Zoe Archer - Sinner’s Heart

It isn’t like that now.

You’ve looked out the window of your carriage. You’ve seen.

Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see, for, at the time, it made no impression on him. But thinking on it now, he remembered the protectively hunched forms of women scurrying inside. Only the women forced to earn their livings on the street remained—whores, orange sellers, beggars—and their eyes had been wide with fear.

In the span of a single night, the world had changed. He felt the whole of society, both high and low, clinging to a precipice, the rocks crumbling beneath their fingers. Soon the whole cliff would collapse. All that remained was the fall into darkness.

But his hands were strong, and he’d hold on for as long as he could. The darkness wouldn’t claim him just yet.

From the exterior, the building appeared like any other home in this fashionable part of town. Tidy and reserved, its modern brick façade looked out onto the street with perfect respectability, proportioned according to the most classical standards.

Bram ascended the short flight of steps, hearing the clatter of his carriage pulling discretely into the mews. Livia drifted behind him. Her curiosity was a flame at his back.

What’s at this place? Another gathering?

Without answering, he tapped at the door, and it opened immediately. They knew him here. Inside was just as tasteful as the exterior, done up in the latest style, with cream colored paneling, and paintings of serene landscapes upon the walls. A liveried footman took his hat and cloak.

“They are gathered in the drawing room, my lord,” the servant murmured. “Shall I show you in?”

“I know the way.” He strode down the corridor, Livia just behind him. Along the way, he passed a maid in cap and apron, and she curtsied, her eyes upon the ground.

Female voices drifted into the hallway from behind the drawing room’s closed doors.

Wherever we are, Livia mused, fear hasn’t kept the women away.

We’ll assuredly find women here, he answered.

He opened the doors of the drawing room. Settees and couches were arranged throughout the chamber. Upon them lounged young women in filmy gowns, and they all turned their gazes toward him as he entered the room. Some attempted to smile enticingly, but their attempts failed—the smiles withered like hothouse flowers.

“My lord, you are most warmly welcomed.” An older woman came forward, her hands outstretched to take his. She wore artful amounts of powder and rouge, a patch applied to just below the corner of her mouth.

“Mrs. Able.” Bram bowed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Like always, lovely as the evening star.”

“La,” trilled Mrs. Able, “pretty words from a pretty knave.”

“I save all my pretty words for you alone.”

“Then you must have a very short supply, my lord.”

“More than Dr. Johnson’s dictionary, ma’am.”

Mrs. Able laughed. “Such a charming rogue! ’Tis no wonder you’re the girls’ favorite.”

She says that to all the customers, Livia said, her voice sour. You might’ve told me you were going to a brothel.

And ruin the discovery?

He sensed her move away, straining against the bonds that tethered them together. Her presence left the chamber, and he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.

“Pick any girl, my lord,” Mrs. Able said, gesturing to the women upon the settees. “Almost all are at liberty tonight.”

It was then he realized that the brothel suffered from the inverse of Lord Millom’s assembly. Normally, men crowded Mrs. Able’s establishment. But aside from one morose gentleman with an anxious girl upon his knee, Bram was the only man in the drawing room.

“Slow this evening,” he murmured.

“Aye,” agreed the madam, and she made a sound of displeasure. “Patrons haven’t been coming round much these past weeks, and those that do want the kind of services we usually don’t provide. Not our usual sort of client. And when we do get regulars, the girls don’t want to go with ’em.” She tightened her painted mouth. “Uneasy, they are. Scared.”

So they were. Even the most veteran of Mrs. Able’s girls had a pinched, nervous mien, twisting their hands in their laps and casting fretful glances around the normally cheerful drawing room.

If he sought solace and peace, they wouldn’t be found here. Acid churned in Bram’s stomach. Piece by piece, the world rotted away, leaving decayed flesh and pallid bones.

Mrs. Able seemed to recollect herself, and to whom she spoke. “Of course, my lord,” she beamed, “any of my ladies will be more than happy to entertain you. Let me arrange it for you. Kitty, Cynthia!” She clapped her hands.

