A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  Even at a distance, Delacourt could see that the woman’s nose had been bloodied and one eye was already swelling shut. “Stay put,” he ordered Robin as he strolled toward the brawling pair.

  The woman—a girl, really—was now quietly sobbing. “I’ll give you back yer money, Grimes,” she gasped. “Just le’ me go.”

  The man uttered a vile oath, dragged her from the cobblestones, and gave her a threatening shake. Delacourt literally heard her teeth rattle. Lightly, he reached out and tapped his walking stick on the man’s shoulder.

  His grip slacking marginally, the fellow turned to face Delacourt with a gape-mouthed stare. “Aye, wot?” he growled, his eyes skimming the viscount’s length. His voice rasped coldly, like rusted metal.

  “My good fellow!” Delacourt smiled quite deliberately. “I really don’t believe the young lady fancies your attentions. Perhaps you’d best unhand her.”

  “Oh?” asked the fellow querulously. “An ‘oo the ‘ell ‘er you?” But he straightened up and released the woman, who darted down the lane to cower in a doorway.

  Delacourt deliberately set his elegant walking stick against the tip of the man’s toe and leaned intently forward. “Let’s just say I’m an admirer of feminine beauty,” he said very softly. “And I do not greatly care for what you’ve done to hers.”

  The man shifted his weight uneasily, and again, his eyes drifted down Delacourt. Finally, he took one step backward. “You don’t know ‘oo yer messin’ wif, you bleedin’ nob,” he growled. “Fink you can just up an’ trifle in a man’s rightful business pursuits, eh?”

  “Actually, I’m rather certain that I can.”

  “Sod off,” returned Grimes, spitting vehemently into the street.

  “Thank you, no.” Again, Delacourt smiled. His left hand curled ruthlessly into a fist, but for Robin’s sake, he shoved it against his side. “Now, let us be reasonable. What does the lady owe you?”

  “Two quid,” he snarled. “Not that the bow-legged bitch is werf it. Reckon you’d ‘af to pay the culls to ride ‘er.”

  Delacourt withdrew his purse and dropped a few coins into the man’s callused palm. “That squares it, I believe. Now, I strongly suggest you forget your acquaintance with this girl.” Very deliberately, he lifted his gaze to hold the man’s. “And you’ll take that suggestion, I hope? For I should regret above all things having to trouble you with the magistrates. Or someone rather less benevolent. I daresay you know the sort I mean.”

  “Fuck you,” said Grimes, shoving the coins into his pocket.

  “Excellent,” purred Delacourt. “We have an understanding.”

  ———

  It was well after dark by the time Lord Robert and his uncle arrived at Delacourt House with their unwilling angel of the night. Delacourt had no notion what had possessed him to take the girl, but he was sensible of the fact that one did not drag a Covent Garden prostitute through the front door of one’s home. Not if one lived in Curzon Street.

  So he made his way toward his back door, taking Robin and the frightened girl with him. Delacourt was not perfectly sure what he ought to do with her. And the girl apparently did not care, for throughout the walk to Mayfair, she had said not a word nor asked the first question. Even when he dragged her into the alley behind his house, she remained stoically silent. He thought it a rather horrifying testament to the utter despair in which she must have lived.

  Grimly, Delacourt poked his head inside the servants’ entrance. To his chagrin, however, the back hall was already occupied by his new valet, who had apparently come belowstairs with the express intent of setting the under-staff on its collective ear.

  “Starch? Starch?” Kemble was screeching at the laundry maid as he brandished a fistful of cravats in her face. “Do you dare to call this starch, ma’am? Because I call it plaster of Paris! And I’ll not have it on good neck cloths, do you hear?”

  “Evening, Kemble,” the viscount said softly as he entered the door. “Seton, you may return to the laundry.”

  “Insolent piece,” growled the valet, critically watching the maid’s withdrawal. Then he turned to Delacourt with a somewhat smoother expression. At once, however, his eyes swept over the young prostitute’s filthy velvet cloak and pink satin dress. Then he saw young Robin lingering in the shadows. Kemble’s glower returned. “Really, my lord! I disapprove most vehemently!”

  “Of what?” returned Delacourt dryly. “My new ménage à trois?”

  Kemble eyed him nastily. “The boy is rather too young, do not you think?”

