London, 1826

“I think he wants to stab us, Eddie.”

Edmund Hawkins set down the glass of gin and eyed the ne’er-do-well with a baleful expression. The bearded ruffian puffed out his chest in anticipation of a brawl; however, he quickly slunk off under the younger seaman’s glare.

Edmund might be four-and-twenty years of age, but he had lived a life as hard and dangerous as any cracks-man or murderer in the flash house, and his deadly stare—and meaty fists—proved it.

“He won’t stab us,” Edmund said with quiet confidence. “He’s changed his mind.”

Quincy chortled. He rubbed his eyes, red and swollen with fatigue. “We must be getting old. There was a time we would have started a scuffle with a brute twice our size.”

“Aye, I remember.” Edmund studied his brother, two years his junior. Quincy’s mussed, curly black hair and dark blue eyes matched Edmund’s own visage, yet the men’s temperaments differed considerably. “Perhaps we’re wiser now.”

Quincy humphed and tapped his thumb in an impatient manner across the grimy tabletop.

“You’re restless,” said Edmund.

“Aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’m home now.”

Edmund had entered the notorious public house, filled with all sorts of scheming criminals, putting the stresses at sea behind him. It was in the notorious public house he was most contented, for there was no hypocrisy within the establishment, just life in gruesome detail. It was where he belonged.

“What’s there to be restless about?” he wondered.

“Everything.” Quincy rubbed his tanned chin. He glanced at the table, then back at his kin. “Do you think we’ve made a mistake?”

Edmund understood his brother’s meaning, for he had wondered the same thought himself for many months now.

“I dunno. Maybe.”

Quincy sighed. “It’s not how I imagined it to be.”

Six months patrolling the coast of West Africa as privateers in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron had not produced the desired results for adventures. The endless, uneventful patrols stripped a mariner of all enthusiasm and spirit. The heavy rains and tremendous heat maintained the body in a constant state of discomfort. And when a ship was spotted, heavy in the water with her human cargo, there was often nothing they could do about it, even with a letter of marque authorizing them to stop any vessel suspected of slaving, for most British ships traveled under foreign papers and raised foreign flags, preventing the seamen from legally boarding them and confiscating the slaves.

Edmund swigged the gin. He remembered the first time he had sighted a British slaver. He remembered the thrill of the battle as the enemy vessel had put up a valiant fight to keep her precious cargo. She had lost, however. Edmund, Quincy, and a few other tars had boarded the ship as the prize crew, and had prepared to sail her into Freetown, where an Admiralty Prize Court had been established to deal with the illegal trade…but when he’d first entered the slave decks to release the shackled captives, he had been overwhelmed by the gruesome images: images that haunted him still.

“It can’t be guns and glory all the time, I suppose.” Edmund moved the glass across the table in an absentminded fashion. “We should enjoy the respite. We’ll have to set sail again in a few weeks.”

“I can’t sit here anymore.” Quincy lifted from his chair. “I’m off to my favorite haunt. Care to join me?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Quincy departed from the flash house in quick strides.

Edmund frowned. He was worried about his younger brother. Quincy’s favorite haunt was the opium den, and ever since he had tasted the seductive smoke from the Orient, about a year ago, he had grown more and more attached to the substance.

Edmund downed the rest of the gin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The door opened and the room soon filled with other nefarious characters.

He watched the spry figures order a round of spirits from the barkeep. The level of noise inside the public house increased dramatically, and it wasn’t difficult to overhear the men’s boisterous exchanges:

“A den o’ sin, ye say?”

“The most wi’ed in London.”

“Where is it?”

“Cove’ent Garden. There’s a coat o’ arms wiv a bull’s head above the door.”

“Well, what’s it li’e inside the club, ye ol’ bugger?”

“How the bleedin’ ’ell should I know?” He pointed at his coarse features. “Can’t ye see me blag eye?”

“Oh, it’s fer gen’lm’n.”

“Aye, the gatekeeper thought me a mudlark and trounced me.”

A barmaid delivered the ordered drinks then.

“Fanny ’ere will get ye a cold fish to put o’er that blag eye, ’iggins.”

Higgins snorted. “I’ll just get me wife to sit on it.”

The men guffawed.

