by Sara Bennett
“No, Mrs. March, I’ll take care of Rosie. Thank you all the same.”
Mrs. March looked as if she’d like to argue the point, but all she said, grudgingly, was, “Very well.”
Lil, when she was told, was furious. “The workhouse!”
“Yes, Lil, but you can understand her point of view. Not about Rosie. About Uncle William. He’d be horrified if he found out about her, throw a fit, and Mrs. March would get some of the blame—and she knows it.”
“You won’t send her to the workhouse?” Lil whispered, glancing over to where Rosie was playing by the window.
“No,” Francesca reassured her instantly, “of course not. I’ll think of something…” She bit her lip. What was she going to do? Even though Francesca knew Amy would stand by her in the event of an Uncle William rant, she couldn’t ask it of her. Not when things were already so tense between them. But neither was she prepared to let Rosie be taken to one of those places. Some people might do that, say it was just too hard, and wipe their hands of her, but Francesca wasn’t one of them.
There must be someone who could help…?
A name occurred to her, but it seemed so unlikely, so impossible that she tried to dismiss it from her mind. But it kept returning and wouldn’t be dismissed. She tried to consider it calmly, even though she hardly dared to contemplate such a thing. Had she anything to lose by asking…apart from a promise she’d made to herself many years ago?
“There is one person,” she said, trying it out aloud. “Aphrodite.”
“But miss…!”
“Remember how you were saying, last night, that the past never really goes away? That it’s always there, inside you? Well, you were right, Lil. I swore that I would never have anything to do with my mother, but now I’m going to ask for her help. I suppose it will serve me right when she laughs in my face and turns me from her door.”
“Madame Aphrodite isn’t bad,” Lil tried to comfort her. “Courtesans are different. I can’t explain it properly, miss. You should ask her.”
“I don’t think so.” Francesca smiled a strained smile. Her head was aching. It seemed ironic that the two people she had vowed never to allow back into her life, Sebastian Thorne and Aphrodite, were now the two people she was reliant upon. And one of them in particular seemed to be occupying her sleeping mind as well as her waking thoughts.
“Miss?” Lil was waiting for instructions.
“Rosie needs to be taken care of, Lil, and there’s nowhere else until Vivianna comes back. Nowhere else safe,” she amended. She glanced over at the child and smiled. Rosie was playing with some finger puppets Lil had made for her out of scraps of cloth, and as she bent over them, giving them voices, her fair hair curling about her, she seemed like any other little girl.
“She’ll be fine,” Lil murmured, following the direction of her gaze. “Rosie’s like us, miss. She’s a survivor.”
Sebastian squinted as the morning sun shone brightly into his eyes. He had been loitering across the square for an hour now, and he expected any moment to be apprehended and moved on. This was not the sort of area where he could watch a house unobserved, but there were only he and Martin, and he’d sent Martin to Mallory Street. After last night it was best not to take any chances; Sebastian might be recognized, but Martin’s face was new.
Last night he’d been furious with Francesca. When he’d imagined them meeting again it certainly hadn’t been in those circumstances. But there had been enjoyable moments—the challenge of losing his pursuers through the back streets and alleys of London, and the expression on Francesca’s face as the cab took her away. Without realizing it, she had told him much about her feelings for him.
She was headstrong and impulsive, and even as he felt a kinship with her, she terrified him. He never knew what she was going to do next. When he finally fell into his bed early this morning, instead of sinking into oblivion, he’d found himself tossing and turning, unable to get to sleep for thinking of her. It was her fault. If he spent much more time in her company he’d be gray-haired and stooped like an old man.
His mouth twitched, and he found himself smiling. The thing was, gray or not, he knew it would be worth it.
The sound of a carriage brought his head up again, and he watched as it came to a halt in front of the Tremaine house. Sebastian straightened, instantly alert. Francesca, dressed in another of her unflattering ragbag dresses, this time teamed with an appalling bonnet, exited via the front door. She was holding little Rosie’s hand tightly in hers, and the maid, Lil, was following closely behind. Together the three of them climbed into the carriage and were driven smartly away.
