out of your skin!”
Squeaker was taken aback. “I wouldn’t tell yer no lies, Mr. Pitt! Wouldn’t be worf me w’ile, nah, would it? Yer’d only come back and ruin me business. Ain’t good fer trade to ’ave crushers ‘angin’ around, beggin’ yer pardon. Gives the ’ouse a bad name!”
Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.
Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.
Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.
This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.
Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.
Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as well: soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!
A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.
“Good afternoon.” Pitt understood the process exactly, and with a touch of amusement he played it all the way, using his most courteous manner. “I came here by recommendation.” He made sure he stood perfectly straight-shouldered, as if his disastrous clothes were an attempt at passing for a native of the Acre—as indeed they were, but for an entirely different reason. “I have heard from various of my friends”—could Squeaker Harris be termed a friend?—“that you have ladies of far greater quality than any of your competitors.”
The man’s face relaxed. He decided Pitt was a gentleman, after all. His voice, not his clothes, betrayed the man: that beautiful diction, and the bearing.
“That is perfectly true, sir. What kind of quality had you in mind? We have both quality of experience and, if you prefer, quality of breeding—although that, of course, does require a little special arrangement.”
So business was proceeding as usual, in spite of Max’s dramatic demise!
Pitt flared his nostrils a little and widened his eyes, looking very slightly down at the man. “Quality of breeding,” he replied in a tone that suggested there could have been no other answer.
“Quite, sir,” the man replied. “If you would care to make an appointment in advance, I will see that it is arranged. You understand, we
Squeaker was taken aback. “I wouldn’t tell yer no lies, Mr. Pitt! Wouldn’t be worf me w’ile, nah, would it? Yer’d only come back and ruin me business. Ain’t good fer trade to ’ave crushers ‘angin’ around, beggin’ yer pardon. Gives the ’ouse a bad name!”
Pitt snorted and went out of the “’ouse,” past the rotting wood in the yard, a pile of refuse, and two drunks in the gutter. He made his way rapidly through the rain to George Street. This was a distinctly more salubrious part of the Acre, only a few moments’ walk from the Houses of Parliament.
Max did indeed have an unusual skill. If he had managed to acquire some “ladies of blood,” as Squeaker put it, and three or four thoroughly handsome whores accomplished in their art, he would have made himself a very rich man in a few years.
Pitt found the house without much difficulty. A man asking for such a place was not unusual, and those willing to give directions were often compensated for their trouble by the proprietors of the establishments.
This particular house was inconspicuous, even a little grubby, on the outside. It could easily have been taken for another one of the numerous common lodging houses; anonymity was a necessary part of the trade.
Inside, however, the style changed. The entrance hallway was discreetly elegant. Pitt was reminded of Max’s service in fine houses of men and women whose taste was nurtured by generations of money and breeding. These were people who knew the masters of painting and furniture design as instinctively as they knew how to construct a grammatical sentence, or to walk with head high and a very slight swagger to the hips.
Beyond the hallway in the main reception room there was nothing opulent, nothing vulgar. Its sensuality was one of quiet color, which belied the ease with which each piece of furniture and each painting complemented the others. The pleasure the room afforded was tactile as well: soft velvets, a carpet that made the feet tread silently, almost as if upon grass. Indeed, Max possessed a veritable art!
A man in livery came forward, affecting to be something between a footman and a butler. He was obviously in charge of who would be permitted to become a customer and who would be discreetly redirected elsewhere.
“Good afternoon, sir.” He eyed Pitt’s clothes and, with an almost imperceptible change of expression, determined that he was unlikely to be able to pay the house charges. But he was too skilled to dismiss him immediately. Gentlemen of the most distinguished rank and fortune were known to assume the oddest of disguises at times.
“Good afternoon.” Pitt understood the process exactly, and with a touch of amusement he played it all the way, using his most courteous manner. “I came here by recommendation.” He made sure he stood perfectly straight-shouldered, as if his disastrous clothes were an attempt at passing for a native of the Acre—as indeed they were, but for an entirely different reason. “I have heard from various of my friends”—could Squeaker Harris be termed a friend?—“that you have ladies of far greater quality than any of your competitors.”
The man’s face relaxed. He decided Pitt was a gentleman, after all. His voice, not his clothes, betrayed the man: that beautiful diction, and the bearing.
“That is perfectly true, sir. What kind of quality had you in mind? We have both quality of experience and, if you prefer, quality of breeding—although that, of course, does require a little special arrangement.”
So business was proceeding as usual, in spite of Max’s dramatic demise!
Pitt flared his nostrils a little and widened his eyes, looking very slightly down at the man. “Quality of breeding,” he replied in a tone that suggested there could have been no other answer.
“Quite, sir,” the man replied. “If you would care to make an appointment in advance, I will see that it is arranged. You understand, we
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