“He writes blasted well—forgive the phrasing. I weren’t insulting his work. I’m only trying to find him. If he is a higher-brow novelist tossing himself into the world of penny dreadfuls, I figure I’d do best to ask another silver-forker.”
“I can say I have not heard even the vaguest of whispers about one of our ‘brotherhood’—to borrow your word—writing in your area of storytelling.” Heaven knew she’d worked hard to prevent those very rumors. “Why is it so important that you find him? It has to be more than wishing he’d join your club.”
“My club?” he repeated with a lift of that expressive brow.
She smiled as if to dismiss the choice of words. “An attempt at humored exaggeration.”
“I’m a dog at a bone when it comes to mysteries. Cain’t leave ’em be.” He rose. “If you’ve not heard anything, I’ll ask elsewhere. That Mr. Headley you was with at the salon seemed well-versed in the silver-forks. I’ll see if I cain’t run him to ground.”
The last thing she needed was this man asking too many questions and drawing undue attention to Mr. King. “I can ask about Mr. King,” she offered as she stood, keeping her tone casual. “Of course, I haven’t the first idea how I would reach you to tell you if I hear of anything useful.”
“Darby always knows where to find me.”
Elizabeth nodded in acknowledgment. Though she and Mr. Darby were not truly close, she was acquainted with him well enough to send a note should she find a means of misdirecting Mr. Walker’s efforts. “I cannot promise to make any earth-shattering discoveries, but I will send word if I discover anything useful.”
“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth.” He dipped his head. “If ever I can do anything for you . . .”
It was the customary response, one he likely meant to be rhetorical. She, however, knew an opportunity when she saw one.
“I will hold you to that, Mr. Fletcher Walker.”
The flitter of surprise in his expression gave way to one of his core-warming smiles. “I’m very much looking forward to it.”
And with that, Elizabeth suspected, she had entered into a deal with the devil.
For a man who’d not been able to read for most of his childhood, Fletcher had become surprisingly adept at skimming correspondence. He sat in a rattling hackney, quickly reading the letter in his hands by the dim late-evening light slipping in through the dingy windows.
Proceed with your efforts. King must be identified, dethroned if a threat or a turncoat.
Fletcher had expected this response from the Dread Master, but confirmation was a good thing.
Report as you discover more.
Fletcher carefully refolded the single sheet of red-edged paper—the Dread Master’s personal stationery. He also favored brief, almost gruff sentences. Both tendencies helped Fletcher know the correspondence was authentic.
He tore the paper into long, thin strips, then tore those strips into smaller pieces.
“Has the Dread Master offered his nod of approval?” Hollis asked.
“Aye.”
Hollis eyed the growing pile of paper bits. “He still requires secrecy?”
Fletcher dropped the pieces of paper into a small silver flask he kept on hand for just this thing. No one would think to check it for torn correspondence. “He has reason enough to hide who he is.”
“Even from the Dreadfuls?” Hollis’s tone was dry.
Fletcher simply nodded.
“Is it Irving?” Hollis asked.
Fletcher didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
“Kumar? Donnelly?”
“I ain’t saying a word, Hollis.”
“But this is me.” He looked a little hurt. “Don’t you think you can trust me?”
“It ain’t a matter of trust. This ain’t my secret to whisper about. I don’t even think his name if I can help it. Cain’t risk a slip of the tongue.”
Hollis seemed to accept it but still didn’t look pleased. “Does the Dread Master give any weight to the possibility that King is a mole?”
“He believes it worth looking into.”
Hollis nodded. “And Miss Black had no ideas for you?”
Miss Black. His visit with her had been . . . interesting. She hadn’t dismissed his search nor his work out of hand, but neither had she been particularly keen on helping. Then again, she had, in the end, offered her assistance. His lips tugged upward at the memory of her informing him she’d hold him to his offer of a favor. She had gumption. One didn’t often come across a refined lady, and a beautiful one at that, who also happily went nose-to-nose with a man of the working class. He liked it.
“She had no bits for me, but she swore to tell me if she learns anything.”
The hack took the next turn slowly, an indication they were nearing their destination. Time enough for one more brief topic.
“The girls are arriving soon from the country. Doc’ll be on hand. We’ll need you there, putting on your airs an’ all.”
“One of these days the DPS will discover I’ve more than one talent at their disposal.”
Fletcher allowed a twist of his mouth. “You don’t have to be highfalutin tonight. Just make your case about educating the poor.”
“I’d do that either way.”
“I know it.” He leaned more comfortably back against the squabs. “Doc means to have a couple of ladies from the charitable society with him to meet the girls’ coach. A disapproving cove nearby”—he motioned to Hollis—“along with them women, oughtta keep Mrs. George’s macks a touch less violent.”
Hollis rubbed at his face. “This is a riskier undertaking than usual. The sweep made quite a ruckus over losing his climbing boy, but the pimps of London have been known to kill when denied their prey. I have my doubts they will remain quiet.”
