She wouldn’t have done those things for just anyone. She did them for Kit because of Minnie.
Minnie, Kit’s mother, had died when he was not quite fifteen. She’d been a whore at the Golden Lily too. And she’d been something else to Mabel—even now, he wasn’t sure precisely what.
The illness that had killed Minnie had come on quick and ended painfully. Mabel had never shown her soft side with Minnie before then—not that Kit had ever seen, at least—but that changed when Minnie was dying. In those last few weeks, Mabel had often sat with her through the night, dabbing her fevered face and neck with cool cloths, murmuring soft, soothing words, and spooning powerful medicine from a small blue bottle between her lips when the pain got too much.
Kit, young and terrified, had been grateful for her presence. She wasn’t always there—sometimes Kit sat with his mother on his own—but she was there as often as she could be, and she was there when Kit had to eat or sleep.
She was there at the very end, on the night Minnie died.
It was late when it happened, in the early hours of the morning. Kit had been so weary, but he’d been afraid to leave his mother, feeling sure that if he did, she’d be gone when he woke.
He’d been curled up in an armchair, draped in a blanket and half asleep, while Mabel watched over his mother. There’d been almost no light in the chamber at all—only the dimmest glow from the fireplace—when his mother’s breathing had begun to rattle strangely. The sound had roused him.
At the very moment he'd opened his eyes, his mother had rasped, “You got to look out for Kit, Mabel. Promise me.”
“Course I will, Min,” Mabel had said roughly. Her voice hadn’t been like it normally was, all clipped and tight. Instead, it had been hoarse with emotion, and common as his mother’s.
She’d been leaning over Minnie. To this day, that picture was burned in Kit’s memory. It had been too dark to see her expression, but the defeated rounding of her shoulders in shadow had told its own story, as had her rumpled dress and disordered hair. He remembered her profile, hovering over Minnie’s slight, still form.
That stillness.
Kit had understood—profoundly understood—in that moment that his mother’s spirit had gone. He hadn’t seen any evidence of it leaving her body—he hadn’t been able to see anything of his mother at all in the shadowy room beyond the outline of her slender form. But he had known, somehow, the instant she was gone.
Mabel had made a sound, then, one that Kit had never heard before or since. It was a cracking, terrible sound that he felt sure was what a heart breaking sounded like.
She’d bent and kissed Minnie. Kissed her on the mouth. Kissed her with a passionate grief that Kit had never witnessed before. It had been so raw, so intimate, he’d had to look away.
Mabel had never explained to Kit why her grief had been so terrible or what Minnie had meant to her. Prior to his mother’s last days, he had never seen them share any particular physical affection. Even then, other than that final kiss, he had only ever seen them hold hands occasionally, as friends sometimes did.
Perhaps that was all they were: friends. Although, in that case, to say they were only friends would be to miss the point entirely. Perhaps, for them, being friends was everything. Friends who loved one another. Friends who were in love.
Or perhaps they were more, and Kit had never seen it.
He doubted he’d ever know for sure.
As Kit strolled towards Covent Garden, where Mabel now lived, he wondered if she might talk about his mother today. Lately, she’d been mentioning Minnie more often. But it was always just little things—impressions of what she’d been like. No real clue as to what they had been to one another.
“She sang like a nightingale.”
“She was the prettiest girl any of us ever saw.”
“Well, of course, all the gentleman wanted her.”
The door to Mabel’s small but comfortable house was answered by her companion, Gracie, a quiet, faded woman of indeterminate years who had materialised out of nowhere one day and was sometimes vaguely referred to as a “distant cousin”.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Redford,” she said, smiling politely. “Mrs. Butcher will be pleased to see you.”
“I brought cakes,” Kit said, handing over one of the boxes Jean-Jacques had brought the day before.
“Lovely,” Gracie said, taking it from him. “I’ll fetch some tea. You go on into the parlour.”
“Is that you, Kit?” Mabel called out before he even reached the parlour door.
