by C. S. Quinn
Betsy’s little rosebud mouth opened in a soundless red yawn. Lady Castlemaine smiled, love radiating from her eyes.
‘You will have a title,’ she promised. ‘Wealth of your own. I will get it for you. Anybody who stands in your way will regret it.’
Chapter 31
Charlie and Lily stood frozen, looking at the gun. It poked from the gloom of the deserted bawdy house.
‘What you want?’ demanded a female voice with a strange accent. ‘Don’t need no trouble here. We already have enough trouble.’
Then a woman with jet-black skin appeared. She stood a little back, hidden by shadow. Her profile was Amazonian in proportions, tall with broad shoulders and a shapely bust projected upwards by cheap willow-boned corsetry.
Damaris moved into the light. Her hair was in disarray, tightly curled dark ringlets springing haphazardly from a centre parting. The handsome features of her dark face were contrasted by the deep, jagged wound on her cheek. A rough ‘W’ was painted in dark blood, raised red and swollen with bruising.
‘They cut you?’ said Charlie, taking in her injury with horror.
Damaris nodded shortly. ‘And worse.’ Her face was impassive, stony. ‘Don’t need no gawkers and gogglers,’ she said. ‘You seen it now. Be off.’
‘Damaris, it’s me.’ Lily’s voice was hushed and unusually sympathetic. She was staring at the ugly wounds on the other woman’s face. ‘It’s Lily Boswell.’
Damaris hesitated. ‘I remember you,’ she said. ‘The gypsy-pirate. You free slaves at sea.’
‘If I find them,’ said Lily, avoiding Charlie’s surprised expression. ‘We need your help,’ she added. ‘We think someone is targeting brothels, looking for a dress. A dress that leads to a lord and lady.’
Damaris’s face darkened. ‘Don’t know nothin’ bout no lord and lady,’ she said, moving to shut the door.
Lily stepped quickly into the gap. ‘Please,’ she said, holding the door with her little hands. ‘We need to stop anyone else getting hurt.’
Damaris’s eyes switched to Charlie. ‘Not him,’ she said. ‘I’ll have no men inside. Not after what my girls have been through.’
‘I grew up in Mother Mitchell’s brothel,’ said Charlie. ‘I know you have people here you want to protect, children.’
Her face softened slightly. ‘Yes, there be children.’ Damaris hesitated, taking in Charlie’s expression. He felt acutely aware of the slight kink in his nose, his scarred upper lip. But something must have convinced her Charlie was genuine, because she let go of her hold on the door.
‘Better come inside,’ she decided, glancing quickly left and right along the street.
They followed Damaris down a dark corridor, the shape of her muscular legs showing through her dusky-pink skirts as she walked.
‘You free slaves at sea?’ whispered Charlie, raising his eyebrows. ‘You told me you sailed for gold.’
‘Gypsies are enslaved along with blacks,’ hissed Lily. ‘I protect my own people, is all. Mostly I’m a treasure-hunter.’
‘I’ll never believe you hard-hearted again,’ said Charlie, enjoying her annoyance at being discovered.
Damaris led them to a bare-planked room where a huddle of terrified girls was gathered. Charlie swallowed, taking in the bruised faces and ripped dresses. A few recognised Charlie and mumbled a greeting.
Charlie eyed the devastation of the room. ‘They were apprentices?’ he asked, taking in the systematic destruction.
‘Some of them were,’ said Damaris. ‘One was different.’
‘Different how?’
Damaris thought for a long moment. ‘Older,’ she decided. ‘Had an authority about him. Went by the name of Barebones.’ Damaris gestured to her mutilated face. ‘And him that did this. I’d think it to be his son. He was crueller. Wanted to hurt us.’ She trembled slightly.
Lily reached out, took the older woman’s hand and squeezed it. ‘We’ll see him brought to justice,’ she promised.
‘You mentioned a dress?’ continued Damaris. ‘Barebones was looking for a special dress too. When I couldn’t give it to him, he had his boys throw the others from the window. Everything we owned.’
‘Barebones was especially interested in a particular dress?’ asked Charlie. ‘Can you tell me anything about it?’