Sebastian sauntered across the street to the young crossing sweeper, whose palm he had greased earlier.
“They’re off to Aphrodite’s Club, sir,” the boy said with a proud grin.
Sebastian nodded and paid him the second installment of the amount they had agreed on.
He was puzzled. Aphrodite had told him that she and Francesca did not get on. What had occurred to send the woman of his dreams hurrying to her courtesan mother?
She was in danger, he knew that. Whatever threat she was already under due to her birth had been increased when she stole Rosie. Mrs. Slater and Jed would be looking for her, and if they didn’t know who had taken their property yet, they soon would. It was too late to stop the game. The cards had already been shuffled and dealt.
Sebastian just hoped his hand was the winning one.
Aphrodite dipped her pen in the ink pot and began to write. It had been a long time since she had written in her diary. She’d been busy, she’d told herself whenever she thought of doing so, but she knew that wasn’t the real truth. The fact was, she’d resisted telling the end of her story because it wasn’t finished yet. There was so much more to know, and until she sought the services of Mr. Thorne she’d thought she never would know.
But now she must make a start, for Francesca’s sake. She’d given her other daughters the opportunity to read about their fathers and the circumstances leading up to their births. She hoped that one day Francesca, too, would wish to know her beginnings—even if she refused to have anything to do with her mother right now.
“My love?”
Aphrodite looked up with a smile. Jemmy Dobson was leaning against the door, smiling back. “How long have you been standing there?”
Dobson moved toward her with his soldier’s stride. “I enjoy watching you. You’re a beautiful woman.”
“Ever the sweet talker, Jemmy? You do not change.”
“I hope not. Not where you’re concerned.”
Her eyes grew dark. “Perhaps we should go upstairs. Talk about these matters in bed, oui?”
“Ah, if only.” He sighed. “But you have a visitor, my love.”
“Another one of those tedious tradesmen? Maeve can deal with him.”
“It’s your daughter.”
Aphrodite frowned. “But…my daughters are away.”
“But this is your other daughter. Francesca.”
Aphrodite took an uneven breath. Carefully she laid down her pen and closed the red, leather-bound book. Francesca? How strange. It was as if it was meant to be. Was she finally to be given the chance to mend the rift with her youngest and most difficult daughter?
“My love? What should I do?”
“You must send her in, Jemmy.”
Chapter 13
Francesca had never been to Aphrodite’s Club. She’d never seen her mother in her true setting. The only times she and Aphrodite came face to face were when her mother made the journey from London to Greentree Manor. Francesca dreaded those visits. In the familiar and comfortable surroundings of the manor, the courtesan seemed out of place; far too exotic a creature. They had nothing in common. Francesca would do her duty with a few grudging words, and then escape onto the moors and stay there until suppertime. She always breathed a big sigh of relief when Aphrodite went home again.
And now it was her turn to step into Aphrodite’
s world, and she was beginning to appreciate how difficult a thing it was. Was this how Aphrodite had felt when she journeyed north? Did she worry over what sort of reception she would have?
I am here for Rosie, Francesca told herself. This is nothing to do with what is between Aphrodite and myself.
“Are you all right there, Miss Francesca?” Dobson had returned and was watching her, his gray eyes cool and assessing and, yes, sympathetic. As if he understood her turmoil. Although Francesca doubted whether he either knew or cared why she was here. What was he, after all? Just the latest in Aphrodite’s long line of lovers. Although he had lasted longer than most.
“Can I see my…her now?”
He smiled, his eyes creasing up, and suddenly she felt there was something warm and friendly about him, and instinctively she liked him. “Of course you can. I’ll take you to her. She’s workin’ in her office.”
Startled, Francesca hurried after Dobson. “Working?” she repeated. “I thought she’d be resting,” she added, when he gave her a puzzled look. “The club is open all night, is it not?”