The jaded Edmund half listened to the gossip, for there were many such establishments within the city, and all boasted similar lurid entertainments. However, the clubs tended to exaggerate their sinful amusements in the hopes of luring rich, young, and bored aristocrats within their walls. A fancy whorehouse might be a “den o’ sin,” but the most wicked in London? Edmund doubted the claim. And yet his brother had deserted him for more insalubrious pursuits, and he had little else to occupy his time.

With an air of ennui, Edmund hoisted his big frame from the rickety chair and departed the flash house amid the curious stares and penetrating looks of the shifty patrons. He entered the dark and impoverished Buckeridge Street, making his way toward Drury Lane and then on to Covent Garden, where the notorious club was allegedly located.

A thick, greenish fog choked the soiled thoroughfare even more as Edmund moved through the squalid, seedy part of the city. He passed the late-night muffin seller and baked-potato vendor, the cheesemonger and child prostitute. He passed their worn and cheerless faces, guarding his pockets and his throat.

As he neared Covent Garden, gas lamps illuminated his path, but the district at night was no less unsavory than the rookeries, for it was close to the river Thames and inspired all sorts of illicit activity under the cloak of darkness.

It was an odd configuration that the rich and the poor abided next to one another in such close proximity, that one sordid street lay beside its affluent counterpart. Edmund had always marveled at the juxtaposition. It made his own segue from the underworld into respectable society all the more comfortable, and thus all the more deceitful.

Edmund moved through the district, a marketplace during the day, brimming with vendors, and a haunt in the evening for the demimonde, who prowled the famous Royal Opera House steps in search of coin and companionship.

He observed the surrounding structures, seeking the insignia that marked the site of the secret club, and soon located the blazon. He stopped at the foot of the clean-swept steps and gazed at the tall edifice. The architecture was classical in style, the windows masked with heavy drapery, permitting thin beams of light to pierce the glass.

Edmund listened for any sound of revelry coming from inside the building, but the spring night was still. He shrugged and mounted the three stone steps that directed patrons to an imposing front door of paneled wood, flanked by Doric columns. He gripped the chilled brass knocker and pounded on the wood.

A minute passed before the heavy door peeled open on its sturdy hinges and a robust figure appeared in silhouette. The gatekeeper took one look at Edmund’s homely attire and promptly shut the door with a resounding smack.

Edmund’s fingers twitched and he thumped on the door once more with greater vigor.

The same surly gatekeeper parted the wood.

Edmund announced in his most officious tone: “Edmund Hawkins.”

The gatekeeper lifted a brow. It was clear the ornery sentry had recognized the young seaman’s familial name, so Edmund refrained from listing his relations with any further pomp, which he loathed to do.

The gatekeeper stepped aside and mutely extended his arm, welcoming Edmund inside the high-end establishment.

As soon as Edmund set foot within the “den o’ sin,” he concluded his first assumption had been correct: it was not the most wicked establishment in London. He followed the silent sentry through the quiet passageway and entered the foyer with its sweeping high ceiling, the roof capped with a domed and painted fresco.

He scaled the winding steps after his guide, the carpet a rich red fabric. The balustrade was composed of polished wood and intricate wrought iron. The walls were papered in fine yellow print and interspersed with silky, raspberry red panels. At the top of the stairs were a series of elaborate columns and daring artwork.

Edmund passed through the tunnel. The interior was a feast for the senses. The ornate furnishings gleamed under the resplendent chandeliers, making the environment scintillate. It was meant to bedazzle the wits and to strip a wealthy rake from his blunt. It was no more scandalous or provocative than any of the other establishments Edmund had ventured into during the past five years he had lived in the city.

The gatekeeper paused beside a set of white double doors with gold trim.

Edmund listened to the merriment seeping through the slim space between the wood. He almost yawned at the tedium of another conventional gentlemen’s club. He even considered turning away from the doors and leaving the sentry flummoxed, for it inspired more amusement in his reflections than the thought of a “den o’ sin.” However, he shrugged off the lethargy and allowed the gatekeeper to part the double doors with a measure of fanfare.

