to be announced to Sir Reginald.
When Sloane was admitted into Sir Reginald’s rooms, the older man was still dressed in his dressing gown, although it was nearly noon. Sir Reginald put down the copy of the Morning Post that he’d held in his hand.
‘Good morning, Sloane.’ Sir Reginald gave a cordial smile and gestured for him to sit. ‘A bit early, eh? To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Sloane sat and a servant appeared to pour tea. He waited until the servant scurried away into another room. ‘I’ll not mince words.’ He leaned towards the older man, who was just about to take a swallow. ‘You told Harriette Wilson about the courtesan school, did you not?’
Sir Reginald gulped and went into a spasm of coughing before replying. ‘I—I suppose I did. Saw her the other day at Covent Garden—some play or some such. Don’t rightly recall…’
Sloane gave Sir Reginald a menacing look. ‘No one must know of this. No one, do you understand?’
Sir Reginald gave a snort. ‘Cannot see why not. Capital idea, training young women. Imagine a lady doing so!’
‘What do you know of the lady?’ Sloane demanded.
The man sputtered. ‘A Miss Hart—’
Sloane seized him by the front of the robe and lifted him out of the chair. ‘You are never to speak her name to anyone.’
Sir Reginald’s eyes bulged. ‘I won’t. I won’t.’
‘Your word on it,’ Sloane demanded, shaking him.
Sir Reginald stuttered. ‘I… I… I give my word.’
Sloane released him and Sir Reginald landed back in his chair, breathing as hard as if he’d run the full length of Hyde Park.
Sloane rose from his chair.
Sir Reginald cowered as Sloane advanced on him one more time. ‘I shall take my leave. But, mind this, if you loose your tongue again, I will discover it. You will not wish to see what I will do to you.’
Sir Reginald nodded so vigorously the loose skin on his neck shook.
Sloane strode out of the room.
When the door shut behind him, Sir Reginald reached for his tea, the cup clattering in its saucer from his shaking hands.
His manservant crept out from behind the bedchamber door. ‘Are you injured, sir?’
‘No, of course I am not injured,’ Sir Reginald snapped.
‘What a terrifying man!’ His servant picked up Sloane’s tea cup.
‘He is indeed,’ agreed Sir Reginald.
As his man tidied the room, Sir Reginald stared at the Morning Post without seeing a word.
All he could hope was that Sloane never found out he had mentioned the courtesan school at the dolly shop where he tarried after leaving Covent Garden. Just in passing, mind. A harmless comment, no names mentioned. Except Madame Bisou’s.
He rubbed his face and lowered his forehead on to the tabletop with a groan.
That evening Madame Bisou walked through the game room of her establishment, checking that the tables were stocked with cards and other necessities.
She sighed and flung herself into a chair. Toying with a stack of counters, she recalled the look upon Robert’s face when he came to call upon Miss Hart and her girls that afternoon after Harriette Wilson had finished her interminable lesson. Robert acted like a besotted suitor. Was she to lose him? He was such a dear… so… so predictable.
She rued the day she brought him to Morgana Hart’s house so the girls could learn how to be with a man, if one could call Robert a man—a boy-man perhaps, a sweet, harmless thing. She supposed he would take his business to that Mary Phipps as soon as she was established. Some thanks that would be.
Cummings entered the room. ‘You have a caller, Madame.’
He always made everything sound like doom. ‘You know we are not open, Cummings.’ She had no wish to see anyone, even if they were open.
‘It is Mrs Rice,’ he intoned. ‘And she insists upon seeing you.’
‘Oh, that odious Fortuna Rice.’ Madame Bisou waved her hand. ‘Have her meet me in the supper room.’
She followed him out of the door and crossed the hall to the supper room, stepping into the back to bring out a bottle of Madeira wine. If she had to endure Fortuna Rice, it would be with liquid spirits.
She sat and downed one glass before the woman entered the room.
‘Come join me, Fortuna,’ she said, pouring two more glasses. ‘Have some wine.’
‘A choice bottle, I hope. You would not be serving me your cheap wine, would you, Penny?’ Mrs Rice sat across from her.
Madame Bisou bristled, but decided to let the catty comment pass. ‘Only the best for us, Fortuna. We have earned it.’
‘Which is why I am here.’
Leave it to Fortuna Rice to waste no time on niceties. ‘I have heard you are involved in a courtesan school. Is that so?’
Madame Bisou delayed answering, covering up the time it took to contrive an answer by taking a long sip of her wine. She decided the best tactic was avoidance. ‘Why do you ask, my dear?’
Mrs Rice frowned. ‘I have had two girls stolen from me and a third I was about to bring into the house. I want them back.’
Madame Bisou lifted her brows. ‘Careless of you to lose them, Fortuna. I treat my girls well and they stay of their own accord.’
‘I treat mine well, too,’ snapped Mrs Rice. ‘But I have been ill used and I want them back.’
‘I am certain you do.’ Madame Bisou took another sip.
‘Well, what do you know of it?’
Fortuna Rice was an unpleasant woman, the madam decided, and not too smart to have shown all her cards at once. Penny lounged in her chair. ‘I know nothing of it. I am sure I do not know why you supposed I would.’
‘Sir Reginald let something slip about it. Said you were showing off the girls at Vauxhall last night.’
Madame Bisou made herself laugh with great heartiness. ‘Oh, that is famous! What a buffoon!’ She pretended to wrest control of herself again and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she pulled from between her ample bosoms. ‘I was at Vauxhall with some of my girls, all masked! We told him a story and he believed it.’
Mrs Rice put both her palms flat on the table and glared at her. ‘This is not the first I’ve heard of a courtesan school. It was talked of in one of the pubs as well. It is said a man and a lady run it and they teach the girls to think themselves better than they ought.’
It