Damaris nodded. ‘He wanted to know about a dress stitched with green-and-gold leaves. Hung all over with ribbons like the May festival dresses. Barebones tried to make me speak of it, but I wouldn’t. I gave my word, you see, a long time ago, to protect the Royalists. When I give my word, I don’t go back.’
‘You think this dress belonged to a Royalist?’ asked Charlie.
‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Damaris. ‘A Royalist escaped wearing it, during the war.’
Chapter 32
Lynette gazed around the apartment. A slow smile crept onto her face. It was better than she’d ever imagined.
She took a few tentative steps inside, allowing her feet to sink into the soft rug. She grinned, bouncing on her heels. She moved to the walls, with their bright Indian calico coverings. Her fingers drifted over the red embroidered flowers and deep-green leaves.
Lynette pressed her lips together and turned to survey the rest of the apartment. A little bubble of laughter welled up. Towards the back was a beautiful French mahogany desk with a decanter of her favourite wine and two glasses on top. Then there was the bed. She’d never seen so much deep silk and linen.
There was a sound from the closet and a girl stepped out, dressed in a neat chambermaid’s uniform. She curtsied low and Lynette laughed out loud.
‘Sissy!’ she said. ‘He never got you?’
She curtsied again. ‘’Is Majesty thought you’d like me,’ said Sissy, grinning. ‘Reckon ’e saw us actin’ together?’
‘I know ’e did, the old skirt-grabber,’ said Lynette. ‘Listen, if ’e tries to get us both in bed, you tell ’im you’ve got the clap.’
Sissy laughed. ‘He likes you,’ she said, suddenly serious. ‘The King.’
Lynette chewed her lip, looking around the interior happily.
They were interrupted by a sharp tap on the door. Sissy moved to open it.
‘Oh, let me,’ said Lynette. ‘I can’t ’ave you waitin’ on me, Sis. You’ll just expect it in return when my star wanes. Only go see if ’e’s left us any marzipan fruits in the other room. We’ll share ’em.’
Sissy hurried away as Lynette opened the door. It was Lady Castlemaine.
‘Of course you open your own door,’ said Lady Castlemaine. ‘You’ve been raised from the gutter, but you’ll never lose its manners.’ Lady Castlemaine was staring intently at Lynette.
‘’Oo let you up?’ demanded Lynette.
Lady Castlemaine looked Lynette up and down. ‘Good performance?’ she asked, archly. ‘No hecklers or ruffians?’
Lynette smiled broadly. ‘Now you mention it, I think there were a few loud fellows at the back.’
‘Oh dear.’ Lady Castlemaine smiled. ‘I do hope they didn’t hurl fruit. I heard you were pelted most viciously.’
Lynette laughed. ‘Us actresses are practised at dodging missiles.’ Lynette walked lightly towards the bed. ‘And you know how thick-skinned commoners are.’
Lady Castlemaine’s smile dropped as she watched Lynette. The lovely violet eyes narrowed in fury. ‘Enjoy your short time with the King,’ she whispered malevolently. ‘I taught him everything he knows.’
‘I was raised a whore,’ said Lynette cheerfully, bouncing on the bed. ‘Perhaps there are still a few things even his Majesty could learn.’
Lady Castlemaine turned and stalked away, fists clenched.
As the door shut, Lynette sagged in relief. She gritted her teeth, limped heavily to the nearest chair and collapsed onto it. Then, screwing her face in pain, she unlaced her dress and peeled away the layer of bandages wrapping her ribs.
The door opened, and Sis came through bearing a tray of marzipan fruits. She shrieked,
sending the food tumbling to the floor.
‘You’re hurt!’ She ran to Lynette’s side, eyes goggling at the deep purple bruising that wound around her torso.
‘Pay it no mind, Sissy.’ Lynette winced. ‘Only help me with this ointment, won’t you?’
She took out a pot of greasy yellow salve and began unscrewing the lid with shaking fingers.
‘Here,’ Sissy took it. ‘Let me.’ She opened the pot and began dappling Lynette’s bruises with light fingers.
Lynette hissed in pain, her eyes filling with tears.
‘Does it hurt very much?’ asked Sis.
‘Not so much as poverty,’ said Lynette, managing a smile.
‘You walked all this way from the theatre,’ admonished Sissy. ‘That must have made it much worse.’
