The Royal Occult Bureau Read online

  THE ROYAL OCCULT BUREAU#1

  Copyright © 2020

  BARBARA RUSSELL

  Cover Design by Rebeca Covers

  Edited by Beth Hale

  Edited by S. Miller

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors’ imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.

  Published in New Zealand

  This book is written in British English

  Also by Barbara Russell

  For Adults

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  The Vampire Who Played Sudoku

  For Young Adults

  New Camelot Series

  A Knight to Celebrate—New Camelot Series # 0.5

  A Knight in Distress—New Camelot Series # 1

  A Damsel in Shiny Armor—New Camelot Series # 2

  Knight of Swords— New Camelot Series # 3 (Coming soon)

  Clockwork Victoria

  Arabian Days

  The Good Inside Me

  The Martian Zombie

  For Kids

  Misadventures in Auckland Series

  Dearest Mummy—A Pharaonic Adventure

  The Boy Who Killed Santa Claus

  The Doom and Despair Entertainment Agency

  The Girl with the Dragon-raccoon

  Short Stories

  Miss Princott’s Time Travel Agency

  Pavlov’s Cat

  Acknowledgement

  A big ‘thank you’ to my beta readers for their precious feedback, and a special thank you to Sarah, always a pleasure to work with you, to Author Beth Hale for helping me with awkward sentences and grammar.

  Contents

  Also by Barbara Russell

  Acknowledgement

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  About the author

  Contact me!

  Bonus content

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  One

  London, November 1887

  LADY LUCK MIGHT be a blind goddess, but Lady Misfortune had exceptionally good eyesight. She could pick her victims with extreme precision, and if you were a woman and a whore in a pleasure house in London, Lady Misfortune was often at your side, reminding you just how wretched and miserable your life was.

  As if I needed the reminder.

  Although perhaps I shouldn’t complain. I’d been working at De Luna House for seven years now, since I was nineteen, and Madame Violet—the abbess—had always been kind to me. Not easily would I find a clean, warm room where to sleep and three hot meals per day. Not to mention a salary that maybe wasn’t honest, but allowed me to buy luxury items.

  No, not perfumes or clothes. They were part of my working attire, but books.

  Also, Violet let me choose my own clients. If I didn’t like a man’s looks or attitude, I could reject him. Yes, I was always a whore, but I was a whore who had choices. Not many women could say that.

  So, I had my books, my selected jockeys, and my freedom. Until that night.

  It was Guy Fawkes’s Night.

  Remember, remember the fifth of November.

  The night when in Great Britain we celebrated Guy Fawkes’s failed attempt at blowing up the parliament with King James and his closest lords inside. The royal guards had discovered Guy’s little plan before he could carry it out. I would’ve handed Guy a lit match and given him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, if you ask me.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow after my daily training session—Violet was very strict about having her tarts supple and lean— and my heart gave a lurch at the Madame’s words. It might’ve been the hour Felicity had forced me to spend jumping and squatting to strengthen my leg muscles that made me slow to catch up, but when Violet’s little speech about a new customer sank in, a flare of anger stilled my breath.

  “Today is Saturday,” I said between a gulp of air and a puff.

  The air of the room in the basement we used as a gymnasium was stuffy, and the smell of wood polish mingled with that of humidity.

  “And?” Violet cocked a dark brow.

  At almost fifty, she still looked stunning with a slender, willowy body and auburn hair that seemed to stubbornly refuse to grey. Her temperament also refused to sweeten despite the fact she’d been a whore herself and knew what it meant.

  “Saturday is Mr Sorrow’s day,” I said, tossing my hair over my shoulder.

  I didn’t know Mr Sorrow’s real name. Only a handful of my clients revealed their names, but Mr Sorrow was one of my favourite jockeys. Young, handsome, and filthy rich, he paid me a fair sum to stay with me the whole night. Nights that I spent listening to him blathering and whinging about his unhappy married life. All I had to do was sit and nod in the right places and look pretty until he performed his masculine deed with me. He never lasted long. Two minutes tops. Honestly, once I had a hiccup that lasted longer. Whining was his idea of foreplay, and the more I let him whine, the quicker he’d perform.

  I couldn’t ask for more. Besides, he often brought me perfumes, bottles of scented oil, and books. I treasured books above everything else. I had to thank Mr Sorrow—and Violet—if I could easily converse about geography, history, and literature like any well-bred lady. Mostly. Our Madame loved to tutor the girls. She said that well-educated tarts were an investment for the house.