  Boldly, Robin stepped from the shadows. “No, I’m not,” he protested, misunderstanding Kemble’s insinuation. Or at least Delacourt hoped it was a misunderstanding.

  “Do hush, Robin,” he quietly instructed, turning back to his valet with a smile. “Kemble, this is Lady Kildermore’s son, Lord Robert Rowland. I’m to keep an eye on the boy whilst she’s in the country.”

  “And pander for him, too?” asked Kemble darkly. “Her ladyship will be singularly impressed!”

  Too tired to argue, Delacourt tossed his hat and stick onto a wooden settle by the door. “And you have the audacity to call my laundry maid an insolent piece,” he returned. “I’m sorry to disabuse your perverted sensibilities, Kemble, but Robin and I happened upon this woman in some distress as we were returning from Covent Garden.”

  His anger obviously melting, Kemble stepped a little nearer, studying the girl. “Indeed?”

  With quick, efficient jerks, Delacourt stripped off his gloves, tossing them atop the stick. “Yes, there was a regrettable disagreement with a customer who gave her the razor’s edge of his tongue.”

  “And a bit of his fist, too,” added Kemble darkly. He made a little tsk-tsk in the back of his throat and gently dragged the girl into the light of a nearby wall sconce. Strangely, she did not resist. “What’s your name, love?” cooed the valet, tilting her bruised face to the candlelight.

  “Dot,” she whispered.

  Kemble smiled. “Well, Dot! We’ll need a bit of beefsteak for that eye, and some of my chamomile ointment for that split lip.” He moved as if to propel her toward the kitchen.

  Delacourt heaved a sigh of relief. Clearly, he’d been out of his depth, and just as clearly, Kemble was not. Then, a prick of guilt stabbed him. “See here, Kemble,” he said uncertainly, “just what do you think we ought to do with her?”

  “Do?” Kemble shrugged his elegant shoulders. “I mean to patch her up a bit. Beyond that, I rather doubt there’s much one can do.”

  At once, Delacourt withdrew his purse. “Look here, old boy, I know a shelter—Amherst’s place on Pennington Street—could you send the bootboy for a hackney and take Dot there tonight?”

  Finally, a flash of alarm lit the girl’s face. Delacourt stepped nearer and laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder. “It is a safe place, my dear. A religious mission, not a brothel. Mrs. Quince, the matron, will give you a bath and a place to sleep, all right? And if you do not wish to stay, then tomorrow we shall see what’s best done with you.”

  Chapter Six

  Mrs. Quince Administers a Dose of Reality

  On Wednesday morning, Cecilia dragged her feet all the way to Pennington Street, then avoided the office altogether by bolting straight for the schoolroom. She was barely in time to conduct the eleven o’clock Bible study. Moralizing was a duty for which Cecilia had never felt particularly qualified, and it was worse now that Delacourt had come back into her life to remind her so acutely of her own ignoble inclinations. But it was her turn. She would do it.

  As she dashed through the door to take her position at the lectern, fifty pairs of eyes turned away from their bench mates, and all chatter ceased. With practiced good cheer, Cecilia flipped open her Bible to the Book of Daniel, rattled off a hasty prayer, then ripped through the story of Shadrach and the fiery furnace. But the women looked singularly bored and unimpressed. No doubt the horror of Shadrach’s stroll through the inferno paled just a bit when one had wal
ked the mean streets of Shadwell.

  The lesson concluded, Cecilia thumped shut her book and the babble resumed. With a brisk step, Mrs. Quince hastened forward to herd her lambs into the workrooms. Just then, Cecilia’s gaze caught on a slender, dark-haired girl in the back. She sat huddled on a bench, her face mottled with shadowy bruises. She had one arm around Kitty O’Gavin, and they were making no move to file out with the others.

  “Mrs. Quince?” Cecilia called, still watching the pair.

  The matron hastened to her side. “Aye, my lady?”

  “Is there still no news of Meg?”

  “None, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  Cecilia’s spirits sank, though it was the answer she’d expected. Just then, the dark-haired girl smoothed a hand gently over Kitty’s temple. “And that dark-haired girl with Kitty—is she new?”

