A shout from the jugglers and acrobats in the crowd caught everyone’s attention as a fire-eater blew a gust of flame toward a shrieking woman.
Depending on where they fell in their political leanings, the revelers were primed for either a fight or a celebration now that Queen Caroline had ended her exile in Italy. The performers played to the heightened emotions of everyone, mingling with the vibrant mix of low and high class. In another hour, the fireworks would begin, which was always Phee’s favorite part of the night. But until then, their entertainment would be provided by watching men belch fire and Cal fend off the baron and his mortified daughter.
Pity stirred within Phee for the daughter, though. With her downcast gaze studying the hem of the serviette in her lap, Miss Cuthbert, at least, seemed to recognize her father and Eastly’s boorish behavior.
Lord Amesbury brought his mouth to Lottie’s ear, and whatever he said sparked a wicked gleam in her eye. Without further ado, Lord Amesbury rose, offered his hand to his wife, and led her out of the box.
The viscount and his lady wove through the throng of revelers toward the dark paths beyond the seating pavilion. Lady Amesbury pulled her husband’s head down to say something, oblivious to the man walking a tightrope above them.
In another life, Phee might have been as determined to escape toward the area of Vauxhall that made it so appealing to revelers with carnal intentions. If she had a lover, she would gravitate toward the darkness too, with no worries beyond stealing another kiss. Helpless to resist the fantasy, she let herself drink in the picture Cal made under the swaying lanterns, with his perfectly packaged good looks that her fingers itched to muss and unwrap like a present. The too-long hair he restrained in an orderly queue that would fall free if she tugged that black ribbon loose. She wanted to unwind the pristinely folded cravat to expose the bristles of beard that would peek out in a few hours. It was the fantasy of a moment—until the men’s conversation interrupted her daydream and ruined everything.
The baron and Eastly were singing Miss Cuthbert’s praises in the most general terms. Excellent stock, fine needlepoint skills, biddable—that word alone made Phee clench her jaw. Miss Cuthbert didn’t preen under the attention—she remained mute, worrying the edge of her serviette in her lap. Surely, it would irritate anyone with a modicum of self-respect to hear herself discussed like a horse at the races.
Lordy, when would the baron and marquess stop talking? Although his face remained impassive, Cal’s hands clenched tellingly around the fork beside his wineglass, which an obliging servant kept filled. Cal tried to draw Phee and Miss Cuthbert into the conversation several times, but the other men seemed determined to dominate the discourse.
As the minutes dragged on, the older men talked, and Miss Cuthbert inched away from the fathers until she’d nearly crept into Emma’s vacant seat.
Wait. Emma. She had been gone for some time and hadn’t taken a chaperone. No doubt a footman accompanied her. Unless the girl had talked her way out of a watchful eye, which would certainly be in character.
How far away was the retiring room? Phee didn’t know, having never been in one at Vauxhall. Most men stepped off a path and used a handy bush or tree. Thanks to the carved, hollowed-out piece of wood resembling a phallus she kept in a panel inside her breeches, she’d devised a way to pee standing up years ago. Most gentlemen considered it bad form to check another’s wares—so to speak—while relieving oneself. The pocket pizzle might not be the cleanest option, but it had saved her more than once and had been vital to avoiding discovery at boarding school.
The orchestra began a piece that may have been lively and joyful but to Phee’s ears only added to the noisy environment.
The footman Phee had expected Emma to take stepped into view, opening a fresh bottle of champagne for the table. So Emma didn’t have a servant with her after all. That settled it. Phee murmured her excuses toward the others at the table, who ignored her, then she set off to look for Cal’s sister.
After a few subtle inquiries Phee found the ladies’ retiring room, which did her no good, because Adam Hardwick couldn’t march in and look for her. After waiting outside the door for five minutes, Phee flagged down a passing matron.
“Pardon me. I realize this might be an odd request, but could you please ask in the ladies’ room if there’s a Lady Emma within?” A moment later, the matron came out shaking her head. Phee tipped her hat at the matron with a murmured thanks.
