Page 55 of The Art of Sinning
A laugh erupted from him. “Youknowstreet cant, my lovely. That’s not the same as speaking it. You say it with all the academic precision of a professor. Trust me, no one will take you for a street urchin or a dock whore by your language.”
Glaring hotly at him, she slumped against the seat. “You can be very annoying sometimes, you know that?”
“I’m merely speaking the truth. What’s more, youknowit’s the truth. Not for nothing did your governess spend years schooling you on your speech.”
“I suppose.”
“Nonetheless, you should let me do most of the talking. The women will be more willing to answer my questions than yours.”
“Whatever is best,” she said irritably.
“Now that we have that settled—”
The hackney halted before the open doors and windows of Mrs. Beard’s establishment, all blazing with light. Damn. They were here. His questions about Lieutenant Ruston and her connection to the fellow would have to wait.
Thirteen
Yvette watched as Jeremy climbed down and told the hackney driver to wait. Only then did she get a good look at the bawdy house.
Heavenly day.
It was one thing to study the language of fallen women or help them as part of her charity, where the soiled doves were on their best behavior and attempting to better themselves. It was another matter entirely to experience a bawdy house in all its sordid glory.
Hanging from every window was a woman in some state of dishabille. Bared breasts and hitched-up skirts abounded, probably to entice men inside. Through one window, Yvette could even see a couple engaged in a decidedly scandalous activity.
Good Lord.
With a smug smile, Jeremy held up his hand to help her out. “Are you all right?”
She snapped her gaping mouth shut. “Of course,” she said, as if she visited bawdy houses all the time. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s not too late to give up this mad endeavor and return to the ball.”
Firmly, she took his hand and stepped from the carriage. “No, indeed. I’m here for a reason, and that hasn’t changed.”
He eyed her closely but tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her up the walk.
Thank heaven she wore a mask. Otherwise, he would see the heat staining her cheeks and know just how difficult this was for her.
A shout came from nearby and she jumped, but it was only a couple of drunken louts calling to the whores in the windows, who waved cheerily back, trying to coax the men to come in.
Oh, dear. That fellow on the right even looked familiar!
She sincerely hoped she didn’t know him. If she did, she’d never be able to look him in the eye again.
But that made her realize—there might be other men here whom she knew. Perhaps even women. Not all the reformed prostitutes at her charity remained reformed. This mask had better do its job, or she could find herself in deep, deep trouble.
Remembering her purpose, she scanned the women in the windows above, but she’d had only the most cursory description of Peggy Moreton from Samuel, and “a buxom chit with dark, curly hair” applied to half the women in the place.
Suddenly a blowsy female caught sight of Jeremy and cried, “Mr. Keane! I’ve got a hat for you!”
A hat? Was that street cant for a salacious act? Yvette wracked her brain for an alternate meaning to “hat,” but for the life of her she couldn’t think of one.
“What sort of hat?” Jeremy called up, seeming equally confused.
“You know, like the foreign musicians wear,” said the female. “Now I can be in your picture!”
In hispicture? Did the chit mean a painting?
