Servants of the Crown

It was far enough from fashionable areas of the city, but close enough for clandestine visits both during the day and of an evening by gentlemen of the law, the cloth, and of commerce. “A hop, step, and a jump from Chancery Lane, St. Paul’s, and the Bank of England. The perfect refuge for wigs, vestments, and money changers,” Mrs Wilson would say with enormous charm to newcomers who’d been introduced by gentlemen who were regular clients.

Hedger’s was renowned for its discreet hire of rooms by the hour, and also for its merchandise: the type of men so liked by those for whom Kosorukov had a penchant—muscled, masculine, and handsomely endowed. Its owner was renowned for her willingness to bend the rules of discretion for Lennard, who’d known her when he was a lad of twenty, shortly after he’d started working as an embryonic intelligencer, and when Mary Wilson was then a Martin, not a Mary.

With the patronage of wealthy gentlemen and an eye for business, Martin—at the age of thirty and no longer the object of desire of his former admirers—decided to set up his own house, designed to cater specifically for men of substance who wanted a bit of “rough” but without the hazard of frequenting places where it was usually available.

There was only one problem. Molly houses had never been run by men. For some reason, gentlemen were cautious, preferring an establishment run by a member of the fairer sex. Almost overnight, Martin became Mary, after which his house thrived.

“I must say, nobility suits you well, Lennard,” Martin said. “And you too, Elam. So finely fitted out and, if I’m not mistaken, bearing the hallmark of the excellent craftsmanship of Poole’s. Am I correct?”

“Indeed, you are,” Lennard replied. “My grandfather’s tailor was one of our first visitors, even before Sir Hugh was laid to rest. Angus—you remember him, I’m sure—pointed out that clothing maketh the man, and we’ve had new wardrobes designed, cut and delivered by an army of tailors and seamstresses.”

“Beautiful.”

“Do you …?”

“Yes, I have not only my own gentleman’s attire made there too, but also that of the gentlemen’s companions who work for me. Normally, during the day, I go about my business as a man. In the evenings, however, it’s tresses not trousers. It seems to put the visitors’ minds at ease to see a charming woman greet them when they arrive.”

Lennard smiled. Although slender, Martin had neither been petite in stature nor feminine in manner. In fact, he’d been a strong market boy at Covent Garden, later an adolescent at Billingsgate, lugging around enormous weights either in his arms or towering baskets balanced on his head. No one had been more surprised than Lennard when Martin had revealed his dreams for his future life as the owner of a molly house. “If that’s the case, may I ask why you’ve come to meet us in a beautiful gown and wearing a bonnet of the latest fashion?”

“Because, at two o’clock this afternoon, after we’ve lunched, I’m to meet with a certain peer of the realm, who’s enquired whether he might take the entire house for an evening.”

“The whole establishment?”

“For him and six of his gentlemen friends who will disrobe when they arrive and spend the entire evening completely naked, wearing nothing but harlequin eye-masks to disguise their identities.”

“I’ll offer you five guineas for their names,” Lennard said, with a wink.

“If there were to be some advantage to you to know their names, it would be given freely,” Martin said, playfully tapping Lennard’s hand with his fan. “Otherwise, if you really want to know who they are, perhaps I could entice you to offer yourself to the room as an amuse-bouche before the evening starts?”

“You are such a tart,” Lennard said, delighted to hear Martin’s saucy rejoinder.

“It goes with the nature of my business,” Martin replied, then glanced across the dining room of Trapper’s, the elegant eating house to which Lennard had invited him, and smiled at the owner, who’d been hovering.

“You know Stanley?” Lennard asked, catching the glance.

“Know him? I’ve had him, Lennard. And more than once.”

“I’m confused. Had him … how?”

“Oh, Lennard, you’re such an innocent for such a man of the world.”

“Perhaps you’d explain, Martin? Although, I believe you secretly think I’m a degenerate, skilled in every carnal vice that exists, I can assure you, my tastes are … simple.”

Elam rolled his eyes so theatrically that even Lennard smiled.

“Stanley?” he asked again, indicating the proprietor, who was making his way across the room to them, accompanied by a smart, well-dressed waiter.

“Really, Lennard? Well, let me tell you there’s many a pillar of society, or a businessman with a wife and children—such as the owner of this establishment—who likes nothing better than to be tupped by a man wearing a corset and half-crinoline, and blessed with a member twice the length and girth of his own.”

Lennard, eyes wide, stifled his laughter. Elam, however, chortled into his handkerchief, his eyes wet with suppressed mirth.