by Liz Carlyle
Many of their products were then sold to seamen, stevedores, and the like, thus plowing much needed revenue back into the organization. Unlike many of her class, Cecilia harbored no misconceptions. While the mission was far from being a workhouse, the denizens of the Daughters of Nazareth had no easy life.
Cecilia pulled up her chair and flipped open the first of the week’s account books. This had become her specialty, and Mr. Amherst had been more than happy to leave it to her. Cecilia’s head for numbers, combined with her shameless ability to wheedle money from the vain and unsuspecting ton, made her ideally suited for the task.
She had expected some resistance when she’d first volunteered for duty at the mission. Oh, of course, members of the ton willingly sat on the board of governors or hosted the occasional posh fundraiser. And yes, many of them were women of rank and wealth like herself. But when Cecilia had approached Cole Amherst to offer her services, she had had a little more than another fancy dinner party in mind.
At the time, her husband had scarcely been cold in his grave, and her life, which had never been very full, had been completely drained of all meaning. She had long remembered Mr. Amherst’s kindness to her, given at a time when she had felt young and frightened and very much at the mercy of men. And perhaps because of it, she had watched with admiration his quiet work in the slums and rookeries of Middlesex.
Quickly, Cecilia began to tally the columns across the ledger, lightly penciling the totals at the bottom of each column and carrying the balance forward to the appropriate place. But she was scarcely three pages into her task when an abrupt knock sounded at the office door.
Cecilia looked up to see that Etta—who absolutely refused to permit her mistress to travel beyond Mayfair alone—stood in the doorway. Oddly, her face was drained of all color. Beyond the girl’s narrow shoulders, Cecilia could see the shadowy presence of a tall, rangy man who lingered in the darkness of the hallway.
“A visitor, mum,” she announced with an unusual degree of solemnity.
The man pushed forward rather aggressively, but he held his hat in his hands. He wore a nondescript suit of dark wool worsted and, over it, a swirling black greatcoat, which made him look like some lean, black-eyed bird of prey. His clothing was neither expensive nor fashionable, and the hat had clearly suffered from the effects of the weather.
Overall, his mien was intimidating, yet not malevolent, could one but look beyond the hard, mesmerizing eyes which flicked about the room, taking in Cecilia, her attire, and every stick of furniture in about two seconds.
Cecilia was walking forward to greet him before she realized she had left her seat. There was something in the man’s expression which both drew her and gave her pause. “I am Lady Walrafen,” she announced. “You wished to see me?”
Etta pulled shut the door, leaving them alone. A very grave sign indeed. Abruptly, the man cleared his throat. “I asked to see the Reverend Mr. Amherst, but the shopgirl belowstairs said that he was unavailable. Your...” He searched for the right word, his expression troubled. “Your Miss Healy brought me here.”
Cecilia motioned toward a chair before the desk. “Then do come in, Mr....?”
“De Rohan,” he said, stepping hesitantly toward the chair. “Maximilian de Rohan, Chief Inspector with the Thames Marine Police.”
“P-police?” Cecilia sat down rather gracelessly behind the desk. “What could the police possibly want here? Our women cause no trouble.”
Inspector de Rohan did not sit. “You took in an Irish girl some three weeks past, I believe? Miss Mary O’Gavin? She may have had a friend or a younger sister with her.”
“Yes, you must mean Kitty,” said Cecilia, trying to calm her sudden unease. “Mary and Kathleen O’Gavin. They’ve been here above a fortnight.”
“Kitty O’Gavin may indeed be here, my lady, but her sister assuredly is not,” de Rohan answered, finally settling into the proffered chair. He looked very much as if he did not wish to be there, either.
No doubt he was uncomfortable speaking with her, not only because of her gender but also because of her class. There was also just a hint of a Continental accent underlying his low, gruff voice, so perhaps he was an immigrant, too. But Mr. de Rohan’s social unease was obviously not her most pressing problem.
“What do you mean, Mary is not here?” Cecilia asked.
Mr. de Rohan twisted uncomfortably in the hard chair. “I should really prefer to discuss this with Mr. Amherst first,” he said miserably. “But I suppose I must see the sister. One of our snitches—a river police informant—was watching a suspicious warehouse last night. He found Mary O’Gavin’s body in an alley off Pearl Street this morning.”
