“No.” Biedermeier’s gruff command startled her as it pierced through the silence. “Garters before corset.”
Ah, so Amelia was performing a striptease. Now that she knew what she was listening for, the vague ruffling noises resolved themselves into the more specific sounds of corset laces sliding out of their holes, the soft thud of Amelia’s evening slippers hitting the floor.
A few more minutes, she heard her say, “I’ve been a very naughty girl, Mr. Biedermeier. Would you like to spank me?”
Embarrassed for the girl, Catharine turned her face away from Mr. Bailey, thankful for the cover of darkness.
“No. Let’s try now.”
“Of course,” Amelia said. “Let me just get a French letter. I have one over here in the armoire.”
Catharine was not a woman prone to hysterics. Life with Charles’s battalion had cured her of any missish tendencies she might have had. But here, now, panic was taking over. She struggled to breathe. Footsteps approached. Mr. Bailey’s hand clamped over her mouth; the door opened a crack, letting in a sliver of light.
A hand snaked in, opened a small drawer, and rummaged around. The light disappeared as the door slammed shut. Mr. Bailey removed his hand from her mouth. Catharine sucked in a breath as silently as she could. She heard the sound of water being poured.
“I need to wet it,” said Amelia.
“Hurry up, will you? Hate the blasted things, anyway.”
“I know, dear Mr. Biedermeier, but I’m afraid they’re a necessary evil.” Catharine noticed that the girl’s French accent had disappeared.
“The damn French letters are half my problem here, you know. The girls at a house I visit in Birmingham don’t insist upon them.”
Catharine couldn’t help but think of James and his concern about hygiene. Wouldn’t he be happy to learn that Madame Cherie insisted on such measures in her house? As far as she could see, it was one of the woman’s few redeeming characteristics.
Amelia must have silenced her client with a kiss because he stopped protesting. Soon the room was filled with the telltale sounds of moaning and grunting. Amelia made quite the racket, taking the Lord’s name in vain repeatedly and following her client’s commands to describe in great detail every action that was unfolding. It was all so very…tawdry when heard from this vantage point.
Something must have happened then that Amelia objected to because she stopped narrating and said, “I’m sorry, you can do whatever else you want, but I’ve told you that’s not something I—”
“This is the only way I can finish, and not finishing now will do me great harm,” Biedermeier protested. “I cannot resist you, my dear. And this way we won’t need the French letter—no need to worry about me getting a babe on you.”
I cannot resist you, my dear. I love you. Catharine sucked in an audible breath and felt Mr. Bailey’s censorious stare. She bit down—hard—on the insides of her cheeks, closing her eyes against the onslaught of unwelcome memories. She had to get a hold of herself. Those memories came out at night, when she was alone. Not now. Not here.
The bed began squeaking. Biedermeier was exerting himself mightily. Suddenly and without warning, the German gave a great cry and then all vocalization ceased, replaced by frenzied and uneven breathing. Catharine covered her face with her hands. Perhaps Dr. Burnham had been right. Would a woman truly choose this life, no matter how handsomely she was rewarded for it? Everything was becoming muddled in her mind.
As their breathing slowed, the gunmaker said, “Perhaps I’ll have that foot rub now, my girl.”
There was a rustling noise, then the sound of a drawer opening and closing. Some more shuffling, then “Ahhhh” from Biedermeier.
“How is your work, Mr. Biedermeier?” Amelia’s voice was shaky and Catharine felt a rush of protective affection for the girl. “How is life at the gun works?”
Catharine, taking a deep silent breath, could practically feel Mr. Bailey’s ears tingle. How lucky that Amelia launched right in to the topic. It was almost as if they had paid her to lead the conversation.
“Exhausting, as always. We’ve been shorthanded at the same time that a large order has come in from the Board of Ordnance.”
“Poor dear.”
“And my business at the proof house is becoming more…complex.”
“What is a proof house?”
