by Jenny Brown
She must have stolen it. A girl like that couldn’t afford to have a portrait painted. On the other hand, only a very stupid thief would hold on to a piece of jewelry with a portrait that could identify it as stolen—and his pickpocket hadn’t struck him as stupid. So the portrait must be of someone important to her. A brother perhaps or, more likely, a lover.
His lips curled up. If it was a lover, he’d come that close to making the man a cuckold—and not without considerable help from the girl.
He considered tossing it. Why hold on to something that could only remind him of tonight’s humiliation? But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. His nostrils sill retained the scent of oranges. His lips were still hungry for the taste of her.
He would keep it as a bittersweet reminder of the price to be paid for dropping his guard. So he slipped it into his pocket and made his way slowly back to his mother’s home on Keppel Street.
The bolt-hole was cold, dank, and smelled of old urine and mouse droppings, but it was safe. Randall had shown her this secret place when he’d finally trusted her enough to let her join the crew that stole the money that funded his fight against oppression.
But at the thought of Randall, Temperance’s heart sank. How close she had come to betraying him with the captain. No. She must be honest; she had betrayed him. She’d been as wanton as her father had claimed she was when he’d forced her to run away from home.
But wanton though she might be, she’d never before felt anything like what she’d felt tonight in that soldier’s embrace. Not even when she’d lain with Randall, whom she’d loved so much. Perhaps that was why Randall had never been able to stop looking at other women. Maybe he’d secretly wanted a woman who felt like that with him.
She squelched that thought. Randall had been faithful to her. She was the one who had betrayed their love, not him. She must face it and move on. It was just more evidence of how weak she was, like so much else that had happened over the past three years.
She fell into a fitful sleep bedded down on filthy straw at the back of the bolt-hole, but she couldn’t stay there forever. When morning broke, she made her way back to the rookery on Mercer Street, where she found Becky standing beside a pile of debris.
The wreckers had come, just as the landlord had said they would, and they were tearing down the abandoned building where the girls had made their home. They’d already torn off the oiled paper she and Becky had so carefully installed over the shattered casement window, and even now scavengers were picking through the pathetically small pile of what remained of their furniture, which the workmen had tossed carelessly onto the street. They’d find nothing of value. The girls had already pawned anything that could have been turned into brass.
Becky hobbled over. Never had Tem been gladder to see her friend’s small heart-shaped face with those pale eyebrows that were mere wisps above her knowing eyes. “Are you all right, Tem?” Becky asked. “Clary saw you go off with the officer. When you didn’t come back, we were worried. Did he hurt you?”
“Not a bit. I could handle him.”
Becky’s face lost some of its anxiety. “You didn’t manage to get a quid or two from him, did you? I know they took what you’d prigged when they bagged you, but Clary thought maybe the officer was sweet on you. He paid an awful lot to free you—more than he’d pay for a week at Mother Bristwick’s. We thought, when you didn’t come back, that maybe, you know—you’d come to an arrangement.”
“You know I won’t do that kind of thing for money.”
Becky’s shoulders sagged. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t betray your precious Randall.”
Temperance turned away to hide the shame that must be evident on her face. She’d come all too close to betraying him, and she didn’t even have the excuse that she’d done it for the money her friends needed so badly.
“Well, we can’t afford any more of your high principles,” Becky continued, relentlessly. “The Weaver’s man Snake came by. He says they’ve waited long enough for that money we owe for last month. The Weaver won’t protect us no more. That’s why none of his bruisers lifted a finger for you last night.”
“But how are we to pay him if we can’t steal?”
“Mother Bristwick’s,” Becky said through clenched teeth. “Like I said, you’d have done better to get the captain to take you under his protection.”
“Well, I didn’t. And it’s too late to change that now.”
“It’s too late to change a lot of things,” Becky said bitterly. “If only Randall hadn’t taken every penny we stole for him these past three years.”
“You know he needed it to pay for the conspiracy. Why do you have to bring that up as if he’d done something wrong? He died fighting for liberty.”
“Oh, yes. Liberty,” Becky said scornfully. “It came dear, didn’t it? No matter how much we brought him, he took it all and wanted more. He’d have sent us all to Mother Bristwick if it would have brought in more than the prigging lay.”
He wouldn’t. Randall had had even higher principles than her own. That had been what first attracted her to him.
But her friend’s angry tone drained her last bit of energy. She hadn’t expected it. Of all the girls in his gang, Becky was the only one who had offered her real friendship. The others had never quite accepted her, especially after Randall made it clear she was to be his favorite. But when another girl had made fun of Becky’s twisted spine, Temperance had stood up for her, and, in return, Becky had explained to her the meaning of the cant words the crew used and helped her change the way she spoke until every word out of her mouth didn’t remind them that she came from the ranks of the oppressors.
It had been Becky, too, who had hung the bell on an old coat, suspended it from the doorway, and shown her how to remove a handkerchief from its pocket without causing the bell to make the slightest sound. Her friend had kept at her, making her practice until she could draw a fogle or nim a ticker as well as any of them, even the ones who’d learned their trade as children.
