“Like how one shouldn’t look in a mirror if someone in your family died as they might not pass to heaven?”
“I didn’t hear that one. I was referring to the things that might find trouble for Ruth. Betty’s advice is not always sound, but Ruth seems to believe every word she utters is the absolute truth.”
“And? Did Ruth understand?”
“She didn’t say one way or another, but I hope she’ll think twice next time Betty tells her something.”
“I’ll encourage her to do the same. Perhaps if we both do so, the message will sink in.” Holly traced the pattern of the embroidered coverlet on the bed. “Do you think she’s happy here?”
“Are any of our servants?” Dalia asked, surprised her sister had such a thought. She paused in her search for a different gown to face Holly.
“Actually, yes, I think several are. Cook for one. The butler and the housekeeper as well. It seems to me the younger ones are often unhappy.”
“Becoming a servant used to be a coveted position. I suppose they have more choices for occupations than ever before.”
“I think Ruth needs a man.”
Dalia nearly choked, needing to clear her throat before she could respond. “What makes you say that?”
Holly lifted a shoulder. “Look at Lettie and Rose. They are both much happier since they married.”
“You have a point. They’re certainly more cheerful.” Thinking about men brought to mind Spencer. How had she so easily dismissed him until now? She shook her head. Because he infuriated her. How could she have forgotten?
She couldn’t imagine him seeking a woman of loose morals to satisfy whatever manly needs he might have. Then why had he been at the Argyll Rooms? Added to the mystery had been his appearance. From his hat to his shoes, his frayed and worn clothing was nothing like he normally wore. She supposed some lords visited there, but why would he do so in the middle of the day with that attire?
Even more puzzling was her reaction to him. Surely the odd breathless feeling she’d experienced had only been a result of her nervousness at the situation. She’d felt out of her element.
No doubt the next time she saw him, all would have returned to normal and these unwelcome feelings would disappear. Funny how the thought didn’t please her as much as she’d expected.
~*~
Spencer rose from his desk at the Intelligence Office to glance out the window overlooking Whitehall. The street bustled with activity. He sighed, annoyed at his lack of concentration since he’d left Dalia—rather Miss Fairchild—near her home.
He had a stack of reports and correspondence that required his attention, some of it quite urgent, yet he could only see blue eyes looking back at him. Blue eyes with gold flecks, to be specific. Framed by long lashes. And brows that arched gently. Lips that made him think of—
With an oath, he spun away from the window. He’d been around Miss Fairchild countless times. She irritated him almost always, including during today’s unexpected encounter.
Yet he couldn’t deny the other emotions he’d felt.
Still felt, if he were completely honest.
Had it been merely his urge to protect her? Or some strange shift from anger to admiration at the risk she’d taken to follow her maid? He appreciated her wish to help Ruth. Few—if any—ladies of his acquaintance would bother. Why would they when a servant could be easily replaced?
He shook his head. The reason for his distraction didn’t matter. He needed to eliminate it.
Focusing on the task Prime Minister Gladstone had assigned him was of far more importance than worrying about Miss Fairchild and her maid.
Jack McCarthy had been at the top of their list of criminals for some time now. Captain Hawke, Dalia’s brother-in-law and his friend, Viscount Frost, had managed to put away McCarthy’s competition last year.
Unfortunately, with him out of the way, McCarthy had stepped in to fill the void, becoming even more powerful. The man dabbled in everything from shipping and selling stolen goods to supplying explosives to anarchists to running prostitute rings. In fact, there wasn’t much the man didn’t do.
This particular project held a special significance for the prime minister. Gladstone rarely slept well. For decades, he’d spent many nights walking the streets of London. He’d made it a personal mission to attempt to reform fallen women over the years but with limited success.
While Spencer understood Gladstone’s concern for the welfare of women forced into prostitution, Spencer felt they needed to focus more on the reason women became prostitutes. Often, it came down to a matter of survival.
Jobs for women were scarce, even in these modern times, especially ones that paid a decent wage. If a woman had no husband, and sometimes even if she did, she needed to work to help put food on the table and keep a roof over her family’s heads. Very few occupations paid enough for room and board.
However, the challenge of creating better paying jobs for females was out of Spencer’s power.
Instead, he was tasked with the other part of the equation—eliminating the men controlling the prostitution business.
Men like Jack McCarthy. McCarthy made money from prostitution of all sorts, ranging from brothels that catered to aristocrats to those who welcomed men of simple needs to the ladies who walked the streets in rough neighborhoods, willing to step into an alley for the right price.
Spencer doubted the possibility of eliminating prostitution completely. It was a business as old as time. But McCarthy placed a nasty spin on it that had gained Gladstone’s attention.
McCarthy often forced young girls into the life. He stole them from the streets of London or bought them from their desperate parents. He had men offer young women who spoke only broken English a “helping hand” when their boats landed at the docks from foreign shores.
McCarthy then either placed them in brothels or on the streets or shipped them to other countries where they were sold. The poor girls had no chance of returning home.
