Odd, to find himself with a little family of his own to take care of. If anyone had asked him if he wanted such a thing, he’d have said no, of course not. But life surprised you sometimes.
Kit worked on for another two hours after Clara and Peter left, poring over ledgers, and sorting through the invoices. At last, though, deciding he’d had enough, he put everything away and locked the office up.
The club occupied two full townhouses, numbers fifteen and seventeen Palfrey Terrace—though there was only one official entrance at number fifteen. Kit’s office—and the private rooms above it where Kit used to live—were situated on the upper floors of number seventeen. The respectable rooms in the club—the reception and dining rooms, card rooms, kitchen and storage areas—were all confined to number fifteen. The notorious back area and private rooms, used for assignations, were situated on the lower floors of number seventeen. These could be accessed from number fifteen by a discreet corridor between the two houses that could be quickly hidden should the need arise.
Most of Kit’s patrons spent a little time in number fifteen when they first arrived, enjoying a drink or two, perhaps some dinner, or a few rubbers of whist, before they headed through to the private areas. There was a large back room there where thirty men could comfortably gather, and nearer fifty could be accommodated at a squeeze. And there were a number of small, private chambers for more intimate encounters. Many of the patrons chose to associate only with other patrons, but Kit allowed a small number of carefully selected prostitutes to ply their trade at the club, catering for those patrons who did not wish to meet their needs with their peers.
Kit was extremely selective about the men he would allow to sell their services at Redford’s. Above all else, they needed to be trustworthy. In return for their discretion, Kit’s doormen provided security, and Kit took only a modest ten percent of their earnings, a fraction of what most brothels would take. The men could choose their own clients and work as little or as much as they chose. All in all, it was a far better arrangement than most prostitutes could hope to get, whether in a brothel or working the streets, and Kit never had any shortage of men asking to join the select group who worked at the club.
He made it a rule, though, never to be intimate with any of them himself. It wasn't that he looked down on them—on the contrary, he was friendly with them all and had helped a couple of them to find other employment, most recently Tom Atkins, who was training to be a footman in Kit’s own house.
The reason he avoided any liaisons with the whores himself, was that he’d vowed when he left the game not to allow money any influence in his bedchamber again, directly or indirectly. Which ruled out anyone he came into contact with at the club.
For the last few years, he had found whatever companionship he needed at the house of an acquaintance in Clapham who hosted monthly supper parties for men like him. Men seeking someone to fuck for the night—and only for that night.
After locking up the office, Kit made his way downstairs to carry out a quick check of the back room and private chambers. He made sure that all the rooms were tidy, with fresh sheets on the beds and clean towels and ewers of fresh water in place. He checked that the floors had been swept and that the airing cupboard was piled high with clean linens for the swift room-turns needed after each assignation. Satisfied, he made his way through to number fifteen, where he spoke to the kitchen and serving staff and did a last walk around of the public rooms. Finally, he let himself out of the back door into the alley behind the club… only to nearly jump out of his skin when a figure peeled away from the wall to his left and moved towards him.
“Bloody hell!” Kit gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. Then he saw who it was, and his jangled nerves calmed. “Mr. Sharp? What are you doing loitering here?”
Jake Sharp’s smile was sharp-toothed. “Waiting for you, of course, Kitten.”
Kit grimaced. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Why? Don’t you like it?” Sharp asked, all innocence. “It suits you.”
Kit rolled his eyes. “I can see you’re in one of your absurd moods,” he