She’d paid her back, of course. When Randall had died, Temperance could have moved on—there were other crews who would have welcomed her for her nimble fingers. But she’d stuck with Becky and tiny Clary, whom Becky had found half-beaten to death, knowing the other crews were unlikely to want to take them on. So why did Becky always have to be so waspish about the man who had brought them together? Running away from home with Randall had been the best thing Temperance had ever done. Instinctively, her hand flew to the locket that held his portrait.
It was gone.
The officer must have snapped the chain. It served her right. It was as if Randall himself had reached down from wherever he was now and had judged her no longer worthy of wearing it.
She stumbled over to the pile of broken furniture and pawed mechanically through the broken remains of their possessions. The pile made visible the failure she’d been trying so hard to ignore. She’d tried to keep the girls going with her dream that they would go to America and start new lives. But without Randall to push them, they hadn’t been able to steal enough even to keep themselves in the rookeries.
Randall might have been stern with them—too stern, at times, she’d sometimes thought. But his severity had ensured they’d brought home the money they needed. She’d been too kind, so now they were destitute, and she was completely at a loss to know what they should do next.
“Imagine that,” Trev’s mother announced the next morning, putting down her paper as he folded his tall frame into one of her dainty breakfast chairs. “Lady Pemberton has recovered her emeralds—the ones everyone thought the maid stole. It turns out her husband lost them at cards and kept it secret from her, and it was an astrologer who found them for her—that odd little woman Lord Hartwood wed last year. I say, I should rather like to have her read my fortune. Perhaps she can tell me when you will wed.”
“Why stop at that. Why not have her find me a wife and be done with it?”
“I hadn’t thought of
that, but it would be an excellent idea. Scorpios are always so difficult to find a match for, and so demanding. Perhaps she might have some insight into the kind of woman who could make you happy.”
Trev took a savage bite out of his toast. The previous night’s adventure had given him all too much insight into the kind of woman who could make him happy—for about five minutes. After that, it had been pure hell.
“If only I hadn’t gone into labor so early with you,” his mother continued. “Another three weeks, and you’d have been Sagittarius, and I’d have got my grandchildren already.”
Odd how she put credence in such a silly superstition. But so had the munshi he’d hired to teach him Sanskrit. The man had spent thousands of rupees on expensive jewels he believed could counteract the power of evil stars. It had always surprised him that so intelligent a man could fall for such nonsense.
“Which reminds me,” his mother said. “The Stapletons are coming to join us for nuncheon on Friday, Lady Gertrude and her second daughter, Amelia.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “You could do a lot worse than to marry Amelia. Lady Gertrude’s brother is General Swinford, and her uncle has much influence in Whitehall.”
“So by marrying her, I should ensure my promotion?” His head was throbbing after the past night’s overindulgence. The faint rays of the November sun that shone through the dimity curtains of the breakfast room seared into his brain as if they were the noontime beams of Poona.
“Of course.” She smiled complacently. “Though influence is all the match would have to recommend it. The girl has almost no portion. Still, she is a biddable young woman, and I should get along well with her when you returned to India.”
He sighed. “You make an excellent argument in her favor. Perhaps I should leave the whole affair in your hands. Inform me when you have come to a decision about whom you will have me wed, and I will pay my addresses directly.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Miles.”
“Sorry,” he said, glaring into his tea.
His mother changed tack. “I have been very patient, dear. But you know you must marry someone, and you must do it before you return to your regiment. When you disappeared before that battle at Poona, and I heard nary a word from you for six long months, I was beside myself with worry.”
He felt abashed at the concern for him that filled her eyes. “I had no wish to torment you, but you know I couldn’t let anyone know of my whereabouts.”
“I know that now. But I spent those months in a frenzy, and why shouldn’t I? That cursed entail on your father’s estate ensures I get nothing if you die without an heir.”
The room, already uncomfortably cold, grew more chilly. It had been the loss of her income she dreaded, not his death. Something sour rose in his throat. Last night’s wine did not go well with this morning’s toast.
But he fought to get his body back under control. His mother’s feelings were entirely natural since she barely knew him. Duty had forced her to join her husband in India, where his regiment was posted, and she could hardly have taken a child as young as he had been with her into so insalubrious a clime. Not if she were to give his father a living heir. Then, by the time he’d been old enough to join his father’s regiment, she’d returned here.
He forced himself to smile politely. “I already promised you I would marry before my leave is over, and I will. But there is still plenty of time. My leave extends until after the king’s coronation in July. I ask only that you give me a few more weeks to enjoy my leave before I take on such a heavy responsibility.”
“Most men would consider it a pleasure to wed.”
“Most men would.”
But most men would not have to leave their wives behind as soon as they got them with child, as he would have to do, unless he sold his commission. His parents’ experience had taught him the folly of trying to raise English children in India. He would be prudent, but he would not give up the regiment so he could stay in England with a wife. The army was his real family. He couldn’t imagine life without it.
