Free The Emperor's Conspiracy by Michelle Diener

thought, but she saw his hands were tight-clenched fists. “That would be Cherub.”
    Cherub. She would laugh at the name Frethers took when catting about in the rookery whorehouses, but the tight, viciouslook on Peter’s face turned the impulse to ash. “You know where he goes? Which places, how often?”
    Peter cocked his head. “What are the chances of him finding out who peached him?”
    “He will certainly never hear it from me.” She slid her gaze to her coachman. “Or Gary. As long as you don’t say anything, there is no chance.”
    He watched her for a moment, then turned that same, piercing gaze on Gary. Eventually nodded. “And what are you offering?”
    She had thought to offer money, and the bag of coins was beneath her cloak, but she could not look at Peter without thinking of all the years, two or three at least, that she’d had it within her power to do something about Frethers, and had not. Had allowed other things to take precedence. The look Peter had had on his face while he pretended to think who she could be describing had cut her deep, and she should bleed. She deserved it.
    “I am going to give you a choice. I have money for you, and you could take it and never see me again.” She sensed Gary tense, as if he knew what she was about to say, sensed him willing her not to say it, but she ignored him. “Or, I will give you the option of a different kind of payment. The kind where I work out a place for you in my household, either the country or here in town, and give you a permanent livelihood.”
    He laughed, a choked, shocked sound. He slid his gaze from her to Gary, and she saw him register Gary’s fury at heroffer. He laughed again, this time with an edge. “I’m tempted to accept.” He smirked as Gary hissed out a breath. Waited a beat. “But I’ll take the money, love. If it’s all the same to you.” He held out his hand.
    She nodded. “First, I need to hear something useful.”
    The corner of his mouth kicked up in an annoying way. “Cherub. Likes the Moon-faced Pixie. Lots of babies to be had there. Mainly girls, but enough boys to keep him coming back. And the Red Rose Inn. The boys are a bit older there, but there’s a more steady supply.” He fiddled with the buttons on the velvet jacket that seemed to billow about him like a dark sail. “Usually Mondays and Thursdays. If he’s well taken with a lad …” He cleared his throat, and Charlotte thought she might cry out. He looked across at her, and then hastily, angrily away, speaking the next words in a cool, disinterested tone. “If he’s keen, he’ll come back Friday, maybe even Saturday, for more.”
    “You ever hear of him trying his luck outside the rookeries, with the children of acquaintances?” She was thinking about the Hollidays, whether they were the first, because surely Frethers would not risk exposure without some collusion, as there had been between himself and the boys’ father.
    Peter hunched his shoulder. “May have heard ’im braggin’.”
    “Did you hear names?” She wondered if this line of questioning was even useful. No one would admit to any abuse of this sort, for any reason. Frethers knew it. He must have no self-control if he was not only fishing in the pond of the socially connected, but bragging about it, as well.
    But Peter shook his head. “No names. He’s not a complete bufflehead.”
    She felt around for her money bag and held it out to him, and he took it with a practiced hand. He dipped his fingers in and brought out a coin, tilted it to the window, to see it in the weak light. Gave a nod. “Nice doing business with ya.” His eyes flicked around the interior of the coach. “I know how you must ’ave got this, and ’tis people like you give the rest of us hope.” His words did not relay disrespect or even insinuation. He thought he was speaking one professional to another.
    “It could have happened that way,” she said. “But I did not come by my current situation