The cider-seller’s breath hung in the air as he exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “King’s Place? Whatcha want there? Lookin’ for work, are ye?” He eyed her from bonnet to boots, wetting his lips. “You might find a place there, if ya put on a bit of flash, some lace, and bright colors.” He pointed. “Two more cross streets, and then go right. Good luck to ye. Can’t afford to ‘shop’ there myself, but I can dream.”
Mortified, Charlotte ducked her head and hurried away, the man’s laughter following her.
She finally found the street. But which of these houses was the right one?
A man bumped into her as she stopped to study the front doors of the residences nearest her. “Your pardon, miss.” He continued on several steps before stopping. “You appear to be lost. May I be of assistance?”
What should she say? I’m looking for my sister? She works in a brothel—perhaps you know her?
He smiled at her hesitation. “Just ask. If I can, I will help. I will not think less of you.”
“I’m looking for someone. Her name is Pippa Cashel.”
His smile broadened. “Then you are in luck. I know where that young woman lives. In fact, I am heading to that establishment now.”
Uncomfortable shock hit Charlotte. Was he a … customer? And he knew her sister? Heat charged into her cheeks, and she didn’t know where to look.
“This is the place. Allow me.” He preceded her up the stairs of the house to their right, opening the bright yellow-painted door and holding it for her.
Her shoes seemed rooted to the pavement. He stood there, doorknob in hand, a curious but not impertinent look in his eyes.
Lord, give me courage. She breathed the prayer, even though she didn’t know if this was a situation of which God would approve, visiting a brothel. But she was hoping to offer some sort of help to her sister and her sister’s mother.
If she could help them, perhaps she could scour some of the stain off her father’s actions, redeem at least a bit of the family reputation. Perhaps she could look at herself in the mirror without feeling shame.
Lifting her hem, she hurried up the steps. The man didn’t knock, merely holding the door open for her.
Inside, a blast of warm air hit her. She tried not to gawp, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity. After all, how many women of her acquaintance had ever been inside a “disorderly house”? A maid hurried into the entryway, clearly recognizing the man, who shrugged out of his cape and removed his hat.
“Good afternoon, Sarah.” He handed her his garments and turned to Charlotte. “I met this delightful young lady out front. She’s looking for Pippa. Is she awake?”
Awake? It was past midafternoon. Then realization hit Charlotte, and she knew she blushed again. Why couldn’t she have an olive complexion that would hide her gaucheness? If the women of the house were expected to be up all night entertaining callers, they would need to sleep late the following day.
“They’re stirring, but nobody’s come downstairs yet.” The maid, Sarah, motioned toward Charlotte’s cloak. “Can I take that, miss?” The girl couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen, freckle-faced and slight, her black dress hanging on her frame but her cap and apron pristine. In spite of her place of employment, she had an air of innocence about her that Charlotte liked.
Reluctantly, Charlotte surrendered her cloak and followed the man into the withdrawing room.
It could be a replica of any Mayfair home she’d ever been in. Beautifully furnished, thick rugs, pretty wallpaper, interesting landscapes in gilt frames, mirrors. And lots of light from the tall front windows and the many wall sconces. Charlotte didn’t know if she should be disappointed or not.
Sarah came in after them, and bobbing a curtsy, asked, “Would you like some tea or coffee, miss? I’ll run upstairs and see if Miss Pippa is receiving yet, but you can have something to warm you while you wait.”
“No, thank you.” Though she would dearly love a hot drink, Charlotte didn’t know if she could get it down. She was sitting in the front room of a brothel, waiting to meet a sister that until quite recently she didn’t know she had. Tea could wait.
The man moved through the room with ease, and he seated himself at the pianoforte, blowing on his fingers and then trilling a scale. “That’s correct.” He grinned at her over the music rack. “I am the musician. I play here six evenings a week.”
So he wasn’t a customer, but an employee. Charlotte readjusted her thinking. Tea, music, a respectable-looking parlor. Nothing was as she had imagined.
Sarah came into the room. “I’m sorry, miss. I forgot to get your name. Miss Pippa wants to know who’s calling on her and what you want.”
“Lady Charlotte Tiptree.” She almost whispered the name, aware that the musician was listening. “She will hopefully know why I’m here.”
The maid disappeared in a swirl of black skirts and white apron.
For what seemed a very long time, Charlotte waited, trying not to fidget. Piano music filled the room, gentle and light, and she was grateful she didn’t have to make small talk with the man.
There were no bookshelves in the room, not a single bit of printed material to be found. Which wasn’t unusual in London drawing rooms, but a few book spines to read would have been a welcome distraction.
Instead, she rehearsed what she wanted to say. Ever since she’d discovered Pippa’s existence, she’d held imaginary conversations with her. She’d wondered what she looked like, whether they had any similarities, whether they had any of the same likes and dislikes.
What her relationship with their father had been like.
When Charlotte began to think she’d been forgotten about, a young woman entered the room.
Charlotte found herself on her feet. The music stopped.
Brown curls, big brown eyes, rosy lips. A reserved manner, and no expression on her face, not curiosity, not welcome, nothing. As if she was frozen inside.
“Are you Pippa Cashel?” She searched the woman’s face for any sign of Tiptree features.
“Miss Cashel. You’re a Tiptree? His daughter?” She trod heavily on the pronoun, as if to separate herself from the situation and Charlotte. “No mistaking you’re his, not with that skinny nose and mousy hair.”
Charlotte flinched. The woman might as well have slapped her. Her fingers lifted toward her hair before she caught herself and let her hand drop. Pippa had reason to be put out with the Tiptrees, so a little reserve—or even a bit of pique—was to be expected. Charlotte would just have to convince her that she was nothing like her father. “I’m Charlotte. I’m …” She was aware of the pianist and the maid who had followed Pippa into the room. “I’m your sister.”
“Why are you here?”
“I … I wanted to meet you.”
Pippa crossed the room to a plush chair and seated herself, so elegant and so beautifully attired that she made Charlotte feel plain and awkward. Light raced along the folds of Pippa’s peacock-blue silk dress and glinted off the silvery trim. Charlotte perched on the edge of her chair again, throttling her reticule and trying to work some moisture into her mouth.
“Come to gloat, have you?” Pippa raised her chin. “Come to see the poor castoff? You must really be curious to show up here. Daughter of an earl and all that. Though you look more like someone’s poor relation, forced to be a governess or something. And pious as a priest.”