“It is,” he said as he walked inside. “How are you today?”
“Tolerable well,” she said, beckoning him over to her chair and offering him a cheek to kiss—she was becoming downright affectionate in her dotage.
“You look lovely,” he said, brushing her dry cheek with his lips. She was always nicely dressed, was Mabel. Today she wore a blue-grey gown with a high-necked, ruffled collar, and an intricate paisley shawl of deep rose pink, ivory, and blue. A dark-blue velvet turban covered her hair, which had begun to thin quite badly over the last few years.
“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she said, winking at him. “I does me best to please.”
Kit glanced over at the domed cage in the corner of the room and was pleased to see that Nell Gwyn, Mabel’s parrot, appeared to be asleep.
“Is Gracie making tea?” Mabel asked.
“Yes, I brought some of those of little cakes you liked last time. Financiers, they’re called.”
Mabel frowned, thinking. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, them little sponge cakes?” she said. “They was quite nice, I must admit.”
Kit grinned—getting a compliment out of Mabel was like getting blood out of a stone. This was high praise from her.
“Jean-Jacques brought me them,” he said. “Everything Evie makes is delicious.”
“Hmmm,” Mabel replied. She’d never quite forgiven Evie for luring Jean-Jacques away from her.
“Is that a new gown?” Kit asked, as he settled himself down on Mabel’s too-hard horsehair sofa as best he could. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before. It’s not your usual style.”
Mabel sighed. “My dressmaker persuaded me into it,” she said. “I wanted to stick with the same pattern I usually have her make up for me, but she kept saying no one gets their gowns made up like that anymore.” She made a face. “I’m not awful keen on these new fashions. Bloody great sleeves like legs of mutton.”
Her own sleeves only featured a very small puff at the shoulders, but Kit didn’t comment.
“In my day,” Mabel went on, “there was such a wonderful looseness of dress. So freeing, it was!” She gave a happy a sigh, then met Kit’s gaze. “I say in my day, but in fairness, when I was young, it was as bad as now, if not worse—all stays and petticoats and being laced up and having your hair piled up as high as a bloody tower with paste and gawd knows what in it.” She made a face. “But then, when I got to be a bit older—when I was making good money, shacked up with my old marquess—oh, the clothes I had then, Kit! Us working girls would just put our stockings on, pull a muslin gown over the top, and call ourselves dressed!” She laughed immoderately. “Why, you could have your la-las right on show and no one blinked an eye!”
“Woo!”
The piercing shriek from the cage in the corner made Kit jump.
Nell Gwyn was awake.
“Woot-hoo!” The parrot whistled, then, sing-song-like, “Show me yer la-las!”
Kit shuddered discreetly. The parrot’s voice was uncannily like Mabel’s, whilst being oddly flat and strange. Coming out of that of unmoving beak, it was like some kind of horrible magic. Between the talking and the endless, demented whistling, Nell Gwyn made him feel horribly unsettled, but Mabel adored the creature.
“Are you awake again, my angel?” she said now. “Kit, let Nell Gwyn out, will you?”
Kit got up and went over to the cage, undoing the little latch on the door and opening it so the bird could hop
out. She was mostly grey and white, with an odd flapping bit of orangey-pink tail that Kit always thought looked tacked on and that made her look quite comical.
Just then, Gracie came in with the tea tray.
“Woo-hoot!” the parrot shrieked from the back of the chair she was perched on. “Show us yer la-las, Gracie!”
Gracie just about dropped the tea tray, and Kit had to rush to her side to help her balance it.
“Thank you,” she gasped as he helped her lower it onto the table.
The unapologetic bird flapped lazily over to Mabel, coming to land first on the arm of her chair, before hopping up on to her shoulder and rubbing her head against Mabel’s turban.
“You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you, Nelly?” Mabel crooned affectionately, and the bird whistled back in that uncanny way that was somehow both tuneless and musical. Mabel fished down the side of her chair and pulled out a somewhat crumpled reticule. Digging her hand in, she brought out a walnut and offered it to the bird. Nell Gwyn took hold of it in one large claw and started in on it with her powerful beak, scattering tiny pieces of shell all over Mabel’s lap.
