged and her hair was colored an unnatural shade of brassy gold.
“Claudine,” Mrs. Pritchard said to the girl. “This grand lady is considering joining our establishment if we can prove ourselves up to her high standards. Do put her mind at ease.”
“Yes, Mrs. Pritchard.” Claudine’s voice was thin, her accent decidedly cockney. She sauntered to the settee, flashing a coy smile at Miles before plopping down beside Nell. “What d’you want to know?”
A dozen questions ran through Nell’s mind. Was the girl safe? Was she well treated? Did she truly want to be here, rather than employed at a shop somewhere, or working as a servant in a respectable household?
But Nell wasn’t here to save this girl. She was here to save another—one younger and more vulnerable.
She moistened her lips, fully aware that Mrs. Pritchard and her henchman were listening. “How long have you worked here?” she asked.
“Six months,” Claudine replied.
“That isn’t very long,” Nell remarked. “Are most of the girls as new as you are?”
“Some newer,” Claudine said.
Mrs. Pritchard gave the girl a warning look.
Claudine shifted in her seat. “Anything else?”
“Do you have your own room?” Nell asked.
“All my girls have their own rooms,” Mrs. Pritchard answered.
Nell suppressed a burst of frustration. “And, ah, are you comfortable in it?”
“It’s well enough,” Claudine said.
“And safe enough, I trust? Despite being in this part of the East End?” Nell searched the girl’s face. “What I mean is, you have no exposure to violence of any kind?”
Claudine flashed an uncertain glance at Mrs. Pritchard.
“Silas keeps the door,” Mrs. Pritchard replied for her. “Our guests know better than to trifle with him.”
It wasn’t the answer Nell was looking for.
Naturally, a bully boy protected the house from customers who might turn violent.
But what of the violence administered from within?
Did Mrs. Pritchard ever hurt the girls? Did Silas?
The scratch on his face would seem to indicate that he did.
And that he’d recently paid the price for it, too.
“If there’s nothing else,” Mrs. Pritchard said with visible impatience.
“A few more questions, please,” Nell begged.
Mrs. Pritchard’s lips pressed tighter. She reluctantly motioned for Nell to continue.
Nell cast about for something else she could ask. Something that might reveal more than what she and Miles already knew. At last, she pounced on it.
“What about your days off?” she inquired.
Claudine shrugged. “I get a half day on Wednesdays.”
“All my girls do,” Mrs. Pritchard informed Nell. “A half day, on alternating days of the week, guaranteed. You’ll be granted the same.”
Nell ignored her. “What do you do on your days off hereabouts?” she asked Claudine. “You can’t go far, with so little time at your disposal.”
“Don’t need to go far when the Red Lion is right around the corner,” Claudine said. “Mr. Drews stands us a pint for brightening up the place. All us girls go there on our afternoons off, excepting the young ones.”
Mrs. Pritchard snapped her fingers. “That’s enough, Claudine,” she said sharply. She pointed to the hall. “Back to your work.”
Claudine stood. Her gaze lingered on Nell for a moment before she turned and strolled out of the room.
Exchanging a brief but significant glance with Miles, Nell rose from the settee. She gave her skirts a brisk shake over her wire crinoline. “You have given me much to ponder, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Pritchard. “I shall be in touch as soon as I come to a decision.”
Mrs. Pritchard surged to her feet. Fresh suspicion blazed in her eyes. “Wait a moment.”
Nell didn’t wait. Gripping tight to her cane, she walked purposely from the parlor, Miles at her side.
Mrs. Pritchard and her henchman came after them. “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “This has been some manner of ruse! I see it now. False pretenses, indeed.”
Nell’s pulse raced. She quickened her step, but the hitch in her gait inevitably slowed her stride.
“Stop, I said. You will answer to me!” Coming up behind Nell, Mrs. Pritchard caught her hard by the arm. She wrenched her around in a painful grip.
Nell spun on the woman in a swirl of skirts and, lifting her cane with a practiced flick of her hand, pressed the tip of it straight against Mrs. Pritchard’s heart.
The madam stopped in her tracks with a sharp intake of breath. “Silas!”
The bully boy charged forward to intervene.
Miles deftly moved in front of him, placing himself squarely between the hulking brute and Nell. “Not another step,” he warned.
Silas came to a stumbling halt.
Seeing her henchman intercepted, Mrs. Pritchard reached to jerk Nell’s cane away from her chest herself.
“I wouldn’t,” Nell advised her. She brushed a gloved finger over the hidden button beneath the raven’s head handle. “There’s a mechanism at my fingertip that will release a spring-loaded blade from the end of this stick. I should hate to conclude such a cordial meeting by running you through.”
Silas gaped at her. So, too, did Mrs. Pritchard. Possibly Miles as well, though Nell wasn’t perfectly sure. Her entire attention was fixed on her adversary.
“We’re going to take our leave now,” Nell said steadily. “If that’s agreeable to all parties?”
Mrs. Pritchard raised both her hands in a show of surrender. Her face was mottled with strangled fury. “Who are you?”
“A schoolteacher,” Nell said. She returned the tip of her cane to the floor. Miles was immediately at her side. Slipping her hand through his proffered arm, she turned with him and exited the house.