‘It was worth it to see her face,’ said Lynette.
‘Lady Castlemaine? She did this?’
‘She hired thugs to pelt me on stage,’ said Lynette. ‘I had a mind it might happen, so I had my own men ready to throw them from the theatre. But they got a few in.’
Sissy’s mouth twisted in concern. ‘You mustn’t anger her anymore,’ she pleaded. ‘I saw Lady Castlemaine walking away. I’ve heard about her rages. The palace servants are terrified of her.’
‘I grew up in a brothel on Coal Yard Alley,’ said Lynette. ‘Next to Mad Sal with the pointed teeth and Dave the Knife, she’s not so bad.’
Sissy laughed. ‘You’re a fine actress,’ she admitted begrudgingly. ‘Lady Castlemaine thinks you completely unscathed.’
Lynette smiled.
‘You’re brave,’ said Sis. ‘You’re not a bit scared of her, are you?’
‘Maybe she should be scared of me. I know something, Sis. Something I heard at the theatre. Lady Castlemaine is trying to find a lord and lady who went missing during the war. They were thought dead, but it seems like a Royalist spy smuggled them out. She’s mad to track them down. I think they know something compromising. Some dark secret about her ladyship.’ Lynette’s dark eyes glittered. ‘Maybe if I found them first, I’d have something on her.’
Sissy’s face dropped. ‘Sounds political,’ she said. ‘Politics are dangerous, Lynette.’ Sis eyed the bruising. ‘Lady Castlemaine has seen off every other mistress,’ she said. ‘She’s one of those who has to win at any cost. I honestly don’t know what she’d be capable of if she were pushed.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Lynette, her eyes glittering. ‘Shall we give her a shove and find out?’
Chapter 33
In the shattered remains of the Gilded Lock, Charlie and Lily were listening intently to Damaris Page.
‘I was a young woman at the time,’ she was explaining. ‘Fresh off the slave ship and sold into a Wapping whorehouse. The girls were all of a flutter,’ added Damaris with a smile. ‘A handsome Royalist fugitive. He’d made some dramatic escape, dressed as a woman. We hid many Royalist nobles in the attic. This house was part of a secret underground, smuggling them out of the country. We dressed them as whores, servants,’ she explained. ‘They passed through the bawdy houses and illegal theatres. But this man was different.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He was the only Royalist we couldn’t protect,’ she concluded guiltily. ‘The mistress of the house gave him up.’
‘Why?’ asked Charlie.
‘He was too dangerous,’ said Damaris. ‘The mistress said it was all our necks. He’d broken some people free from the Tower. People said it was to protect the King’s true power on earth.’
‘A lord and lady?’ asked Charlie.
Damaris nodded.
‘So Cromwell’s men arrested this man?’
‘He was executed,’ said Damaris. ‘The mistress said it was all our necks, or his.’ She looked sad.
‘Did he leave the dress here?’ asked Charlie.
Damaris shook her head. ‘I never saw the dress after he was taken. Maybe it was sold, or sent away. The mistress wasn’t hard-hearted enough to keep it.’
Charlie felt the dead end close around him. There were thousands of brothels in London.
‘He left something else though,’ said Damaris helpfully. ‘A safe-passage ring. Said someone would come for it, but they never did.’
‘What’s a safe-passage ring?’ asked Charlie.
‘To get into the secret underground,’ said Damaris. ‘Royalists passed a ring around. It contained a riddle only the worthy could solve.’
‘Worthy as in aristocratic?’ suggested Lily scathingly.
‘Those who solved the ring found a key,’ said Damaris. ‘A key to get them into a safe house and smuggled out of the country.’
Charlie’s thief taker talents were ticking. ‘I can tell much from a ring,’ he said. ‘Where it was made. Who made it. Do you still have it?’
Damaris shook her head. ‘It was a mourning ring,’ she said with a shudder. ‘A ghoulish habit of the English,’ she opined, ‘to wear a ring for your dead. The mistress was afraid of it. Called it a fairy thing. Hid it away, I know not where.’
‘What happened to your old mistress?’ asked Charlie.
‘She’s dead now,’ said Damaris matter-of-factly. ‘Assassinated by Cromwell’s men. We always suspected another bawd had reported her. Wapping is a cut-throat place for the flesh trade. The mistress had many enemies. She made all manner of little charms against them, but it didn’t protect her in the end.’