  “Yes,” answered Mrs. Quince, screwing up her face in thought. “Name’s Dot King. That nice Lord Delacourt sent her in night before last night.”

  “D-Delacourt?” Cecilia stuttered.

  “Oh, aye! Took ‘er off a customer what was roughing ‘er up out Long Acre way, so his man said,” the matron reported matter-of-factly. “And a good thing it was, too. Poor mite was tore up something dreadful—and in some places his lordship don’t know nothing about, I daresay.”

  Her words were blunt, and Cecilia understood at once. “You mean she was raped, Mrs. Quince?”

  The matron nodded. “Aye, and then some. And by more than one, from what I gather.”

  Violently, Cecilia slapped her Bible onto the lectern. “Then that man—that devil—ought to be arrested,” she retorted hotly. “I shall ask Lord Delacourt to see to it at once.”

  Mrs. Quince tossed her a kindly patronizing look. “Now, that just ain’t how it works, my lady, and well you know it. Besides, I know Lord Delacourt’s type. You go squawking to him, and it mighn’t be an arrest he sees to.”

  Cecilia looked at her in surprise. “Why, I cannot think what you mean.”

  Mrs. Quince narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “It’s like this, my lady—all them smooth words and lazy looks o’ his are naught but table dressing. Underneath, he’s a hard man. And that sort won’t bother the constables with a gang of sodomites. Not when there’s more efficient means of handling ‘em.”

  Cecilia cut a glance toward the two girls who still had not moved. She had thought herself inured to the horror of such cruelty. But she wasn’t. And pray God she never would be, for then she would be fit for nothing save for teas, ridottos, and well-meaning rhetoric.

  For a long moment, she merely stared into the depths of the room. “Do you think Lord Delacourt a very bad sort of man, Mrs. Quince?” she finally asked.

  The matron smiled and shook her head. “Lud, no! Not a bad man a’ tall, just a—”

  But in that instant, Kitty staggered to her feet, sending a rack of prayer books into the floor. For a moment, she swayed alarmingly, and Cecilia realized she looked paler and thinner than ever, if such a thing were possible. It seemed that only Dot’s arms kept her from collapsing onto the floor.

  Desperately, Dot looked up. “She’s in a bad way, mum,” she whispered, trying to help Kitty up the aisle. Alarmed, Cecilia had already started toward them, but just then, Kitty swayed again, her hand flying to her mouth. Her chin jerked up, her eyes wide with alarm.

  With amazing speed, the knowledgeable Mrs. Quince bolted for the coal scuttle, but she was a moment too late. Cecilia reached Kitty just as her breakfast came up on an awful retch. Mrs. Quince hastened forward, and between them, Cecilia and the new girl managed to support Kitty until the worst was past. Then, gingerly, they settled her onto the front bench.

  Pulling a handkerchief from her apron, Mrs. Quince knelt down to mop Kitty’s brow. “There, there, ducks!” she cooed. “Feel a bit better, do you?”

  Solemnly, Kitty nodded. Then, with a horrified expression, she caught sight of Cecilia’s soiled skirts. “Oh, m’lady!” she gasped. “Look what I done!”

  “Never mind that.” Cecilia patted her cold hand. “Let’s worry about fetching you a doctor.”

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Quince knowingly. “A midwife, more like.” There was no censure in her voice, only certainty.

  Abjectly, Kitty turned her gaze to the matron.

  “How far gone, dearie?” asked Mrs. Quince softly.

  Dejected, Kitty fell back against the bench, shuddering against Dot’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” she whispered miserably, her hand going to her belly. “Four or five months.”

  Cecilia gasped in horror. “But Mrs. Quince, that cannot be! Look at her! She’s frail as a blade of grass.”

  With a grunt, the matron rose from her stooped position. “Aye, too thin by half. And fretting herself nigh to death, if I don’t miss my guess.” She tipped up Kitty’s chin on one finger. “Look ‘ere dearie—are you bleeding? Best to tell me.”

  Kitty barely nodded.

  Mrs. Quince turned to the new girl and sighed. “Help me get the poor child up to her bed, Dot. I daresay ‘er ladyship’s right. We’ll be needin’ that doctor after all.”

