On that evening, he had taken her aside and warned her in an urgent way about Rupert, Viscount Greywood. Although he had not said it directly – because a gentleman would never do that in the presence of an innocent girl – Felicity had immediately understood what his warning pertained to. She was not supposed to fall for a man such as Greywood, who spent far too much time in the whorehouses of Southwark and whose face was well-known in the opium parlours of Soho. She had rejected his worries by telling him that he obviously frequented those establishments himself, if he knew so much about Rupert’s presence there, and then she had laughed at him and left him standing alone. Back then, she had thought that his family motto matched with his overbearing demeanour very well indeed: “Never forgive. Never forget” – as engraved on the Somersets’ family crest.
She still felt ashamed today. Lord Layton had been right, after all. Still, she would not give him the satisfaction of rejecting her as his wife. He must not only think of her as superficial, but downright rotten to the core. Was he not right in a way? Yes, her body had not been touched, but her heart and soul had been. Pater O’Donnell always said that God would forgive everything, even the blackest of sins, as long as one was truly remorseful and repentant. She was! Felicity regretted a lot of things, above all for being responsible that her sister, Annabelle, had been forced into a marriage she did not want, by her fault. Even though everything had turned out well in the end, things could have been vastly different.
Well, she did her best to gain forgiveness. Felicity was not sure if the God of the Church of England, to which she and her parents belonged, would acknowledge her efforts as such… for she was working with a Catholic priest. But Pater O’Donnell had reassured her that it was not really important which God she prayed to, as long as she did so with a sincere heart.
The two weeks that she had spent at Lady Blankhurst’s house had gone by quickly. Her initial shyness at having contact with the fallen women and their children, had long since given way to a joy she had not felt in a long time. The beauty of it was that her parents allowed her to continue to visit the priest and his house with Lady Blankhurst, as long as she did not go there alone.
Someone knocked on her door, and Brigid entered her room.
“I have a letter for you, my Lady,” she said and stepped towards Felicity’s bed. It was astonishing to think that this woman had been living in Pater O’Donnell’s home merely three weeks ago, as her progress was already considerable. Certainly, every now and again she would mix up the correct form of address, or she would forget them altogether, but Felicity was helping her with that. Felicity had begged her parents to give this woman a chance, and surprisingly they had met her with little resistance. Now Brigid was employed as a maid in their house and seemed to grow into her role more and more.
Felicity thanked her and waited until the young girl had left her room, before she opened the letter. It had not been sealed, which was strange enough to begin with. But what was even stranger, was the message it contained, which her eyes could barely decipher.
I know what you did. Come to St Botolph’s tonight at 11.30 on the dot, or you will regret it. Come alone.
The irregularly written letters danced in front of Felicity’s eyes as she read the letter over and over again. Suddenly, she wished that Annabelle were there or… no. She did not have anyone whom she could talk to. Going to the police seemed completely out of the question. She had long since come to the realisation that she would never marry a nobleman, but this sanction did not apply to her younger sister, Rose. Felicity did not want to put her parents through the scandal of the Duke of Evesham’s daughter seeking help from the police – least of all because of an anonymous blackmail letter! The Father’s friendly face appeared before her eyes. Would she be able to trust him? Perhaps, but a glance at her clock told her that she had barely two hours left before she was expected to arrive at the church. She would not have enough time to ask the pater to accompany her. Felicity did not know what would happen if she did not keep the appointment, but one thing was clear: the consequences would be disastrous.
She had to go to St Botolph’s.
Alone.
Chapter 5
It felt so damned good to move again. The clothes he had had made for his fights almost one-and-a-half years ago, by a discreet tailor, were now a little loose, but not by much. Luke had lost weight, but his time in the navy, and then as a prisoner of the Americans, had not affected his muscle strength.
When he had arrived back at his townhouse, restless and more upset at himself than at his father, it had taken everything in him not to smash every single piece of porcelain he could lay his hands on.
How had Luke ever believed that he would be able to follow his father’s demands for obedience and a sense of duty, particularly in regard to the time-honoured name of Somerset? After all, he was not the kind of man who found it easy to follow stiff rules and conventions without complaint. Luke had believed that the war had changed him. He had been wrong about that.
His return to the Black Heart Tavern had caused somewhat of a sensation. The fighter they called ‘the priest’ had disappeared about a year ago, swallowed up by the earth it seemed. His fights had earned him a small fortune, at least by the standards of the working classes. Marlowe, the landlord and owner of the drinking hole and the neighbouring brothel (which had somewhat wittily been named the Red Heart), was surprised when Luke suddenly showed up at the back door dressed as ‘the priest.’ After some quick but tough negotiations regarding his share of the betting profits, Luke was immediately prepared to face his first opponent. For him, it was not about the money, which he generally gave away afterwards to the whores and homeless he encountered on his way home, but Marlowe would have been even more suspicious if he had entered the ring without any compensation. So, the innkeeper’s greed for money, and his curiosity, fought a relentless battle with each other, but the greediness always won in the end.