“It’s a place where guns made for the military are inspected. There are several in Birmingham, operated by some of the manufacturers. Every musket is inspected at every stage. It’s very laborious, but necessary. Guns that aren’t proved aren’t good for anything except perhaps the slave trade. You can’t sell them to anyone else.”
“I’m sure a gentleman of your intelligence will find a way to thrive.”
“Thankfully, I had a group of parish apprentices arrive a few weeks ago. They’re trained and set up now so I’ll be able to fill my orders.”
“Parish apprentices?”
“Yes. Children. Orphans, mostly.”
“How sad. One hears about the factory children. Working such long hours. Paid so little. Poor lambs.”
“Oh, but I don’t pay them at all, my dear!” He chuckled. “That’s the genius of it. They’re paupers. I have an…arrangement with a church warden in Coventry. He’s a hunter. Quite obsessed, actually. I supply him with guns—the very best—and he supplies me with pauper children.” Amelia was silent. “Come now, my girl. They’re fed, given a place to sleep. What’s the alternative for them? They’ve got no one. Might as well contribute something, do their part for the war effort, eh?”
“How much do they work?”
“Fourteen hours. Eight on Sundays, cleaning.”
Catharine gritted her teeth. Child labor wasn’t unusual, but not paying them—didn’t that amount to slavery? What a disgusting man. To think, this was in addition to whatever traitorous activities he might be engaged in. It made her feel slightly ill.
“Oh, have a look at that, will you, my girl? It appears I’m not so exhausted after all.”
Amelia giggled. Biedermeier had to be deaf not to hear the false note in her laughter, Catharine thought.
“Shall I get another French letter?”
“I think not,” he said. “Your mouth will do quite nicely.”
For the second time today, Catharine felt on the verge of tears. She had to stop this weepiness! It didn’t suit her. And she was so very, very tired. Now that the conversation had ceased and her heartbeat had returned to normal, she realized she was terribly uncomfortable. One of her arms was jammed behind her, against the back of the armoire, and she had to stoop in order to fit. There was nothing to do but wait it out as the horrible little interlude concluded. An episode of light snoring, no doubt from Biedermeier, seemed as though it would never end. Finally, blessedly, there was the sound of the bell. Amelia roused her guest, and after some hushed conversation and the restoration of appearances, the pair departed.
By silent agreement Catharine and Mr. Bailey remained in place for a few minutes. When it became clear the lovers were well and truly gone, Mr. Bailey nudged the door open, and she shielded her eyes against the sudden light. He helped her to her feet, his visage grim.
Gingerly, she tested her unstable legs. Amelia must have tidied the room before leaving. The bed had been made and the fire flickered cheerily. It looked cozy, innocent even. “I can scarcely believe we pulled that off,” she whispered, hoping her face would not betray the extent of the distress the encounter had caused her. “I’m glad we did, though. What a lot of useful information.”
“Not really, I’m afraid. We knew he was making small arms. That wasn’t a secret. We’re trying to find out if there’s anything irregular about what’s going on there.”
“But the children! That’s not an irregularity?”
“Child labor is not illegal. Indeed, England owes much of its trade dominance to small hands. We’re looking for evidence of treason, remember, of collusion with the French.”
Just like Blackstone, Mr. Bailey was single-minded when it came to the mission. “But he isn’t paying them! And surely such long hours are not permitted. What about the Factory Act?”
“It only pertains to the mills. Anyway, it’s impotent. Parliament neglected to appoint inspectors to enforce it. All a man has to do is bribe the local magistrate, and he’s free to do as he likes.”
“What will you do now?”
“I must see Blackstone.” He moved toward the door and opened it a crack.
“Will he help the children?”
Satisfied that the way was clear, he beckoned her. “Pardon? Yes, of course, in due time. But our immediate focus must be Biedermeier’s business. Operations mustn’t be interrupted until we learn what’s happening. All must appear normal as we find a way in.”
It seemed impossible that Mr. Bailey and Blackstone could ignore what she’d just heard. Perhaps she hadn’t the heart for espionage after all. Catharine levered herself out of the armoire.
