Behind its gleaming white stone exterior, with blinds and shutters firmly closed, this house appeared at first to be one of the more respectable establishments in Covent Garden.

The brocade velvet draperies, the paneled doors and the carved mantelpiece all caught the eye with their deep, rich sapphire tones, in tasteful contrast to the paler sky-blue walls. Following the same color scheme, the Blue Willow pattern chinaware glowed beneath the brass chandelier.

More light came from the candles in the center of each round wooden table. They shone down on whole fishes, hams, oysters, mushrooms, peas, walnuts, dumplings, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and biscuits and both meat and fruit pies.

Beside each candleholder, a bowl of rum punch was surrounded by bottles of beer and wine. The waitresses were kept busy pouring out all three. This was no doubt responsible for the sudden bursts of laughter and raised voices amid the general masculine hubbub.

That sapphire color was called Orange blue, to honor William of Orange, founder of the reigning Protestant royal house. This décor was especially popular nowadays among all loyal British subjects. Only five years earlier, Charlie Stuart, the Young Pretender, and his wild Highlanders had come within 120 miles of invading London itself. Since most of his patrons were English officers, the owner was obviously especially eager to show them his gratitude for driving the Catholic rebels away.

The framed tinted engravings on the walls paid a more obvious tribute to the English crown and its defenders. At the same time, they proved that this was no respectable inn. Some would have said it was not even a respectable brothel.

Each scene showed a redcoated English officer with one of the servant girls. These young females, however, were not providing them with food or even kisses. On the contrary, one might say that the men were serving them…with steaming hot spankings, to use our modern term. During this year of 1750, it was known as a flogging brothel. In any age, those pictures would have served as advertisements for the pleasures available there.

One depicted a pretty blonde spread across the soldier’s knee, with her skirt pulled above her waist. Her arse was already as red as his jacket, while his hand was raised to fall across that tempting target once again.

Yet another of these females was bent over a chair, holding her skirt up, to expose her backside. This time, however, the soldier was applying a switch, which had painted red streaks across her buttocks and thighs.

Still a third girl was strapped to a standing restraining device, which forced her arse to stick out so far, it practically begged for the soldier’s belt. A fourth young woman lay across a desk, while the soldier played the tutor’s role, laying his riding crop on her bare bottom.

No matter how harsh the punishments were, the victims showed how willing they were to accept them, by their cheerful smiles.

To Sir Edmund Waverley, it was obvious that not all the young ladies were grinning out of pure pleasure. Most were doubtless smiling at the thought of the five or so pounds per week that their performances would earn them. That was certainly more than they could hope to make from any more respectable trade, including the more common forms of their profession.

From the way the real-life models gazed at him, they would much rather have enjoyed his attentions than any other patron’s. That did not surprise him, for he had often seen the same look in the eyes of many other ladies, including those of a much higher rank in society.

Whenever he glanced in his looking-glass, he saw the reason why. His curly blond hair, bright blue eyes and rosy complexion gave him a marked resemblance to his famous cousin Edward, who was celebrated for his good looks.

Sir Edward Waverley should have been even more famous…or, rather, infamous…as a cowardly, sneaking traitor. His cousin had to admit, though, that Sir Edward had given him the timely warning that had brought him here.

Edward had also been thoughtful enough to provide a miniature portrait of his quarry. It showed her in great detail, with her ebony curls falling to her shoulders, her great black eyes beneath delicately arched brows and even the slightly hawk nose that formed a startling contrast to her small, delicate pink lips. Edmund felt sure, though, that he would have recognized her even without the painting.

She might be wearing the same low-cut bodice as the other wenches, with the same sort of skirt pulled indecently high to show her petticoat and even the ankles beneath. This could not hide her proud bearing, or the way she seemed to sniff delicately at the inn’s natural odors of rum punch, tobacco and food. Clearly, she had been raised in a place where ladies were spared such odors.

She also stood out because of her height, which was impressive for a woman. It allowed her head to reach Sir Edmund’s shoulder.

Even though those tinted engravings were almost at her eye level, she kept her gaze lowered to avoid the sight. Sir Edmund found himself admiring her for that, since he could not stop glancing at them. But then, he had never been in such a place before, so those scenes were still a novelty.

