Chapter Two
The sudden silence in the office percolated into Andrew’s awareness, making him aware that he’d lost track of the conversation… yet again, devil take it.
He straightened in his chair. On the other side of the desk, the woman attired in grey silk was regarding him, her gaze slitting. Framed against the striped green walls of his office, she more resembled a proper matron on an afternoon call than a madam delivering a weekly report to her employer in his infamous pleasure house.
“Beg pardon, Fanny,” he said curtly. “What were you saying?”
Fanny Argent’s assessing gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not like you to woolgather, Corbett. Particularly when we are discussing profits.”
That was Fanny: too perceptive by far. Then again, her keen mind was the reason Andrew had hired her on six years ago. At the time, his business had been undergoing rapid growth as he’d parlayed one brothel into a string of them—with Corbett’s, his eponymous and exclusive club, being the jewel in his crown. Fanny had impressed him with her intuition and toughness, the core of steel beneath her petite brunette exterior.
It was rare to find a bawd who shared Andrew’s own business philosophy: happy employees made for happy customers. Abbess Fanny (as she was known) managed five of his smaller clubs, and whilst she ruled with an iron fist, she also took care of her nuns. She, like he, had first-hand knowledge of working in the flesh trade, and they both understood its hardships. Thus, they took the welfare of their workers seriously.
That philosophy had allowed Andrew to attract the best in the business to work for him. He’d done that not through money alone, but through his commitment to the well-being of his employees from the wenches down to the chambermaids. Every employee of Corbett’s could expect three square meals a day, medical attention when needed, and generous allowances for time off work. His novel approach had riled up his competitors, who raged against the “outlandish” wages and other benefits he offered—and he didn’t give a damn.
Success allowed him to do things his way.
“I apologize, Fanny.” He waved a hand. “Carry on.”
Andrew set down the feather he’d been fiddling with and listened as the other continued reporting on revenue. Against the leather blotter, the white plume appeared feminine and fragile—reminding him of its owner. Primrose Kent seemed to have no idea about her own vulnerability.
He mused that his little chick had undoubtedly grown into a swan. His profession had made him a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and, by any objective standard, Primrose was a stunning beauty. She’d inherited her classic blond perfection from her mama, Marianne Kent, although her eyes—a rare shade of jade flecked with gold—were uniquely her own.
Andrew had met Mrs. Kent fourteen years ago, during the other’s quest to find her daughter. Recalling Mrs. Kent’s fierce determination, he surmised that strength of will must run in the bloodline. Despite Primrose’s vulnerability, she was as headstrong as they came. If last night’s fiasco was any indication, it was going to take more effort than he’d bargained for to protect the girl—no, not girl any longer, he reminded himself.
At the memory of her soft, womanly curves, his loins stirred… and he frowned. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Primrose was like his little sister. His reaction last night must have been a purely animal response—the result of not bedding a woman in… God, how many months had it been?
He’d ended the relationship with his on-again, off-again lover two years ago, and the only thing he regretted about that decision was that he hadn’t done it sooner. Still, it had left him at loose ends when it came to his physical needs. He didn’t relish the notion of paying for sex—yes, the height of irony—and while more than one of the wenches had offered their services gratis, he refused to take advantage of an employee. It also took more effort than he was willing to put forth to find a lover who was interested only in casual tupping when either of them felt the itch.
Besides, work was a demanding mistress and kept him busy.
Now there’s an excuse, he thought with wry humor. Next thing you know you’ll be pleading a megrim, you bastard.
The plain truth was that sex didn’t hold the shine it once did for him. Perhaps it was because of his profession, the fact that he spent most of his waking hours surrounded by carnality. Perhaps it was because he’d been fucking since he was fourteen, and sex had lost its capacity to surprise or titillate. Or perhaps he was just getting older: at six-and-thirty, the idea of yet another meaningless encounter roused not excitement, but a strange and unwelcome malaise.
Still, it wasn’t healthy to ignore his needs—especially when it led to unacceptable thoughts about the girl he’d once considered his younger sibling. He might not be a gentleman, but his motives toward Primrose were honorable and always had been. In fact, he wouldn’t have shown himself last night, but her reckless actions had given him no choice but to personally intervene.
At least Primrose hadn’t remembered him; for that, he was grateful. He had no business being around a lady like her. But he needed to keep her safe, to make up for the way he’d failed her all those years ago…
“Is my report boring you?”
Fanny’s brusque words cut through his reverie. It wasn’t the annoyed set of her features but the hurt in her eyes that gave him pause. If the bawd had one chink in her armor, it was that she hated when others underestimated her ability. He understood that—perhaps better than most.
“My apologies. Your work is of the highest caliber. My mind’s just on other matters.”
Looking slightly mollified, she said, “Care to talk about it—or, more precisely, her?”
He didn’t bother to deny it. There was no point with Fanny.
“It’s not what you think,” he said.
Fanny smirked. “When it comes to treacle tarts, dearie,” she drawled, reverting to their native Cockney slang, the marrow-deep language that no amount of elocution lessons could ever eradicate, “it ain’t ever is.”
“She’s not my sweetheart,” he said curtly.
