The Sins of Lord Easterbrook

by Madeline Hunter

  She studied another bit of her writing instead. On the paper in her hands she had copied the death notice published in The Times of London about her father. The newspaper saved all its old issues in large bound books, and obtaining access to the year in question had not been difficult when she presented herself at the paper's offices yesterday.

  Her temper had been one thread away from unraveling ever since. The words on her copy were barely legible, having been scratched by a hand tightened into a fist.

  The few facts about her father's life were accurate if sparse. The last line, however, amounted to a scurrilous lie.

  Mr. Montgomery passed away after a long decline attributed to a wasting disease well known in Asia, the result of ingesting dangerous agricultural products native to that region.

  The notice all but said that her father had succumbed to opium. Who would have reported such a thing? There had been no such malicious gossip in Macao. Everyone there knew about his weakening heart, and had seen the evidence of that illness with their own eyes.

  Her eyes narrowed on the tiny printed name at the bottom of the notice. C. Nichols. There had been no Mr. Nichols in Macao for as long as she knew. This was not a correspondent's report. It must have been written right here in London.

  She pondered how to find this Mr. Nichols. She needed to talk to him and discover where he had obtained this information about her father.

  The old editions of The Times had yielded little help. Mr. Nichols's name did not appear often as a writer. In recent papers, however, she had found it several times below lively descriptions of proceedings in the magistrate offices in London.

  A subtle change in the air alerted her that she was not alone. She looked up to see Tong Wei standing ten feet away.

  “A lady is here,” Tong Wei said. “One of high status.”

  Leona took the card with curiosity. She went to the drawing room where her guest waited.

  Lady Lynsworth wore a geranium promenade dress and hat, and an expression of reserve badly compromised by the anxious lights in her blue eyes.

  She and Leona exchanged a few pleasantries while those lights burned ever more brightly. Finally the rest of her soft face could no longer maintain the mask that pretended all was well with her.

  “Miss Montgomery, I read the first volume of Minerva's Banquet. Easterbrook's sister-in-law has created a most commendable journal.”

  “She will be happy to learn of your good opinion.”

  “Your own contribution in particular interested me. Your reference to the opium trade—I found it very educational.”

  “I hope others do as well. The people of England should learn about it, even if it takes place so far away. It is my hope that public opinion will force the East India Company to change its ways.”

  Lady Lynsworth fingered her reticule nervously. “Your letter speaks of seeing people die. Our poets and artists do not consider it poison, but an enhancement for their creative imaginations.”

  “I am aware that is the popular view in Europe. Please believe me that the lure is insidious and becoming an habitué almost inevitable. Once caught in the snare a person wastes away.”

  “You wrote of knowing a few who had not, however. Who had broken the chains.”

  “Very few. The vast majority—”

  “But some. You did not write that only to appease the concerns of your readers, did you? You in fact do know of a few at least who—” A tear began a slow path down her cheek. She wiped it with her hand and turned her face away.

  Leona went over to sit down next to her. “Yes, a few. I did not lie about that.”

  Lady Lynsworth dug for the handkerchief in her reticule. “Forgive me. I read that one line and could read no more. A few who broke the chains. I have been in a state of desperate hope since this morning.”

  She wept gently. Leona waited for her guest to compose herself.

  “Who is it?” Leona asked. “A relative?”

  “My younger brother. We thought he was ill. My father learned the truth of it a month ago and washed his hands of him. I have not seen Brian since. He was in a bad way when last we met. I fear that it is as you wrote, and that this is an illness from which he will not recover.”

  Leona wished she could offer reassurances, but she had none to give. If Brian's addiction had reached the point where his family recognized the symptoms, he was far along.

  “Is there some elixir to end this? Some secret from the East? I came to see you in the hope that you knew a way for me to help him.”

  “You cannot help him. Forgive me, but it is the truth. There is no secret as such. No elixir. I am sorry, but it is not for you to save him. He must save himself.”

