"Sean Russell - River Into Darkness 1 - Beneath the Vaunted Hills" - читать интересную книгу автора (Russell Sean)

тАЬHah! Out of the frying pan into the fire, Hayesy. YouтАЩre with us now and our intent is far more wicked
than any footpads. Driver,тАЭ the young man called тАЬThe brothel!тАЭ
тАЬThe brothel!тАЭ



тАЬThe brothel!тАЭ the others took up the cry, and the carriage careened off down the street, only the fragile
common sense of horses keeping the gentlemen from disaster.

The anemic light of coach lamps smeared across rain-oiled cobbles and lit the moving flanks of horses
without having a noticeable affect on the overwhelming darkness. Avonel of an evening in early spring.
Erasmus Flattery stepped down from the hired coach and, with barely a nod, shook some coins out of
his pocket for the driver. This was the address, he was sure. A doorman held an umbrella for him,
interrupting a drizzle so fine it seemed more like a cool, falling dew, or the actual substance of darkness
dribbling down from the heavens.

тАЬSirтАж ?тАЭ the doorman said expectantly, and Erasmus realized he was standing there as though unsure he
would enterтАФlike a young man whoтАЩd lost his nerve. In truth he had always avoided such places, though
not on moral grounds. He was not a prude. But brothels were the haunts of foolish young men, and the
old attempting to deny the truth of time. Either way it was a house of delusions, and, as such, repugnant
to Erasmus. But then, Erasmus had come out of perverse curiosity.

Only the Marchioness of Wicklow could ever have brought off such an event, for who could refuse an
invitation from AvonelтАЩs principal hostess? Only a prude or a man who had much to hide, clearly. Any
woman who did not attend would unquestionably be admitting that her husband frequented such
establishments and that therefore she could not bear to even enter the place herself. No, the Marchioness
had weighed things out with a kind of ruthless precision and cruel irony that Erasmus thought had to be
admired. Of course, as a bachelor, he was in no danger here. His wife would not be watching, wondering
if any of the matronтАЩs comely employees seemed to treat him with just a bit too much familiarity.

So here gathered the cream of Avonel society, pretending to be engaged in something exciting, risque,
and watching each other like predators. Erasmus thought that the Marchioness had gone a long way to
expose the truth of Avonel society this evening. He, for one, was almost certain he could smell the sweat.



Erasmus was escorted quickly up the short walk and into a well-lit lobby. Smiling young women relieved
him of cloak and hat, gloves and cane.

тАЬLady WicklowтАЩs party,тАЭ he said, and one young woman turned to the matron who approached and, still
smiling, repeated his disclaimer.

The matron was a cheerful looking woman whose age could not be disguised behind even the layers of
makeup she had applied. Erasmus thought that if you took away the makeup, she would look far more
like the competent wife of a particularly boring, country squire than the proprietress of such an
establishment. She should have been serving tea and exaggerating the accomplishments of her children.

тАЬMrs. Trocket at your service. And you areтАж ?тАЭ she asked as she curtsied, surprising Erasmus with a
bright look of both intelligence and humor.