Surely, they would have crossed paths if Emma had returned directly to their dinner box. Perhaps she’d seen a friend and stopped to talk? Didn’t she realize how risky this place could be to an unescorted miss? Anything might happen in these corridors.
Thousands of lanterns filtered light through the trees, creating pockets of well-lit space and acres of shadowy temptation. So many labyrinthine paths available to a headstrong lady like Emma. For a moment Phee considered sending an attendant to their table to raise the alarm. But with her luck, they’d find Emma quaffing champagne and chatting with friends. They’d all look like fools, with Phee as the king of them all.
Nearby a bell rang, spurring an uptick in the excited hum of conversation around her. The mass of humanity swarmed, then surged in one direction. Ah yes, the bell signaling the imminent start of the cascade show. The man-powered artificial waterfall ran for only about a quarter hour each night. Maybe Emma would be there. The spectacle was famous, and this was Emma’s first visit, after all. The flowing-river illusion crafted from tin, with accompanying thunder and rain sound effects, was a highlight of Vauxhall. The first time Phee paid her handful of shillings to enter the gardens, she’d stood spellbound for the entire fifteen minutes.
Moving like a fish downstream with the others, Phee followed the crowd to the waterfall. A painted curtain pulled back, letting the lanterns shine on the bucolic scene. Hidden from view, men operated cranks and wheels, making the tin flats shudder. The storm sounds crashed all around as Phee stood on her tiptoes, searching for golden curls with pink and white plumes attached with a jeweled pin.
Wherever Emma was, it didn’t appear to be here.
One path led to another, which led to another, which led to yet another. No Emma. Handfuls of moments passed, pulling bile higher in her throat. The risk of raising a false alarm sounded more appealing by the minute. Perhaps she should return to the table and demand Cal hunt for his own damn sister. It might be the perfect escape from Eastly and the baron.
Turning on one heel, Phee paused. A sound, and then a slightly louder noise, followed by a male chuckle and the admonishment to be quiet.
Oh dear. By the sounds of it, she’d stumbled upon a pair who were well beyond the kissing and shy hand-holding she’d seen other couples doing this evening. They must be on the other side of the hedge, ensconced in an alcove of assumed privacy.
Rolling her eyes at the ludicrous notion that anyone would consider privacy an option in a public place like this, Phee took another step toward the lights of the crowded dining area. One of the pair let loose a breathy moan, her voice catching at the end as if words escaped her entirely. Clearly, they were enjoying whatever was happening on the other side of this leafy barrier.
As she walked away, the woman’s cries built in a crescendo that chased her through the dark.
“That’s it, Emma. Just like that. You’re always so eager, love.”
Phee stopped in her tracks. No. Please, God, no.
Icy cold dread settled at the base of Phee’s spine, replacing her earlier worries with an even worse reality. “Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.”
She ignored the poking branches as she shoved through the shrubbery and fell through to the other side with all the grace of an aggressive jack-in-the-box. The scene before her didn’t fully register before her mouth moved. “That’s quite enough. You’re done.”
Roxbury had the audacity to laugh, as if shagging a debutante in a hedgerow was just another average Tuesday for him. Emma shrieked, covering her face and leaving
her bodice around her waist.
Phee rubbed at the dull ache behind her eyes. This was bad. Very bad. “Lady Emma, please cover a different body part. Your face is the least of your worries right now.”
With frantic movements, Emma tugged her dress into place, refusing to meet Phee’s gaze.
Roxbury casually buttoned the placket on the front of his trousers and smoothed his waistcoat. “We were done anyway, weren’t we, Emma? Just saying our goodbyes.”
The blighter.
“Don’t tell my brother,” Emma hissed when Phee led her away with a firm grip on her elbow.
Cal would absolutely lose his mind, and there wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? You can’t ask me to lie. In fact, you should tell him yourself.”
Emma dug in her heels, drawing them to a halt in the middle of the gravel path. “You needn’t lie. Not really. Just don’t tell him the truth.”
“What am I supposed to say? That I found you watching the cascade?” Phee rolled her eyes. She’d never been so young and convinced of her ability to control the world.