‘Yet perhaps they protected something else,’ said Charlie thoughtfully. ‘I think I’ve an idea where the mourning ring is after all.’
Chapter 34
Maria was sat in the dark, listening. Manacled in the attic, she thought she’d heard the distant cheers of a crowd. The kind of bloodied roar that signalled the end of a dog or bear fight. That would most likely place her in the old part of the city, which she didn’t think possible, because she couldn’t hear the cacophony of noisy trades, street sellers, beggars and livestock.
She tried to remember what the candle had revealed about her prison. Ropes, like ship’s rigging, slung all over. And she thought she could smell canvas on the air, as well as hemp. But she couldn’t be near a dockyard. She would have heard and smelled it.
She tried to think, but her thoughts were hard to get hold of. And then she saw the edge of a candle, rising up in the dark. Her heart quickened. He was coming.
The soft light grew, lighting tumbling ropes, wooden floorboards, huge wooden beams.
Maria squinted in the candlelight. A man she’d never seen before entered the rope-strewn attic. He had an arrogance to his stride and she instinctively drew back. As he passed the candle she saw a man in soldier’s dress. He was older, the broken capillaries on his face suggesting him a hardened drinker.
The man pulled up a stool and gave her a leering smile. ‘Pretty,’ he said. ‘He never said you were pretty.’
‘Who are you?’ said Maria, hoping the tremble in her voice was noticeable only to her.
The man adjusted his breeches, legs splayed. He smelled of alcohol, she noticed, as a waft drifted towards her.
‘I’m his general, thas who,’ he said. ‘I gets ’em all riled up. The lads. ’Prentices.’ He sniffed, reached inside his coat and drew out a battered flask. He uncorked the top and took a deep swig, sucking it back over his teeth. ‘I take ’em the right way through London.’ He raised his flask in a toast towards Maria, but didn’t offer her a drink, only splayed his legs out further from his stool. ‘Problem is,’ he continued, ‘we got a thief taker interfering in my business.’
Maria felt her heart miss a beat.
The man sat suddenly forward. ‘Don’t suppose you’d know anything about someone named Charlie Tuesday?’
‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,’ said Maria.
To her surprise, the man laughed, a strange, haunting laugh that didn’t belong in his body at all. A chill went through her. Because now the man’s demeanour seemed to morph before her eyes. And as she watched he stood and moved closer to her.
‘You’re braver than m
ost men,’ he said. ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ The voice was now horribly familiar.
Maria swallowed.
The man reached up and unhooked the knotty beard from behind his ears. The bottom of his face was pale and didn’t match the top.
‘It’s you,’ she managed, seeing Tom Black’s face.
He smiled and bowed low. And now she saw him, under the stage-paint. The bristle-cut hair didn’t suit him. Tom took a rag from his coat and began wiping his face in long practised strokes. Something about the way he did it sparked a realisation in Maria.
He enjoys acting.
‘Cheap rouge,’ he explained, wiping it away, ‘mixed with lead paint and applied with a brush. Reddens the cheeks. The scar is only a little charcoal and grease.’
‘You’re a good actor,’ said Maria, trying for an admiring tone.
‘Acting is a sin,’ said Tom. ‘I intrigue for a noble cause.’ But he looked pleased. He continued cleaning away the paint, working away the heavy dark eyebrows, red nose and scarred cheek. Underneath, his real greenish-toned skin was revealed in stages, with its pockmarks and chalky texture.
His sleeve fell as he cleaned away the last of the paint. Maria froze in shock, taking in what was left of his forearm. Her eyes followed the deep webbing of ugly raised tissue that spoke of burns made on burns. Only a few patches of shining red skin remained.
Maria knew what they were.
Changeling marks. The worst she’d ever seen.
‘Tom.’ Maria took his brutalised arm. ‘She did this to you? Your own mother?’
Tom nodded mildly. ‘They never came for me,’ he said.
Maria bit her lip. ‘Have you ever considered,’ she said carefully, ‘that you were a human child, with an inhuman mother?’
‘She was a devoted wife,’ said Tom mechanically. ‘The best of mothers.’
