Weldon turned to his guest. "Be my guest tonight. I insist. You will not regret it, for there is not another house in London that can match the delights of this one."
Peregrine hesitated, knowing that more was at stake than simple debauchery. Touring the fleshpots together had taken the two men beyond a business relationship into a tenuous illusion of intimacy. Peregrine had hoped for that because it would bring him closer to his enemy. But now Weldon wanted a companion in wickedness, and to refuse the offer would cause his enemy to withdraw to a more formal distance, probably for good. "That is most gracious of you," Peregrine said in a warm tone that disguised his aversion. "I accept with pleasure."
Mrs. Kent said, "I will be with you in a moment, my lord," and led Weldon away. As he waited alone in the drawing room, Peregrine realized how silent the house was, even the street noises failing to penetrate. The walls must be insulated to muffle sounds inside the building.
Slowly Peregrine turned in the middle of the room, his neck tingling with disquiet as he absorbed the atmosphere of Mrs. Kent's house. Though it was usually danger that roused him to such heightened awareness, what he felt now was not threat but pain and despair. It reminded him of a blood-drenched pass in the Hindu Kush, a place of ambushes and old bones.
Deliberately he suppressed his reaction. Mrs. Kent's house was just another step on the long road to vengeance. He could, and would, do whatever was required to carry him further toward his goal, even if that meant deflowering a young girl to win Weldon's trust. Not an admirable deed, but at least he would do it more carefully than the average brothel patron would.
A few minutes later Mrs. Kent returned and led Peregrine upstairs, the burly guard following. Stopping in the middle of the corridor, the madam said as she opened a door, "A lovely child, my lord. I'm sure you'll be pleased with her."
Just inside the room, he stood silent and watchful as the door closed behind him. A branch of candles on the mantel revealed that the room was furnished with sleazy luxury, red being the predominant color. The bed was a massive four-poster that dwarfed the slim figure lying on a scarlet counterpane.
The girl rolled her head on the pillow and looked toward him silently. She appeared to be about thirteen, with an exquisitely pretty face and flowing blond hair. Her white muslin nightdress was ruched and ribboned like an infant's christening gown, probably a deliberate attempt to make her appear even younger than she was. His face expressionless, Peregrine lifted the branch of candles and carried it to the bedside table.
Her wrists were tied to the bedposts with sashes that had enough slack to allow her some movement. Her gaze was fixed on his face, her huge eyes bleak in the candlelight. Yet she did not look quite the way he expected a virgin on the point of being ravished to look. Perhaps she was drugged, or perhaps she did not understand what was going to happen.
He frowned, trying to read her expression. There was trepidation and resignation, but surprisingly little fear. While Peregrine had never patronized an establishment such as this one, he had a fair idea of what went on in such places. Perhaps, after all, he would not have to do what was expected. His voice very low, he asked, "Is there a spy hole?"
The girl's eyes widened, her gaze involuntarily flickering to a mirror fastened to the wall near the door. Peregrine crossed the room to examine the mirror, and discovered a glass-covered spy hole hidden among the decorative whorls. He pulled out his handkerchief and draped it over the decorations. "Are there any others?"
Resignation gave way to wariness as she tried to decide if his odd behavior might be dangerous. After an uncertain moment, she shook her head, but Peregrine spent another few minutes checking other possible peephole locations.
When he was satisfied that they were private, he untied the sashes, releasing her wrists, then sat on the foot of the bed, as far from her as possible. "You're a fake virgin, not a real one, aren't you?"
"How did you know?" she gasped as she sat up with a jerk.
"Merely a good guess," he murmured, grateful to learn that raping a terrified innocent would not be necessary this evening.
The girl huddled against the headboard, her flaxen hair spilling over her shoulders, fear in her eyes. "Please, sir, don't complain to her," she begged. "I'll do anything you want, anything at all. Just don't tell her I didn't do you right."
Having met Mrs. Kent, Peregrine had no doubts about the "her" that was pronounced with such fear and loathing. He raised one hand. "Peace, child, I'll not complain to your mistress, nor do anything else that you don't want. In return, will you tell me what goes on in the house?"