Page 1 of Only Pleasure Will Do

Prologue

London, Mid-April, 1761

With more than a little impatience, Reginald Matthews knocked a second time on the nondescript brown door at the rear of the House of Pleasure, somewhat unnerved at disturbing the relative silence all around him. Not far away, a dog barked, and the sudden sound of chickens clucking rent the quiet air, but nothing else. Apparently, even London’s most notorious brothel stood in repose this time of day after the usual night of drinking and debauchery. Its neighboring houses in the back streets of Covent Garden—some taverns, some additional schools of Venus—were thankfully peaceful this early in the morning, their occupants either dead drunk or sleeping off a night’s indulgences.

Yet again cursing the inefficiency of the night watch for their part in bringing him to this particular establishment this morning, Reginald pounded on the door. Blast it, he had other stops to make in this investigation. He didn’t have time to waste trying to wake these Drury Lane drabs.

His inquiry into the assault on the Earl of Manning and the kidnapping of his sister Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam had ground to a halt over the past three weeks. Matthews had canvassed the brothels in the area immediate to where Lady Katarina had been discovered to no avail.

“A green room with a gold wingback chair, a double bed, a washstand, and bars on the window,” was not as singular a description as Lady Katarina believed it to be. Most of the establishments in question possessed rooms that fit that depiction to some degree.

Neither had a description of Lady Katarina jogged any of the madams’ memories. Not that he’d expected any of them to be so stupid as to admit the lady had been in their houses. Reginald hadn’t even been able to wheedle information out of their whores. Must be losing his touch.

Then, last night, Mrs. Dove, the Bow Street housekeeper, had brought his tea at the usual time, just before he settled down to work on the day’s reports. The older woman had bustled around, pouring his tea and serving him a piece of his favorite lemon curd teacake.

Mouth watering, he’d stopped his work. Cook’s dinners were reasonably palatable; however, her desserts were the real reason she’d been kept on all these years.

At the door, Mrs. Dove, dressed in a serviceable gray gown, had paused and turned to him. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Matthews, but are you still investigatin’ that young lady’s kidnappin’ from a month or so ago?”

He looked up from his papers, bemused. The discreet housekeeper never remarked on any of his cases. “Yes, I am, Mrs. Dove, although I’ve not been able to find out much. Why do you ask?”

Dropping her gaze to study the floor, the woman had wrung her hands. “I’m awful sorry, sir. I hope you won’t sack Alfred and Josh. They didn’t mean no harm, I’m sure. But Josh plum forgot the lady’s cloak, sir.”

With a sharp intake of breath, Reginald rose from his chair, the untouched plate of teacake clenched in his hand. “What cloak are you referring to, Mrs. Dove?”

“The black cloak the lady arrived in, sir.”

“The lady being…”

“That Lady Katarina, sir. The one who come here with the watch.”

“She arrived in a black cloak?” Reginald carefully set the plate down before he sent it sailing across the room. The gross incompetence of the local watch was not to be believed.

“Yes, sir. When I first saw her, she was only wearin’ that awful, dirty white dress. But this evenin’ Josh come in and handed me a huge black cloak. Said as how when the lady fainted on the street, the cloak come off her, and Alfred stuck it into the round house to get it out the way. Josh found it there last night an’ brought it in today, just before his rounds. Said you might want t’ return it to the lady.” She arched her eyebrows. “But I don’t think it was her cloak, sir. ’Tis a man’s cloak, made for a man’s frame, sure as I’m born.”

“Can you bring it to me now, Mrs. Dove?” Somehow, Reginald had managed to keep his voice even. The housekeeper was not the one to blame here.

She nodded and scurried from the room.

Three weeks wasted! He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, awaiting the woman’s return.

“Here y’ are, sir,” she said a few minutes later, handing over the bundled-up material. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, Mrs. Dove, thank you.” With his normal stoic composure, he watched her mount the steps on her way out, inwardly trembling in anticipation of examining the garment. When the door clicked shut, he shook out the folds of the stained and creased cloak, measured it against his own frame then carefully laid it on his desk.

Mrs. Dove had been right: the cloak belonged to a man. A man even taller than himself, for when held up to his shoulders, the bottom of the garment still brushed the ground. He bent over to examine the hem more closely. A good six inches had been dragged through mud and muck. No, the cloak Lady Katarina had worn had not been her own. Neither had she mentioned acquiring it in her story. That made the garment a good bit more interesting to him.

The cloth itself was a fine black silk, lined with satin, and woven with an intricate design in the fabric. Foreign made. So from whom had she gotten it? And when? And where?

He straightened, considering his options.

A visit to Lady Katarina for more information came first to mind, but he dismissed it immediately. If she hadn’t mentioned it before, she would likely lie about it now. Instead, he would go back and make inquiries at the brothels again, this time merely trying to return property mislaid several weeks ago. Surely something so costly would’ve been noted missing. The patron obviously had expensive tastes; therefore, Reginald would start at the most expensive brothel in London, the House of Pleasure.

Which brought him to his current place outside the brothel’s back door.

Patience at an end, Reginald knocked a fourth time, harder, making the door jump on its hinges. At last, the bolt shot back and the door opened, revealing a woman. A very attractive woman, with a pale face and dark hair pleasingly disheveled, as though she’d just risen from her bed—which, of course, she had. “May I see the owner of the house, please?”

“You see her now.” She opened the door wider, revealing a petite form clad in a bright scarlet silk wrapper that slipped down to reveal one delicate white shoulder. “I am Amorina Vestry, Mr. Matthews.” She frowned, squinting against the light. “Whatever are you doing here at this hour of the day?”