Miss Cameron's Fall from Grace. Helen Dickson

       Summer—1810

      It was not Delphine’s habit to visit bordellos, but she had a duty to ensure that Maisie, who had disappeared from the orphanage, was safely with her mother. Granted, this particular bordello was of a most prestigious kind, but although the location was not beyond criticism, it was certainly no place for a lady. The genteel world of Delphine’s mother and sisters, however, had begun to matter less and less of late.

      Delphine was usually accompanied by one of her mother’s footmen who drove her in the carriage, but today he had duties at the house so she’d gone to the orphanage alone. Two of the children had gone down with temperatures and a rash. After isolating them and on the point of leaving, one of the warders had informed her that Maisie was missing. Delphine had a good idea where she could be found—there was nothing for it but to go after her.

      The evening was warm and sultry and oppressive, the kind of oppression that comes before a storm. Mrs Cox’s was an imposing three-storey building, and torchlights burned on each side of the red-painted door. Delphine was admitted to this house of assignation by Fergus Daley, the man Mrs Cox employed to keep order within the house and the rougher elements of the district out. The purple livery he wore looked out of place on his huge frame. The bones of his face were pronounced, with a lantern jaw sharp enough to cut paper. His crooked nose, which had been broken several times during his years as a pugilist, and his eye sockets set deep beneath his heavy brow gave his face a sinister look. But now he smiled, for Miss Cameron was a regular visitor to the house when she was looking for young Maisie.

      ‘Welcome to our house of pleasure, Miss Cameron,’ he greeted jovially in a deep, baritone voice, his expression warm and welcoming.

      ‘House of depravity, more like, Fergus,’ she replied in hushed tones as she placed her brown-leather bag containing medicaments and dressings on the hall table, ‘but don’t tell Mrs Cox I said so.’

      ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, miss,’ he replied, giving her a conspiratorial wink. ‘I think I know why you’re here—and I don’t think it’s to sell your body for what pitiful rewards a common man could offer you.’

      ‘How right you are, Fergus—not even for the king himself. I can only hope my parents never learn I come here.’

      ‘Not from me, Miss Cameron, and while you are here, you are solely under my protection.’

      ‘That’s a comfort to me, Fergus,’ she said, standing back to allow an inebriated gentleman to sway past and disappear into the salon, his clothes in some disarray. During business hours there were always gentlemen present.

      ‘If it’s young Maisie you’re looking for, she arrived an hour since.’

      Delphine uttered a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness. I do wish she wouldn’t run away like that. If only she knew how much trouble she causes. She’s just a child. She shouldn’t be here.’ What Delphine said was true. She’d been doing her charity work in and around the area of Covent Garden and St Giles long enough to know that wealthy and depraved gentlemen of the city would pay a fine price for girls as young as Maisie.

      Fergus nodded towards the curved staircase. ‘She’s with Meg—or the Luscious Delphine as she’s calling herself these days.’

      ‘She does seem to have taken a fancy to my name,’ Delphine remarked, laughing lightly, ‘although last month it was Gorgeous Louella and the month before that Sweet Angel. I find her peculiar taste in names rather odd. She seems to change it whenever another takes her fancy. It must be very confusing for her clients—but I suppose it adds to her mystique. Can I go up?’

      He nodded. ‘She’s no clients tonight—which you can put down to Will Kelly. He was here earlier.’

      Delphine glanced at him in alarm. It was no secret that Fergus had no liking for Will Kelly, nor the devious and often brutal way he went about procuring girls for Mrs Cox’s brothel. ‘Has he hurt her?’

      ‘You’ll see for yourself—but I swear I’ll swing for the bastard if he lays a finger on young Maisie and he knows it, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, Miss Cameron. Go on up. I’ll have to tell Mrs Cox you’re here.’

      ‘Then I’ll disappear before she sees me.’ Delphine was hoping to avoid seeing the strict madam of this establishment.

      With such an impressive array of whores available, Mrs Cox’s business profited from well-heeled and aristocratic customers. Mrs Cox—if that was indeed her name—always dressed plainly in a black gown, her greying hair pulled severely back into a knot at the back of her head: the very picture of respectability. She might have been someone’s grandmother,