He stood up. “In any event, I can’t attend your hen party on Friday. I’m already engaged for noon that day at Leadenhall Street.” It was a useful excuse, but true. One of Sir Charles’s contacts at the department had summoned him to East India Company headquarters, no doubt to extract some of the many bits of information he carried in his head that couldn’t be committed to paper. But also, he hoped, for something more. With luck, the department would have a spot of work for him.
He hoped so. The devil made work for idle hands—and other organs. And after last night’s adventure, he knew he couldn’t get busy fast enough.
Temperance was relieved to learn that Becky and Clary had managed to rescue what they could carry from the snug before the wreckers barred them from the building. At least they’d have that. She was about to open the sack into which the girls had stuffed her clothing and other belongings when, to her surprise, a coach clattered down the street and came to a halt beside her.
“Temperance Smith!” a hearty voice addressed her. It took her a moment to recognize the man attired in a coachman’s livery who’d called out to her. He’d been one of the clank nappers who worked for the Weaver, breaking into empty houses and stealing the silver.
“Jemmy! It’s been a dog’s years since I last saw you. What’s all this?” She gestured at his livery.
“It’s James now, not Jemmy. I’ve come up in the world. I’ve hired on as Lady Hartwood’s coachie.”
“Gone straight, have you?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Bowing and scraping to them. How could you?”
“Her Ladyship’s not too bad, and it’s good work, it is, all aboveboard, and the pay’s regular. I was getting too old to work the Weaver’s lay.”
“Then why’d you come back here? To show off your finery? It’s right pretty, but I’ve no time to admire you with this on my plate.” She gestured at the heap of shattered furniture.
“That’s why I’m here. Word reached Her Ladyship of how the wreckers was going to be leaving you girls with no place to live. She has a proposition to make you.”
A proposition. So his mistress was that kind of ladyship, a bawd. No surprise there. It was hard enough to imagine a real lady hiring the likes of Jem and harder still to think she would venture into a slum as notorious as this one.
“How’d this ladyship of yours hear about us?”
He had the grace to look abashed. “From me. She sent me out a-lookin’ for some girls for her new refuge.”
Her refuge, eh. Was that what they were calling bawdy kens now? It was a new one to her.
“James, is this one of the girls?” a female voice warbled from within the richly appointed carriage. As she inspected it more closely, Temperance questioned her original assumptions about its occupant, a small birdlike woman with ginger hair. No abbess would dare paint a noble crest like that on her door; nor would she be so stupid as to bring such an elegant equipage into a neighborhood like this.
Maybe she was a real lady—some do-good, perhaps, who liked to play Lady Bountiful and stretch out the heavy hand of charity in return for fawning displays of gratitude.
Jemmy made his way back to his mistress, who had dropped the carriage glass so they could whisper together. Then he beckoned Temperance over. If only she could get close enough to the woman to relieve the interfering busybody of her watch, it might provide the money she’d need to find the girls a new home.
She was called back to herself by the sound of Clary’s voice.
“Who’s that?”
“Our fairy godmother—or so our Jemmy says.” A surprisingly pretty one, though her cheeks were covered with freckles.
“So none of you have a place to rest your heads tonight?” Lady Hartwood asked through the open window.
“Mother Bristwick’s,” Becky answered. “Although there’s precious little resting goes on there at nighttime. Won’t get to sleep until cockcrow, if she’ll have us. But I heard she’
s got more girls than she can use. Allus happens when the cold weather sets in.”
Temperance sighed. Even if she had been willing to lower herself that way, Mother Bristwick would be unlikely to take Becky on, not with her twisted spine. Her friend would have to go back to begging—which was what she’d been doing before Randall had taken her in.
“Was that what you’d planned?” Her Ladyship asked Temperance.
“Never! Only a flat would fall for that rig when there’s plenty of others to choose from.”
“Such as?”
Temperance shrugged. Lady Bountiful was becoming annoying. She wished she could get closer, relieve her of something valuable, and scamper. If she could just get her girls a stake, they could start anew and find the money that would take them all to America. She let her eyes drift down the woman’s form, searching for anything she might snatch.
“Pickpockets get caught,” Lady Hartwood said in a stern tone.
“Whores get the clap.” She thrust her chin upward. “It’s a nasty old world, ain’t it, Yer Ladyship?”
“It can be,” Lady Hartwood agreed calmly. “But it doesn’t have to be. Call your other friend over, the little one guarding your things. I have a proposal to make the three of you.”
Here it comes, she thought. At least she’d finally know what the woman’s racket was.
When Clary had joined Becky at the side of the coach, Lady Hartwood tented her hands together, and said, “I know something of what young women face, alone and unprotected on the street. You are unprotected, I take it?”
“I told you we wasn’t selling our mutton,” Temperance said. “Don’t have no flashmen, neither.”
“We protect each other,” Becky explained. “And we’re going to go to America, all of us, when we come up with the brass. If we can find it . . .” Her voice drifted off.
