Peregrine released a mouthful of cigar smoke. His enemy had taken the bait. Something valuable was sure to result. "It will be interesting to see if what London offers will seem exotic to a man who has known the pleasures of the Orient."
From the way Weldon's pale blue eyes narrowed, he was irritated by the suggestion that London vice might be inferior. "I will match the amusements of London against any other city in the world. For the right price, anything can be found here. Anything.'' He ground out the stub of his cigar and stood. "By the end of the evening, you will concede that I am right. Come."
* * *
They took Weldon's closed carriage, which Peregrine was interested to note was dark and anonymous, with no coat of arms or other identifying marks. As they rode through the dark streets, Weldon said, "Under English law, it is illegal for a man to earn money from prostitution, but not for a woman. That is why most such establishments are run by females." He lulled a periodical from a side pocket of the carriage and handed it to his guest. "This might interest you."
The magazine was called The Exquisite. Peregrine opened it and saw that under headings such as "Venus Unveiled," it contained descriptions of women. He skimmed several pages, seeing phrases such as: a delicate blonde, as elegant in her manner as any lady born, but most robust in her performance; and dark-haired, full-figured, an expert in the best French techniques. "Interesting," he commented. "A catalog of courtesans."
"Exactly. It describes most of the better grade of Covent Garden ware and is updated regularly. There is also a listing of night houses, which are taverns where such women can be met. Common streetwalkers are not allowed in. If you want to try one, the best is Kate Hamilton's in Princes Street, but the places I am taking you tonight provide better quality and service."
"You are too kind." Peregrine leaned back against the velvet upholstery. It promised to be a most intriguing evening.
Their first stop was a conventional brothel, unusual only for the lavishness of its furnishings. They were admitted by a hulking porter who looked like a pugilist past his prime. After accepting a warm welcome, Weldon asked if Madam de Maintenon was available.
Immediately they were ushered into the presence of a tall woman of middle years. The madam was heavy, her red hair of a shade not found in nature, and her smooth complexion from a paint pot, but she still had a coarse prettiness. Peregrine guessed that she had been a beauty in her glory years.
After greeting her, Weldon said, "My friend is new to London, so I knew that he could do no better than to meet you."
Madam de Maintenon looked Peregrine over with frank appreciation. In a voice that sounded more of the East End than Paris, she said, "Pleased to meet you, my lord. If you'd like to see my girls, just take a look through here."
She drew aside a brocade drapery and gestured to ward several small circles of glass set into the wall a different heights. Peregrine stepped to the highest peephole and looked through into a sumptuously furnished drawing room where half a dozen young women sat or reclined in skimpily cut, translucent dresses that left no doubt as to their profession. The system was like that in certain Asian eateries, where the customer could choose his dinner from fish swimming in a large tank.
"The girls are inspected by a doctor every week," the madam said briskly. "Wine and a fine supper are included in the basic price. Special rates if you want more than one girl at a time, unless it's a busy night. Then they're full price. We also offer the best costume shows in London."
"Costume shows?"
"The girls dress up and do a bit of acting," she explained. "Most clients find the costumes very amusing. Governesses, schoolgirls, dairymaids, harem ladies, duchesses, women dressed to look like your mother... we can provide most anything." She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. "You're foreign, aren't you? If you're Catholic, you might want to try the nun show—it's particularly popular with papists. We have one gent who likes a shepherdess, complete with sheep, but for something special like that, we need a day or two of notice."
She gave a raucous laugh. "One of my girls can make herself up just like the queen, so if you've a fancy to roger Her Royal Highness, here's your chance. I guarantee that Lisette knows things Victoria never bought of."
"I have no doubt of that." Peregrine wondered how Queen Victoria would react if she knew that her subjects were guilty of such lèse-majesté. "Very intriguing, Madam de Maintenon."
"What would you fancy, my lord?" she asked hopefully. No doubt being called "my lord" was part of the service, like the wine and the fine supper. Dropping the brocade drapery, he replied, "Tonight I am just acquainting myself with what is available. I shall stay longer on my next visit."