  Lady Lynsworth wept into her handkerchief again. Leona rested her hand on the geranium shoulder. “If he could break the chains, do you think he would? He must want to. If he does, there is some hope.”

  Lady Lynsworth nodded. “When we spoke he was desolate, and angry at himself. But so sad and helpless.” She clutched the handkerchief in her fist. “My father's disappointment has turned him cold. My husband refuses to hear me. He sees only scandal waiting if the world knows the truth. But Brian and I have always been very close, and if you know of any chance, no matter how small, I must try.”

  Lady Lynsworth's determination and sorrow moved Leona. She knew just how small the chance was, but if this woman wanted to give it to her brother, then she would help her.

  “Do you have a property away from London, and a good distance from any other town? It must be isolated. The servants must be those who will do your bidding.”

  “My family has a manor in Essex. My father never visits, and the servants will obey me.”

  “Then let us go to your brother. You will take him there. I will send Tong Wei with you. He is the man who brought you to this drawing room. Tong Wei will know what to do, and you must instruct the servants to obey him as well.”

  Lady Lynsworth looked up, relieved. Then her face fell. “Oh, dear, I do not know where Brian is! Not at his home. He has not been there in several days. I cannot bring you to him until he returns there.”

  “We must find him. Do you know if he is eating opium, or smoking it?”

  “He began by eating it. But when we spoke last he was very emotional and cursed his weakness. ‘It is as if my soul is tied to that damned pipe,’ he said.”

  “Then I know where he might be. We will take your carriage. I trust that your coachman is prepared for an immediate journey to Essex if we are successful.”

  Christian rapped on the door to Leona's house. When it opened, he did not face Tong Wei as expected. Instead Isabella did the duty.

  “Tell Leona that I am here and need to speak with her about an important matter.”

  It was time to turn the cards faceup regarding Leona's purposes in London. Christian did not give a damn if she wanted to raise the call to arms regarding the opium trade. He did care if she raised the alarm of men who could act rashly if they considered either their fortunes or their reputations at risk.

  “She is not here,” Isabella said. She tucked her hands into the broad sleeves of her qipao while she stayed in a low bow. “She has just gone.”

  “Is Tong Wei with her?”

  Isabella nodded.

  “Where did they go?”

  “Into the city. Leona said Tong Wei must come. They went in the lady's carriage.”

  “What lady?”

  “I do not know her name.”

  Isabella began to close the door. Christian pressed his hand against it so it could not budge.

  “So a lady came here, and Leona left with her. What was said before they all left? When she sent for Tong Wei?”

  “She said, ‘Come, Tong Wei. With luck it will be one more who snuffs out the lantern instead of his life.’“

  It was not what Christian wanted to hear. Leona was out in the city on a mission of mercy that was bound to take her to places she should not go.

  He strode back to h
is carriage. He gave the coachman an address and a command to make haste.

  He thought that he knew where Leona had gone. If he was correct, even Tong Wei's presence might not be enough protection.

  Twenty minutes later Christian entered a coffeehouse on Mincing Lane. The real business conducted here was finished for the day. Only a few patrons dotted the rustic interior.

  He called over a servant. “Tell Mr. Garraway that Lord Easterbrook wants to speak with him.”

  Shortly, a man approached Christian's table. The proprietor looked like a character in a play set in the last century. Dressed in a silk brocade waistcoat of pale blue and breeches of a slightly darker hue, his white hair had been caught in a tail at his nape. His perfume preceded him.

  He set his spectacles more precisely on his nose with his pinky. It was more a bit of stage business than an attempt to see more clearly. “Lord Easterbrook. I am honored. My humble establishment rarely sees patrons of your station.”

  “That is because men of my station have no need of your establishment. Their physicians and apothecaries supply the laudanum when it is called for by medical necessity.”

  “And even when it is not, I daresay.” Garraway blandly acknowledged the alternative uses for the drug.

