Free Silk and Shadows by Mary Jo Putney Page A

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 madame 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.
    The girl's 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, then asked the girl, "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?"
    She scrutinized his face, as if wondering if he were some kind of spy, before finally nodding. "If that's what you want, sir. But promise you won't tell
her
?" She was surprisingly well-spoken, though the sound of the London slums was in her voice.
    "I promise." Casually Peregrine folded his arms across his chest, wanting to look unthreatening so the girl would talk more freely. "Do you play the role of tender virgin very often?"
    "Aye, two, three times a week," she said matter-of-factly. "I expect you know how it's done—vinegar steam for tightness, then a bit of sponge soaked in blood. Most men never know the difference, especially if you twitch and cry enough."
    "What's your name?"
    "
She
calls me Jennifer, but I was Jenny Miller at