Page 27 of Death of a Courtesan
Chapter Six
Riley’s first action when he got back to London was to check up on the investigation’s progress. There was none. By the time he returned to his Sloane Street townhouse he barely had time to change before keeping his dinner engagement with Amelia Cosgrove. His man, the inaptly named Stout, had Riley’s evening clothes and a hot bath ready for him.
‘Been gallivanting about on the railways I see, my lord,’ he said, turning up his nose at the sooty stains on Riley’s formerly pristine white shirt.
‘Having a whale of a time, Stout,’ he replied, stripping off the rest of his clothing and sinking gratefully into the steaming water. ‘I’m short of time. Can I get away without shaving?’
Stout pressed his lips together and looked at Riley with an expression of disdain.
‘Best shave me whilst I’m still in the tub then.’ Riley sighed, knowing better than to earn Stout’s disapproval by flouting his exacting standards. Stout was inordinately fond of Amelia and would consider it to be a stain on his own character if Riley looked anything other than perfectly turned out. She was one of the few people who could persuade Riley’s dour servant to occasionally smile, or to speak when words were not strictly necessary. Despite his lack of social graces, Stout was loyal to a fault, had connections in the most unlikely of places and often helped with Riley’s official investigations, using his ability to blend into certain areas where officialdom was not welcome.
‘What do you know about specialist brothels, Stout?’ he asked as his servant lathered Riley’s jaw.
Stout didn’t show any reaction to the odd question. ‘Care to be more specific, my lord.’
Riley gave Stout a brief account of his current investigation, managing to elicit a brief snort of amusement from his man when he learned of Danforth’s predilections.
‘I’ve heard of Mrs Sinclair,’ he said, stropping the blade of his razor. ‘She has a reputation for keeping a clean house and catering for the more discerning client. But the services her girls provide don’t come cheap.’
‘Adelaide was arguably her most valuable asset. How much would an hour in her company set a man back?’ Riley belatedly realised that he should have obtained that information from Mrs Sinclair, even though he was unsure what bearing it might have on his investigation. He let out a slow whistle when Stout told him, thinking it better not to enquire how his man could have provided him with such a precise answer. Riley had no idea how Stout occupied his leisure hours and had no intention of asking him. He was entitled to his privacy.
‘How much would Adelaide receive, do you suppose?’
‘Half. That’s the usual arrangement.’
‘So setting up on her own, or accepting a more generous percentage from a competing madam keen to steal a march on Mrs Sinclair would be an attractive proposition? Perhaps that was what she intended to do. Mrs Sinclair found out, couldn’t persuade her to stay and so eliminated her, or arranged for someone else to do the eliminating.’
‘It’s certainly a cutthroat business,’ Stout agreed, ‘but would she do the deed on her own premises and leave the poor girl there for all the world to see? Wouldn’t help her business, I don’t expect.’
Stout wielded a razor perilously close to Riley’s own throat as he spoke, so Riley thought it wise not to nod, and merely grunted. ‘Take yourself out this evening, Stout,’ he said, when the razor was out of harm’s way, ‘and see what’s being said about the death of Adelaide. I dare say word has spread by now.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Who is Mrs Sinclair’s main competitor in the specialist market?’
‘Mrs Arnold, in Half Moon Street. She opened for business a few years ago and I think she stole a few of Mrs Sinclair’s girls. There has been open warfare between them ever since.’
‘Has there indeed! Thank you, Stout. Thank you very much.’
‘I live to serve.’
Further conversation was rendered impossible by the swishing of Stout’s razor and its renewed proximity to Riley’s throat. Recollections of the cause of Adelaide’s death were still fresh in his mind and he had no desire to endure a similar fate.
A few minutes later, shaved, bathed and dressed in his evening clothes, Riley inspected his image and nodded his satisfaction. His dark hair, a little too long, fell across his cynical grey eyes, giving him a rakish appearance, of which his mother thoroughly disapproved. He looked as tired as he felt, but was sure that Amelia’s beguiling and always challenging company would revive him.
‘Thank you for making me look presentable, Stout.’
‘Have a pleasant evening, my lord.’
Stout helped Riley into his coat before handing him his hat and gloves. Riley strode through the door that Stout opened for him and took himself off to walk the short distance through the light yet persistent drizzle to Amelia’s house in Chelsea. Stout, he knew, was bound for less respectable parts and would blend in with his surroundings effortlessly, speaking little, missing nothing. Riley chuckled to himself, concluding that Stout couldn’t possibly possess such precise information about London’s demimonde unless he spoke from experience. He found it hard to imagine his fastidious manservant relaxing his standards to the extent that he would place himself in someone else’s hands, ceding control in the pursuit of pleasure. But then again he was a man, with needs that would require satisfying, just as Riley’s did. He could afford the exclusive services of a courtesan. Most men could not.
Amelia’s butler Norris admitted Riley only ten minutes after the agreed time. He found his hostess looking as lovely as always, clad in a strawberry-coloured gown of changeable silk that bared her shoulders and was cut low enough to display a tantalising glimpse of her breasts. Her smile when Riley walked into her drawing room lit up her lovely features and took his breath away. He felt the travails of the day slipping from his shoulders and wondered, not for the first time, what prevented him from proposing to her. If she agreed to be his wife, he could look forward to her company every evening and would have a reason to…well, to live for something other than his work.
He was sorely tempted, but Amelia’s attitude deterred him. She had made it clear that she had no interest in marrying again after a less than happy first marriage. Keen as she was to see him married, Riley’s mother had made it equally clear that she would not approve if Amelia was his choice. She had been married before and that union had been childless, so his mother would assume that Amelia was barren. Riley might well be required to sire the next Marquess of Chichester, his brother’s only son being of a sickly disposition. In his mother’s biased opinion, regardless of Riley’s feelings for her, Amelia would not be a risk worth taking.
Be that as it may, his mother’s views wouldn’t prevent Riley from following his heart. Perhaps it was the prospect of rejection that held him back, or the conflict that would be created between his duties at the Yard and his obligations as a husband. He would no longer be free to please himself if he had a wife’s interests to consider. There again, he felt comfortable in Amelia’s company simply because she didn’t try to ensnare him—the only unmarried woman of his acquaintance who did not. Best leave matters as they were and not rock the boat, he reluctantly decided. If he suspected that she had taken an interest in another man, then he would reconsider his strategy.
‘I apologise for being so tardy,’ he said, kissing the back of her hand and holding onto it for a protracted period. ‘I hope I have not disrupted your arrangements.’
