Page 19 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Are you hungry? Because you look like you ought to be. I’ll swear you’re thinner now than you were the first day you walked into my office.”
“I told you. I’m off my appetite.” His voice sounded peevish even to his own ears.
“Well, you won’t be after you taste what happens when Mrs. Madrigal has her way with a potato and a couple of leeks.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes you are. You had something to discuss with me, remember? I’m going out for supper. If you want to talk to me, then so are you.”
“Fine. Where are we going?” What kind of filthy, greasy establishment would serve supper at this hour?
“We’re going to a whorehouse, Mr. Rivington.”
CHAPTER SIX
Jack Turner was the sort of man who could make a hackney materialize out of thin air even on a side street in the small hours of the morning. Oliver couldn’t help but be impressed. After getting down the stairs, they hardly needed to walk three yards before climbing into the carriage, which was a good thing because by that point it was anyone’s guess which of them was limping more.
“I’ve never been to a whorehouse,” Oliver said, breaking the silence in the carriage.
“Am I supposed to act surprised?” Turner retorted, his face hidden by shadows.
The hackney stopped after only a few minutes, and they entered a narrow building through the back door. “Tell Mrs. Madrigal I’m here with a companion and that we want whatever she has cooking,” Turner told the boy who opened the door to them.
“You can tell her yourself, Jack,” the boy said in an accent Oliver found almost unintelligible. “I’m not a bloody butler.”
“A thousand fucking pardons, Alfie.” Turner’s voice had the coarse edge Oliver had heard in the alley.
Oliver followed Turner down a corridor to the kitchen where they found a woman stirring a pot over the range. He watched in fascination as she threw down her spoon, wiped her hands on her apron and crossed the room to embrace Turner.
“Jack! What happened to you?” She was somewhere between forty and fifty, plump, with graying hair tucked into a cap.
“I had a run-in with a building.”
“You haven’t been here in weeks and now you turn up at this hour. I have a roast on the spit and some soup in the pot, but hardly anything else. Go take your friend and sit in my room. I’ll bring you something in a tick.”
Oliver followed Turner down a narrow corridor to a small room that was crammed with comfortable-looking furniture, the walls decorated with seaside prints. Turner immediately dropped into the chair facing the door. Oliver froze on the threshold, momentarily paralyzed by the decision of whether to sit across the small, round table from Turner or beside him, but Turner used his leg to push out the chair next to his.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Oliver sat. “She didn’t ask who I was.”
“It’s a whorehouse kitchen, not the queen’s drawing room.” Turner was leaning back, his chair tipped onto the rear legs. “Visitors aren’t customarily announced. Although I should have introduced you. If it were known that you frequent brothels it would only do good things for your reputation.”
“Very humorous,” Oliver grumbled. “What’s the name of this place?”
“Madame Louise’s.” Jack removed his hat and tossed it onto the sideboard.
Oliver knew the name from his club. Madame Louise’s was considered to be the best establishment of its kind in London. Indeed, he had heard its cook had been stolen from some or another great house. And the woman had greeted Turner like a long lost son.
Turner, the same man Oliver was about to hire to commit some variety of misdeed.
He decided to broach the topic. “So, the reason I wanted to speak with you—”
“No, stop right there.” Turner brought the front legs of his chair down with a bang. “Wait for her to bring the food and then we’ll shut the door.”
Oliver nodded. Today was to be a day of shut doors, it would seem. He recoiled at the notion, not wanting to be the sort of man whose conduct required secrecy. He wanted to be morally upright, a model citizen, firmly on the side of good in a world where good and evil were separated by a clear line.