Luke made sure that he did not waste too many words on anyone as he stepped into the Black Heart. If anybody heard him speak, they would immediately discover his heritage and the class to which he truly belonged. His face was always hidden behind a mask, which had been a masterpiece of the tailor’s art. The thin black fabric fit the contours of his face perfectly and it had small openings for his eyes, nose, and mouth. The mask was fastened at the back of his head by an elaborate system of loops and tiny buttons. Compared to his casual clothing, which usually included tight trousers, a shirt and the obligatory spencer, his clothes in the ring were light as air and supple as water.
Now Luke was dancing around his third opponent for the evening on light feet. A boxing match was only declared ended when one of the fighters lay senseless on the floor and both referees agreed upon the winner. A fight could have anywhere between three to well over thirty rounds. Luke had slammed the first two men who had accepted the challenge to the floor in fewer than ten rounds. His current rival had already managed to survive nineteen rounds. His wide chest and sheer muscle mass indicated that this man was someone who worked harder than most of the men who screamed and yelled around the ringside, whenever one of the opponents landed a hit. Maybe he was a blacksmith, Luke thought, and he instinctively looked at the man’s fingers for any revealing signs of soot beneath his fingernails or any common burns.
This curiosity was a mistake. The man’s fist hammered against his ribs with full force. Luke stumbled backwards, and he was immediately pushed back into the ring by the umpire, who guarded his corner. Most likely, he had bet a significant sum of money on ‘the priest’ and he did not want to take the risk that the fight would be interrupted or stopped. It was not easy to avoid yet another blow, whilst still gasping for air from the previous one, and to watch out for any kicks to the back of his legs at the same time, but Luke managed it. He let himself fall backwards and then rolled to one side, completely ignoring the stabbing pain in the side of his ribs. As quickly as he could, he came back up on his feet and began to move
in front of the man. There was no time for any finesse of the kind ‘Gentleman’ John Jackson liked to practice.
Luke did not think that he had suffered more than a couple of cracked ribs, but he would not take a senseless risk in provoking any more dangerous injuries. Once again, he evaded another punch and ducked down. It was his luck that his massive rival was completely out of breath and also that he did not move particularly fast. Luke stretched out the index and middle fingers of his right hand, before quickly pushing his arm forward. He struck his opponent with one hard blow right below his throat, where it formed a small hollow between the two collar bones. The effects of this literally breath-taking action were immediately visible. Luke’s rival reached for his throat. His eyes protruded in a weird way, which could definitely be described as worrying. Then he sank onto his knees and eventually keeled over like a huge felled tree.
Luke did not wait for the verdict from the umpires, but ducked beneath the ropes surrounding the ring and suppressed a painful yelp as he squashed his bruised ribs for a second time. He did not waste any more time looking at his former opponent, who lay contorted on the floor. He knew the man would be able to breathe again within mere seconds. The men standing around the ring parted before him, whilst some of them congratulated him on his win or patted him on his shoulder, as he made his way towards the back room.
“How would you like a freshly tapped ale, Sir?” Marlowe asked and held a huge tumbler out to him.
“Nice try.” Luke grinned. He had no intention of removing his mask.
Marlowe returned the grin, which was reflected in the eyes of the mask-wearer, and then shrugged. “Have you ever thought about showing your ugly mug? I bet we would make even more money without it, and without that shirt on…” He crinkled his bushy eyebrows suggestively. “The few ladies would be happy and come back soon, too.” He frowned. “We could organise a fight only for women spectators,” he suggested slowly. Luke could see how this sudden spark of an idea had slowly formed into a plan in the resourceful landlord’s head. “We could invite some genteel ladies, maybe even Queen Charlotte, and we…”
“We could also just leave it be.” Luke interrupted Marlowe’s sudden flight of fancy, even though he was not completely averse to the idea. “Queen Charlotte is extremely busy keeping her husband under control.” Everybody knew that the king had gone mad and that he was retreating ever further into his sad fantasy world.
“Then she would welcome the distraction even more,” Marlowe determined, since he obviously did not feel like giving up so easily. “Just think about it, Priest.”
Luke nodded and dried off the sweat, which had soaked through his mask, with a filthy-looking cloth. Then he held out his hand and waited for the landlord to pay him his share of the winnings. Shortly after, the two men agreed upon another date for an upcoming fight. In two weeks, Luke would be back for more.
Before Luke could make his way back home, Marlowe held him back by his shoulder. “How will I be able to reach you? I believe that a lot of people would love to see the reincarnated priest again. Maybe we should think about staging the next match somewhere else.” The Black Heart only had space for one hundred and fifty people, if they did not mind close body contact with others.
“You do not,” Luke replied. He was already somewhere else with his thoughts. “I will come back beforehand and then you can tell me where we shall meet.”