“Surely you’re not distracted by mere bed sport?”
“She’s not that either.”
Fanny’s brows formed thin arches. “Pray tell, what is she, then?”
“She’s none of your concern.” Andrew rose to signal the end of that conversation. Striding over to the fireplace, he drummed his fingers on the mantel. “Now tell me of the progress with the Nursery House.”
Genuine excitement entered the bawd’s gaze. “Everything’s on schedule,” she said with clear satisfaction. “We’ll be moving the girls in by week’s end.”
With Fanny’s help, he was launching an initiative to deal with one of his trade’s biggest liabilities: pregnancy. Despite certain precautions he’d instituted at his clubs—vinegar sponges and rinses for his employees and, if the customer was willing, French letters provided on the house—conception was an unavoidable risk.
Being the bastard son of a whore, he ought to know.
Most pimps dealt with the matter by giving the wench a choice: get rid of the brat or be shown the door. It was a philosophy Andrew could not agree with—if for no other reason than that he valued his own existence. He couldn’t call Maria Corbett an exceptional mother, but she’d given him life, and he’d loved her for it.
Of course, her decision hadn’t been entirely selfless: she’d thought that she could exact payment for her bastard’s care from her royal patron. But, as she’d recounted to Andrew bitterly whenever she got into her cups, the Prince Regent had never been one to pay his debts.
Andrew didn’t know if his blood ran blue, but the rumor of his origins had given him a boost at the beginning of his career. High-kick ladies had enjoyed the novelty of bedding a blue-blooded gigolo. Aye, he’d fared better than most offspring of whores, a fact that had inspired him to build the Nursery House.
Located in nearby St. Giles, it was a place where his pregnant employees could pass their confinement and, afterward, where their children could be looked after if they chose to return to work. The Nursery House would provide lodging, food, and medical care for mother and child until they were ready to strike out on their own. As far as he was concerned, it would be a beneficial arrangement for all.
“The wenches are ready to move in?” he said.
“You can say that again. Sally Loverly’s as big as a house.” Fanny paused. “Says she plans to name the babe after you, if he’s a boy.”
“Tell her that is unnecessary. She’s a favorite amongst the patrons,” he said in brusque tones, “and I’ll be glad not to lose her.”
Three knocks preempted Fanny’s reply. Horace Grier, Andrew’s right-hand man and the club’s factotum, entered. A former seaman built like a warship, the gruff Scot kept Corbett’s in shipshape and didn’t suffer fools lightly.
Seeing the suspicious glance Grier shot at Fanny—and the hostile one she returned—Andrew stifled a sigh. For some reason, the factotum and bawd had locked horns from the day they met. Neither trusted the other, and both made sure their employer was aware of that fact.
“Time for the walk through, is it?” Andrew said.
Grier shifted his gaze from Fanny, whom he’d been watching the way a constable does a known thief. He bowed his grizzled head. “Yes, sir. Doors’ll be openin’ in less than an hour.”
It was Andrew’s custom to do a daily inspection of the club prior to opening. He would trust Grier with his life—indeed, he had once, which was why he was still breathing today. Nevertheless, he preferred to do a final check of the club himself.
Details were everything; he’d built Corbett’s on that precept.
“Anything else to report?” he said to Fanny.
She’d already risen and was pulling on her gloves. Finger by finger, with a deliberateness that boded trouble.
“There is a list of extra expenses for the Nursery House that requires your approval… just a few items to make the girls more comfortable. Why, Grier,” she said when the factotum (predictably) made a choked sound, “got something stuck in your craw?”
Her feigned innocence didn’t fool anyone in the room. Seeing that Grier looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit, Andrew said sharply, “Send the list by. Good day, Fanny.”
The bawd departed the room in a satisfied swish of grey skirts.
The moment the door closed behind her, Grier exploded.
“Extra expenses? Making the girls more comfortable?” The brawny Scot boomed in outrage. “Does that bluidy woman no’ understand that you’re already payin’ too high a price for this venture—that ’tis your damned neck you’re riskin’?”
As this was not a new argument, Andrew said mildly, “The idea for the Nursery House was not Mrs. Argent’s but mine. She’s just assisting me with the details.”
“She’s assisting all right—the way Eve did Adam,” Grier said darkly. “With help like that, who needs enemies? And you with more than your share o’ rivals already, and none o’ them fond o’ your latest venture. Trouble’s brewin’, mark my words.”
Not the best news but also not unexpected.
“Let’s talk whilst we make our rounds,” Andrew said.
He and Grier headed to the front of the club. When he’d built Corbett’s, he’d had passageways installed behind the walls, one running parallel to this hallway. It allowed him to keep an eye on everything that happened under his roof. Here, he was king of all he surveyed, and he never took that power for granted. Never forgot that he’d built this place out of nothing, that his blood and sweat soaked each brick and stone.
From the beginning, he’d known that quality attracted quality. Everything at Corbett’s was first-rate, from the wenches to the food, gaming, and other entertainments. A gentleman who was allowed the privilege of a membership would find himself as much at home here as he would at Brooks’s or White’s—only it would cost him three times as much.