Emma bounced onto her tiptoes with a happy noise. “That would be grand. Thank you so much, Mr. Hardwick!”
“I didn’t—” Phee turned her head, right as Emma kissed her cheek in flirtatious thanks. In a slow-motion slide, Emma’s lips brushed Phee’s cheek, then landed directly on her lips. They both froze. Before stepping away, Phee noted softness, warmth, and a dozen other sensations—all of them foreign. None of them particularly welcome.
Without a word, they turned and headed toward the dinner boxes. It was an accidental kiss from a girl who’d thought she’d gotten her way. No more.
The orchestra grew louder when they left the treed paths. A few yards from their table, Emma grabbed Phee’s hand. “If you tell my brother what you saw, I’ll tell him you kissed me. Don’t think I won’t.”
“What? That’s not even close to what happened—” But Emma charged ahead, chattering in her bubbly way to their dining companions about the marvelous cascade. “Son of a bitch.”
Chapter Six
To hear Calvin and his set describe it, Shoreditch housed criminal masterminds, petty thieves, and the lowest dregs of society. While those kinds of people absolutely lived in her neighborhood, similar personalities lived in Mayfair. They just wore better coats in Grosvenor Square. Or in Emma’s case, petticoats.
The nerve of the girl, trying to strong-arm Phee into lying for her.
In reality, the residents of Phee’s neighborhood were like her—desperately trying to survive and play the hand dealt to them. Obviously, Phee’s circumstances were more favorable than most. With connections to the ton and secondhand clothes to appear respectable, she had a more comfortable life than others.
But who knew when that tenuous connection to the aristocracy would disappear? Cal had hired her on a whim and could fire her as easily. Sure, they’d become friends. And no, Calvin wasn’t a fickle man. But eventually, something would happen—like Emma convincing him dear old Adam kissed his unwilling sister—and who knew what her income or circumstances would be then. That meager nest egg of squirreled-away pay and pawned silver buttons meant security. Independence.
So she did her best to live within the means allotted by Uncle Milton. Referring to those as means was a bit of an overstatement. In actuality, she suspected his severe restriction of funds under the guise of a living allowance was his way of trying to keep her—or rather, Adam—home and under his thumb. As ploys went, that one hadn’t worked so well.
The hackney pulled to a stop. “King Street. Cart’s blocking the road, so you’ll get out here, lad.”
The cramped buildings piled one on top of another, and the lack of streetlamps didn’t make her neighborhood look inviting. As the temperatures increased in June, so did the danger in these tight streets. Only a fool would lounge about on street corners in the dead of winter. Now the underbelly came out to play.
A warning ripple of unease slithered along her spine. She shook it off. Such a ninny. The door to her lodgings stood only four buildings away. Besides, the landlady, Mrs. Carver, appreciated that Adam Hardwick paid his rent on time, so she ran interference when the local lads were on the prowl for new marks. Almost two years living on this street, and she’d had only minor encounters with the riffraff. Phee kept her nose out of everyone’s business and avoided trouble.
The local crime syndicate, led by Joseph Merceron, didn’t care for peons like her. Merceron craved bigger fish to fry—like lords who rode around in fancy carriages. And Cal wondered why his friend Adam refused to accept rides home in a carriage with the shiny Carlyle crest on the door. No, sir, hacks were good enough for her. Yet another thing Cal didn’t understand about the world outside Mayfair. He was at ease beyond Mayfair, but he lacked the street sense to truly blend in elsewhere.
Phee dug in her pocket for the fare before hopping from the hackney, then tipped her hat at the coachman’s mumbled thanks. A breeze whistled along the street, blowing air redolent of hot refuse and cabbage soup. Sidestepping to avoid a puddle with unknown but likely foul contents turned out to be a wasted effort. The same hack she’d just left rumbled by, hitting the puddle and splashing the water—and God only knew what else—onto her trousers.
“Blast.” She shook her foot, attempting to leave the water on the street rather than her evening shoes. Thankfully, the doorway to her building was only a few yards ahead. Changing clothes as soon as possible was vital in order to salvage these trousers prior to the nasty water setting in.