The brothels he did frequent were of a more conventional kind. They were also a necessity, he realized. Living and working in secrecy, he dared not bring a woman into his life…or friends of any description, for that matter…even if he had wished to do so. His closest acquaintance was his housekeeper, who tended his townhouse in the Strand nearby. His inheritance would have allowed him to live there in some luxury, even without his government salary.

As for the woman he was watching…he doubted very much that she had ever even set foot in a brothel of any kind, before coming to work here last month. Since then, she had undoubtedly become familiar with the real-life scenes that were depicted on the walls.

He wondered if she had actually taken part in them. Based on what his cousin had told him, he would not put it past her, if it would help her accomplish her purpose. But then, he was equally dedicated to his own goal, of stopping her.

Ever alert for danger, he wheeled towards the door that suddenly opened at the other side of the room. His hand fell from his pistol when he saw that two smiling apprentices were carrying in the kind of restraining device that one of the artists had shown. Another boy, grinning even more broadly, carried the implements that he had drawn in such loving detail.

Both servants bore their burdens to an area that had been cleared beside the fireplace, which blazed brightly on this September evening. While the two lads set up the wooden frame, the other boy put down the implements on the table beside it. Then he made a great show of dragging up an armless clawfoot chair with a brocade cushion. This fashionable piece of furniture showed, once again, how profitable this place was.

Bursts of applause and cheering greeted them. The officers who still wore their jackets started pulling them off and rolling up their sleeves, with every sign of relish. The ovation grew even louder as four of the waitresses went to stand beside the table. Judging by their bright smiles, rosy cheeks and lavish curls, they might have been the models for the artworks. Sir Edmund noted, though, that his own quarry was not among them.

Searching for her through the dim, flickering light, he saw her going through the door that led to the kitchen. Obviously, she was assigned to keep the food coming to the tables while the patrons kept coming in another sense. He could not help smiling at his own silent quip.

Then his glance turned towards the one man who was not sharing in the general applause…a fellow who was so monstrously fat, he must have found it hard to join his hands above his belly for any purpose.

“Monstrously” is the word for it, Sir Edmund realized. He had known many jolly, charming and utterly delightful fat men, but no one would have used those terms to describe this particular specimen. His small, cruel blue eyes peered out from rolls of flesh, above jowls that hung down from a face that was almost as white as his wig.

Looks were not deceiving in this case. The fat man was, indeed, a monster by all accounts. And it was Sir Edmund’s duty to protect him. What’s more, he had to defend the creature from the woman who was, by all accounts, one of the most brave and loyal females in the kingdom. Fleetingly, he allowed himself to imagine that it was the other way around…that he was guarding the maiden from the monster…before he went back to watching them both.

No doubt the fat man refused to cheer for the girls’ appearance out of concern for his dignity, as both a royal prince and army commander. There was no mistaking his eagerness to make use of those females, though. It was all too obvious from the avid look in his eye as he leaned forward over his ponderous stomach.

For a moment, Sir Edmund let himself entertain the image of the young man who would have been leading the soldiers in his place, if the revolt had succeeded. As tall, slim and elegant as this man was gross and revolting…with golden curls and compelling brown eyes against his rosy Highland complexion…it was no wonder that his Scottish followers had called him “Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

Even the loyal Londoners now used a much less flattering term to describe the man he himself was secretly protecting…”Butcher Cumberland.” Which was an insult to honest butchers everywhere, Sir Edmund thought, as a sarcastic grin twisted his own thin lips.

When the prettiest of the waitresses approached that fat and brutal man with a curtsey, Sir Edmund felt sure that she was doing it only to earn her pay. He certainly heard little enthusiasm in her voice.

“Your Royal Highness,” she began, as she lowered her light-brown curls with an effort at shy modesty. “I fear that I have been a bad girl. I stole some biscuits from the kitchen that were intended for your own table. Now my conscience has forced me to confess my crime and ask you to punish me as I deserve…with your hand across my bottom.”

“You may keep the biscuits,” he assured her, in a growling voice that made her shrink back with real fear. “I am feeling merciful tonight.” In an even more menacing tone, he added, “Besides, I want to save my discipline for someone who deserves it more.”

