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Chapter 1

Autumn 1743

Raindrops began to fall from the sky, and distant thunder rumbled, promising a storm. Ian McAllistair knocked on the familiar dark-red door and, as soon as it opened, slipped inside. He shook off his coat and tipped his hat toward the guards. One of the tall, broad-shouldered men came up to him, dropping his shadow over Ian’s lanky form.

Ian was not a small man by any means. Standing over six feet tall, he towered above most men. While his athletic body was not exactly imposing, he was still well-muscled. But compared to the behemoth in front of him, his form was indeed lanky.

Ian had to raise his eyes to look into the shadowy features of the guard. The man’s stature forced Ian to focus only on him, and the guard was studying him in turn. With a slight tip of his head, the guard beckoned Ian to follow him down a narrow corridor and into a tiny, dark room. As the guard positioned himself in front of the door, ensuring no path of escape, he asked, “Any weapons?”

Ian slowly extended his swordstick, then bent down to retrieve his dagger from his left boot. Accepting the weapons handed to him, the guard took a step back from the door, creating just enough space for a slender woman to enter the room. She wore a tall white wig, intricately styled with curls and red ribbons, and her striking red attire commanded attention. Her face was rendered unrecognizable by a heavy layer of powder and bright red paint on her lips and cheeks. She boldly extended a book toward Ian and placed a quill with an inkwell in his hand.

Ian tipped his head toward her and signed a false name. If one were to leaf through this book, he doubted one would find a real name on these pages. This was just a formality for accounting purposes. Of course, later on, when providing payment, if they lacked the coin and had to plead for credit, some men would write down their real names. But Ian had never made that mistake. He was not about to get caught with his breeches down around his ankles, so to speak.

After completing all the necessary steps, Ian was led into a familiar hall, where he was greeted by a stunning woman with a curvaceous figure. The clothing she wore was strategically cut to accentuate her physique, drawing Ian’s eyes to her ample bosom and creamy white skin. As he raised his gaze to her powdered face, he caught her knowing smile.

“Would you care to sit?” She gestured toward a settee a few paces away.

Ian forced his eyes away from the tantalizing woman and followed her gesture.

Just behind her, a hall stretched for a few feet, filled with settees, sofas, and other leisurely furniture occupied by lovesick—or rather lustsick—couples. He shook his head. “Perhaps some other time. Today, I have a bird picked out, waiting for me.”

She shrugged and shuffled away, and Ian’s gaze regretfully followed her swaying bottom.

He took a deep breath and peeled his eyes away from the enticing woman. He had no time to linger, so he made his way down the corridor, taking note of the couples occupying the furniture. This was what they called the “settling area.” A place where men and women selected one another for a night of pleasure. Ian didn’t need any of that. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he knew exactly where he needed to go. He tugged his hat lower over his eyes and assumed a slight limp. He didn’t need any of the guests to recognize him and pretended not to see anyone while he observed everything that was going on in this hall.

He recognized every man who was occupying the premises. There was the Right Honorable Baron Hawkridge, the father of three, a grandfather of God-knew-how-many, leaving toward the private rooms with a young buck.

In the left corner, Lord Wrexham, a well-known preacher and vocal advocate against houses of pleasure, was fondling a red-haired young woman. Wrexham was an active member of the House of Lords and had been vocal about the downfall of morality in England in the last century. He himself was probably responsible for half of the young women’s downfall, but people didn’t know that, nor did they care.

In fact, half, if not all, of the members of the Parliament supporting Wrexham on the matter spent many a night in this establishment. That or in Hades’ Hell. But then again, most of the House of Lords consisted of hypocrites. Not that Ian had a moral high ground on this particular matter.

He walked up the stairs and was greeted by another woman in a similarly revealing gown, a high curly wig, and a brightly painted face.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Ian raised his hat, revealing his features before she managed to take a breath. Her plump, cherry-red lips immediately spread into a knowing smile. “The usual, sir?” she asked in a sultry voice.

“Yes, Patience,” Ian answered hoarsely.

“I shall inform her of your arrival,” Patience said and rolled her tongue against her lower lip seductively. “Are you certain you don’t want some… variety?”

“Quite certain,” Ian answered shortly.

She pursed her lips in a pout before waving her hand. “Follow me then.”

Ian did not need to be escorted. Seven steps forward, a turn to the left, then past the entire corridor and three red doors, was the room he had always used when he came to this establishment.

These were rules, however. No man was ever to roam these halls unaccompanied, not the ones leading to the private chambers.

Patience opened the door and inclined her head. “Feel free to get undressed. She will be here shortly.”

She exited the room silently, leaving Ian in the small dark room, empty aside from a couple of chairs in the corner. Leather strips and metal hooks on the walls notwithstanding.

Feel free to get undressed.

If only.

Ian turned his head toward the farthest wall. It was the only wall with images painted on it and for good reason. From afar, it looked like a busy forest with odd-looking animals peeking out behind the trees. But Ian knew exactly what these images were for. To mask the peepholes through which he and other people using this room could be observed.

Ian was repulsed by the mere idea that some lecherous lord was watching him while enjoying himself in the dark. But these were the rules. He needed to seem just like any other customer.