  ———

  Lord Delacourt’s first order of business Wednesday was to drop by the River Thames Police Station at Wapping New Stairs to inquire into the progress of the murder investigation. Now that he’d kindled a fire under them, he supposed he’d best keep it stoked. Unfortunately, the man he needed to see, Chief Inspector de Rohan, was not in.

  Bristling with impatience, Delacourt snatched a pen and paper from the wide-eyed officer who stood at the front desk, and jotted out a list of questions. He had worn no seal and saw no need for secrecy, so he passed the paper back with a snap. “See that de Rohan gets this immediately,” he demanded.

  The officer blinked, then finally reached across the desk, but the paper trembled slightly as he took it. “R-r-right, m’lord!”

  Suddenly, Delacourt looked at the man and wondered which of them was more uncomfortable. In all likelihood, the policeman had never seen a member of the nobility in his office before. And as for him, he’d not spoken a word to a policeman in nearly twenty years—not since a doddering old night beadle had dragged him home to his mother following an adolescent romp through the Haymarket.

  But unleashing a week’s worth of frustration and worry on someone who’d done nothing to deserve it was unjust, he belatedly realized. So he looked at the officer and tried to smile. “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve had rather a bad week. A young girl was murdered, and I just...” Delacourt let his words trail away. “I just need to hear from Mr. de Rohan rather urgently,” he continued more gently. “Would you be so obliging as to tell him that?”

  It was amazing what a kind word could do. “Right, m’lord,” the officer responded, his voice sympathetic.

  Delacourt turned to go, then spun about abruptly. “Oh, one more thing for de Rohan.” He took back the letter and scratched out a word in the margin, then turned the paper about so that the officer might look at it. “Would you by chance know this fellow?” he asked, tapping his finger thoughtfully on the name. “His storefront in Goodwin’s Court says he is an importer of lace and silk, but I have a strange suspicion he’s in a less reputable line.”

  “Oh? O’ what sort?”

  Delacourt smiled tightly. “I’m not sure. Perhaps just a little procuring for friends, but he’s a nasty piece of work.”

  The man’s brow furrowed. “Grimes... name’s mebbe familiar, but we mostly handle thievery and smuggling out o’ this office.” Suddenly, the furrow vanished and his face brightened. “But Mr. de Rohan used to work out ‘er Bow Street and remembers every scalawag over there, ‘e does. What, precisely, would you be wantin’ to know?”

  “Whether there’s any way to ensure that the fellow suffers a miserable life,” answered Delacourt with a tight smile. “Preferably one fraught with far too much attention from the constables, the bailiffs, the customs officers, the tax man; in short, anyone with a sharp pencil or a heavy tipstaff.�
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  “Oh, ho!” said the officer cheerfully. “Well, if it’s legalized harassment you’re wantin,’ then de Rohan’d be your man. I’ll ask him straightaway.”

  Delacourt smiled broadly. “I should be obliged.”

  He leapt into his carriage, which had been left waiting by the door, and traveled the short distance to Pennington Street with a strange sense of exhilaration coursing through his blood.

  No, he had not forgotten Mr. Grimes. And the more he thought on Dot King’s swollen eye, the more he ached for a little rough justice. Not to mention that if a man was sick enough to hit one woman, he’d likely hit another, and prevention was better than a cure for that sort of sickness.

  At the mission door, he jumped down again and hurried through the shop and up the stairs. He had yet another moral obligation to discharge on this particular morning. An apology.

  But Cecilia was not there. And when she had not appeared in the office by two, Delacourt began to wonder. He knew better than to assume she’d merely given up the mission’s cause and left him to his own devices. She was just too bloody stubborn. Which could mean only one thing.

  So the impudent wench meant to avoid him, did she?

  Delacourt grinned and felt his blood stir again. Though it made no sense at all, he was perversely determined to run her to ground. And so he went wandering through the grim, gray corridors, finding instead her chatterbox lady’s maid, who blurted out the whole dreadful story of Kitty O’Gavin and the doctor who’d been brought over from Southwark.

  All exhilaration, all eagerness, and everything but sick fear was forgotten as soon as he saw Cecilia, slumped in a rickety chair by the third-floor dormitory entrance. She sat with infinite weariness, her narrow shoulders rolled forward, her elbows braced on her knees, her forehead in one hand. She looked incredibly fragile. And incredibly beautiful.