Fletcher knew it well enough, but he wouldn’t be deterred. The girls likely hadn’t the first idea what awaited them at the end of their journey. This world was a cruel old place.
The literary salon proved “a crush,” as the fine and fancy were always saying. Hollis’s identity as a penny dreadful author was a tightly held secret, and thus he was invited to these sorts of gatherings now and then. For the first time, Fletcher had come under his own invitation rather than as his friend’s guest. He didn’t know who’d issued it or why.
With all the grace of one born to the aristocracy, Hollis greeted the others, received and made introductions, and spoke of the most recent literary offerings with both authority and a critically honed eye. Fletcher assumed his best manners as well, though no one would ever have believed he hailed from anything but the streets. He didn’t mind. He wasn’t trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. He was who he was.
“Headley, I believe.” Hollis extended his hand to a gentleman Fletcher vaguely recognized.
“Darby,” the man answered. His gaze turned to Fletcher. “And you’re . . .” He thought a moment. “Walker, I believe.”
Fletcher lifted his chin a fraction in acknowledgment. There was something a little too dismissive in the man’s tone.
“Headley is a friend of Miss Black’s,” Hollis explained. “We met him at that salon a couple of weeks ago.”
“Ah.” Fletcher allowed a nod and a little tweak of his mouth, showing just how little impressed he was with the connection. “Is Miss Black here this evening? I’d enjoy another gab with her.”
“She is all that is proper and good.” Mr. Headley spoke with an edge perfected by those always scouting out reasons for offense.
Fletcher eyed Hollis before returning his attention to Mr. Headley. “I don’t recall saying she weren’t.”
“Forgive me,” Headley said. “I was defaulting to an abundance of caution, not knowing how ladies are generally spoken of amongst—” He suddenly seemed to recognize the dangerous ground upon which he was treading.
Fletcher wasn’t going to let the man wriggle free so easily. “Go on, then. I’m full curious how you mean to end that sentence.”
Headley pressed his lips closed and took a quick breath. “Again, forgive me. I fear I tend to misspeak. When one lacks the opportunity to rewrite one’s words, one is far more likely to use them incorrectly.”
A sentiment often heard amongst writers. As far as Fletcher knew, Headley was not an author but was included among the group because of his support for and enjoyment of literature. Was he, like Hollis, secretly an author himself?
“No harm done,” Hollis said. “One does hear a great many odd whispers about the penny dreadful authors. You certainly cannot be blamed for wondering about their characters.”
That was brilliantly managed, really. Should Headley choose to take up the new topic, they might learn something. If not, no one would likely note it enough to wonder at Hollis’s curiosity.
“Abundant whispers.” Headley’s eyes grew wide with anticipation. Here was a man eager to discuss the topic. Brilliant. “They are all quite contradictory, though. One doesn’t quite know what to believe.”
Hollis nodded.
“The only consensus I can find,” Headley continued, apparently not needing encouragement to flap his gums, “is regarding the existence of the Dread Penny Society. It is real, no one argues that, but the nature of the fraternity is an utter mystery.”
Hollis turned to Fletcher with a look of inquiry. Lud, the man had a knack for appearing to know absolutely nothing.
“If there were such a society, and I were a member, would I tell you lot?” Fletcher shook his head with a look of amusement. “Further, if there was such a thing and it were villainous, I’d not be a member, would I?”
Headley narrowed his gaze, a smile twisting his lips. “Are you trying to convince me it doesn’t exist?”
“Are you trying to convince me you didn’t follow what I just said?”
He ruffled a bit. “No offense intended. I simply find the whole thing very intriguing.”
Hollis, true to form, kept his air of vague indifference. “You seem to be among the number who suspects this society of infamy.”
“Why are they so secretive unless their works are something of which they ought to be ashamed?” Headley asked. “It does make one wonder.”
It made Fletcher wonder that perhaps Headley’s wasn’t an idle curiosity. There was reason to believe the elusive Mr. King was opposed to the actions of the Dreadfuls. Could there be a connection here?
“Do you think the secrecy truly comes of shame?” Hollis asked. “I haven’t been able to decide, myself.”
“If one is doing good works, one would not hesitate to make those good works known,” Headley insisted.
It was neither Hollis nor Fletcher who responded but Miss Black. “That holds true only if one’s motivation in doing good works is to be known for doing them. Perhaps this mysterious society values the results of their work more than the credit.”
He wasn’t often at a loss for words, but her unexpected bit of generosity, coupled with the sight of her in a gown of sheer gold over an underlayer of black, left him chucked all of a heap. Not many women did that to him. Indeed, the woman standing beside her didn’t.
“You are forever thinking the best of people.” Headley spoke to Miss Black the way one spoke to an older child who thought herself grown up.
“That, sir, is not true,” she said baldly. Miss Black turned her attention to Hollis and Fletcher. “A pleasure to see you both again. I would very much like to introduce you both to Miss Serenity Vance.” She indicated the woman next to her. “Miss Vance, this is Mr. Hollis Darby and Mr. Fletcher Walker.”
