Free The Constantine Affliction by T. Aaron Payton Page B

entirely the wrong undergarments, but it would stay on her body, and any disarray would likely be overlooked given her obvious state of agitation.
    She flung the next door open. “Charles, I know you’re here, you debased animal, you wretched philanderer—”
    “Madam!” The man who’d admitted her to the establishment earlier rushed down the hall toward her, and Ellie had a twinge of fear that he would recognize her, but he saw what he was meant to see: a furious woman, looking for her husband.
    “I wish to see my husband at once ,” she said icily.
    “Madam, I’m terribly sorry, no one by the name Charles is here this evening, I can assure you. If you’d like, I can make sure a message reaches him if he—”
    “As if I would trust a message to someone employed in this… this den of iniquity!”
    He winced. “Madam, please, I understand your distress, but you are quite correct—this is no appropriate place for a lady.”
    Ellie made a great show of calming herself and controlling her emotions. “Yes. Fine. I’m sure you are quite correct. I should… Perhaps I should go.”
    “Please, allow me to escort you out.” He took her gently by the arm and led her toward the stairs, which would take her to the first floor and, blessedly, the front door. “If I may ask, madam, how did you obtain entry to the premises?”
    “I knocked at the door, and no one answered. I tried the knob, and it opened. I heard shouting upstairs—I gather there was some commotion here?”
    He colored. “Yes, madam. One of our guests suffered a mishap. Nothing serious, I assure you.”
    Ellie said nothing as they proceeded to the front door. The man touched the doorknob, then paused, and Ellie was afraid he’d recognized her after all. But he merely looked at the ceiling, and said in a low, solicitous voice, “I hope madam will forgive me for saying so, as it is hardly my place, but… men have certain needs. Surely it is better for your husband to sate those needs here, in a safe, clean establishment, where he will not suffer any… ill effects… than to seek satisfaction in less salubrious circumstances?”
    “I will thank you to keep your opinions about my husband to yourself, sir,” Ellie replied in her best icy matron’s voice. The man sighed, nodded, and opened the door.
    Ellie stepped out, walked in stately dignity toward the nearest alley, and, once she made sure no one was watching, slipped into the shadows and shrugged off the dress. She was wearing the suit Mr. James had provided her underneath, with the jacket tied around her waist by the sleeves. She shoved the dress into a heap of rubbish, along with the wig, though she hesitated over the last; it was good quality, and her hair had been cut terribly short. But better to erase any connection between herself and the brothel. She had not re-bound her breasts, and though the cut of the jacket was generous enough to keep her from looking too obviously feminine, she still worried the ruse was unconvincing. Her mustache would not reattach to her face, the adhesive of pine tar and alcohol having lost its efficacy. She pulled her hat low, looked down at her feet, and walked in as straight a line as she could manage in the direction of Mr. James’s shop so she could recover her own clothes. She would not tell her dear uncle of her dangerous experience, nor would she tell her editor—at least, not yet.
    Ellie had gone in search of a bit of risqué fluff for the newspaper. In the process, she’d stumbled onto a mysterious link between the brothel’s apparent owner, the notorious criminal Abel Value, and Bertram Oswald, the Queen’s closest confidant. She could scarcely imagine a more unlikely pairing.
    Now all she had to do was uncover the nature of that link. Despite her attempt to mimic a masculine stride, she found herself almost skipping as she walked. She should have been afraid, she supposed, but—oh, there was a story here. The spinster Eleanor Skyler might have