The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(6)

"Do you, indeed?" Harris considered him with a sly smile. "Would you have time to join me for a brandy?"

Simon inclined his head. "I suppose so. I've no other place to be at the moment."

Harris took Simon by the elbow and guided him to a small office where he gestured to an overstuffed chair. He then poured two glasses of brandy, offering the first to Simon, then taking a seat behind a worn oak desk. Simon swirled the brandy and then took an appreciative sip, wondering what this was about.

Harris sat back, crossing an ankle over his knee. "Now then, Mister Singleton, I wish to know more about this colorful verse of yours. I must say it evokes a certain image of wanton delight." His mouth curved into a leer. "Do you often pen verse about subjects of…shall we say…dubious virtue?"

"I write whatever inspires me," Simon replied.

"Indeed?" Harris pressed further. "What do you suppose might inspire you to pen an entire volume of such verse?"

"I don't know," Simon replied. "What are you getting at, Harris?"

Harris set his brandy down. He then unlocked the top desk drawer and retrieved a thin, worn black leather-bound book. "Do you know what this is?"

"Is it your legendary list of whores? I have heard rumors of such a book."

Harris' gaze narrowed. "So crude, Mister Singleton? I prefer to call it my Directory of Covent Garden Ladies. This book indeed contains names, addresses, and descriptions of over a hundred ladies of the town. It is a pet project begun many years ago. Since the demand has expanded well beyond my ability to supply personal service, I now intend to offer copies of this book for private subscription."

Simon laughed. "You are an enterprising man, Mister Harris, but how does this concern me?" The question had barely passed over his lips before Simon's face split into a grin. "My verse! You wish me to wax poetic on their charms!"

"Precisely." Harris returned his smile. "There are numerous ladies willing to advertise their services. The fees would subsidize the printing costs. I should like to hire you to write said advertisements—short, colorful pieces, evocative and titillating, for each of our listed Covent Garden ladies. Could you do this, Mister Singleton?"

Simon slouched back with an indolent smile. "It all depends on what you are willing to pay me."

"I am prepared to offer you twenty-five percent of the net. The initial print run will be one thousand copies which I hope to sell at five shillings each."

Simon performed rapid calculations. The net proceeds should be over two hundred pounds, leaving Simon with somewhere around fifty— a sum equal to his former quarterly allowance. He took up the book and thumbed through the stained and dog-eared pages.

"How soon would you need this to be completed?"

"I had planned to send it Grub Street within the fortnight. Obviously, you will need additional time to compose your odes to our votaries of Venus. How long will you require?"

"A month," Simon said, careful not to reveal his eagerness. He could hardly believe his good luck—a healthy source of income derived solely from the fruits of his pen. With this job he could afford to keep Freddie; and with such a magnificent muse at his command, his creative juices would surely flow like a bottomless spring.

"Excellent!" Harris declared. "Have we an agreement then, Mister Singleton?"

Simon pocketed the black book and stood, offering his hand. "Indeed we have, Mister Harris." Preoccupied with this unusual turn of fortune, Simon was three strides to the door before he recalled his original purpose in coming to the Shakespear's Head. He paused and then turned back to Harris who regarded him expectantly.

"Is there something more, Mister Singleton?"

"Well, yes," Simon said, massaging his chin. "Er…you see…there is something I wish to procure, but I am a bit short on funds at the moment."

Harris laughed. "You've no need of my services when the book is in your very hands!"

"It's not that kind of request. Er…I am in need of a gown."

"A gown?" Harris' gaze narrowed. "This is not a Molly house, Mister Singleton."

A flare of heat invades Simon's face "N-not for me, of c-course! It's for my…my…sister…a gift…for her birthday. She desires something in silk."

"Your sister has very expensive taste, Mister Singleton. A silk gown will cost you dearly. Are you sure some other pretty trinket won't suffice? A new fan or a pair of gloves perhaps?"

"No, Harris. It must be a gown made of Spitalfields silk."

Harris shrugged. "'Tis no skin off my nose if you choose to be led around by yours."

Simon bristled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Let me share a bit of wisdom from one with vast experience managing a stable of whores—"

"She's not a whore."

"Of course not. She's your sister," Harris offered a placating smile. "But the nature of all women is the same. You would do well to exercise care, lest you spoil the creature. The fair sex is universally avaricious, and notoriously fickle."

"I'm only in need of a gown, Harris, not advice. I would also be much obliged of a small advance to assist me in the matter of procurement. I understand it is not an uncommon practice."