  Saturday was a pretty relaxing evening after all. I didn’t want to be obliged to spend the night with a client I didn’t know.
r />   Violet pressed a logbook against her chest. It was the one that contained De Luna House’s schedule and I guessed some dirty little secrets about our clients.

  “I rescheduled Mr Sorrow with Celestia,” she informed me in an icy tone. “You have the whole night for this new client.”

  My mouth hung open. Since Violet took me, half-starving and half-diseased, from the streets of Whitechapel, she had never, ever ordered me to be with a client.

  It was the only freedom I had.

  Most of the times, a whore’s job was disgusting enough without having to deal with stinky, slobbering swine and violent men—that was what she always said when we thanked her for letting us choose our jockeys.

  I couldn’t deny the frisson of cold fear travelling through my heated body and cooling it down. Spending a night with a client I’d never met without seeing him first pushed my pulse in a frenzy. What if he was one of those who liked to hit a tart? Or simply too revolting to be stared at? What if he wanted to whip me?

  Sometimes it wasn’t a matter of money. I’d met all sorts of men in the streets and been beaten within an inch of my life once by a man who wouldn’t hear ‘no’ from a prostitute.

  I swallowed the knot of fear. “Who is he? And why have you accepted to give him to me without telling me first?”

  I was probably being too harsh with Violet. She wouldn’t risk my safety. Not after she’d taken care of me. Many people wouldn’t see how a madame who ran one of the classiest bordellos in London could ever take care of her whores.

  But being a jobless woman without a family meant dying a brutal death in the dirty streets of London. Having a safe room in De Luna House was better than spending the nights in dark alleys, among drunk men and rats, begging for a few shillings. At least in De Luna House, I had coal for my stove and the clientele was a selected one. It didn’t mean that we couldn’t meet nasty bastards. A refined suit and an Eton’s accent didn’t make a good heart.

  “Who is he?” I asked again.

  Violet flustered, her lips trembling. Lord, she was frightened. Not a good sign.

  “This gentleman asked specifically for a girl with grey eyes. You’re the only grey-eyed woman here. He offered thrice the normal fare for the privilege of being with you,” she said, fiddling with the logbook. “Please, Asia, be reasonable.”

  I was speechless again. Thrice the price? Thirty-six pounds?

  I didn’t mean to brag, but . . . Yes, I meant to brag, but I was one of the most paid whores in London, and certainly I was the etoile of De Luna House. But all that money for a fumble under the skirts sounded outrageous. It was three months’ worth of a tradesman’s salary.

  Then suspicion wormed its way through me. Men couldn’t be trusted after all. “What does he want to do with me?”

  De Luna House wasn’t a theme brothel. Thanks goodness. Clients had to ask and pay for extra things.

  There was always something a whore wouldn’t do. We dressed up for the clients, pretended we were French, Russian, Italians, and sometimes endured being tied down in our beds and whipped. But blood, knives, and torture—no. Those were my limits.

  After my question, Violet’s gaze darted around the room. Not that there was much to see aside from discarded clothes and the plain wooden benches where previous tarts had carved their names.

  Violet’s hesitation didn’t bode well. “Actually, I don’t know what he wants from you. He didn’t give me any instruction, but he asked specifically for a grey-eyed girl. I guess he knows you.”

  “Blazes.” I tossed the towel on a wooden bench and folded my arms across my chest.

  The dying sun cast a red glow on Violet’s hair, giving it a fierce gleam, as if her head was on fire. Just like my blood. I didn’t bother to ask how the gentleman might know me. In the smoky parlours of gentlemen’s clubs, men loved bragging about their prowess in bed with whores. If only we could tell the truth.

  I shook my head, sending matted dark tendrils of hair over my eyes. “I don’t like this arrangement. You know I want to meet a client before accepting him in my bedroom.”

  “This one is special.”

  “Because he’s paying a small fortune.”

  Violet held up a manicured hand. “It’s not only for the money. It’s that . . .” She glanced around.

  Again a tremor shook her body. The gymnasium was empty. Only the smell of girl sweat lingered in the room to hint that twelve women had spent an hour exercising here.

  “You’re scared,” I whispered, shivering. Her secretive behaviour was affecting me.

  Violet’s ruby lips pressed into a hard line. “This gentleman works for the government.”

  A half-snort escaped me. Was that all? “So what? Half of our clientele includes politicians.”

  Even if they didn’t give us their names, professions were easy to guess, and to be honest, men didn’t know how to spell subtleness and finesse when it came to hiding their careers—or anything else, for that matter. Suitcases spilling documents were often left unattended in a corner of the house by men too eager to be served to think about their belongings. Walking sticks with effigies and symbols were never hidden from us, and sometimes the clients plainly leaked their secrets to us. We weren’t real persons to them after all. Just a pleasant interlude between work and family obligations.