Two girls rose up from a couch, one fair, one with hair tinted a vivid shade of red. Though they were dressed in audaciously transparent robes, they approached slowly, timorously. The redhead took hold of the blonde’s hand. It wasn’t a flirtatious gesture designed to stoke a patron’s lust, but one that sought reassurance.

He’d believed that he had no heart left, that his time in the Colonies and since then had cut it from him. But, to his surprise, he now felt it withering in his chest, watching these two whores approach him like martyrs going to the lions. He could use his power, say something persuasive to both women so that they would eagerly take him to their bed. The idea tasted rancid.

He turned away, and Mrs. Able peered at him, a worried frown creasing lines in her face powder.

“Some other girls, my lord? You might enjoy Rosabel. A very sophisticated one, Rosabel. She can—”

“No. I don’t want any of the girls.” The words came of their own will, and it stunned him to realize he meant every one. He’d become a stranger to himself.

Mrs. Able’s mouth dropped open. “But—”

Bram did not hear her objections as he felt Livia’s presence come rushing into the chamber. Though she kept herself unseen, he sensed her distress. Candles flickered and the fire guttered. Shivering, several of the girls wrapped their arms around themselves and huddled close to one another.

“What is it?” Bram demanded.

The madam glanced around. “Are you speaking to me, my lord?”

He paid her no heed. Instead, he heard only Livia’s voice in his mind.

Go upstairs. Go upstairs right now.

“Why?”

Hurry.

He stalked from the chamber, leaving a room full of baffled women behind. One hand on the hilt of his sword, he took the stairs two at a time. Livia’s faint outline drifted at his side.

Reaching the next floor, he saw nearly all the doors lining the corridor standing open—a testament to the brothel’s lack of business. Two doors, however, were closed.

“Behind the door on the left.” Livia spoke aloud, not attempting to hide her presence.

He hesitated outside the door. The sound of a woman weeping forced him into action. Trying the door and finding it locked, he pounded his fist on the wood.

“Let me in,” he shouted through the door.

The woman inside only cried harder.

Cursing, Bram backed up then kicked the door’s latch. Several girls peered fearfully from open chambers, but none tried to stop him. With another kick, the door to the locked room flew open.

Bram strode inside, then stopped abruptly. A nude woman huddled in the corner, her head on her knees. Sobs shook her. Sprawled on the bed lay a man, partially dressed. A stiletto stuck up from the side of his chest. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the mattress, he’d been dead for several minutes.

Throat tight, Bram moved toward the bed and stared down at the dead man’s face.

“Thomas Auden,” he said quietly. “Poor bastard.” He’d been a genial man, always quick to laugh.

“He attacked me!” cried the woman in the corner. Her paint ran down her face in watery streaks. She tilted up her chin, revealing a necklace of bruises around her throat. “Just started throttling me, calling me filthy names. He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t—” She glanced at the knife protruding from Auden’s ribs and burst into tears again.

Bram backed from the room, his gaze riveted to the stiletto. Not so long ago, he’d seen a sword plunged into Edmund’s heart. They buried Edmund last week. Auden’s family would bury him, too. But the chain of death would continue. On and on, until the dead outnumbered the living and the cobbles were slick with blood.

Heedless of who might see her, Livia appeared before him, her face tight and grave.

“This is how it will be,” she said. “I’ve seen all of it before. I know what will follow. Whether you believe it or no, this world is truly going to hell.”

She was coming to know his bedchamber very well. The tall windows that looked out upon a narrow, well-tended but never used garden. The heavy furniture, carved from dark wood. The silver paper-covered walls, sparsely adorned. The bed, large and canopied also in silver. The man slumbering in that bed.

Livia stared down at Bram as he slept. A restless, active sleeper, he’d twisted the covers around him as he shifted his long body, sometimes muttering faintly in the half-coherent language of dreams. At that moment, he’d turned onto his back and flung one arm overhead. Both his hands were knotted into fists.

A sliver of light worked its way between the drawn canopy curtains, tracing the contours of his body, its planes and ridges. The light caught along the sharp lines of his face, no softer, even in sleep. Already stubble darkened his chin, despite shaving earlier in the day. She placed her palm against his jaw, wanting to feel its roughness, and silently cursed when she felt exactly what she always did—nothing.