“Body—?” Cecilia dropped the pencil she had been toying with. It hit the desk with a clatter. “Do you mean—dead?”
De Rohan’s mouth twisted bitterly. “That is the inevitable result of having one’s throat slit from ear to ear, yes.”
Cecilia tried to rise from her chair and faltered. De Rohan started to stand, as if uncertain as to whether he should offer some assistance, but Cecilia held up a hand. “No, please! I am... perfectly all right.”
“My apologies,” he said gruffly, his gaze sweeping over her expensive clothes again. “I forgot myself. I ought not be speaking to you at all. Indeed, I am quite certain you should not be exposed to any of this atrocity.”
“Not exposed?” echoed Cecilia in frustration. “Sir, I appreciate your concern for my delicate sensibilities, but I can assure you I am exposed to this every day I come here. One must only pass over Fleet Street to see all manner of inhumanity. I do not visit the docklands to take the fine morning air.”
Mr. de Rohan’s mouth quirked with wry humor, and he looked suddenly handsome. “No, ma’am. I am sure you do not.”
Cecilia ignored him. “Have you a suspect, sir?”
De Rohan gave a harsh bark of laughter. “No, and not apt to find one. The poor girl could have been done in by anybody.”
“But why?” asked Cecilia. “Why should anyone wish to attack a poor Irish girl without a penny in her pocket?”
The policeman looked at her patronizingly. “It is a hazard of her trade, ma’am. Prostitutes die in the Middlesex boroughs with a rather startling frequency.”
Cecilia slammed her hands down onto the desk.” Oh, no!” she protested. “No, Mr. de Rohan, that simply will not do! Mary O’Gavin was not prostituting herself. If she meant to continue with that sort of life, then she had no reason to remain here at all.”
De Rohan’s chin jerked up. “So you think you have no backsliders here, ma’am?” he asked rather coldly. “Instead, every soiled dove who crosses your doorstep has her immortal soul saved, and goes on to live a life of unblemished respectability? Is that what you imagine?”
“Oh, good heavens, no!” Cecilia looked at him in bitter amusement. “Of course we have backsliders! Some of our women have been here two or three times. How can we turn them away when God has not yet done so? But the very nature of sin is the reason for our pass system. Mary could not possibly earn any meaningful income by trolling for flats one night out of seven.”
“Trolling for flats?” he echoed weakly.
Cecilia was suddenly rather pleased at having listened to Etta’s earthy cant with such diligence. “Streetwalking,” she returned, trying hard to keep up a brave front.
“I know what it means, Lady Walrafen.” But just the same, he was rather obviously appalled to learn that she did.
Inwardly, Cecilia shrugged. Well, one could hardly be expected to cling to one’s innocence in a place like this.
“Lady Walrafen?” De Rohan’s voice was suddenly tentative. “These girls, were they professionals?”
“Professionals?” she asked.
Cecilia was surprised to see a flush of faint color rise up his hard face. “Did they work in a brothel?” he clarified. “Or did they simply walk the streets when they needed extra money? Or do you know?”
Cecilia frowned in
concentration. “I don’t know. Does it matter?”
De Rohan settled back into his chair. “It might,” he mused, his fleeting embarrassment gone. “The girls who work in houses generally have protectors. Fancy men, bawds, someone who has a vested interest in keeping them alive. They also guard their territory rather aggressively.”
Cecilia felt herself grow cold. How dreadful it all sounded! Poor Mary. To push away the threat of tears, Cecilia took up her pencil again and began to slide it absently through her fingers. “Mary was found near Pearl Street, did you say? That’s very near the Middlesex Foundling Home, is it not?”
“Yes.” De Rohan frowned. “Is there some significance which escapes me?”
Slowly, Cecilia shook her head. “I doubt it. But it is possible that she had left a child there, although it is our policy never to inquire into a woman’s past. Nonetheless, every Monday, Mary has asked Mrs. Quince for a pass to go to the orphanage on Tuesday evening. And she always seemed... rather subdued on Wednesdays.”
“You are here every day?” he asked in some surprise.
