1

Some hours earlier

Few people stop to ponder what depravity might lurk behind a closed door. Take the smartly painted door of my own house on Berwick Street, for example. The brass knocker is polished every day and the four steps leading up from the pavement are swept each morning and afternoon. The sign over the doorway is dusted now and then – when someone remembers to do it – and announces to passers-by that this is a milliner’s shop. It is no such thing. Our house, surprisingly discrete, is the best brothel in Soho – or so we are led to believe by those who visit. Hats are seldom called for once you are over the threshold.

The door I found myself staring at, that August night in Grosvenor Square, would be, I considered, to anyone who knew no better, just another anonymous entrance to the smart London home of some noble family or other. It was certainly impressive, but, like the house itself, this door was elegant rather than ornate. Even in daylight, it would have been subdued. The servant standing outside in a coat of middling blue was doing nothing to draw attention – either to himself or to his master’s residence. Any good and godly matron could have passed this home chaperoning the sweetest and most chaste of young ladies without blushing. Indeed, had it been the morning, or early afternoon, I imagined that many pure-minded individuals would have enjoyed a slow perambulation of this fashionable Mayfair square, even stopping to consider the white façade of the house, only to admire the wide-spaced windows, the shining black door and its immediately forgettable servant.

Looking out across the square, I could just about make out the vast mansions. The moon was new, and giving very little light, so everything lay under darkness and shadow.

The servant nodded when he saw five of us climb out of the carriage that had been sent to bring us here. It was the only acknowledgement he would give to Polly, Emily, Betsy, Angel, and me. We expected nothing more from him and certainly no warm words of welcome. He would admit us quickly, and we were not to speak; our garish gowns and powdered faces might attract attention, even if they were hidden beneath hooded cloaks. Besides, we were required inside and were not being paid to linger.

This did not prevent the man from taking his eyeful as we passed, a smile that might have been a contemptuous sneer gracing his lips. He knew why we were here, of course.

His name was Jenks. We had been told his name. But as he pushed open the door and ushered us through into the hallway, I thought that he might as well have been Cerberus the three-headed dog, and that there should have been great flambeaus set either side of the entrance. For truly, this was no ordinary door. It was the portal to the underworld. The entrance to hell.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

Even in hell, one is obliged to wait.

The hallway we had entered was spacious and tastefully furnished and did not look like the cavernous outer regions of the underworld that I used to imagine as a child. We handed over our cloaks and gazed at our surroundings. Gold paint on the cornices, the staircase spindles and the edges of the picture frames that hung on the walls sparkled in the candlelight. There were a great many candles – a deliberate display of opulence – so that, in contrast to the darkness outside, in here it was almost as bright as day.

‘It’s lovely,’ breathed Angel, clutching my arm. ‘Like a fairyland. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anywhere so beautiful.’

Angel was one of two new girls at the Berwick Street brothel, and little more than a child. Her real name was Ann, but her hair was so fair as to be almost white, and the innocence of her expression had led Polly to nickname her ‘Angel’, and the name had stuck. She and Betsy had arrived only a month ago and both were still very green. We were trying to teach them how to survive. This place was not a fairyland. Quite the reverse. Even so, there was still nothing in this dazzling hallway to indicate anything other than that the owner of the house was a person of wealth and good taste. The chaos and debauchery were tucked away behind a further doorway, just in case someone arrived uninvited and found themselves shocked by what they s