That seemed as sordid as lounging in a brothel. And when a courtesan entertained gentlemen, what did she do? Morgana knew what a courtesan would do in general. She simply did not know specifically how one went about it.
She needed an expert, someone like Harriette Wilson, to teach these skills. If she knew where Miss Wilson resided or how else she might contrive to speak to the woman, Morgana would summon the pluck to ask her to be Lucy’s tutor. Such an opportunity might never come her way, however. She needed to do something now, or Lucy would lose faith in her and run off.
With sudden resolve, she marched from the drawing room in search of Lucy.
A few minutes later she and the maid were headed towards the shop where Lucy had made her contact with the world of the fashionably impure.
‘I cannot think it proper for you to be seen out and about at this hour, Miss Hart.’ Lucy needed to skip to keep up with Morgana’s determined stride. ‘A lady oughtn’t to walk to Bond Street in the afternoon.’
True, at this hour young dandies and bucks tended to loiter in the street, waiting to accost any female who walked by with their catcalls and pinches.
‘I think it the perfect time,’ said Morgana. ‘If we wait until the morning, think how many ladies will be in the shops. Do not concern yourself so. The veil of my hat quite obscures my face.’
‘But a lady should not even talk of these matters, miss,’ Lucy went on.
‘Nonsense,’ countered Morgana. ‘How else am I to discover the proper tutor for you? Besides, you have spoken to these people, why shouldn’t I?’
Lucy looked at her as if she were a doltish child. ‘Because you are a lady.’
Lucy had told Morgana that the source of her information about the madam with the brothel had been none other than Morgana’s modiste, the ton’s new darling of dressmaking. They hurried to Madame Emeraude’s shop, which, if they had any luck, would be deserted at this hour. The ladies who might patronise the latest rage in dressmakers would more likely be proudly showing off the new creations in Hyde Park. Morgana lifted the veil from her face as they entered Madame Emeraude’s shop. No other customers were present.
Madame Emeraude emerged from behind a curtain leading to the back. ‘Miss Hart?’ She gave her a quizzical look. ‘A pleasure to see you.’ The modiste next examined Morgana’s clothing. ‘You are wearing one of my dresses! I hope you have been satisfied. Is the fit acceptable? Did my dresses emerge as you imagined them?’
Morgana smiled at her. ‘Your gowns exceeded my expectations, Madame. I am now launched back into society with great success.’
Madame Emeraude beamed both with pride and relief, then she seemed to remember to be puzzled. ‘What may I do for you at this… unusual hour?’
Morgana glanced towards the doorway. Even if no tonnish ladies walked through that door, a gentleman might, one escorting another sort of female to be dressed in fine clothes. ‘May we speak in one of your private dressing rooms?’
The modiste gave her a puzzled expression. ‘But of course.’ She tossed a wary look when Lucy followed behind them.
Madame Emeraude led them to a room with brocade-covered chairs, the room where Madame Emeraude had previously shown her various fabrics and fashion plates, as well as some examples of her finely stitched creations.
‘We are private?’ Morgana asked as she sat.
‘Yes,’ the modiste replied. ‘I am alone except for the girls upstairs.’
Previously Morgana had assumed those ‘girls upstairs’ were merely hard at work sewing seams and tacking on lace. But now she wondered if those girls were sometimes required to perform other tasks, the sort of tasks Lucy was prepared to perform.
‘I will speak plainly, Madame,’ Morgana began. ‘You told Miss Jenkins here that you knew the madam of a brothel where Miss Jenkins might be welcome—’
Madame gasped and threw Lucy a venomous glare. ‘I did no such thing.’
Morgana gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘I am not here to give you a scold. I want to know how to speak to this madam. I may require her assistance.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under her stylishly coiffed hair. ‘You, miss?’
‘I will not explain further, Madame, except to assure you my business with this person is not of her usual sort, nor will I bring trouble to her.’ Morgana spoke in a confident tone, one she learned as a young girl of seventeen when she first assumed the management of her father’s household. The appearance of confidence had been necessary to convince servants and tradesmen she knew what she was doing. Perhaps now it would convince Madame Emeraude—as well as Morgana herself.
She gave the madam a steady look. ‘May I remind you I have spent a great deal of money in this shop and I plan to spend a great deal more; however, I suspect the ladies who have flocked to your door would turn their backs upon a woman who referred their maids to a brothel.’ She paused to let her threat sink in. ‘If you provide me with the information I seek and your word you will not speak of it further, I will not speak of it either.’
Madame Emeraude’s eyes looked as if she were calculating sums. ‘She is on Jermyn Street.’
Sloane turned the corner of Jermyn Street on his way to return the curricle and horses to the stable he’d rented. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women climb down from a hack. One looked suspiciously like the girl Miss Hart had been rescuing in the park, the one who had worn the red dress. He twisted around, but only the women’s backs were visible as they walked into a glove shop. Calling to his tiger, he pulled the horses to a halt. His tiger hopped off and ran to hold the horses’ heads.
‘Take them, Tommy.’ He handed the ribbons to the tiger and jumped down from his seat. ‘See them stabled. That will be all I require of you at present.’
‘As y’wish, sir,’ his tiger replied.
Sloane, hands resting on his hips, stood on the pavement and directed his gaze at the glove shop door as Tommy drove the curricle away, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobbles.
He was a damned fool.
It was folly to believe the girl he’d only glimpsed had been Miss Hart’s red-dressed companion. And more folly indeed to think it his responsibility to ensure the girl was not up to more mischief.
He walked slowly to the shop, swinging his swordstick, and slanting his gaze to peek through the window. Through the display of gloves of various lengths and colours, he glimpsed several ladies in the shop. One gestured angrily to the two who had arrived. He could faintly hear her raised voice. He sauntered past the shop and paused by a lamppost pretending to search his pockets.
The subterfuge came naturally to him. Many were the times during the war he’d had to watch and listen without anyone being suspicious of his presence. He used those same skills now and appeared to go unnoticed by the one or two men who walked by.
This was no innocent ladies’ shop, he figured, but one that had rooms abovestairs with pretty mollies willing to entertain. Miss Hart’s girl was up to the same larks, it appeared, though he still did not know why he bothered with the business.
He