They took their leave and returned to the carriage, where Peregrine said, "An excellent establishment of the more conventional type, Sir Charles. Now, what of the more exotic delights you mentioned?"
Weldon laughed. "Not easily impressed, are you? Very well, I shall introduce you to some of the more unusual houses. Shall I include the city's best homosexual brothel in the tour?"
Even though he had expected this, Peregrine's hands curled into fists, the nails gouging his palms. Grateful for the carriage's concealing darkness, he said evenly, "That isn't a primary interest of mine, but it would be useful to know at least one such establishment for possible future use."
The next stop was Soho, at the lavish house of a lady who went by the name of Mrs. Cambridge. Dressed in clinging silk and trailing fur, she proudly displayed her collection of whip thongs, leather straps, needle-pointed cat-o'-nine-tails, curry combs, and much more. Her birch rods were stored in water to keep them supple, and the rooms were decorated with elegant vases full of stinging nettles that could be used if the customer wished.
The lady stroked a thong, saying cheerfully, "Many a dead man has been brought back to life with these."
The lady's pièce de résistance was an apparatus called the Cambridge Chevalet, which she had designed herself. A cross between a rack and a freestanding ladder, it was padded and could be adjusted to a man's height. When the customer was strapped in place for his punishment, holes in the rack allowed a scantily clad assistant to caress him in appropriate places.
Mrs. Cambridge personally administered all punishments, but had employees of both sexes if customers preferred to do the whipping themselves. Men whose interest in the subject was strictly academic could watch for a modest fee.
Peregrine's personal opinion was that life inflicted quite enough pain and only a damned fool would pay for the privilege of experiencing more, but there was something rather touching about Mrs. Cambridge's pride in her work. When they left, he kissed the lady's hand and solemnly assured her that he had never seen a craftswoman with more respect for the tools of her trade. Charmed, she insisted on giving him a copy of a flagellation classic called Venus Schoolmistress, or Birchen Sports.
After stopping at a sporting establishment whose principal claim to fame was that the girls played cards and billiards in the nude, Weldon produced two black half masks for their visit to the homosexual brothel. They arrived just in time to witness a mock marriage. Under a lace veil, the "bride" was a strapping mustachioed fellow who looked like a grenadier sergeant, while the "groom" was a languid society gentleman half a head shorter.
Waiters wearing frilly aprons and nothing more circulated with trays of champagne. His skin crawling, Peregrine found a quiet spot where he could sip his goblet and watch his host circulate among the "wedding party."
He was congratulating himself on how well he was controlling his distaste when someone came up behind and caressed his arm. Peregrine whirled, his expression so fierce that the other man fell back with a stuttered apology. It took Peregrine a moment to master himself enough to offer a contrite nod intended to convey that his reaction had been surprise, not loathing. Probably he was not successful, for the man quickly disappeared into another room.
Fortunately Weldon suggested leaving after half an hour. When they were in the carr
iage again, he said, "I have saved the best for last. If you are not interested yourself, I hope you will not mind waiting while I am engaged."
"Of course not. You have been very generous with your time, and I can hardly be less so." In a tone of bored curiosity, Peregrine went on, "Which of tonight's activities would an English gentleman expect a wife such as Lady Sara St. James to emulate?"
There was palpable shock in Weldon's gasp. His contempt for ignorant foreigners obvious, he said, "No English gentleman would expect a lady to behave like the creatures we've seen tonight. A considerate husband would not inflict himself on a gently bred wife more than once or twice a month. Many men approach their wives only for the sake of having children."
"If that is how English gentlemen think," Peregrine said dryly, "brothel owning must be a very profitable business."
After a cold silence Weldon said, "If it is a business you wish to enter, remember that in England it's illegal for a man to live off the earnings of prostitution."
"As I said earlier, I have no interest in the day-to-day running of any business, even one so deliciously decadent," Peregrine said lazily. "That was merely a general observation. Now, what is this last treat that you have saved for me?''