  “Suppose a young man's physician were not so helpful. Where would he go to obtain relief?” Christian asked.

  “To another physician or an apothecary, I assume.”

  “And if he preferred to avoid the normal routes of sale, or sought something stronger than laudanum?”

  “Why do you think I would know? My establishment is used for the auctions of opium, that is true. What my patrons choose to negotiate while drinking coffee is not my concern.”

  “I need the names of the opium parlors in London, and the men who come here include those who run them. In particular, I am interested in establishments that have been buying opium from the Far East, not from Turkey, and that has been prepared for smoking, not eating. You would know it from its appearance. It is sold after a special process that turns it into balls.”

  “Balls, you say. From the Far East?” Garraway's brow puckered theatrically. “I have been told that Oriental opium is inferior for medicinal purposes. It has lower morphine content than Turkish. The apothecaries do not want it. As for non-medicinal purposes, it would only be economically advantageous to bring it in if one could avoid the tariff.” He sniffed. “I would not know about smuggled opium, Lord Easterbrook.”

  “Mincing Lane is the center of the opium trade in England, and this coffee shop is the center of the trade on Mincing Lane. I think you know whatever is to be known.” Christian reached into his coat and retrieved five guineas. He threw them down on the wooden table that separated him from Garraway He also removed a pistol and placed it beside the coins. “I do not have more time to waste. Which way shall we do this?”

  Garraway blanched, then turned peevish. “I do not care to be threatened, sir. Although I confess that I prefer that the threat comes from you than from a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “A fortnight ago. She also had an interest in those balls. She also refused to accept that they did not find their way here for auction.”

  “Did she wield a pistol?”

  “Worse. A visit from customs officials.” He dabbed his long nose with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “A pretty harpy. Vaguely exotic. But a harpy all the same.”

  “If she left you in peace, you must have given her a name or place. I want it too. Now.”

  Garraway swiped up the guineas. A minute later Christian was again in his carriage, aiming for the St. Giles rookery.

  The house reeked even from the street. Nestled between a gin house and a decrepit grocery, its drapes shielded it from light. The man at the door discouraged any casual visitors.

  “Do you think he owns it?” Lady Lynsworth asked as she and Leona alighted from her carriage. The sentry was Chinese, and dressed much as Tong Wei dressed, only in simpler fabric with no embroidery.

  “I doubt it,” Leona said. “I think that he is only a guard. He is also an advertisement. His figure says that mysteries from China can be had within.”

  Tong Wei viewed his countryman with disdain. “Describe your brother. I will find him if he is here.”

  “He is rather average in height and coloring. In every way, really. There is nothing notable in his appearance. Please ask that man to allow me in. I will know at once if Brian is there. I will recognize him at a glance and we will not disturb the others.”

  “I think that you need to talk all of us in, Tong Wei,” Leona said. “Brian may not agree to go with you, but he will acquiesce to his sister.”

  Tong Wei left them near the carriage and approached the door. After a ritual of greeting, he and the guard conversed with spirit in the singing language of China.

  Leona had never learned much Chinese and could offer Lady Lynsworth no reassurance that Tong Wei was making progress. The guard appeared to swing between belligerent denial and groveling obeisance.

  Tong Wei returned to them. “It is promised to the patrons that there is privacy within. He should not allow us to enter, but he will. We must be quick.”

  “How did you convince him?” Leona asked.

  “He is a thief, but he is not beyond being shamed for aiding the use of this poison that our emperor has condemned.”

  A crate filled with large brown balls could be seen several feet inside the door. The opium the crate contained had taken a long path. Grown and processed in India, then sold in the market at Calcutta, it had eventually made the journey to England.

  Tong Wei led the way as they followed the doorman to the back of the house. Shadows blanketed the space. As Leona's eyes adjusted she saw pallets on the floor, and figures stretched upon them. Beside each pallet stood an opium lantern, and a long pipe within easy reach of the victim finding a false heaven in the drug it delivered.

