Rogue in Red Velvet by Lynne Connolly Page A

differently. But eventually I prefer them on their knees. It just takes a little longer.” He took a deep draught from his glass and reached for the decanter. “Heard about the event tonight?”
    A few people murmured a name Alex didn’t recognize, “Cratchitt.”
    Dankworth brightened. “I’ve never been to a slave auction. I’m looking forward to it. There are some virgins for sale, I believe and the others are new to the market.”
    “Few of them are real virgins.” Alex working hard not to show his interest. This was it. That was what the blackguard had done. If Connie appeared in public offering herself for sale, that would prove her lack of morals. “Where is this house?”
    “Covent Garden.”
    “The Garden itself?” Houses on the piazza and bordering the square were more expensive than the ones on the nearby streets, or the shacks by the market. Alex went to one house in that area for the gaming and he half hoped, half dreaded to hear it would be held there. “I haven’t heard of it. Is it Mother Dawkins’s?”
    “Next door,” Fox said. “And Dawkins is furious about it. She says it brings down the tone of her side of the square.” The gathered crowd sniggered. “She’s worried the new woman will take her custom. She has that glorious Academy on Wednesday nights and her girls are always exquisite, but sometimes a man wants something a little—wilder.”
    Alex didn’t, though he wasn’t about to mention that now. He had a healthy male appetite for a lovely woman but that was as far as it went. Dankworth was positively salivating and his blood ran cold.
    Now he knew when and where Connie would show up. But he didn’t know how. Or where she was now. He had the rest of the day to make his plans but it wouldn’t be easy. Whatever it took, he’d do it. He needed to call on the magistrates in Bow Street and then to Mother Dawkins, who owed him a favor or two.

Chapter 8

    Alex stood on the steps of the best whorehouse in London, taking in the arena of his upcoming battle. Covent Garden was in many ways the center of London, especially at eleven in the evening. The whole world ended up in Covent Garden sooner or later. This was later.
    Standing on the corner of the Garden and King Street, Mother Dawkins’s establishment plied its trade. The flambeaux either side of the door illuminated the visage of one of the bullies she employed to keep order, scarred and weathered but dressed neatly in a parody of livery. Alex nodded to him and the bully returned the favor.
    He was leaving the house, not entering it. He’d made a bargain with the madam, using all the advantages he had, preparation for what he hoped would happen next.
    He’d dressed carefully and gorgeously, in crimson figured velvet and gold. Nobody would miss his presence tonight. Even Mrs. Dawkins, who had seen men come through her doors in full court finery, too eager to go home and change after visiting St. James, remarked on it.
    A large ruby glinted at his throat and another on his finger. In his pocket he had a richly enameled snuffbox and a small, loaded pistol, while the small sword at his side while decorative, was no mere ornament. He was dressed to kill, if necessary.
    He strode past the flambeaux, down the steps and went next door, where a similar set-up waited for him. He glared at the footman, not at all intimidated by his beefy presence and the man opened the door. Alex entered.
    Mrs. Dawkins’s house held flamboyant furnishings and bright décor but it was done with wit, as if someone knew they were doing too much, cramming too much fine furniture into a space. This house held no irony, and Alex didn’t feel like smiling at the green striped wallpaper, the cherries tumbling down the white stripes and the extravagant mahogany furniture. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, winched too high because there wasn’t room for a full drop otherwise. The lady of the house came forward, hands outstretched.
    Thin, bony hands.