Outside the bawdy house, a pair of fine black carriages waited, the bobbing orange glow of a cheroot signaling a driver’s position high on a perch. The main floor windows were dark behind the drawn curtains, but lamplight flickered beyond the first- and second-floor shades. Faint stirrings of music drifted down, along with the frenzied creaks of straining bed-ropes and occasional guttural groans.
All was as it should be . . . or so he thought.
In the next instant, however, he heard a scuffling sound from the dark gully beside him.
His ears perked, homing in on the sly shuffle. A lumbering footfall followed.
He hesitated, scenting the air for the ripe stench of desperation. Footpads and cutthroats often lurked outside of brothels for their chance to take a lust-addled man unawares and rob him blind.
But what he heard next wasn’t the sound of any ruffian he’d ever encountered.
“Hurry, cousin,” a feminine voice whispered just before a quick, pattering step rasped against the pavement like a rush of hailstones.
Peering around the corner, Raven saw only the faintest of movements in the gloom, accompanied by the unmistakable rustle of petticoat and skirts. He’d know that sound anywhere.
“I don’t get why you’ve got to go in through a window,” a gruff male voice said.
Raven suppressed a chuckle. He’d heard tales of women sneaking out of bawdy houses through a window to escape in the night, but never one stealing in.
Even so, he didn’t concern himself with the matter. Moll Dawson employed a big, blond Viking-like bully to guard the door. Sure enough, they’d sort this all out on their own.
“This is part of my research for the book I’m writing. It is of the utmost importance that I observe the . . . um . . . objects of my study without drawing attention to myself, ergo the window. You might even say that this is a scientific endeavor upon which I am about to embark,” that softly feminine voice answered.
The unexpectedly highbrow words caused Raven to pause once more. The cultured tone was as different from Moll’s distinctive husky growl—or any of the women here—as the crown jewels from paste gems.
Curiosity bade him closer. Blending in with the darkness, he edged along the constricted path until his eyes adjusted enough to spot two figures—a large hulking male and a small female in a dark cloak.
“If you say so, Jane.”
“Now, if you would be so kind as to boost me to the ledge. It is a bit taller than I calculated on my sketch of the establishment.”
The flesh of his brow furrowed as he listened to the odd exchange. There was something familiar about the bloke’s voice, too, but it was the woman who’d ensnared Raven’s attention.
In the sliver of lamplight that penetrated the darkness, he could see the outline of her form. He became acutely aware of every breath, every shift. The tilt of her head. The roll of her shoulder. The unfolding stretch of her arms to the sill. And if hearing her voice hadn’t already told him that she was a blue blood, then her movements would have done.
They were fluent and graceful, as if she’d spent years learning dance steps and the proper way to pour tea. A high-society chit.
Now, why would someone like her be shimmying in through a brothel window?
Even though it went against his own rules, he knew there was only one way to find out.
* * *
There were far too many mysteries in life and Jane Pickerington intended to unveil as many as possible.
Even if her quest required stealing into a brothel in the wee hours of the morning.
But this wasn’t a mere whim. No, indeed, she was fully prepared for any situation that might arise. Hers was, quite possibly, the most exquisitely formulated plan of the nineteenth century. Complete with exterior and interior architectural sketches. And, of course, she made certain that the room was empty before she’d climbed inside.
But it turned out that she wasn’t alone, after all.
Stepping away from the window seat, Jane instantly found herself nose to nose with a hard, unblinking face. On a gasp, her gloved hand flew to her throat.
Her mind rapidly calculated seven means of escape and three methods of incapacitation . . . until she realized who or what her would-be assailant was.
“A statue. Only a statue,” she murmured on a breath of relief.
Her pulse quieted as she surveyed the snug, darkened study of the proprietress, illuminated by the faint orange glow of dying embers. Three more statues stood along the wall behind her, but no other sentient inhabitants.
Thank the stars. This errand was far too vital to deal with any unforeseen complications. Her research depended on discovering the differences between gentlemen and scoundrels.
And what better way to learn about the male species than to study them while their objective was purely primal?
In Jane’s opinion, this quick sojourn through a brothel was akin to touring the wilderness to visit creatures in their natural habitat.
She and her friends were writing a book on their findings. After all, too many young women were ill prepared for the potential perils that awaited them in society. And Jane refused to allow another one of her friends to face ruination or be eschewed from London in disgrace, like poor Prue.
With a new Season beginning in a few short months, there was no time to delay.
Swiftly, she turned away from the statue. Then she jerked to a sudden halt, caught on something. Her eyes drifted down the marble form—correction, the nude marble form—and there, she found the culprit.
Her eyes widened in astonishment. The statue wasn’t adorned with any sort of fig leaf at all. Then again, it would likely take a banana leaf to conceal this artist’s rendering of male genitalia.
Unfortunately for her, the gold-threaded cord from her red paisley reticule had wrapped around a rather gargantuan priapic member.
She tried to tug herself free. When that failed, she considered breaking off the phallus entirely. It would likely be the quickest method of extrication.
Taking him in hand, she glanced up at his patient expression apologetically, then leveraged her weight on the turgid slope with a faint grunt. But she quickly discovered that his was a surprisingly solid and immovable appendage.
Using both hands this time, she tried again, adding a little hop to her movements.
It didn’t work.
Jane frowned down at the tangled disaster. Now, the tip of her left glove and middle finger were caught in the cord.
A problem-solver by nature, she sank to her knees for a better vantage point. But, not too far in the distance, she heard a door close, a heavy footfall, and an exchange of a curt greeting. Drat!
She worked faster, using her teeth to cut through woven silken strands. Silently, she prayed that this phallus wouldn’t lead to her ruination.
While she doubted anyone entering the brothel through the front door would walk directly to the proprietress’s study, she couldn’t rule out anything. She’d tried to account for every possible scenario or mishap—a lesson she’d learned after her first experiment with gunpowder.
She was immensely grateful that both of her eyebrows were currently intact. Yet, for the majority of her second season, she’d possessed only one. The other had been a poorly sketched impersonation, giving her the appearance of an unfinished portrait of an exceedingly plain girl.
But she would not permit this erection to blow up in her face. No, indeed!
A few seconds later, her hand slipped free of the glove, along with her reticule. At last! But some of the unraveled cording remained firmly wrapped around the shaft and her glove.