“Just three days a week, and only for a few hours. Lady Kirton takes the other two.” Cecilia smiled lamely. “We are here—and I shall endeavor to say this with a straight face—to set an example of our sterling upper-class morality. On weekends, Mrs. Quince, the mission’s matron, is fully in charge.” Abjectly, she lifted her gaze to his. “So what do you mean to do now, sir?”
He shifted uncomfortably again. “I hardly know. I’m with the River Police, and this is a parish matter. However, this mission is a great favorite amongst some of our more vociferous MPs.” He shrugged. “I’m told the local magistrates wish everything properly done, and it seems that Bow Street is overwhelmed just now.”
“What a pity every girl found dead in St. George’s does not warrant such attention to duty,” answered Cecilia dryly.
Abruptly, the policeman stood. If she’d insulted him, one could not discern it. “Thank you, Lady Walrafen. Would you be so obliging as to send for the sister? I suppose I must inform her.”
“No!” Cecilia interjected. Inspector de Rohan did not look like the sympathetic sort. “I should rather tell her myself.”
De Rohan nodded. “But I must have a word with her.”
“To be sure, if she’s well enough.” Briefly, Cecilia hesitated. “Mr. de Rohan, did you know there was a third young woman—Margaret McNamara? I believe she’s called Meg, and she came here with the two sisters. Perhaps you ought to speak with her as well?”
Something which looked like respect flared in de Rohan’s pitch-black eyes. “Thank you,” he responded. “Perhaps one of them can tell us something helpful.”
Cecilia nodded and pulled the bell for Etta. At this time of day, the younger Miss O’Gavin should be busy sewing seaman’s trousers, for they had a huge shipment on order for the crew of a merchantman which was due to put out next week.
For Cecilia’s part, she vowed to stay by Kitty O’Gavin’s side until the worst was over. It was the least she could do. And then, she would have to send word to Mr. Amherst. How horrible that would be! He would be crushed, of course. And illogically, Cecilia felt as if she were somehow responsible, as if she had failed to protect those whom he’d entrusted to her care.
It took but a moment before Kitty was found and the sorrowful news broken. Cecilia thought it the hardest thing she’d ever done, worse even than telling Giles that his father was dead. Kitty asked no questions. Indeed, she seemed beyond it, for her color drained to a dead white, and she very nearly swooned. Gently, Mrs. Quince escorted her out and up to her room. It was apparent, even to de Rohan, that the girl was not able to answer anyone’s questions.
At once, Cecilia sent Etta to fetch Meg McNamara. It was immediately clear she was frightened to learn of her friend’s murder. And yet, her demeanor was altogether different from Kitty’s. Clearly, she did not like the sight of Maximilian de Rohan, and Cecilia got the very distinct impression that she was far more hardened than either of the O’Gavin girls had been.
At first, she answered de Rohan’s questions in monosyllables. No, she didn’t know where Mary O’Gavin had gone. No, she knew no one with whom Mary might have quarreled. No, Mary had confided nothing in her. But when de Rohan pressed rather stridently on the issue of whether or not Mary had given birth to a child, Meg’s voice softened a little.
“Aye, she did, some two years past. No way to keep it, though.” Meg shrugged weakly. “Give it over to the foundling ‘ome, and accounted ‘erself lucky they took it. A girl, it was. But it died just a few months ago, right afore Christmas.”
“But why—?” interjected Cecilia, feeling yet another swell of unexpected grief.
Blankly, Meg looked up at them, her gaze passing from de Rohan to Cecilia. “D’ye mean why’d she keep goin’ to that school every week like there weren’t nothin’ amiss? Mary was just soft, she was. The burying ground was out back, and she liked to go to the grave. And she’d got ‘erself attached to all them other brats, too.” Finally, her voice choked a bit. “And maybe she didn’t really understand ‘ers was gone. There’s some that don’t, you know.”
“Do you know who fathered the child?” de Rohan gently pressed.
At that, Meg laughed harshly, showing teeth which were broken and yellow. “Oh, that’s a rum ‘un, that is.” She chuckled, and then her face fell again, as if she could not keep up the pretense. “Truth is, Mary had a man as what kept ‘er back then. But ‘e up and disappeared afore she knew of the babe.”
Cecilia felt a cold anger burn through her. “Why did she not demand that the father support the child?”