In other words, he wanted to let someone else start off the evening by smacking her with his bare hand…so that he himself could enjoy giving one of the harsher chastisements, which were sure to grow ever more cruel as the evening wore on.

His victim could not hide her relief, as she went quickly on, “But no doubt one of your loyal men is willing to avenge you.”

By the way they had been squirming eagerly in their seats, many of the patrons were glad to oblige. A red-haired, freckle-faced young lieutenant was the first to leap up and run forward.

“I won’t let anyone steal from our prince!” he cried, in tones that were such pure Yorkshire, Sir Edmund was left wondering rather sadly how long it had taken the lad to become accustomed to these sophisticated London amusements. Then he shrugged the thought away. At least, the boy was still rustic enough to rely on his good right hand, without those mechanical aids.

Good-natured applause greeted him, as he sank onto the crimson cushion on the clawfoot wooden chair.

“So you come right here and take your punishment,” he said, as he clapped both hands on his knees. That must have been the way his father summoned him to judgment, Waverley realized, with growing melancholy.

Obviously, the others did not share his own feelings. Cries of “That’s the boy!

and “Smack her hard!” greeted the lad, as the slim little waitress approached him. The other girls retreated to a small table, where they sat waiting their turn on the wooden chairs. They did not even seem to mind that this was probably the last time they would be able to sit comfortably all night.

“Oh, no, sir, please don’t flog me,” their pert little colleague cried, with a very unconvincing show of terror. The young soldier pulled her towards him with one square fist, its wiry red hairs gleaming in the firelight.

“Are you fighting against me?” he roared. “That will add to your punishment. So turn yourself over my knee right now, and don’t make it any worse.”

If she dreams of advancing from here to the stage at Drury Lane, then she is doomed to disappointment, Sir Edward thought. Her attempts to suggest she was weeping…by hiding her head in her hands and producing a loud sobbing sound…were about as convincing as her struggles had been.

Still pretending to cry, she stood on her tiptoes and launched herself onto his lap. Startled by the sudden weight, the Yorkshire lad recovered quickly enough to raise first her black skirt and then her white petticoat from her ankles to her knees and thence to her waist, which was surprisingly slim above her ample backside.

The spectators cheered even more loudly as he exposed her plump behind. The other girls joined in, to encourage them. The men in the back of the room stood up for a better view, then applauded even more loudly.

Her bottom now matched the white petticoat that was gathered around her waist, but they were sure that soon it would be as red as their colleague’s uniform jacket.

The young soldier did not disappoint them. Clamping his left hand over her shoulder, he raised his right so high that everyone could see the circle of sweat beneath his armpit.

Their clapping and cheering suddenly stopped as his hand slammed down onto its target. No one wanted to miss that first loud crack and hear her startled cry. No matter how often the trollop had acted out this scene, that first shout was always a genuine outburst of pain and fear and shocked amazement, at how much a man’s hand hurt.

Almost at once, she recovered enough to show the patrons that this was all in fun…fun for them, at least, while she herself was getting well paid for providing it. So she kicked her heels and howled for mercy, in a much less believable way. Her backside, by contrast, turned a very convincing crimson, as he continued his quick, rhythmic pace.

Right, left, right, left…his hand went from one plump cheek to the other in such a swift, steady pattern, Waverley felt doubly sure that he had often been on the receiving end of such thrashings, with no audience in sight…except, perhaps, for his brothers and sisters. They would have watched the discipline in both relief and terror…relief, that it was not happening to them now and terror, that it soon might be. That was the right and natural way for a father to train his children, Edmund knew, and he wondered how it had ever been transformed into amusement.

After the first ten blows had been struck…five on either side…Sir Edmund started to realize that the waitress’ cries were becoming more and more convincing again. That eager hand was striking flesh that was becoming more raw and tender with each blow.

“Oh, no, sir, please, no more!” she cried, kicking her feet so frantically now that her right shoe fell to the wooden plank floor. “I won’t steal again, I promise!”

“And I’ll make sure you keep that vow!” he told her, panting so heavily that Waverley knew he was too excited to stop.

