Isabella’s blood ran cold.
She couldn’t bear to think about what happened in wealthy households. Her arm was still bruised where her father had grabbed her too tightly. It bore no comparison, but she knew how it felt to live in fear.
They needed to free Nancy Jones before it was too late.
But they could hardly take the word of this woman over a peer.
“Is this person willing to make a statement?” she said.
Ethel shook her head. “She was last seen boarding the stage to Brighton. No one has seen or heard from her since.”
And so they were back to believing Lord Oldman was guilty of selling forged or stolen artefacts. That the woman who’d accosted the curator was a fleeing servant, keen to warn others about her devious master.
The only other question related to the missing women, but Ethel looked blankly when Isabella gave a brief description.
“I heard Oldman keeps the plain ones. The ones who don’t complain and are down on their luck. The pretty ones soon find better opportunities elsewhere.”
Christian produced the pewter pendant and handed it to Ethel. “Does this look at all familiar?”
The woman studied it, turning it over in her rough hands. “It looks like something you can buy from a hawker at Farringdon Market.”
“May I look at the pendant?” Aramis said.
Ethel passed it to him, gripping his long fingers. “One of you gents will have to take me outside and kiss me. Else it will look mighty suspicious.”
Christian turned to Aramis. “I’m afraid the onus falls on you.”
“Why me?”
“Because my affections are engaged elsewhere.”
Isabella’s heart flipped. Were his affections engaged? Did their romantic interludes mean more to him than she’d suspected?
Aramis frowned. He scanned the taproom then pinned Ethel to the chair with his intense gaze. “Is this where your friends rob my purse while you’re stroking my cock?” He inclined his head to Isabella. “Forgive my crude language, but I’m not one to mince words.”
“Pay it no mind, Mr Chance. I heard worse during my recent voyage to England, and my mother often spoke in the devil’s own tongue.”
Christian smiled. His eyes conveyed a need to get rid of present company and indulge in private pleasures. Sadly, they wouldn’t get a moment alone tonight. Not unless she risked her neck and stole into his bedchamber.
“Happen you’d rather we found a room.” Ethel gestured to the wooden stairs. “I can get a good rate.”
Aramis gave a sinful grin. “Tempting as it may be, my brother is right. I cannot bed a witness. You’d best have another drink to dim your disappointment. I would have been the best fuck you’ve ever had.”
Christian chuckled. In his brother’s company, he looked free of all burdens. His rightful place was with the formidable men of Fortune’s Den, not miles away with no one but her for company.
A sensible woman would avoid all physical contact. It would make their parting easier in the end. But logic abandoned her whenever their eyes met.
“More’s the pity. I can do things with my tongue you’ve only dreamed of,” Ethel countered. “Still, one of you gents will have to kiss me.”
Aramis stood and straightened his coat. “What a man must do in the name of justice.” He beckoned Miss Cartwright. That’s when Isabella noticed the thickened skin and scarring just above his wrist. “We’ll remain indoors, madam, in full view of the punters.”
Miss Cartwright gave a coy grin before accepting his proffered hand. “At least make it look like we want a little privacy.”
Like Lucifer leading an unsuspecting victim to the bowels of hell, Aramis led Ethel to the darkened corner beneath the stairs.
“What happened to his arm?” Isabella asked, curiosity getting the better of her. If she felt an ounce of compassion for the man, it might make accepting his money easier to bear.
Christian recoiled at the question. He glanced at his brother, who currently had his tongue down Ethel’s throat. “In his youth, a lady tricked him into believing they were in love. She was married, and her husband held his arm over a lit brazier as punishment.”
