A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(8)

Thus, Treadman realized a great deal more money out of his second-floor reading rooms than if he’d kept his stock here. Not that he was altruistic. If you could not afford the rental he stipulated—then too bad. You would have to languish knowing that some knowledge was out of your reach, forever.

At the moment, being ensconced in a comfortable armchair with a good light over his shoulder and a stack of books was his best option for entertainment. Well, there are worse things . . . sitting and listening to a gaggle of stupid women gossip and pretending to be interested, for instance.

“I would very much like to peruse what you’ve held back for me, Treadman,” he said, with a brief nod of approval. “And anything else that’s come in that you think might be of interest to me.”

“Then allow me to send up the boy with your selections, and while you wait for the room to be prepared, perhaps you may care to browse the shelves?” Treadman suggested.

“Fourth floor, I think. Send the boy when my room is ready,” he replied, and made his leisurely way up to the fourth floor, where the vast collection of prurient material was housed, from erotica to outright obscenity.

He was leafing through a Japanese “pillow book” of woodcuts—not a particularly well-done volume, but amusing in its way—when the boy arrived with a key. He reshelved the volume, having given up on trying to determine if he was looking at a ménage a trois, or just an illustration accidentally created with too many limbs, and took the key from the lad. The boy, like Treadman, seemed utterly incurious. Perhaps having been around all this, any pubescent curiosity in erotica had long since been sated. Treadman had never said where the boy came from, but Alexandre fancied he had been plucked from the streets at a young enough age to have been mere putty in Treadman’s hands. Certainly he was better off here than most of the urchins out there. He looked well fed, he was well clothed and clean, and presumably had a warm place to sleep here in the shop. That was more than the refuse of the streets had, however many hours in the day and night Treadman worked him. For as long as Alexandre had been coming here, there had been “the boy,” this same, compact, dark-haired, dark-eyed boy, who looked at one with no interest whatsoever, and yet with the light of intelligence in his eyes. Was he kin to Treadman? It hardly seemed likely. Alexandre had seen women enter this shop, some quite beautiful, as many expensive mistresses frequented the place, and never had he seen Treadman show more interest in them than he did in any other customer.

The tag on the key only read “20.” This suited him, and once again Treadman had anticipated his mood. The twentieth room was the one farthest from the stairs; he was unlikely to have any neighbors. It also shared a wall with one of the chimneys, so it would be quite cozy.

He took the three volumes he had found to be of some slight interest with him down to the second floor, and made his way to the door marked “20.” When he opened it with the key, he found everything in readiness for him: a lamp, newly cleaned, chimney well-polished, fastened to the wall behind the chair, the chair itself dusted and supplied with a lap robe should he need it, and the gratifying pile of books on the reading desk next to the chair. He put the volumes he had brought with him on the desk and lifted the first of Treadman’s choices from the stack.

There were several French novels, only one of which interested him; the others were copies of works he had obtained himself on the Continent. There was a much superior pillow book—one in which he was not left to guess whether the participants had too many limbs, or limbs with extra joints. It was not in particularly good shape, but the woodcuts themselves were fine and detailed. He put that in his “will buy” pile, once he satisfied himself it was worth Treadman’s asking price.

There followed three occult books. One was errant nonsense—he had long ago worked out that Treadman himself could not tell wheat from chaff where the occult was concerned. One was a disfigured copy of a book he had in its entirety. And the third—

He almost discarded it. On first glancing through it, it looked like nonsense, and the book itself was in terrible shape. He almost put it aside—but hesitated. There was something about it—

He gave it a second chance, pursing his lips as he realized some of the loose pages were out of order. There might be something worth looking at, here, he thought, and looked inside the back cover for the discreet little note that would tell him Treadman’s price.

The price was ridiculous. Ridiculously low. Low enough that if it turned out this thing was nothing but a farce, he could probably pass it off to one of the Leek woman’s set for ten times the price. That decided him; he added it to the “will buy” stack and checked his pocket watch. He was gratified to see that several hours had passed, and if he had not experienced the pleasure he would have had at the music hall, well, he also hadn’t experienced the usual tedium of being in the company of a lot of unwashed, half-drunk buffoons.

He left the room and descended the stairs to find Treadman behind his counter. A few moments later the boy came down with his “will buy” stack in a basket. Treadman tallied up the purchases and wrapped them tidily in discreet brown paper, then wrapped them again in waxed paper to keep off the snow. “One moment, Master Harcourt, I’ll send the boy out to fetch you a cab,” Treadman said, in his usual pleasantly neutral tone, as if the parcel contained essays and poetry, rather than some of the most eye-popping pornography in all of London. The boy wrapped himself in an enormous muffler and pulled on a hat and went out; within five minutes he was back, and a cab was pulling up to the front door.