Mabel, seeming unperturbed, returned her attention to Kit. “So, what about you, Kit? What’s your news?” She accepted a cup of tea from Gracie with a quick smile and immediately began to nibble the delicate financier balanced on the saucer.
Kit paused. For a moment, he considered telling her he’d had Henry Asquith asking to see him, but he wasn’t sure he was up to listening to what would inevitably follow. Even after all these years, she could still wax lyrical about Henry’s failings for an inordinately long time.
“I’ve not much news,” he said. “Jean-Jacques popped by yesterday.”
“How is he?” Mabel asked. “Still married to that ugly cook, I see.” She held up the last morsel of the financier before popping it into her mouth.
“Don’t be unpleasant. Evie isn’t the least bit ugly, and you know it,” Kit said repressively.
“Well, she ain’t pretty,” Mabel said. “Not like you.”
Kit half laughed, half sighed. “Firstly, I’m not pretty, and secondly, I have never at any point in my life had designs on Jean-Jacques, so you needn’t talk like Evie and I are rivals. In fact, if it came down to it, and I had to choose between them, I’d pick her. Her baking’s worth the loss of a friend.”
Mabel shrugged unapologetically. “Just as well with a face like hers.” She turned to Nell Gwyn, handing over a second walnut. “You agree with me, don’t you, angel?” she crooned.
“Woo-hoot! Kit’s a pretty boy!” Nell Gwyn shrieked in reply.
Kit flinched and Gracie sent him a sympathetic look.
“Fine,” Mabel said, “you don’t fancy Jean-Jacques. So who have you got your eye on?”
Kit shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I don’t have my eye on anyone. The last thing I need is a man.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Mabel scoffed. “You’re soft as butter, you. What you want, deep down, is someone on the other side of your fireplace.”
Kit chuckled. “You must be getting me mixed up with someone else. I’ve never wanted anyone like that—never even looked. I’m perfectly happy on my own. I’m like a tom cat.”
Mabel waved her hand dismissively. “I see you,” she said. “And you ain’t no tom cat, Kit Redford. Far from it.”
“I’m no lad either,” Kit said. “I’m one-and-forty.”
She snorted at that too, but didn’t dignify it with an answer.
“I’ll tell you who has been hanging around me, though,” Kit said, in a blatant effort to distract her attention.
She tilted her head to the side, interested now. It made her look disconcertingly like the parrot on her shoulder. “Who?”
“Jake Sharp,” Kit divulged. “I told you he opened that new gambling den near the club, didn’t I?”
“Lenny Sharp’s boy?” Mabel’s eyebrows rose. “Interested, is he?” Nell Gwyn began to nibble her ear, whistling softly. Absently, Mabel scratched the bird’s head.
“He’s interested in something,” Kit said. “But I think it’s the club rather than me.”
“Hmmm,” Mabel said, digging absently into the reticule again and bringing out another walnut. “You may be right.” When Kit laughed, she added, “Not that I don’t think you’re worth being interested in for yourself, lovey, but the Sharps… Well, the name says it all, don’t it?”
“You’re not wrong,” Kit agreed.
“Mightn’t be a bad idea to get rid of the club, though, you know,” Mabel added, looking away to offer the walnut to Nell Gwyn. The bird took it gently.
“What do you mean?” Kit said.
“Well, you don’t want to be running that place forever, do you? You used to always say that you’d build it up, sell it, and retire to the country.”
Kit quirked a half-smile. “I did used to say that.”
“Don't you want that anymore?” Mabel asked curiously.
Kit sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. I used to imagine myself setting up as a gentleman farmer or some such thing. But now I realise—well, I wouldn’t have the first idea what to do. I’m more of an alley cat than a farmyard one.”