The waiting period for membership was now over a year long.
Andrew began his inspection in the foyer, a grand space that soared four stories high and ended with a stained glass dome depicting Aphrodite rising from the sea. A double-winged mahogany stairwell led to the floors above. Polished marble gleamed under his boots as he walked, Grier still ranting about the dangers of antagonizing the competition.
As if, Andrew thought wryly, the bastards weren’t in a constant state of warfare.
Whoremongering was a dog-eat-dog business and not for the faint of heart.
“The situation is nothing new,” he said as they moved into one of the card rooms. Seeing a stain on the buffet table linens, he waved over a liveried footman who stammered an apology and hurriedly set about changing it. “I don’t tell the others how to run their business, and I sure as bloody hell won’t allow them to tell me how to run mine.”
“But how you’re going about things impacts their profits.” Grier dogged his heels as he headed into the adjoining chamber.
Outfitted with rosewood furnishings and Aubusson carpets, the high-ceilinged drawing room could have belonged in any grand Mayfair mansion and served as a place for clients to mingle with the wenches before selecting their partner—or partners—for the eve. From here, guests ascended to one of the upper floors, where private chambers boasted a number of exotic themes. For those willing to spend the extra coin, a custom room could be made up to fulfill the customer’s wildest desires.
From a dungeon to a barn to a Sultan’s seraglio, Corbett’s offered up fantasies at their finest.
“The bastards were already up in arms ’bout the ’igh pay o’ our wenches,” the factotum insisted, “and don’t get me started ’bout the bleedin’ French letters. They blame ye for makin’ the whores uppity and too expensive to ’ire. They’re lookin’ for any excuse to tear ye down—and you’re ’andin’ it to ’em on a silver platter with that bleedin’ nursery.”
“How I treat my employees is my prerogative,” Andrew said shortly.
“Well keepin’ ye alive is mine, and you’re not makin’ it easy.”
“You’ve done a fine job of it so far, my friend.”
“Aye, but Malcolm Todd weren’t involved afore this.”
The mention of his ruthless competitor gave him pause. “You’ve heard from Todd?”
“Not directly. It’s just rumblings so far, but word is that he ain’t pleased. And when Todd ain’t pleased…”
The Scot didn’t finish. Didn’t have to. Everyone in London’s Underworld knew the consequences of crossing Todd. The pieces of his enemies that surfaced in the Thames served as a frequent reminder.
“You’ve escaped ’is notice in the past because ye were small fish,” Grier went on when Andrew remained silent. “But the bigger ye grow, the smaller the ocean becomes, and sooner or later, you’re goin’ to cross paths with a shark.”
“I have my own set of teeth.” In the early years, he’d settled the brawls at Corbett’s with his own fists, and he still trained at a boxing club to stay in fighting shape. Even so, with success had come the need for added security; he now had over a dozen men on retainer for the purpose. “But, as to your point, I’ll ask Mrs. Argent to proceed with more discretion on the project. Let’s leave it at that.”
The Scot opened his mouth… and closed it. It was one of the factotum’s finer points that he knew when to hold his ground and when to stand down.
“Now onto the other matter I asked you to inquire into.” Andrew raised his brows. “Any progress?”
“Aye,” Grier said. “Dug up more on Daltry like ye asked.”
Information was Andrew’s stock-in-trade. The gossip that circulated in Corbett’s was as prime as that of the St. James’s clubs and worth its weight in gold. He kept files on anyone who stepped foot in his establishment (and some who hadn’t). Daltry wasn’t a regular, but he’d been in a few times, and Andrew had pegged him as an arrogant skinflint. He’d complained about the high prices while demanding the most exotic entertainments.
Andrew’s gut knotted as he recalled Daltry’s preference for young blondes. “Go on.”
“To start, ’e’s the black sheep o’ the family, coming from a branch that made their fortune in trade. You know ’ow nobs frown upon that.” Grier crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, ’is hoity-toity relations got a surprise when a bunch o’ their own cocked up their toes, leaving Daltry to inherit the earldom. Now they’ve ’ad to change their tune about ’im. The dead earl’s widow and one o’ Daltry’s aunts ’ost some ’igh-kick salon, and they’ve been singing ’is praises there. But, truth is, there’s no love lost between Daltry and ’is kin.”
“What about his personal affairs?”
“Never married. Three bastards by three different mistresses,” Grier said, scratching his ear, “maybe more I ’aven’t found. Daltry gave ’em all a ’undred pounds and washed ’is hands o’ ’em.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened. “And his business dealings?”
“Owns a slew o’ mills in Lancashire.” Grier’s face darkened. “Women and even bairns ’ave lost limbs and lives in ’is factories, but ’e hasn’t done a thing about it. For ’is sort, it’s all about profit—even if it’s made on the backs o’ others.”
Andrew’s hands curled. Damnit, little chick. Why did you set your cap for this blackguard?
As last night’s encounter had proven, Primrose had grown into a surprisingly willful woman, and he knew that it would be no easy task to dissuade her from pursuing Daltry. To protect her from a disastrous course of action.
Somehow, he’d have to find a way. Because he wasn’t going to let her down.
Not this time.