“No, please, forgive me!” she wailed again, very convincingly this time, as his hand fell once more. Waverley winced as he realized that it had already left twenty prints, one over the other, on each cheek.

“I will forgive you!” he assured her, and this time each word was echoed by another sharp smack. “After you’ve been properly punished.”

“Ow, ow, ow!” she cried. Now Waverley heard real tears in her voice and felt certain that the pain had driven her beyond any words. Even some of the spectators, to their credit, had stopped cheering and started sending reproachful glances to their colleague, as though telling him it was time to stop.

Glancing at the waiting girls, Waverley saw that their grins were turning to grimaces, as they realized that their own turns were coming soon. Then he saw that his quarry was wearing an even more grim expression, as she skillfully piled the china dishes onto her pewter tray. He did not see fear in her eyes, though, but only contempt and scorn. Both of which, he secretly agreed, were very well deserved.

By now, of course, the Yorkshire lad was too aroused to even notice the audience response. Over and over, the blows rained down, until her cries of agony were mingled with hopeless sobbing. By the time he did stop, she had suffered fifty hard smacks. The way the youth held up his hand to shake it, Waverley was convinced that only the growing stinging in his own palm had kept him from reaching the one hundred mark.

Turning to the girl with a proud grin, the lad seemed surprised…to his credit again…that she was really weeping.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you too badly,” he told her, in a tone so soft it was only heard by those like Waverley, at the closest tables.

Glancing around, the girl saw that his comrades were also falling silent, as though they, too, feared that this had gone beyond a game. Knowing that her salary depended on doing so, she quickly assured them otherwise.

“Oh, no, sir,” she exclaimed, once again in her loudest, least convincing, most theatrical tone, as she clasped her hands and gazed up at him with every sign of admiration. “I know I was a very bad girl and deserved every bit of it. But,” raising her voice still higher, she went on, “Now I know I will be a much better person, and it’s all thanks to you.”

Having spent enough evenings at Drury Lane Theatre, Sir Edmund knew an applause line when he heard one. The audience clapped warmly, even though they knew this was only the first act of what promised to be a very exciting…and even arousing…comedy.

For the lad and lass who had earned the ovation, their scene was sure to be the climax, in more ways than one. Again, Waverley smiled secretly at his own silent joke. Sure enough, she said, “And now I want to thank you, sir, for the fine lesson you have taught me. If you will come with me up to my bedroom, I know I can find something to give you.”

“I know she can, too!” a youthful captain shouted, through his cupped hands. This attracted more good-natured applause as the couple hurried through the room and out the front door leading to the stairs. Soon the winding wooden steps were creaking beneath them, as they ran towards the top, followed by even more cheerful comments.

“His pistol is in such haste to fire, let’s just hope it does not go off before it finds the target,” the same captain cried, and was rewarded by more laughter.

“Now I must make my confession, too,” a painfully thin young girl called out, in a much less enthusiastic tone, which bore the notes of Ireland. She seemed to be forcing herself to push herself up from her table, walk slowly to the front of the room and stammer her lines out.

“I fear I am worse than Janet ever was, so I deserve a harsher punishment,” she said. “The gentleman who metes it out can decide what it will be. Now, who will be stern enough to do it?”

This time, the gentlemen were half rising from their chairs as they called out to be chosen. They all fell silent, as one man stood and started lumbering towards her. No wonder, Waverley realized, since he was the Duke of Cumberland. His ponderous tread made the wooden planks tremble beneath him.

Now the poor girl was shaking even more violently than the floorboards. Her golden curls were lowered, which did not hide the tears falling from her eyes.

She must truly be new at her trade, Sir Edmund thought, feeling a pity that her royal patron obviously did not share. The red paint on her lips and cheeks stood out in startling contrast to the white face powder, since both colors had been thickly laid on, by an amateur’s hand.

“And what implement does Your Royal Highness choose to chastise me?” she asked, barely able to force the words out.

After gazing at them all, he said, “The strap.” With something like a smile on his blubber lips, he went on, “That is the right choice for an army officer, who must punish his men that way. I will use that first, and then see what else I think you deserve.”