  “It is so dark,” Lady Lynsworth muttered through the handkerchief pressed to her nose. The smoke in the room resembled a heavy fog.

  Leona took her hand and dragged her between the rows of pallets. “We do not have much time. You must see if he is here while you can.”

  Lady Lynsworth bent over face after face, peering into vacant eyes, searching for her brother. Tong Wei followed in their wake.

  They had searched half the room when a man entered the chamber. A full head taller than Tong Wei and sporting a red beard to match his curly hair, he was clearly not Chinese.

  He spied them and strode in their direction. His expression did not bode well for their mission.

  “Keep looking,” Leona urged.

  Tong Wei turned and positioned himself between them and the approaching proprietor.

  “You've no business here. Get out,” the man said.

  “The ladies seek a relative. We will leave soon,” Tong Wei explained with careful clarity.

  “I'll not be having no reformer types here, interfering with my business and that of my friends.”

  “These people are not your friends,” Leona said while she shooed Lady Lynsworth on. “A man does not allow a friend to endure this.”

  “Don't look to me like any of ‘em mind it, so the enduring must be nice.” He snickered. “Now you collect that other woman there and be out of here or things may get difficult.”

  “I hope not,” Tong Wei said. “I cannot allow difficult to happen.”

  “Don't much matter what you allow, does it? Now, get.”

  “Here he is!” Lady Lynsworth's discovery rang off the ceiling. “Brian! Dear heavens, he looks dead.”

  Tong Wei barely turned his head to glance at the blond young man over whom Lady Lynsworth bent. “He is not dead, but he is lost.”

  Leona knew what he meant. He was probably correct, but she had promised to try to help and now they had to see it through.

  “I will carry him out,” Tong Wei said.

  “You'll do nothing of the kind,” the proprietor said. “That
one owes me a pretty penny. I've had his coat off of him for today's portion, but he don't leave until his arrears are met.”

  “He can hardly meet them if he doesn't leave,” Leona said.

  “Can't he now? Fine coat it was, and I expect his family will honor his debt.”

  Lady Lynsworth was coaxing Brian to alertness, to no avail. Tong Wei gestured for Leona to walk. They went over to Lady Lynsworth.

  Tong Wei crouched down, and rose with Brian slung over his shoulder. Brian was taller than Tong Wei, and might have weighed more, but Tong Wei's strength did not only come from his body.

  “We leave now,” he said.

  “The hell you do.” The proprietor strode toward them. Dim light from beneath a drape caught the glint of metal.

  Lady Lynsworth gasped at the sight of the knife. Tong Wei bowed and allowed Brian to fall back on the floor. He faced the proprietor with utter calm. Leona sensed the stillness of meditation claiming him.

  This was hardly the time for that. She was about to say so when she saw his face. Tong Wei had not retreated into any meditative reverie. He gazed at the knife with eyes that permitted no other sight. She had never before seen him appear this hard.

  He did not wait for the knife to move. Instead he floated forward while his body twisted and turned so gracefully that there came no sound.

  The proprietor flew and landed on his back among his victims. He scrambled to his feet, furious. He eyed Tong Wei and came toward him with menacing steps.

  “You will stop right there. One more movement that endangers these ladies, and I will kill you. Do not doubt my resolve on this.”

  The voice came from the shadows near the doorway, behind the proprietor. He froze, then pivoted to face the new intruder.

  At first all Leona saw was the pistol. It appeared to hang in the air. Then Easterbrook took two steps into the chamber. He gave one quick scan of the pallets. She saw the expression of disgust as his gaze lit on the closest faces. Then he had eyes only for that knife.

  “Who might you be?” The proprietor asked with a sneer.

  “I am Easterbrook.”

  “Well, m'lord, I am honored.” He made a mocking bow. “M'name is Harry Timble and this is my property.”