Before she could reach the door, a cudgel behind her knees brought Phee to the cobblestones, followed by a blow to her head that made the light in her sight flicker.
Shaking off the blow with a pained groan, Phee attempted to rise. It had been years since she’d taken a hit like that in school. Those scuffles had been more about establishing the hierarchy than true intent to harm. The two situations were truly incomparable.
Her attackers outnumbered her. Hands reached into pockets, tearing seams. Buttons gave way to greedy fingers, grabbing all the money she’d carried for the night out—which thankfully wasn’t much.
Blood dripped, metallic and thick on her tongue. Someone rolled her over like a limp doll, removing her coat, while someone else slipped her free from her waistcoat. Rough tugs at her feet left her lying in the street wearing nothing but torn trousers, a filthy lawn shirt, and a single glove. Blinking to focus, she attempted to identify her attackers. With this big of a group, it might be some of Merceron’s men after all.
“Takes a hit better than expected, eh? Who’d have thunk it from such a skinny rat,” said a gravelly voice. Another knock to the head threatened to take her under. A nervous chuckle made her force one eyelid open and narrow her gaze through the murky shadows crowding her vision.
“Nelson?”
The butcher’s son met her gaze for only a split second before shuffling back a few steps. “Sorry, Mr. Hardwick,” Nelson mumbled.
The last thought before she lost consciousness was that the butcher would hear about this tomorrow.
* * *
When she came to, considerably gentler hands were picking her up under the arms, carrying her inside. Mrs. Carver fretted in high, sharp tones somewhere nearby.
Not everything translated through the haze of throbbing pain, but Phee caught “Lad works for a fancy man. Take a message to Hill Street, by Berkeley Square. Lord Carlyle.”
Damn. She’d never hear the end of it from Cal. The man worried like a mother hen already, feeding her and clothing her in carefully curated donations of perfectly fine castoffs.
“No,” she tried to say. But her voice came out thready and feeble, too quiet to be heard over the din.
The shouted inquiries from her fellow building residents made her brain rattle in her skull, but their concern was sweet in a way. In some houses, everyone would have slammed their door shut, hoping to block the bad luck from rubbing
off on them. Mrs. Carver ran a friendlier ship. People in this building tried to help one another with their resources or talents. Phee leaned heavily on one of the hands holding her, then lurched to her feet, using a wall for support when her body tried to tip the opposite direction.
“’M fine.”
“Ye sure, lad?” Ah, the helping hand belonged to Barry from downstairs.
Phee nodded, then immediately regretted it when it felt like her brain sloshed against the inside of her forehead. “Just need to sleep. Thank you for your help. Oh, and Barry? Did your brother write back yet?” Several residents of the building came to Phee to dictate letters to their sweethearts or family and have the replies read aloud. Barry’s brother usually replied within a month. She searched her aching head, trying to think of anything other than how much she bloody hurt. It had been six weeks since Barry’s last letter.
“This afternoon. Thank ye for asking after it in your condition. I’ll come around in a day or two if’n ye don’ mind.” Barry helped her unlock the door to her room when her hand scraped the key over the keyhole without sliding it in. “Here, lad. Ye rest now.”
Throwing the lock behind her, she swayed, then caught herself against the wall. Out of habit, even in her injured state, she made a cursory sweep of the room to make sure everything was as she’d left it. A bed, four walls, and a plain but sturdy wood chair with a mismatched tufted footstool by the fire composed the living space.
Adam Hardwick was a simple man living a simple life on a very strict budget. But only for a little while longer.
After pulling the drapes closed, Phee slumped in the chair. A few pokes in the fireplace brought heat blazing to life, and the warmth hit her body like a shock. She reached to remove her hat and came away empty. That was right. Her lovely new hat either topped someone from the gang or had rolled into the gutter. What a waste. With slow, deliberate motions, Phee removed her single glove finger by finger so as not to ruin the fine leather more than it already was. Then she stared at it. What the hell would she do with one glove?
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