ElevenThey’d left the stairwell and headed down a dim, windowless corridor. Wallpaper in deep purple, swelling with thick swirls of flocking like long, reaching fingers made Bridget draw her arms in close. Brass sconces coiled upward every dozen feet, their bulbs dark as empty eyes. The smell of cigarettes, cigars, and pipes lingering in the air attested to the number of men who’d gone in and out of the rooms only hours earlier.
They passed three quiet, closed doors on each side of the hall before reaching a wide center staircase. Six more doors lay beyond. A brothel with a dozen rooms: Twelve working women.
Though Tate seemed to float down the staircase, Bridget stopped at the top, stunned by the grandeur. A four-foot-wide runner of Persian carpeting poured over the entire length. Cora