Meg sneered derisively. “It don’t work that way, my lady. But yeah, she carried a note ‘round to his hotel. The man at the desk run ‘er orf. Said he didn’t live there anymore. Might ‘ave been the truth, too. We don’t get the society rags down ‘ere.”
“What was his name?” De Rohan prodded, leaning forward. “Where was he from?”
“Save yer snappish tongue,” returned Meg wearily. “For I don’t know ‘is name. Mary never said—in our kind o’ game it don’t pay ter yap. But he ‘ad a house in the country where ‘e stayed sometimes—and ‘e took ‘er there once. She said it was pretty, rose gardens all around.” Again, the girl snorted in disdain. “A right proper fool she was, dreamin’ o’ such things. But ‘e didn’t kill ‘er. I mean, why should ‘e? ‘Oo cares when a gentry cove gets a bastard on some two-penny whore? An’ since when d’the bleedin’ magistrates care that one got done for?”
“Why indeed?” De Rohan asked very softly, his expression bleak. He shifted in his chair as if he might stand. “I’ll come back in a day or two and speak with the sister. Perhaps she’ll be feeling more herself.”
“Won’t do yer no good,” Meg interjected. “Kitty knows nothing of it. Mary was too ashamed. And Kitty lived with her da over in St. Giles ‘til the fever carried ‘im off last spring. She ain’t but fifteen.”
De Rohan eyed Meg coolly. “And how long had you worked with Mary?”
Meg looked as though she was regretting her loose tongue. “Met ‘er not long after ‘er babe come.”
“And you worked out of a house?” de Rohan guessed, obviously trying to keep her talking. “All three of you?”
Meg’s eyes shied away for the first time. “Aye, a place off Black Horse Lane. Mother Derbin’s it’s called.” Suddenly, her gaze cut toward Cecilia. “Can I go now, mum? I don’t ‘ave ter answer ‘is questions if I don’t want, do I? Bereaved as I am ‘n all, I’d like some time alone.”
Cecilia turned to de Rohan, whose black eyes glittered with frustration. “I have no authority to force her to speak with me, no,” he said tightly.
Cecilia knew the limits of the law as well as de Rohan did. Succinctly, she nodded, and Meg fled the room. Abruptly, de Rohan jerked to his feet and made Cecilia a stiff, formal bow. “Your servant, Lady Walrafen. I shall return in a few days’ time.”
And then he was gon
e, leaving Cecilia alone in an office which seemed colder and more empty than ever before. No longer able to restrain herself, Cecilia let the tears begin to fall silently. But even as she did so, she pulled open the desk drawer and with slow, precise motions, withdrew a sheet of paper. It was time to begin the dreadful missive which must be carried straightaway to Mr. Amherst in Brook Street.
Life in east London was hard, yes. And the shadow of death lurked around every corner. But the truth did little to assuage Cecilia’s grief. Today, she felt as though they had lost not just one of their own but a child as well. And Cecilia could not escape the awful feeling that life at the mission would never be the same.
Chapter Three
In Which Lady Walrafen Tumbles Headfirst into Trouble
Mr. Hiram Pringle was that most revered of personages, a stately gentleman’s gentleman of the old school, with unerringly conservative taste and the good sense never to bother urging it upon his employer. And for forty of his sixty-five years, his employer had been one of the successive Viscounts Delacourt, all of whom had been frequently temperamental, often vain, and occasionally ostentatious. And all of whom he had served with perfect grace and practiced patience.
But on this particular Friday morning, even a casual observer could have seen that Pringle was on the verge of asking to be pensioned. With a withering glance, his eyes followed yet another perfectly starched cravat as it went sailing onto his lordship’s dressing-room floor. By anyone’s count, that made seven. Staring into the cheval glass before him, Lord Delacourt reached out his hand, impatiently snapping his fingers. Pringle grudgingly thrust forward the eighth.
For his part, Lord Delacourt was uncertain as to precisely why his bloody cravat had chosen today of all days to refuse to fall into its normally flawless folds. He did not understand why his favorite waistcoat felt too tight and his brand-new top boots looked dull as ditch water. Nor was he perfectly sure why he was even going to Cole’s bloody mission, whether immaculately dressed, badly dressed, or bare-arsed naked.