“I must go,” Mr. Bailey said. “There’s no time to waste.”
“Please, won’t you purchase my last two hours before you go? I can’t bear to stay here any longer.” She laid her hand on his sleeve, trying to convey the urgency she felt, but stopped short of showing him the full extent of her unease. “It will only take a few moments to gather my things.”
“Of course, my lady.” They stood silently for a moment. “You’ve done a remarkable job this evening. Thank you.” He pulled away and looked at her. “You’re a natural actress, you know. You were magnificent down there at the gathering. You were Lady V.”
He meant it as a compliment, she knew, so she just nodded her thanks.
They made their way upstairs to her room. The fire had died, reduced to glowing embers. She moved around the dark room, gathering the few personal items she needed. Her gaze landed on the settee near the fire, where Dr. Burnham had done such lovely, wicked things to her just hours earlier. It seemed a lifetime ago, as if it had happened to someone else. In a way, it had. It had happened to Catharine. She knew suddenly and with certainty: that’s why the experience had been so charged, so glorious. But she wasn’t Catharine. She was Lady V. Mr. Bailey had just said as much himself.
And it was good to be Lady V sometimes. Lady V did not flinch in the face of fear. Lady V got things done. So Lady V followed Mr. Bailey down the stairs, waiting calmly while he made arrangements for them to leave. Lady V nodded at the steward who took Mr. Bailey’s money. Lady V stood, oblivious to the cold, as Mr. Bailey hired her a hackney.
“You’ll go right home?” he asked as he handed her up. “I think you’d best. We’ll all reconvene after I speak to Blackstone.”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I’ll go right home.”
Lady V would go right home. She would pour a drink and have a bath. She would sleep like the dead. Then, in the bright light of the morning, she would get up and find James Burnham.
Chapter Six
James turned up the collar of his greatcoat as he walked back to Chancery Lane after a meeting at the Society’s offices. There was a time when he would have splurged on a hackney to make the journey. There was also a time when he would have taken his lunch in a public house on the way. But given that he’d spent eighteen pounds on conversation these past two weeks, a little frugality seemed in order.
Eighteen pounds! To think how much good it could have done, how many places he would rather have seen it go than into the pockets of the covetous Madame Cherie. Especially given where it came from. Having promised himself he would use his allowance to good end—it seemed essential, given where it came from—he was ashamed. He shoved his hands into his pockets and dipped his head, as if turning his face to even this weak autumn sun would shine too much light on the hypocrisy in his heart.
He couldn’t quite regret it, though. His two brief interludes with Lady V had been more exciting than…well, than anything he’d ever done in his life. Indeed, he’d thought of nothing since, reliving them again and again in his head.
Though his acquaintance with her had ended badly, meeting her had made it abundantly clear that there would be no returning to his former chaste ways. A dam had broken. He understood now. There had been a certain logic in his desire to avoid sexual congress. Deprivation had seemed necessary, self-sacrifice noble.
Deprivation and self-sacrifice in this regard were no longer possible.
The question remained: where to find a willing partner? As leaves crunched under his feet, he fleetingly considered the possibility of tracking down Lady V in her real life. After all, how many viscountesses could there be who’d followed the drum and returned two years ago widowed from the wars? But, he reminded himself again, she didn’t want him. He would continue reminding himself until he had his wayward thoughts under control. She’d humored him, amusing herself in a whorehouse, toying with people as if they were chess pieces, playacting for her own entertainment.
But just because she was the one who’d opened the floodgates didn’t mean she was the only woman in the world. For example, here were some now. He stepped aside to allow two chattering ladies to pass, trailed by a footman carrying boxes. They were both blond with wide-set brown eyes—sisters perhaps. The October chill had pinked their cheeks. One of them caught his eye and offered a shy smile before looking away. He watched them walk off, listened to their laughter fade. Nothing. He felt nothing, though the ladies had been, by any objective standard, lovely.
