It was one of Roses great talents to be warm and inviting, to sell the charms of women to lonely men by flaunting her own charms but then hitting them with the bait and switch. It wasn’t the first time in her hall that she was mistaken for one of her girls, because although she wore actual clothing instead of the basic underthings her girls wore while working, she was still selling herself, the fantasy of a lady. The plunging neckline and bare shoulders, more the style of her homeland than England, revealing expanses of white skin, her hair adorned in a fashion to epitomise the harlot and the angel.

So when she was mistaken for one of her girls, she was jokingly reprimanding rather than outright hostile – it was a whorehouse after all the naive and the drunk could be forgiven for mistaken any women inside with being a woman of the night. The gentleman in whose lap she found herself was sensible enough to acknowledge his mistake and as such she made no effort to move. ’Oh I wouldn’t say any time spent with me or my establishment would be a mistake’, she motioned and one of the girls brought a bottle of firewhiskey to the table, ’but I will always allow a gentleman to apologies.’ Her cathouse had a reputation better than most, the girls were clean, the whiskey wasn’t watered and the men who frequented it were ‘gentlemen’ not ‘Johns’ and Rose intended to keep it that way. ’Now was your mistake presuming I was a working girl? Or sweeping me off my feet?’ her tone was teasing and obviously flirtatious.

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