Page 57 of The Art of Sinning
“Come on,” Jeremy murmured, and tugged Yvette into the bawdy house.
She struggled not to gape like some country Harry at everything she saw, but heavenly day, how did people live like this? The furnishings were garish, the carpets stained with who knew what, and the stench of human... fluids was barely covered by a pervasive and cheap perfume.
They passed a room where she glimpsed a man bent over with his trousers and drawers down and a giggling painted creature on the couch beneath him. Yvette could see his bare buttocks. She’d never seen a man’s buttocks in her life!
She must have slowed to stare—how often did a woman get to see male buttocks in the flesh, after all?—but Jeremy jerked her forward. “I’ll give you a tour later if you like,” he said under his breath.
Though her cheeks flamed, she said lightly, “Oh, good. Perhaps I can pick up some new words and learn how to speak more like a ‘dock whore.’”
His smothered oath made her grin beneath her mask.
As soon as Mrs. Beard showed them into her office, Jeremy shut the door and got right to the point. “Miss Hardcastle is looking for a former actress named Peggy Moreton.”
Mrs. Beard glanced at Yvette. “What makes you think the woman is here?”
Yvette avoided Jeremy’s intent gaze. “I was told she resided here as... er... one of your girls. And if not here, then in another brothel in Covent Garden.”
“Told by whom?” Mrs. Beard asked.
“Does it matter?”
“It do, indeed. I want to know who’s flapping their jaws about my business.”
The hint of threat in the woman’s voice alarmed Yvette. “I—I cannot reveal who told me,” she said, aware of Jeremy’s eyes on her, “but I assure you I had to pry the information out of him.”
Just mail the letter, damn you, and don’t ask a lot of foolish questions. Better that you don’t know too much about my son, anyway.
Too late. She’d just seen the sort of place where Samuel’s son might be living. She would never give up the quest to find him now.
“If you can’t tell me where you heard it from,” Mrs. Beard said just as the door opened, “then I don’t know no Peggy Moreton.”
Sally breezed in. “Sure you do,” she said, oblivious to her employer’s frown. “She was the one who went by Peg Morris on the stage, remember?”
Wasthe one? Had the woman left the bawdy house? Or worse yet, died?
“This ain’t none of yer concern, Sally,” Mrs. Beard snapped. “Didn’t I tell you to take care of the gentry cove in number eleven?”
“Already did. Got him off right quick.”
Mrs. Beard scowled. “Ye daft cow, ye’re not supposed to get him off right quick. Ye’re supposed to make him wait. That’s what they like. That’s what makes ’em come back.”
“Well, he must have liked it, because he paid me in ready blunt.” With a sniff, Sally dropped some coins on the desk.
Mrs. Beard stuffed them into her apron pocket. “Then go out and get another chap, will you?”
Sally rolled her eyes and headed back for the door.
“Wait!” Yvette cried. “What happened to Peggy Moreton?”
“Why, she got a protector, lucky girl. Said he’s going to marry her.”
“That’s enough, Sally,” Mrs. Beard said. “Back to work now.”
Yvette ignored the abbess to hurry out into the hall after Sally. “Where did she go? Do you know?”
Sally glanced from Yvette to Mrs. Beard, as if finally realizing she’d stumbled into something she shouldn’t have. “I’m sorry, I don’t. Not even sure I remember the man’s name.”
“Go on, Sally,” Mrs. Beard ordered. “You’ve said enough.”
