Florence gasped as she followed Charles into the main saloon of the Lotus Blossom. A single glance around brought him to a dead halt, his own breath catching in his throat.
He had been in the luxurious homes of high-class courtesans before, that obviously goes without saying, but the Lotus Blossom was something else entirely. The room was bathed in the soft, rosy glow of red silk lanterns. Suspended from chains of delicate gold, they cast dancing shadows across a ceiling alive with elaborately painted scenes of dragons and tigers. Heavy velvet drapes of crimson and gold pattern adorned the walls. Beneath his boots, the floor appeared made of solid jade, and in the centre of the room, two ancient plum trees, twisted and deformed with age, seemed to grow straight out of the stone. Their gnarled, bone white bark took on a pink tint under the exotic light of the lanterns.
A mixture of low, black tables, lacquered to a mirror-like sheen, and plush red velvet daybeds was deliberately arranged around the room at discreet intervals. Several of the establishment’s patrons lounged in the shadows, their black tailcoats spilling over the edges like the limp wings of a bat.
Charles casually scanned the room, taking in their faces one by one, but there were none he could recognise; their features obscured by the thick haze of incense and opium. These men were the heavy dragoons of high society, each one decked out in his finest evening fig. Their starched white shirts were immaculate; their pressed trousers, sharp and precise. They were men of opulence, status and power. They were the men who controlled London and, therefore, the Empire.
A woman sat cross-legged upon a silk-covered dais in the far corner of the room. She was dressed in a shimmering gown of gold thread, her face painted a deathly white and her lips the brightest red. On her lap, she cradled a pipa, her long, elegant fingers plucking the strings of the exotic instrument one by one. Each note was a soft, ethereal sound that caused the shadows to twist and turn in time with her tune.
This wasn’t just a brothel, it was a den. A haven for the darkest desires and depravities of the human soul.
“May I take your hat and coat, sir?” a voice said in a faint, hushed whisper.
Beside Charles stood an almost mouselike creature. A girl, little more than four feet tall and swathed in a silk robe that was far too big for her. The voluminous sleeves swallowed her hands, and the hem spilled across the floor. Her large, almond-shaped eyes remained fixed on the ground, while her tiny frame trembled.
“My hat? Oh, of course, my dear,” Charles exclaimed. “How terribly remiss of me! I do sincerely apologise.”
With a well-practiced flourish, Charles flicked the brim of his hat, sending it tumbling end over end into the air before catching it expertly in a white-gloved hand. Then, shrugging off his heavy coat, he handed it, along with his hat and walking cane, to the girl. Her eyes never left the floor as she took them and, with a deep bow, backed slowly away.
Florence took a small, hesitant step towards Charles, the handkerchief still firmly pressed against her face.
“Good evening, sir… madam.” Through the thick haze, a woman strode towards them. Her dark chestnut hair framed an oval face of remarkable beauty. She wasn’t a blossom. No, she was most certainly human, but more striking than almost any woman he had ever encountered. She wore a riding habit of deep blue velvet, tailored so closely as to almost scandalous. “I am Miss Walters,” she announced in a clear, resonant voice. “I oversee this beautiful establishment. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your patronage before, Mr…?”
She had no need to introduce herself; Charles was well aware of who the woman standing before him was. Fortunately for him, Catherine Walters didn’t seem to share the same recollection; otherwise, he was sure this meeting would have ended very quickly indeed.
“Malone, my dear lady, Sir Patrick Malone,” Charles said, bowing theatrically as his voice effortlessly took on the lilt of an Irishman. “And this here is Lady Margaret. We’ve come all the way over here from Dublin, you see. We were hoping to meet an old friend tonight.”
“And you are expecting to meet that friend here?” Catherine said, tilting her head slightly.
Did she doubt him? It didn’t really matter if she did.
“To be sure, that’s what he said, my good lady,” Charles replied in that faultless brogue. “Meet me in the Lotus Blossom, he said.”
“Well, in that case, may I perhaps arrange some entertainment for yourself while you wait?” Catherine said, glancing over his shoulder to Florence. “Perhaps for the lady too, if that kind of thing is to her taste.”
A rustle of Florence’s heavy dress caused Charles’ stomach to lurch, although luckily, this time at least, she had listened to him and kept her mouth shut.
“Oh, she has the most adventurous of tastes, Miss Walters, I can certainly assure you of that.” Charles paused only to listen to another rustle of Florence’s dress and low huff of her breath before he continued. “But alas, tonight we must decline, for I fear dreadfully that I have made a muddle of my days. As the good Lord is my witness, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Charles fixed his gaze on hers. “Perhaps, Miss Walters, you could assist me in my confusion? I’d be terribly indebted to you if you might care to tell me the last time he visited? I do believe he’s well known to you. The good Baron de Rothschild?”
Charles’ eyes narrowed, searching Catherine’s face. Were those faint lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes new? Perhaps a slight tightening around the mouth and a barely perceptible flinch at the mention of the Baron’s name? He couldn’t be entirely certain, but one thing he was sure of was that she recognised the name. His cards were on the table; now the real game began, and he waited to see her move.
“I’m terribly sorry, Sir Patrick, but I don’t believe I’m acquainted with your friend.” The smile on her face remained, but no longer touched her cold eyes.
A tingle, like little jolts of electricity, danced across his fingertips. Florence’s feet shuffled impatiently on the jade floor; she too would have noticed those little telltale signals, he was certain. They had all the information they needed. All the pieces of the puzzle were now in place; the Baron had indeed frequented the Lotus Blossom.
But why stop there when he was enjoying the thrill of the game so much? Especially when he still had one more decisive card left to play.
“Oh, my good lady, my mind really is such an awful bag of marbles. Please accept my deepest apologies. Of course, you wouldn’t know Baron de Rothschild. It was not he whom I was to meet, but my other good friends, Lord Harland and Sir Geoffrey Denton. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”
Catherine’s breath froze; the flicker in her eyes was obvious this time. Charles smiled.
Her lips, tight against her pale face, quivered visibly now. Her voice, when she did finally speak, was strained and taut. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve never met the gentlemen of whom you speak. Perhaps in your confusion, you’ve come to the wrong establishment?”
The tingling had spread to Charles’ hands and halfway up his arms. His teeth clamped down tightly, forcing back the triumphant smile that wanted to burst across his face. This was all too easy. Just one more play and then he’d leave with everything he needed.
“Many thanks to you, my good lady, but I’m quite certain this time. Perhaps if you just think back, I’m sure that you may remember them?” he said with a smile.
Dipping a hand into his waistcoat pocket, he pulled out two gold sovereigns, which glinted as he rubbed them together.
Before Catherine could respond, a soft whisper floated to him from across the saloon. No, a whisper didn’t even come close to describing the hypnotic voice that spoke to him. It was like the warm, soft caress of silk wrapping itself around his head.
“Mr Dickens?”