  Pleasant for them.

  Violet’s fingers clenched the logbook harder. “This one is not your usual dim-witted politician. He’s . . . different.”

  Different. I didn’t like how that sounded. Before I could ask what in Hades she meant by that, she spun on the heels of her boots and strode out of the gymnasium, bustle swaying like a cat’s tail.

  Wonderful. My relaxing Saturday night had turned into a blind engagement with a gentleman who had to be terrifying enough to scare a hardened woman like Violet.

  ~ * * ~

  A LONG, HOT BATH left my skin soft and scented with jasmine and orange blossoms. It had also relaxed my sore muscles but did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach. If Violet allowed us to drink at will, I would’ve taken a dollop of brandy. Liquors and men—as in proper lovers—were forbidden. That was how Violet’s tarts kept their flawless complexions and slim waists. Beautiful girls who could speak without slipping into Cockney meant good business.

  I stood in front of my wardrobe, trying to choose something for tonight. Not an easy task since I didn’t know the darn client. Some men found black leather and tight over-corsets intimidating. Other preferred fully covering dresses they liked to peel off us. The majority fell head over heels over a virginal blush and a shy attitude.

  Since Violet hadn’t given me any directions, I selected a flowing silver gown that matched my eyes.

  The silver colour of my eyes was the reason the Sisters of Our Lady of Fatima had called me Quicksilver, Asia Quicksilver. When those pious women found me on the threshold of their house of children, a silk cloth covered my shivering body; a precious fabric surely from China, or maybe India, or perhaps it was from Thailand. Indecision and my slick raven hair had brought the ladies to call me Asia. My eye colour had given me a surname.

  I twisted my hair into a French chignon, applied a light veil of rouge on my lips and cheeks, and silver eyeshade to enhance my eyes. Then, pretending that my legs weren’t shaking, I reluctantly left the room. It was one of the few rooms with a working cast-iron stove and thick velvet curtains that kept out the winter’s chill.

  While my bottles of body lotions and make-up were hidden behind the Chinese screen, my beloved books were stuck under the four-poster bed. Apparently, gentlemen appreciated a girl who could speak properly but didn’t like a whore who read and could quote Jane Austen.

  Before going downstairs, I crossed the landing and knocked on Charlotte’s door. If I had anything like a sister, it was Charlotte. My best friend, fashion adviser, and confidante all rolled up into one beautiful, goodhearted woman. The only person I was sure I loved.


  “Charlotte? It’s me.”

  “I know. Come in.”

  I pushed the door open and winced. Charlotte might have a superb taste for clothes and shoes, but God save us from her room-decorating skills. Violet, grey, and black dominated her room. Serious brocade curtains hung over the windows, and the bottles of makeup on the vanity formed neat lines like toy soldiers. The scene seemed straight out from a military camp.

  Sitting on the stool of her vanity, Charlotte finished applying rouge on her lips. “What did Violet want? I heard her asking you to stay behind after the training session.”

  “I have a new client.” I plonked down on her bed. The quilt—dark grey of course—let out a huff. “I can’t refuse him. He’s some politician.”

  “As usual.”

  Despite the layer of face powder, her gaunt, pale cheeks had a ghostly quality that sent a shiver up my back. Pale hazel eyes didn’t shine with any light. No, that wasn’t true. There was a light, but a nervous one, like someone who had typhoid fever.

  I opened my mouth to ask her if she was fine, but she cut me off.

  “Oh, dear, what have you done?” She rummaged through her make-up bottles and selected a few small glass jars. “That’s the wrong eyeshade for you.” With light fingers, she wiped my eyelids and applied a new layer of eyeshades. “There, look.”

  I blinked at my reflection in the vanity’s mirror. My eyes looked twice bigger with a mixture of dark green, indigo, and silver. Charlotte was like that. She could turn a plain girl into a beauty.

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled, and her cheeks regained some colour. “You’re welcome.”

  I adjusted my skirt. “What about you? Are you going to see that Bertie again?”

  Since she’d been with that client who resembled Prince Albert—a tall, blond-haired man—she’d lost weight and wandered the corridors like a lost soul, chatting about him to anyone she met. And she wasn’t the only one. Other girls were swooning over Handsome Bertie like doves in love. I didn’t find anything exceptional in the chap. Too pale and with icy pale eyes that were too disturbing to be attractive.