Miss Vance smiled at Hollis. “Mr. Darby, I know of your family, of course.” She turned to Fletcher. “And, Mr. Walker, I know of your writing.”
“Of course,” Fletcher said, earning a light laugh from the woman.
Miss Black spoke once more. “Mr. Darby, you will not be offended, I hope, if Mr. Walker joins me for a quick turn about the room. He posed a question when last we met for which I now can provide an answer.”
She was direct, he would give her that.
“Of course not,” Hollis said. “Assuming Miss Vance will not take offense at being left in my undistinguished company.”
“On the contrary,” Miss Vance said. “I would find that delightful.”
Hollis dipped a quick bow, then offered his arm to Miss Vance. The two of them moved toward the milling crowd.
Elizabeth offered Headley an abbreviated dip before slipping her arm through Fletcher’s and walking with him toward the edge of the room.
“You do not do things subtly, Miss Black,” Fletcher said with a laugh.
“My father always said I was too bold for my own good.” She did not sound bitter about the parental observation.
“I must say, miss, you look a regular beller-croaker tonight.”
She eyed him sidelong. “Is that a compliment or a complaint?” Her neck craned as she watched him.
“It ain’t a complaint.”
A bit of pink stole over her cheeks. The woman was near torturing him. Beautiful. Stunning, really.
“You’re a fair sight, I’ll grant you that,” he said.
“Believe it or not, I did not request your company in order to be lavished with praise. I have some information for you.”
“Regarding our friend Mr. King?”
“The very same.” She shot him a look of warning. “Now, do not get your hopes up too high. What I have are merely hints, nothing of true significance.”
A hint was more than he had now.
“A few whispers are reflecting what you, yourself, have sorted: that there is noticeable refinement to Mr. King’s writing. Your idea that he may hail from slightly elevated origins appears to be held by more people than merely you, though the consensus is not a broad one.”
Irving had been right on that score, it seemed. “Any gossip ’bout his being a writer of highbrow works as well?”
“That I haven’t heard,” she said. “I suspect if King were a pseudonym for one of my colleagues, the whispers would abound in that direction.”
A regular dead cargo that bit of information.
They continued their slow circuit of the room. He knew he looked the part of a gentleman worthy of taking a turn around a gathering with a lady as beautiful and refined as Miss Black, but he also knew she was miles above his touch. Yet he was enjoying imagining she wasn’t, that for this night, he had, in fact, made something grand of himself.
“What is Mr. Headley’s story?” He eyed the man as their steps took them past him. “He gabs about the penny dreadfuls more than one’d expect.”
Miss Black laughed. “He is an admirer of the literary set, mostly because he finds some satisfaction in the veneer of celebrity but hasn’t the cachet to toss his hat in with the truly important and exalted. He reads, yes, but the man cannot write. Trust me, I have been the recipient of a few of his letters.”
She had a dry wit. He liked that.
“There’s plenty here who’d likely declare I can’t write.”
Miss Black looked around as if shocked. “Are there a great many illiterate people in attendance?”
“Have you read my work?” He’d wager she hadn’t, yet she’d defended him as a writer.
“I know that at least a few of my students read your offerings. I thought it best to know what they were about.”
She had read his work.
“And what was your assessment?” he asked as they turned the corner of the room.
Miss Black had a very pleasant smile. “Does my opinion matter so much?”
“Ain’t my pride asking. Just curiosity.” Truth be told, it was a fair bit of both.
“You tell a very good tale, Mr. Walker. And, though th
e more torrid details are perhaps a bit beyond what most of my parents prefer their daughters read, I could find nothing in your writing that was truly dastardly. You strike a very good balance between the two.”
“And the writing itself?”
She laughed lightly. “I have already afforded you two compliments in one evening. If you’d like more, you will simply have to come to another soiree or salon and make up sweet to me then.”
The idea was more tempting than she likely realized. “I’ve met m’ quota for tonight?”
“Indeed.”
“Very well.” He offered a winning smile of his own. “I’ll simply sniff you out another day and accept your offer.”
“It seems, Mr. Fletcher, that we find ourselves deeper and deeper in each other’s debt. I owe you a compliment, and you owe me an as-yet-undefined favor.”
She wasn’t wrong. “Half the fun of such debts is in the paying of ’em.”
Miss Black slipped her arm from his, raising an eyebrow almost flirtatiously. “We shall see.”
With that, she moved in a swirl of gold toward the other guests, leaving him in a baffled haze. A happily baffled haze. Miss Black was not entirely the stuffy Society lady she seemed to be. Mr. King was the mystery at the top of his list, but this surprising lady was quickly making her way there as well.
by Fletcher Walker
Chapter II
“Six this week,” Jimmy said as he and Morris walked through the London fog. “I ain’t seen the Black Maria anywhere near these past weeks. Don’t seem to be the Bobbies nipping off with urchins.”
The Lady and the Highwayman Page 7