“Pah! If you’ve got money you’ll be fine. You can always buy expertise. But whatever you decide to do, my advice would be to consider selling up sooner rather than later. I wish I’d stopped earlier—if I’d got out five years before I did, I’d’ve avoided that business with Jem Bailey and been able to sell out for twice or three times as much.”
Mabel had hired Jem Bailey as a doorman for the Lily. He’d been a hot-headed sort. After deciding he was in love with one of the girls, he'd assaulted a wealthy customer who’d been enjoying her favours on the premises. The incident had brought all sorts of trouble to Mabel’s door, and she’d ended up selling the Lily for a sum she’d always insisted was considerably less than its true worth.
“Look at it this way,” Mabel said. “The value of your club ain’t going up any more. You can’t go bigger without losing members—it’s the fact that it’s discreet that they like. You should get out now, while the going’s good.” She shrugged and the sudden movement made Nell Gwyn flap and squawk for a few moments before settling down again. “I reckon you’ll do nicely if you’re smart about it, but I’d be quick if I were you. Especially now there’s a Sharp hanging about. From what I remember of old Lenny Sharp, if you didn’t give him what he wanted when he asked, he wouldn’t wait too long before taking it without your blessing.”
“I’ll think about it,” Kit promised.
“You do that,” Mabel replied. “Now, tell me what all the gossip is, and don’t hold back.”
8
Henry
On Thursday evening Reid called in at Curzon Street as promised.
“Well, your grace,” he said, once they’d greeted one another and sat down, “I have some information for you, if not the whole answer quite yet.”
“That’s good,” Henry said. “You did not seem hopeful of that earlier.”
“There are some things that can be quite quickly established.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that the owner of the house has not changed in twenty years.”
Henry stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“The house is yours,” Reid said calmly. “It never left your estate.”
Henry blinked. Of all the possibilities he’d entertained, this was not one of them. He’d been prepared to purchase the house back from its current owner, no matter what it might cost, just so he could give it to Christopher. To learn it was still his was unexpected.
“I don’t understand.”
“The title remains in your name. It has been so since you bought it. There’s a tenant in occupation who I spoke with this afternoon—he tells me he’s lived there these last thirteen years, and before him there was another tenant.”
“Thirteen years!”
“Yes. And the lease is with none other than
your good self.”
Henry frowned. “He pays rent, this tenant? I am quite sure there was no income that we missed.”
“Quite so,” Reid agreed. “The rent did not appear anywhere in your accounts. According to the tenant, he’s paid up every quarter without interruption during the whole period of the lease—but the payments have been made to a firm of solicitors in Lambeth called Davies & Gillingham. Has your family used that firm before?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Reid nodded. “I’ll look into that further and report back once I know more.”
“It’s unfortunate there’s a tenant,” Henry said. “I can hardly throw him out on his ear after so long. Do you think he might agree to leave, in return for a compensatory payment? Or perhaps I could sell the property with the tenant in place and give Christopher the proceeds…” He trailed off, only then becoming aware of Reid’s penetrating gaze.
“Christopher?” Reid said. “Was he the intended recipient of this gift?”
Henry nodded.
“A family member?”
Henry flushed and shook his head.
Reid said softly, “I can’t think of many reasons a wealthy man might gift someone with something as substantial as a house.” He paused, then added, “Is opening this up wise, your grace? You’ve always been so… careful about these things.”
“I used to be less careful,” Henry admitted. “I knew Christopher when I lived in London, when the children were very young and Caroline”—he broke off—“well, she was content for me to suit myself.”
“And you were… less careful with this Christopher?”
Henry ran his hands over his face, unable to meet Reid’s gaze. “Yes. I met him at a rather scandalous party that a friend took me to. It was at a very discreet, very exclusive brothel called the Golden Lily. I wanted Christopher from the moment I set eyes on him.” He gave hopeless laugh. “Hell, I completely lost my head over him. I told the madam I wanted to become his protector that very night.” He sighed. “I’d never done anything like that before.”
Reid’s eyebrows rose. “So, you set him up like a mistress?”
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