"An establishment that specializes in young virgins. I would advise wearing the mask again when entering and leaving." Weldon smiled, his teeth a pale flash in the darkness. "Regular brothels are largely ignored, but reformers sometimes kick up a dust about houses like this one. It is wise to be discreet."
After a moment he spoke again, his words surging with excitement. "There is nothing quite so stimulating as a virgin. Knowing that one is the first to see, to touch, to possess..." He stopped, then gave a self-conscious laugh. "But I'm sure that you are as familiar with that pleasure as I. Isn't the Muslim paradise a place where a warrior is promised a harem of ten thousand virgins whose maidenheads regrow every night?"
"So they say, though I know of no one who can attest to the truth of that." Peregrine was not surprised to learn that Weldon considered their last stop the high point of the evening. Brothels specializing in virgins and children were the dregs of the prostitution trade, despised even by other brothel keepers.
He donned his mask as the carriage rumbled to a halt. When he climbed out, his nostrils flared at the familiar, distinctive smell of the docks. This was one of the most dangerous sections of the city.
After Weldon knocked on the door, a small panel slid open, and they were inspected before being granted entry. There was still another burly porter of the dangerous-looking type that seemed to be standard in London brothels.
This house's madam, Mrs. Kent, was a tall, sinewy woman with a thin mouth and cruel eyes. After greeting Weldon with familiarity, she said, "I've exactly what you like tonight, my lord." She glanced at Peregrine, then shared a meaningful look with Weldon. "And something special for your friend as well."
Weldon turned to his guest. "Be my guest tonight. I insist. You will not regret it, for there is not another house in London that can match the delights of this one."
Peregrine hesitated, knowing that more was at stake than simple debauchery. Touring the fleshpots together had taken the two men beyond a business relationship into a tenuous illusion of intimacy. Peregrine had hoped for that because it would bring him closer to his enemy. But now Weldon wanted a companion in wickedness, and to refuse the offer would cause his enemy to withdraw to a more formal distance, probably for good. "That is most gracious of you," Peregrine said in a warm tone that disguised his aversion. "I accept with pleasure."
Mrs. Kent said, "I will be with you in a moment, my lord," and led Weldon away. As he waited alone in the drawing room, Peregrine realized how silent the house was, even the street noises failing to penetrate. The walls must be insulated to muffle sounds inside the building.
Slowly Peregrine turned in the middle of the room, his neck tingling with disquiet as he absorbed the atmosphere of Mrs. Kent's house. Though it was usually danger that roused him to such heightened awareness, what he felt now was not threat but pain and despair. It reminded him of a blood-drenched pass in the Hindu Kush, a place of ambushes and old bones.
Deliberately he suppressed his reaction. Mrs. Kent's house was just another step on the long road to vengeance. He could, and would, do whatever was required to carry him further toward his goal, even if that meant deflowering a young girl to win Weldon's trust. Not an admirable deed, but at least he would do it more carefully than the average brothel patron would.
A few minutes later Mrs. Kent returned and led Peregrine upstairs, the burly guard following. Stopping in the middle of the corridor, the madam said as she opened a door, "A lovely child, my lord. I'm sure you'll be pleased with her."
Just inside the room, he stood silent and watchful as the door closed behind him. A branch of candles on the mantel revealed that the room was furnished with sleazy luxury, red being the predominant color. The bed was a massive four-poster that dwarfed the slim figure lying on a scarlet counterpane.
The girl rolled her head on the pillow and looked toward him silently. She appeared to be about thirteen, with an exquisitely pretty face and flowing blond hair. Her white muslin nightdress was ruched and ribboned like an infant's christening gown, probably a deliberate attempt to make her appear even younger than she was. His face expressionless, Peregrine lifted the branch of candles and carried it to the bedside table.