It was one thing for a grown woman to choose to sell her body to a man willing to pay for it. But taking a young girl and stealing her life to line McCarthy’s pockets enraged Spencer.
The more he dug into McCarthy’s activities, the angrier he became. The man was like an octopus, with tentacles in far too many businesses, each worse than the last.
While not easy to bring him down, when they did, organized crime would receive a major blow. With luck, it would send a message throughout the underworld that even the king of criminals could be caught and thrown in jail. Good triumphing over evil. The very idea had Spencer smiling in satisfaction.
And maybe, just maybe, they would show criminals that running prostitution rings was no longer profitable.
One could hope.
Spencer had only to remember the faces of the young girls he’d seen on the street that afternoon to regain his focus on the monumental task before him. The idea of any of them being forced to have sex with several men each night made him ill.
If Spencer could save even one girl, all this work would be worthwhile. And if he could help put an end to McCarthy’s prostitution business, even better.
Thus far, he’d managed to discover one of McCarthy’s men who oversaw the prostitution side of the business. Charlie Pruett had a combination of street smarts and business savvy that had earned him a place at McCarthy’s side. Putting Pruett in prison would leave a hole in McCarthy’s organization that would make it easier to build a solid case against McCarthy himself.
Spencer welcomed the challenge though doubt wiggled into his confidence, mainly in the form of his father’s voice.
“What do you think you’re about? Who are you to take on a criminal mastermind?”
His father hadn’t actually said those things as he didn’t know much about Spencer’s work but the voice of doubt in Spencer’s mind sounded just like his father’s.
Spencer would never fill his brother’s shoes in his father’s eyes. Perhaps in Spencer’s own e
yes as well. Though he told himself he didn’t want to, it was impossible not to compare himself to his brother.
Edward Campbell had been Spencer’s senior by five years. He’d forged his own path beginning at university by breaking rules. He preferred to think of them as guidelines, if even that.
His reckless behavior had driven Spencer mad. In the end, it had been that very behavior that had gotten Edward killed. Being proven right didn’t make Spencer feel any better. But it did make him more determined than ever to uphold the law. His position at the Intelligence Office had seemed a perfect fit.
However, in the past months, he’d found the drudgery of the paperwork and reports unsatisfying. When the Earl of Aberland sought to unravel a plot to destroy the Royal Albert Hall, Spencer had been eager to help.
He wasn’t certain how much actual assistance he’d been in preventing what would’ve been a terrible tragedy, but the entire affair had been invigorating. The surge of energy, the fine balance between fear and determination, the danger, along with Aberland’s urging had all convinced Spencer the time for field work had come.
The problem was that the rules were much less clear when he wasn’t behind his desk. Relying on his “instincts,” as Aberland referred to them, seemed ridiculously risky. He didn’t trust them, not when they were still unproven, despite the fact that Aberland believed in him. Spencer had yet to separate logical conclusions from the gut feeling the earl described.
His brother had also relied on his instincts and look where those had landed him.
Life had been much simpler before Edward’s death. His father had always gazed at him with disappointed eyes, but now his displeasure felt far worse. The resigned acceptance he often expressed irritated Spencer.
Putting away Charlie Pruett, followed closely by Jack McCarthy, would go a long way toward giving Spencer the belief in himself he needed to continue working in the field, and perhaps even gain his father’s approval.
Though he didn’t know why he bothered to try.
Of course, his work would end when his father died, and Spencer inherited.
Unfortunately, Miss Fairchild’s interference had set him back in his mission. Perhaps her experience at the Argyll Rooms had convinced her to stay far away. For some reason, he thought that unlikely.
As he settled behind his desk once again and drew the stack of papers closer, all he could see was a pair of brilliant blue eyes. He blinked several times, hoping it would pass, and focused on the first report.
Chapter Four
“We should never forget that it is our distaste for meddling with unsavoury business that does not immediately and personally concern us, that is the evil-doers’ armour of impunity.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Late the following evening, Charlie Pruett surveyed his business interests on Flower and Dean Street at the center of the Spitalfields rookery in the East End.
He’d put in long hours since he’d come to work for Jack McCarthy, gathering a reliable group of underlings over the past few months. ‘Reliable’ was a relative term in his business. Money, threats, and brute force went a long way toward convincing his men and boys to remain loyal.
Business was booming. He nodded with satisfaction, unable to keep the grin off his face. He’d come to this particular location to check on things before reporting to McCarthy on the morrow. The number of prostitutes on the street might be shocking to the average person, but it was less than a third of the men roaming the area, most looking for a good time. More girls meant less missed opportunities. And that meant more money.
“What has ye so happy this evenin’?” Ruby, one of the senior prostitutes who’d proven helpful for a woman, drew her bright mustard-colored shawl tighter across her generous bosom as she stood beside him. “Ye look like a fine lord, surveyin’ his kingdom.”
“Perhaps I am.” Charlie grinned. “Appears all is well with operations here.”
“Why, o’ course, they is.” Ruby frowned as though annoyed he’d suspected anything else.