He sighed. Back to the problem at hand. He could drop his longstanding opposition to marrying. A wife, he had always believed, would get in the way of his work. She would need to be cared for, entertained. And he couldn’t imagine most women would find their entertainment stomping around St. Giles’ or visiting orphanages. Except perhaps a nun, he laughed to himself, and a nun wouldn’t help his cause at all. No, his work was the most important thing, and he could not convince himself that marriage would do anything but hobble that work.
He could also hire a woman, one who offered more than conversation, and ideally at a price more in fitting with his station. But he hadn’t truly considered that option, either. It would be too ironic. One couldn’t campaign against depravity by day and partake in it by night. Someone with his origins couldn’t take that path. What if, despite efforts to prevent it, there was a child?
That left only one option—something between marriage and prostitution. He needed to find a willing woman. A lover. Someone who wouldn’t expect or want commitment. What he needed, he supposed, was a mistress, though that was hardly practical, either, as he couldn’t afford to keep one. Yes, he had money enough, but nowhere near the amount he imagined one needed to keep a mistress. No, he simply needed an…arrangement. An older woman, perhaps a widow. Someone like Lady V, in her “real” life.
But not her, of course not. He had to stop his mind from circling back to her, as it seemed to want to do. Lady V was an aristocrat who found her entertainment swanning around pretending to be a courtesan—in other words, the last sort of woman he would ever want to entangle himself with. Perhaps if he told himself often enough, it would finally sink in—she didn’t want him.
And, more importantly, he didn’t want her, either. Not really.
Satisfied that he’d tested all hypotheses and arrived at the soundest possible conclusion, James turned to climb the steps to his building, pleased with this line of thinking. The only remaining question was where to find a woman who met his criteria. There was theory, and then there was practice. But, really, there was no point in second-guessing himself. The way forward was to regard this as just another problem to solve. He had a plan, a direction, so now it was merely a matter of organizing a methodical search, of putting himself in the right places at the right times. It would require that he go about in society more than he would like, but that was a sacrifice he would have to make.
A whistle drew his attention as he was about to open the front door. Turning, he saw a small closed carriage parked on the other s
ide of the street. Its driver, dressed in a top hat, dark blue coat, and white leather breeches, beckoned him. He looked both ways. There was no one else in the street. It seemed to be his attention the man wanted so urgently. As he approached, the servant motioned toward the carriage’s door. It opened slightly. A head emerged, but it was impossible to tell anything about the occupant of the carriage, because a heavy black hood obscured everything. He craned his neck.
Everything except a blue feather, that is.
“Dr. Burnham! I must speak with you.” The door opened another fraction of an inch. “Won’t you come in?”
He struggled to keep the world in focus as his stomach dropped.
“Come in, please!” she urged again. Unable to speak, he shook his head. What was she doing here? Before he could string together anything to say, she hopped down, grabbed his arm, and began towing him across the street. “What sort of building is this? Is it the sort of building into which a gentleman can escort a hooded, cloaked lady without raising eyebrows? Have you a meddlesome landlady? What floor are you on? Which directions do your rooms face?”
“The second. And I face the back courtyard,” he said, choosing to answer the two more straightforward of her questions as he concentrated on slowing his frantic pulse.
“That’s not so high. Is there something I can climb to reach you? A trellis, perhaps?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dr. Burnham. We must speak. Alone. It’s of the utmost importance. If you won’t come into the carriage, I’m coming to you.”
Something in her tone reached him. A hint of desperation, vulnerability. Before he knew what he was doing, he gave her his arm. “Lady V, we can use the front door. The landlady, if anything, is too lax. The building is full of reprobate gentlemen of questionable character.”
She squeezed his forearm. “Thank goodness they have you then to provide a sound moral example.”
The jibe made him smile. No one had ever teased him about his work with the Society before. No one teased him about anything, not since he was a boy. Why was that? Because the work he undertook was serious, and attracted serious-minded people? Or because no one in his life knew him well enough to provoke him?
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