The room teemed with cigar smoke and masculine energy, instrumental music and exotic incense. There were tables scattered everywhere, filled with jolly patrons, and the pretty serving girls kept the spirits flowing. Layer upon layer of brilliant silk fabrics swooped from the ceiling and cascaded along the walls and onto the thick-carpeted floor. The room was peppered with palms and other tropical flowers. Satin cushions purled with gold thread bedecked the seats and divans and even the floor. The decor smacked of a desert harem from a storybook. The only odd feature in the vast space was the stage at the front of the room, cloaked with sensuous red velvet drapes.

“Good evening…sir.”

A woman paused and looked him over with a critical eye, clearly convinced the gatekeeper was being remiss in his duty to keep out the riffraff.

“Mr. Hawkins,” he returned stiffly.

Her beautiful, dark brown eyes mellowed and she even offered him a smile. “I am your hostess, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

She was about five-and-thirty years of age, with a relatively smooth complexion and fine features. She had darker skin, and her accent placed her from a far-away part of the world. Her name might be an elaborate pseudonym…or perhaps it was her real name, for she radiated with pride, and he suspected she took great pleasure in her noble appellation, even if it was unfamiliar to his ear.

“Welcome to the Pleasure Palace.”

He almost rolled his eyes at the tawdry epithet.

“I’ll have one of my serving girls take your order.” She slipped her hand through his arm and gently guided him deeper into the establishment. “We have the finest selection of spirits in Town.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled. It was an amorous smile. She wasn’t out to seduce him; he sensed that intuitively. She was out to caress and lull his better judgment, though, with her artful ministrations, to make him more pliable to her desire: the surrender of his blunt.

“I hope to see you here often, Mr. Hawkins.” She stroked his elbow. “Enjoy the entertainment. We aim to please our guests.”

A piquant perfume rested heavily in the air as she departed from him, her flowing skirts swishing seductively with each measured step.

It was the feeling of squander that made Edmund’s nose pucker, though: the squander of time, money, and even good sense. Yet what else was there for a wealthy gentleman to do with his time? He stood inside the familiar void and resigned himself to a few hours of squander.

“Have you come looking for salvation?”

Edmund slowly turned around and spotted the stranger seated amid the shadows in the corner of the room. There was a low-burning candle on the table; it illuminated his cheeks and brow, leaving only the recesses of his eyes in darkness.

Edmund frowned at the cryptic question.

The stranger expounded with “From your tired life?” A cloud of smoke hovered above his head as he sucked on a cigar. He gestured to an empty chair.

Edmund settled into the padded seat. “What makes you think I’m seeking salvation?”

“You’ve not come into the club with the same jovial step as the other young bucks; your eyes are empty.”

Edmund wasn’t bothered by the gloomy observation. He ordered a glass of gin from a passing serving girl before he returned his attention to his mysterious companion.

The stranger was about forty years of age. He sported soft brown hair smattered with slim silver streaks. He was dressed in swanky attire, top-quality fabrics, and polished brass buttons, but he had unfastened his cuff links and relaxed his cravat, telling Edmund he didn’t give a jot about his public appearance.

There was only one part of him that remained in secret: his eyes. Edmund could not see his eyes, even from his new vantage point at the round table, for the shadows masked the deep-set pools. He sensed the man’s penetrating gaze, though.

“Is that why you’ve come here?” wondered Edmund.

“There is no salvation for me.”

Edmund withheld a snort at the melodramatic retort. He rubbed his chin, convinced the nob was searching for a saphead to listen to his groans about life—like his valet’s failure to polish his boots. Edmund wasn’t willing to offer him an ear, though.

“Then why have you come to the club?” said Edmund.

“For the same reason you’ve come to the club…to forget.”

“And does being here make you forget?”

“No.”

Edmund thought as much. He looked around the room for another place to sit, but the serving girl returned with the beverage then, and he wasn’t inclined to move away from his seat now that he’d a drink in hand. He paid her a coin.

“It won’t help you, you know.”

Edmund took a swig of the gin. “What won’t help me?”

“The drink.” He nursed the cigar in his bejeweled hand. “It won’t help you to forget.”

“It’s all worthless, is it?” He chuckled at the theatrics. “The club? The drink? Is there no escape from one’s ‘tired’ life?”

“There is escape.”

“Oh?”

“In death.”

Edmund snorted at the smattering.

“You laugh at death?”

He peered at the stranger with a sardonic expression. “I laugh at men who speak with courage about death, but who have never faced it.”

“Hmm…and you’ve faced death?”