“But…” Marlowe objected, but Luke had already left the backyard of the tavern and did not hear the rest of the sentence.
“Where are you planning on going, Ma’am? I mean, my Lady.”
Brigid appeared out of nowhere in front of her and propped her arms against her sides, just as the cook did whenever Felicity stole some cookies or cake. “And why have you dressed up like that?”
Oh, dam… mit. “Go back to bed,” Felicity whispered as imploringly as she could. She stood by the back door and had planned on sneaking out by the back gate on the far side of the gardens. Her hand that held the lantern was shaking and it threw Brigid’s shadow jarringly up against the wall. “There is something I need to do. Alone.”
“Most certainly not at this time of night, my Lady,” the reformed lady of the night commented dryly as she resolutely took away Felicity’s lantern. Felicity let it happen without any objection. What did it even matter anymore?
“I will just quickly grab my coat,” Brigid said. The relief made Felicity’s knees almost buckle beneath her.
“You do not have to come with me, Brigid,” she forced herself to say, after the woman returned, now cloaked in a long coat. The garment hardly deserved this description, as the fabric was far too thin and so worn out on the elbows and at the collar to be called a coat. “It could become dangerous.” Everything inside of Felicity was crying out against walking out into the cold foggy night without any protection. Even Brigid would not really be able to do much against an attacker, but at least she would not be alone. On the other hand, she could not ask someone else to face this danger for which she alone was responsible.
Brigid tilted her head to one side. “So, you are not going to meet a lover?”
“I do not have a lover,” Felicity rejected this notion, appalled, and then she held her hand in front of her mouth, as she realised that she had spoken loudly. “It is… complicated.”
“Then it must have something to do with that letter earlier.” This was a statement, not a question.
“You are much smarter than is good for you,” Felicity replied. “I do not have any more time to just stand around. Go back to bed, Brigid.” However, the girl shook her head silently and then walked out in front of Felicity. Before they could step out over the threshold into the garden, Felicity put her hand on Brigid’s shoulder and held her back. “I am serious,” she whispered. “I am commanded to meet an unknown person at St Botolph’s in the middle of Whitechapel, and I do not know whom or what to expect.”
“I will not leave you alone, my Lady,” Brigid returned. Felicity had learned right from the start, after they had met for the first time just four weeks ago, how stubborn this woman with the sad eyes could be. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that the thought of having the girl’s company very much outweighed the notion of being scared alone.
“I know St Botolph’s. I have… worked there.” Brigid looked at Felicity with a sly glance. Felicity had already learned from Pater O’Donnell that the church was also called the “Church of Whores.” Not because Mary Magdalene, who some people claimed was a prostitute, played any role in this particular house of worship. No, the name came from the location of the church. It sat like an island in the middle of the maze of alleys, where the women of the night could easily disappear when the police arrived to put an end to their sinful activities. This had been yet another piece of information Pater O’Donnell had volunteered. For a Catholic priest, he really was very… modern-minded. He not only believed in complete redemption, but he also claimed that women and men were of the same value in God’s eyes. He had actually predicted that within one hundred years, men and women, poor and rich, the aristocracy and the lower-working class would all have the same right to vote, as well as the possibility of obtaining a proper education. Felicity doubted the reliability of his prediction – she lived in the here and now, not in some exciting future one hundred years away. In any case, right now was no moment to lose herself in wild fantasies, regardless of how tempting they may be. It was Brigid’s familiarity with the alleys around St Botolph’s that tipped the balance.
They actually managed to sneak off the property without being noticed. Felicity had stolen some coins from her father’s money box to rent a hackney. But before they even reached the main street, which was still very busy for that time of night, the maid tugged Felicity by her sleeve. “Just let me do this…”
Without waiting for Felicity’s permission, Brigid closed the buttons of Felicity’s coat, loosened the scarf around her neck and adjusted her bonnet by pulling it deeper onto her fa
ce. Then she bent down, grabbed a handful of mud, and spread it across Felicity’s dress. “I’m sorry — I will clean it for you as soon as we are back home,” she said, before she put one last dollop of dirt atop Felicity’s hat and cheek with the same nimbleness as an artist would use to finish his masterpiece. “The colours might pass, but you are much too clean for a normal person,” she commented and took a step back to check her lady’s appearance critically. “Now you only look like a dressed-up lady if you look closer.”
“Thank you,” Felicity said. She managed not to wrinkle her nose in disgust as she imagined her face right now. But then she noticed that Brigid had begun to shiver. In her excitement, she had not noticed how cold it had become on this November night. She grabbed her own scarf and handed it to the maid. Shortly afterwards, they both sat in a hackney travelling towards Whitechapel. The coach driver had eyed them up suspiciously, but Felicity, ignoring Brigid’s suppressed sigh, had promised him double the amount of money, if he could manage to get them to the High Street before eleven o’clock. They were a couple of minutes late, but Felicity was far too nervous to haggle with him, and she tried to prevent Brigid from doing so.
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