The Uncertain Customer by Pearl Love Page B

forehead, Wilcox shielded his eyes with his palm as his mind reluctantly dredged up his recent folly. It hadn’t been the first time he’d gone to the docks seeking an assignation with a sailor willing to offer his arse in return for a handsome reward. The West India Docks were well-known among those who sought that specific brand of diversion, and he’d never before failed to turn up a willing partner. That night, however, the young man he’d thought to engage had been more interested in stealing his purse than earning his pay the old-fashioned way.
    “The tar had several friends who had either been waiting for one such as myself to wander imprudently into their trap or—”
    “Or more likely,” Church interrupted, “they knew an easy mark when they saw one.”
    Wilcox waved his free hand dismissively, refusing to dignify the astute observation with a response. “Long story short, I was assaulted and mugged.”
    “Did they leave you with anything? How are you planning to pay for all of this excellent whisky?” Church asked, glancing pointedly at the five abandoned fellows of the glass Wilcox had just emptied.
    Wilcox grunted. “They’ll bill my father’s account, as always. And, yes, I still have this, at least.” Reaching into his shoe, he pulled out two shillings. He’d been in the habit of carrying the bit of hideaway since he had gotten lost in Trafalgar Square as a boy and hadn’t had the money to hire a hansom cab to take him home.
    Church nodded solemnly. “Very good, then. In that case, you can pay for the ride to my apartments, and I can share a tale with you that you may find interesting.”
    “I’m hardly in the mood for fairy tales.”
    Church smirked. “Oh, this story is hardly for children, my dear boy.”
     
     
    C HURCH MAINTAINED a dwelling near Regent’s Park. The house was small by ton standards, the four levels containing only five bedrooms, two bathing rooms, a dining room, a parlor, a library, and three rooms for servants. But it was well-appointed and perfectly suitable for a wealthy bachelor about town. Church’s father kept a stately mansion in Kent, a respectable but convenient distance from the port in Ramsgate, where he executed the majority of his business. Although Church was sometimes obliged to spend time at his family’s estate, his rooms in London were better accommodating of his more dissolute pursuits.
    The moonlight illuminated the townhouse’s white façade with an eerie glow, its haunting aspect enhanced by the skeletal limbs of the bare trees that lined the block. The hansom driver pulled up to the front entrance, his expression indifferent as he waited for them to stumble out onto the street. Wilcox stamped his feet against the cold, and instantly felt slightly woozy from the abrupt movement. He somewhat regretted that fifth glass of Scotch, even as he anticipated making inroads into Church’s well-stocked bar. If nothing else, his indulgence was helping to ward off the frightful chill so typical of a late English January. Church, who was far less inebriated, had already reached the front door, his long strides no doubt motivated in part by the unforgiving temperature. Wilcox took a deep breath to right himself and instantly wished he hadn’t as he got an undisguised whiff of the city’s unique perfume.
    “Please don’t get sick in front of my home. There’s a good lad.”
    “Shut up,” Wilcox answered, striving mightily to avoid that very thing.
    Church disappeared inside his home, leaving Wilcox to follow at his leisure. Wilcox made it to the top step and was congratulating himself for not falling down them again—it wouldn’t have been the first time—when he was greeted by the dour visage of Church’s housekeeper, Mrs. Good. A misnomer if there ever was one , he thought uncharitably. He summoned up a smile for the sour-faced woman and wondered what she would do if he voided his stomach all over the starched white front of her apron.
    “Mrs.