He did not bother with the charade of asking what she had done wrong or patting his lap to bid her lie there. Instead, he picked up the heavy leather belt from the table and folded it double in his fat fist as he pushed her over the chair.

The others were not cheering now. The girl had started sobbing hopelessly the moment her patron had called for the strap, and he greeted her tears with an even broader grin. If he had been anyone else but the Duke of Cumberland, they would certainly have been calling to him to let the poor girl alone until someone else had warmed up her bottom with his bare hand.

As it was, they stared at him steadily, all obviously afraid to look away, as he raised first her red skirt and then the white petticoat beneath.

A few men had the decency to wince and some few even lowered their eyes as he raised the strap high over his soft white shoulder and brought it down with all his force.

It left a broad red streak in its wake. The girl bit her lip hard to keep from screaming but could not stop a strangled moan from forcing its way past her teeth.

Her whimpers turned to stifled cries as the strap fell twenty more times. Soon that painfully thin backside was criss-crossed like a chessboard with the angry crimson stripes, as the general wielded his leather weapon in a slow, methodical pattern, each time with all his strength. Her tears left tracks that were just as vivid on her heavily powdered face.

Whatever false plea she had been carefully taught to make, she could no longer produce any sound except for that stifled moaning that was soon mixed with sobs. The sound was almost lost in the sharp crack of the strap.

When the leather had fallen for the thirtieth time, another young lady came forward. And in some strange sense, Sir Edmund realized, she was a lady indeed.

“This is Rose’s first evening here,” she said, in the seductive tones of Paris, as she wound one of her own light-brown curls around her finger, in a flirtatious way. “She has taken all the punishment that she can endure.”

With an alluring smile on her skillfully painted lips, she went on, “We don’t want to frighten her away, do we? Will your royal highness let your Monique take her place?” Lowering her voice to its most alluring tone, she went on, “It would take a great deal to frighten me.”

For that very reason, as Sir Edmund realized, she was of no interest to the duke.

Butcher Cumberland did not even bother to glance at the Parisian as his hand kept rising and falling, each time striking the Irish girl’s poor, flaming buttocks with all his force. The volunteer shrugged and took her seat again among the other girls. They all stared steadily down at the table, caught between fear and shame, as Rose’s moans gave way to steady screaming.

Looking around the room, Waverley sensed that the men were sharing the females’ feelings…fear of Butcher Cumberland and shame that they did not dare defy him to stop this pitiful scene. This poor girl must have needed money desperately…and now she was being punished for her poverty.

But one spectator was not afraid, as Waverley realized when he glanced her way. Flora MacIvor still kept clearing the tables, as though the scene were not taking place. Her lowered head barely hid her cold hatred, which would have frightened even the duke, if he had not been so busy elsewhere. Then Edmund saw her delicate lips twist into a thin, cold grin. That smile told him that his cousin’s warnings had been true.

She did not feel pity or horror or even surprise, because she was here to make him pay for everything he had done, and not only to that poor girl. As surely as he knew anything, Sir Edmund Waverley knew that Flora MacIvor had come here to kill Butcher Cumberland.

What’s more, right now he would have given everything he had to be able to help her do it. At this particular moment, he would even have been proud to throw his lot in with the notorious Lady Primrose, who always seemed to have one foot on the gallows and a host of other fools following behind her, including plenty of their mutual fellow Protestants.

Instead, he rose and walked towards Flora MacIvor. She flinched as he grasped her arm but dared not resist. Of course not, he realized: That would give away her whole game.

“There is a private room across the hall,” he told her. “I am taking you there.”

“But I am only a waitress here,” she answered, managing to stay calm. “I do not take part in the entertainment.”

“You will tonight,” he told her. “You have to, do you not, or you will give your secret away. No real servant in this house would refuse a gentleman’s request…especially one who can afford the private room. It will be money well spent, because I promise you that you will tell me all your plans by the time I am done with you.”

Even as he spoke, he wondered if he would be able to keep this oath. He shrugged away this sudden remorse, as he walked to the table, picked up the switch and rejoined her at the fire.

She stood there waiting for him without expression, then followed him from the room and across the hall. A few of the soldiers turned to glance at them, but then turned back to Butcher Cumberland and the screaming girl bent over before him.