Silk and Shadows (10 page)

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 madame, 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 madame 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.

The girl's 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, then asked the girl, "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 done—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."

Peregrine could see that under the shift, her body was more that of a woman than a child. Even beribboned gowns would not disguise her much longer. His mouth tightened. A prostitute could earn much more than a shop girl or mill worker, and for some women prostitution was a brief, profitable interlude before they moved on to more respectable lives. But for a girl who was virtually a slave, the future was bleak. He wondered if Jenny thought the security of being cared for was worth the price she had to pay. "Would you be allowed to leave if you wanted to?"

"Not bloody likely," she said bitterly. "Even if I could escape, I've nowhere to go. Won't go home, the only reason Pap didn't use me himself was because he knew I was worth more untouched. Working the streets is worse than this, and going into service can be pretty bad. My older sister was a housemaid, worked fifteen hours a day, and every man there had his way with her as well, till she died trying to get rid of a babe."

Not surprisingly, it did not sound as if Jenny was happy with her present state. Obviously leaving was a topic she had considered, and with an impressive degree of common sense. "Is there something you would rather do if you could have your wish?"

Her delicate face became wistful. "I've always thought it'd be nice to be a lady's maid. They get to work with pretty things, and they're important belowstairs, not like a housemaid. I'd like to work for a lady who was young and fashionable, and who would give me her gowns when she was done with them. Maybe someday I'd marry a handsome footman." She thought a moment, then added vehemently. "One that doesn't drink like Pap."

Her eyes met his, eagerness lighting up the clear blue depths. "Why are you asking? Do you want me for a mistress? I'd be a good one, I know everything a man likes. Or… or I can be a virgin every night if that's what you fancy."

"I'm not looking for a mistress, and if I was, I prefer women that look like women, not children," he said curtly, irritated at himself for inadvertently giving her ideas when he had only been indulging his curiosity.

Jenny's small face was a painful mixture of hope and pleading. "Please? I swear you'd not regret it."

Peregrine sighed. London was full of girls like this one; many were in worse straits, selling their scrawny bodies in doorways, prey to any man who wanted them, hoping for a coin in return. They were like the sands of the sea, endless, unnumbered, living and dying like mayflies.

His early life had been a ruthless course in survival, and he had quickly learned that compassion was a dangerous luxury. He had seen every possible degree of degradation and suffering, and knew better man to waste his time with rescue or reform. If he chose, he could help this girl, but what was the point of saving one little whore? It would make no difference to that vast, endless, tragic horde of broken children.

But as Jenny stared at him with great stark eyes, he knew that it would make a difference to her.

Usually Peregrine was deliberate in his actions, capable of infinite patience when necessary. But sometimes he felt a powerful, irrational impulse, and when he did, he always obeyed it. He felt such an impulse now. While he was no savior, it was not against his principles to lend a hand if doing so would not interfere with his other goals. And he owed someone a good deed."I don't want you for a mistress," he said brusquely. "But if you really want to leave, I can give you a place to stay and help you find a job that will support you."

Jenny's breath caught, as if she had not believed that he would respond to her plea. "Oh, I want to leave," she whispered, "I surely do. But
she'll
never let me just walk out of here."

Peregrine thought a moment. He could probably buy the girl's freedom if he wanted to, but stealing her away from Mrs. Kent would be both cheaper and more satisfying. Besides, he preferred stealth as a matter of general policy.

"Is this always your room?" After she nodded, he continued, "I'll come tomorrow night, between two and three o'clock in the morning. I'll throw pebbles against the glass. If you are alone and ready to leave, open the window and I'll throw up a rope."

"I'm not sure I can lift the sash," she said uncertainly. "It's painted shut."

He stood and went to the window. When he pushed aside the layers of heavy, opaque draperies, he saw that she was right. Probably the window had not been opened in years, possibly decades. Taking the concealed knife from his boot, he slid the blade around the edge of the window frame, then tried to lift the lower sash. His arms strained until he feared that the glass might shatter. Then the sash suddenly broke free and surged upward with a raucous, grating noise.