“Can you bring it to me now, Mrs. Dove?” Somehow Reginald had managed to keep his voice even. The housekeeper was not the one to blame here. His anger should not be directed at her.

She nodded and scurried from the room.

Three weeks wasted! He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, awaiting the woman’s return.

“Here y’ are, sir,” she said a few minutes later, handing over the bundled-up material. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“No, Mrs. Dove, thank you.” With his normal stoic composure, he watched her mount the steps on her way out, though inwardly he trembled in anticipation of examining the garment. When the door clicked shut, he shook out the folds of the stained and creased cloak, measured it against his own frame then carefully laid it on his desk.

Mrs. Dove had been right: the cloak belonged to a man. A man even taller than himself, for when held up to his shoulders, the bottom of the garment still brushed the ground. He bent over to examine the hem more closely. A good six inches had been dragged through mud and muck. No, the cloak Lady Katarina had worn had not been her own. Neither had she mentioned acquiring it in her story. That made the garment a good bit more interesting to him.

The cloth itself was a fine black silk, lined with satin, and woven with an intricate design in the fabric. Foreign made. So from whom had she gotten it? And when? And where?

He straightened, considering his options.

A visit to Lady Katarina for more information came first to mind, but he dismissed it immediately. If she hadn’t mentioned it before, she would likely lie about it now. Instead, he would go back and make inquiries at the brothels again, this time merely trying to return property mislaid several weeks ago. Surely something so costly would’ve been noted missing. The patron obviously had expensive tastes; therefore, Reginald would start at the most expensive brothel in London, The House of Pleasure.

Which brought him to his current place outside the brothel’s back door.

Patience at an end, Reginald knocked a fourth time, harder, making the door jump on its hinges. At last, the bolt shot back and the door opened, revealing a woman. A very attractive woman, with a pale face and dark hair pleasingly disheveled, as though she’d just risen from her bed—which, of course, she had. “May I see the owner of the house, please?”

“You see her now.” She opened the door wider, revealing a petite form clad in a bright scarlet silk wrapper that slipped down to reveal one delicate white shoulder. “I am Amorina Vestry, Mr. Matthews.” She frowned, squinting against the light. “Whatever are you doing here at this hour of the day?”

The madam’s insinuation was clear, but he ignored it. “You know who I am?”

“But of course. I make it my business to know all my patrons—to some degree.”

Reginald gritted his teeth. “I have never patronized your establishment, madam.”

She stared at him, a flash of hunger in her eyes as she took him in from top to toe. “Perhaps it was just wishful thinking, then.” The hunger disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Suffice it to say, I do know who you are, Mr. Matthews. How may I help you?”

“I have a garment, a black cloak that was found near here several weeks ago,” he gestured to the folded material clasped beneath his arm, “but which has only now surfaced from the night watch. I’m trying to ascertain its owner, Madame Vestry. May I come in?” A bare flicker of interest—or alarm—crossed her face at the mention of a black cloak, and his lips curled into a smile. His instinct to try the House of Pleasure first this morning had been exactly right.

“Of course, Mr. Matthews. I’m always eager to assist the Runners with their investigations.” The woman’s tone was smooth, but insincere. She opened the door and let him in, her gaze once more ravishing him as he walked past her. Warmth began to build within him, in the most inconvenient of places.

After shutting the door, she glided past him. “Follow me, please.” She led him down a dim hallway carpeted in soft, brilliant red and green Turkey rugs. Reginald glanced at the artwork on the walls—massive gilt frames displaying Rubenesque nudes in lewd poses—and sudden heat bloomed in the pit of his stomach. And elsewhere. He’d not realized how easily mere images could affect him.

Concentrate on the job at hand.

He determinedly turned his gaze back to the small figure before him, although that wasn’t much better. The gentle sway of her hips as she walked drew his attention immediately to the shapely curve of her buttocks. His cock stirred restlessly against his breeches. Madame Vestry exuded sensuality like a jungle feline.

She led him into a small receiving room, the décor of which was titillating, to say the least. More lascivious artwork, both paintings and statuary, adorned the cream-colored walls. Scarlet curtains, embroidered with figures in various sexual poses, shut out the early morning light. Madame Vestry gestured for him to sit on a pomegranate-red, satin-covered sofa. “May I see the garment?”

“Certainly.” He handed it over for her perusal, his gaze trained on her face.

Only a slight widening of the slate gray eyes gave her away, but oh yes, she recognized the cloak. Satisfied he’d come to the right place, Reginald relaxed into the sofa.

Vestry felt the expensive cloth then ran her hand down the front opening, almost caressing it. A good customer then.

“Do you recognize it, Madam?” He waited patiently for her denial.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews, I believe I do.”