Chapter Thirty-Eight #2
The three of them stepped out of the carriage, Benjamin offering her his good arm to alight, despite the fact that it pulled at the sling holding his injured shoulder immobile. It was foolish that he was willing to inflict pain for such a small gesture, but it warmed her heart all the same.
∞∞∞
The inside of The Velvet Hook was dark and thick with sweet, acrid smoke.
In all her time sneaking around the corners of London as a journalist, Charlotte had never experienced such an oppressive atmosphere, and she had to fight to restrain her gagging coughs.
Wells flagged down a woman holding a tray of drinks, her clothes practically falling off her well-rounded figure.
She was beautiful—or would have been—had she not had a certain hardness about her.
Charlotte had seen it many times. The only way to protect oneself—to survive out here by the docks, in any profession but especially this one—a person had to build up a hard shell.
“Do you know where we might find the proprietress of this establishment?” Wells’ cultured tones sounded out of place here in the lounge of the east-end brothel. “A Missus Fannie Bulette.”
The young woman—Charlotte could see now that she was no older than four and twenty, despite her world-weary appearance—looked up at the well-dressed, obviously powerful gentleman before her in mute wonderment.
Charlotte was surprised when, rather than take the opportunity to flirt with or attempt to seduce such a well-heeled potential customer, the woman simply pointed toward a back room, the door ajar, more dark, sweet-smelling smoke drifting in a languid haze through the opening.
She and Benjamin followed Wells to the door and into a modest-sized room strewn with chaises and cushions, the upholstery worn and patched in places and soiled in others. There was a sense of dilapidation about the place, despite the fact that it was full of patrons.
The men, and some of the women lounging throughout the room, were of diverse origin, some clearly workers straight from the docks, and others in their evening finery, coming from the entertainments of the ton.
It was a jarring mix, though that was not what was most arresting to Charlotte.
No, the most shocking detail—though upon entering a known brothel, Charlotte had prepared herself for a number of shocking sights—was that all the room’s occupants were beyond intoxicated, their eyes rolling back in their heads, the most lucid smiling dreamily at the ceiling, the least nearly comatose on the floor. This was an opium den.
Madam Bulette—or at least the woman Charlotte assumed was the proprietress, given her voluminous skirts and general air of authority—bustled toward them with an entrepreneurial glint in her eyes. “How may I be of service to you, good sirs?”
The emphasis on the word was accompanied by a fetching turn of her chin and a touch of her hair. Though she was likely nearing fifty, the madame had an ageless beauty that she wielded with precision.
Benjamin did not beat about the bush. “We are looking for one of your patrons. Lord Elford. We have reason to believe he is here.” It was a bold statement, considering Charlotte had proposed the location after a brief glimpse at a letter, though she realised it was entirely possible Benjamin had long kept tabs on Freddie and need only whisper into the ether to receive an exact direction as to his whereabouts.
The madame deflated slightly at the rebuff, but she was clearly an avid businesswoman who knew when to play her cards and, more importantly, when she should not.
“In the back. Good, you have come to collect ‘im. Was ready to toss him out—no one has come to pay his tab in nearly a week. Tar ain’t cheap, and it is not as if I am running some sort of charity, am I?”
Charlotte’s heart plunged to her toes, and it was only the force of Benjamin’s hand at her back that propelled her forward.
Despite her distress—or perhaps because of it—Charlotte was overwhelmed with gratitude for his solid presence beside her.
It was selfish, she knew. He should be in bed recovering.
But having him there beside her was the only reason she did not crumple to the ground when they approached a figure sprawled on the chaise lounge in the back of the claustrophobic room.
It was Freddie.
And it was not Freddie. His golden hair was greasy and stained from all the smoke. He had lost an appalling amount of weight since she had last seen him. His clothes were rumpled, and the air around him smelled of unwashed body and dissolution.
Charlotte gasped and shied away before compulsion took over and sent her to her knees beside her baby brother, stroking his cheeks and cupping his head in her hand, whispering his name to try to draw him awake.
After long, miserable seconds, his eyes cracked open, but even then, there was no recognition in his blown-out pupils.
“Come, Charlotte, move aside,” Benjamin said. “We have to get him out of here.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders, and she allowed herself to be moved, watching in a daze as Wells, along with a footman he must have summoned from his carriage when she was fussing over the unconscious shell of her brother, lifted Freddie and carried him out through the maze of opium-saturated patrons.
Charlotte followed, wringing her hands and taking hurried, uncertain steps behind them.
When they crossed the threshold, some morbid impulse caused her to glance back over her shoulder at the wretched room that would forever haunt her nightmares.