“How many new girls today?” He prided himself on his creativity with his latest endeavor to bring new working girls into the business.
“Six this morn. ’Tis been a good day. Course, ain’t none of them happy about it.”
He shook his head. That was the least of his concerns.
Thomas Whittle, the man he’d found to greet the boats coming into the docks filled with confused foreigners, had the perfect appearance for his new position.
Whittle had the blessing of looking like a cross between Father Christmas and a kindly reverend. His warm, friendly smile, along with the sign Charlie insisted he carry that stated in bold letters, “Guidance and free lodging for those in need,” put people at ease.
The man aided the process by taking the bags and bundles of those who landed at the bustling docks from distant shores before they could protest, some not even able to speak English. The girls were easily separated from their families in the confusion, leaving them no choice but to follow Whittle to a lodging house. If necessary, he offered them bogus tickets to America, as many of them hoped to board ships to that country where opportunity was said to line the streets.
Charlie snorted. What a load of crock. Opportunity lined the streets of whatever place a man made it. He had a knack for creating what seemed so elusive to others.
With no place else to go, the girls were told they needed to pay for their food and lodging and “encouraged” to work in prostitution. Those who needed additional encouragement were given opium to ease them into the business. Very few left their employment.
“Where’s Whittle?”
Ruby cocked a grin. “One particular Polish lass caught his eye. He intended to offer her extra comfort.” A wink accompanied her message.
A scowl twisted Charlie’s lips. “She better not have been a virgin.”
“If she was, it’s not much of a waste. Ugly as a post, but Whittle insisted she reminded him of his little sister.”
Charlie winced at the thought of their grandfatherly looking recruiter having such perverse tastes before lifting a thin shoulder. “Well, as many girls as he’s brought to us in the past few weeks, I suppose he deserves a bit of fun,” he said grudgingly.
“Business in the brothels is brisk as well, but I keep an extra eye on the girls workin’ the streets.”
The three brothels in the area were nearly full. Soon he’d open another—with a bit of cash sliding to the bobbies to make sure they kept their noses out of the operation.
Those arriving in London with hopes and dreams fueled his own. Too bad if his dashed theirs. He liked to think things happened for a reason.
“All right then.” Charlie straightened his hat. “Let us have a look, shall we?” He liked to visit the brothels personally to make certain Ruby hadn’t gotten above herself and decided to betray him. Honest help was hard to find.
“Come along.” Ruby smiled. “Perhaps one of the girls will catch your eye.”
Charlie snorted. “No thanks. I don’t mix business with pleasure.” He had a code of conduct that might only make sense to him, but he followed it strictly. Doing otherwise would only lead to trouble, and that was something he went out of his way to avoid.
McCarthy might be pleased with him at the moment, but Charlie knew that could change in a snap if something went amiss. McCarthy had no patience for failure. Charlie would find himself belly-up, floating in the Thames, if he made a misstep.
~*~
Over the next two days, Dalia considered the situation from all possible angles. She’d spoken with Ruth every chance she had until the poor maid did her best to avoid her.
With a rather belligerent tone, Ruth had finally informed her that she intended to return to the Argyll Rooms with Betty on her next half-day. She said she’d had a fine time there and met a nice young man who expressed interest in seeing her again.
At first, Dalia thought Ruth was only saying such to prove her cousin hadn’t been lying. B
ut Ruth’s improved mood as she went about her duties said otherwise. A man was definitely involved.
What if he was one of the men Spencer had described who ruined women and forced them into a life of prostitution? She shuddered at the thought. If something untoward happened, Ruth wouldn’t want to admit to Dalia that she’d been right. Visions of Ruth wandering the streets alone with no one to aid her, finally agreeing to a man’s offer to pay her for sex, made Dalia ill.
She had to act. Ruth’s refusal to listen to reason left her no choice. Dalia had considered the maid’s duties again, wondering if the work was too much. But while the hours were long, the work was surely better than a factory position or a seamstress. Of course, that was easy for Dalia to think when she wasn’t the one doing the work.
Luckily, Ruth didn’t have any time off for well over a week. That gave Dalia several days to find a way to convince her not to return to the Argyll Rooms. But if that failed, she wanted to have a second option.
She’d quickly cast aside the first thought that came to mind. The idea of asking Spencer for assistance didn’t appeal in the least despite how much she’d enjoyed and appreciated his company previously. She could already imagine the lecture she’d receive. Had he looked at the copy of the Seven Curses book she’d sent him?
But what other option did she have? She couldn’t follow Ruth there on her own again. Not now that she’d seen the danger for herself. She considered speaking with Lettie about the whole situation, but her mother had ordered Dalia and her sisters not to bother Lettie overmuch since she was with child. Dalia couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Lettie and Nathaniel were going to be wonderful parents. But her mother was certain any undue stress would cause complications.
Dalia wondered if that were true and decided to ask Lettie for herself when she next saw her. But for now, what could she do?
Falling For The Viscount Page 4