Her wrists were tied to the bedposts with sashes that had enough slack to allow her some movement. Her gaze was fixed on his face, her huge eyes bleak in the candlelight. Yet she did not look quite the way he expected a virgin on the point of being ravished to look. Perhaps she was drugged, or perhaps she did not understand what was going to happen.
He frowned, trying to read her expression. There was trepidation and resignation, but surprisingly little fear. While Peregrine had never patronized an establishment such as this one, he had a fair idea of what went on in such places. Perhaps, after all, he would not have to do what was expected. His voice very low, he asked, "Is there a spy hole?"
The girl's eyes widened, her gaze involuntarily flickering to a mirror fastened to the wall near the door. Peregrine crossed the room to examine the mirror, and discovered a glass-covered spy hole hidden among the decorative whorls. He pulled out his handkerchief and draped it over the decorations. "Are there any others?"
Resignation gave way to wariness as she tried to decide if his odd behavior might be dangerous. After an uncertain moment, she shook her head, but Peregrine spent another few minutes checking other possible peephole locations.
When he was satisfied that they were private, he untied the sashes, releasing her wrists, then sat on the foot of the bed, as far from her as possible. "You're a fake virgin, not a real one, aren't you?"
"How did you know?" she gasped as she sat up with a jerk.
"Merely a good guess," he murmured, grateful to learn that raping a terrified innocent would not be necessary this evening.
The girl huddled against the headboard, her flaxen hair spilling over her shoulders, fear in her eyes. "Please, sir, don't complain to her," she begged. "I'll do anything you want, anything at all. Just don't tell her I didn't do you right."
Having met Mrs. Kent, Peregrine had no doubts about the "her" that was pronounced with such fear and loathing. He raised one hand. "Peace, child, I'll not complain to your mistress, nor do anything else that you don't want. In return, will you tell me what goes on in the house?"
She scrutinized his face, as if wondering if he were some kind of spy, before finally nodding. "If that's what you want, sir. But promise you won't tell her?" She was surprisingly well-spoken, though the sound of the London slums was in her voice.
"I promise." Casually Peregrine folded his arms across his chest, wanting to look unthreatening so the girl would talk more freely. "Do you play the role of tender virgin very often?"
"Aye, two, three times a week," she said matter-of-factly. "I expect you know how it's do
ne—vinegar steam for tightness, then a bit of sponge soaked in blood. Most men never know the difference, especially if you twitch and cry enough."
"What's your name?"
"She calls me Jennifer, but I was Jenny Miller at home."
"Were you stolen from your family?"
Jenny shook her head. "Sometimes they snatch a girl off the streets, but mostly it's not necessary, since girls can be bought so cheap. My pa sold me for five pounds. Mrs. Kent said that's the most she's ever paid, but she thought I was pretty, worth keeping and using over and over."
"Are most of the girls professional virgins like you?"
"No, there are only two others like me. The real virgins are usually girls who agree to come here just once and do it for a guinea, or their parents sell them for the one night. Some men with a clap think a virgin will cure them, so they usually get girls like that, ones who won't be staying. She says it would be bad for business if her regulars were diseased." Jenny was beginning to relax, the tension going out of her small body. "Sometimes she sends in men who like a girl who looks young but is 'old in sin.' Doing that is more work than playing virgin."
"How long have you been in the house?"
Jenny shrugged her slim shoulders. "Years—three or four maybe. She keeps a record to make sure that the same man doesn't get me more than once. There was bloody hell to pay one time when she made a mistake, till she convinced the gent I was the younger sister of the first one he'd had."
In three or four years, at perhaps fifty guineas per episode, Mrs. Kent must have made a fortune off the child. "How old are you now, Jenny?"
"Seventeen, I think. Maybe eighteen."
"Really?" he said in surprise. "You look much younger.''
"Aye, that's why I'm so valuable," she replied with acid humor. "But it gets harder and harder for me to look like a little girl, even with clothes like these. I'm afraid that soon I'll be sent to a regular house, where I'll have to do more men in an evening than I do now in a week. That'll be hard."