“I have.”

Edmund downed the rest of the gin and smacked the empty glass on the table, but the spirits had yet to stifle the dark memories in his head.

“And how does it feel to confront death?”

“Do you want me to philosophize?” He shrugged. “I can’t say, in truth. It’s only after the danger has passed that I even realize I’ve come close to death, and then I feel triumphant.”

“Because you’ve bested death?”

“That’s right.”

“I see.”

Edmund waited for the stranger to break the silence with another odd question or puzzling remark, but the shadowy figure refrained from further comment, drawing on his cigar.

Edmund didn’t mind the quiet; he was a man of few words himself. He was also accustomed to more peculiar companions, his history at sea so varied and colorful; yet, at present, he wasn’t in the mood for any more blathering.

He looked at the stage. “What is the show about?”

“I don’t know. This is my first visit to the club, too.”

Edmund sighed, weary. Soon the gin took effect and he sensed his muscles loosen. The sensual music and rich colors and low mood lighting in the room started to make him drowsy…but then the sudden clash of instruments pierced his skull and jostled his wits.

He blinked and glanced around the room, bemused.

“I think the show’s about to start,” said the stranger in an offhand manner, clearly uninterested in the whole proceeding.

Edmund stretched out his long legs and yawned. He was prepared to sleep through the insipid performance, which he assumed was a bawdy comedic act or a recital from a half-rate singer, but the soft clash of cymbals and tambourines, the rhythmic slaps of a hand drum roused his dormant senses.

He remembered sailing to North Africa, stopping in Morocco for supplies before continuing toward the continent’s western shores and bustling slave waters. He remembered similar sounds and lush melodies coming from the foreign port, filling the night air, which was already sweet with spices and tangy fruits.

Edmund opened his eyes and observed the stage as the red velvet curtains parted. The room hushed but for a few patrons, who whispered the word “Zarsitti” with excitement.

A figure soon appeared, scantily attired in white silk. The coquette had a long flowing skirt, beaded with crystals, and a hip scarf bejeweled with gold coins. A matching top crisscrossed over her lush breasts, but her arms and belly were nude.

The dancer’s artful movements, a captivating pattern of hip rolls and twirls, stirred Edmund from his listlessness, bewitched him—and every other male member of the club. She gyrated and shuffled and swayed, hypnotizing him like a snake charmer with music.

He noted a birthmark shaped like a kiss just below the center part of her breasts. He wasn’t sure if it was an actual mark or makeup designed to enhance her sensual allure. A veil concealed her nose and lips, and an elaborate coin headdress crowned her lengthy, wavy blond locks. There was only a set of piercing and painted eyes that peered at the crowd through the silk mask.

The blood in his veins warmed as she undulated and swooped in step to the pulsing instruments. He stared in both admiration and longing at the woman’s lean figure, her smooth, muscular midriff. Every tendon stretched, seeking glory and applause, and inwardly he offered her that very ovation, for even his bones throbbed in appreciation.

He relished the savory sensations that welled inside him. He had drifted across the sea of idleness for far too long, and the dancer’s mesmerizing appearance was like an anchor staking him to the seabed. She beckoned him back onto land, to feel again. And he was dizzy with the woman’s heady call. He felt like a tar on firm ground after months at sea; the earth was motionless yet he still swayed with the movement of the waves.

The unsteadiness in his soul had him grappling for security. He sensed there was only one way to calm the storm in his heart: he had to see the woman without her mask. He had to touch her, learn her name. He had to know she was real.

The sensual dance ended after a few minutes. The room erupted in a cacophony of applause and cheers.

Edmund glanced at his enigmatic companion, prepared to excuse himself from the table. However, the man’s chair was empty; he had slipped away during the course of the performance.

Good. Edmund needn’t bother with pleasantries. He lifted from his seat and headed for the double doors, avoiding the stage area. As he passed through the room, he heard the enamored compliments and similar sentiments of longing to meet the mysterious dancer coming from the other patrons.

He was not the only charmed soul who wanted a private audience with the beautiful Zarsitti, but unlike the other hopeful men at the club, who were doomed to dream about the dancer, for the gatekeepers refused to permit them behind the stage, Edmund had quickly realized the exotic dancer was a highly guarded commodity—and he had already formulated another plan to meet her.