Dobson chuckled. “Your mother does far more than stand about looking beautiful, you know, miss. This club requires a great deal of work and energy to keep it running. It’s Aphrodite’s Club in every sense of the word. She oversees every detail, gives the orders, and makes the decisions. She’s a clever woman.”
The rebuke was mildly spoken and he was still smiling, but the expression in his eyes told her he would not listen to any implied criticism of the woman he loved.
Francesca felt like a child again. Not a good start, she thought, as she passed by him and into the room. The door closed behind her with gentle finality.
Aphrodite was seated at a desk with the windows behind her. For a moment she seemed so familiar that Francesca was taken aback; it was like meeting a friend. But this was Aphrodite, and the only reason Francesca was here was that she had no other choice.
The office was small and austere, a place for working in and not for public show, like the large and mirrored salon she had glimpsed. The only touch of color and scent was a vase of white roses, overblown and dripping petals.
Francesca was surprised to see her mother like this. Whenever she imagined Aphrodite “at home,” it was as the grand courtesan, indolent, smiling, naked in the arms of her many lovers. And careless of the welfare of her children.
Now, suddenly, she was confronted with a totally different picture. This woman, seated at her desk, in a plain black silk dress with no frills, had circles under her tired eyes and ink stains on her ringed fingers. She was just like every other middle-aged woman…well, not quite. Aphrodite would never be ordinary.
“I did not know you were in London, Francesca,” Aphrodite said at last, her voice warm but not overly so. Francesca realized that the courtesan had been examining her, too.
“My moth—that is, Mrs. Jardine and I have come to stay with Mr. Tremaine. He’s been…difficult since she remarried, and taking it out on Mrs. Russell. It’s only a brief visit.” I hope.
It was as if Aphrodite heard the unspoken caveat, because she smiled. “I know you do not like London, Francesca. You must be longing for home.”
“One does what one must.”
“Very true, petit chaton.”
Little kitten! No one was less like a sweet, furry kitten, Francesca thought, than she. But before she could respond, Aphrodite pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She was not as tall as Francesca, and so slim as to be almost thin, but there was still a marked resemblance. As she came around the corner of the desk toward her, Francesca realized her mother was going to embrace her and felt herself go rigid with dismay. Aphrodite must have sensed it, because she changed her mind, and rested her hand briefly on her daughter’s shoulder before moving on to the bell rope by the door and giving it a tug.
“You have time to drink coffee with me?”
Francesca blinked. “Eh…yes, thank you.”
Aphrodite gestured for her to be seated in one of two chairs in a compact corner before an unlit fireplace. It had all the appearance of the kind of intimacy that struck fear into Francesca’s heart. She and Aphrodite having a cozy chat? But for Rosie’s sake she must do it. Francesca sat down, fussing with her skirts in a way that was totally alien to her, just to gain some time.
Ask her! Just ask her. If she says no, then so be it. You can leave
“Will you visit a modiste while you are in London?” Aphrodite asked politely, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her fingers steepled under her chin, and her dark eyes fixed on Francesca.
“I expect so. Yes. Why do you ask?” she added suspiciously.
“I am not criticizing you, petit chaton,” her mother said with a frown, “but…”
“But?”
“You are a beautiful woman. It is a shame you hide it.”
“I am myself,” Francesca retorted forcefully.
“You can be yourself without wearing clothes you found in a ragbag.”
Francesca stared at her in shock. “You sound like—”
Mr. Thorne.
“Who do I sound like, petit chaton?”
But before Francesca could find a reply, there was a tap on the door, and a young woman with smiling eyes entered. “Mr. Dobson explained you had a visitor, Madame,” she said. “I thought I’d add an extra cup.” She was carrying a tray with a silver coffeepot, delicate cups, and a matching cream jug and sugar bowl upon it, and she set it down on the table by Aphrodite’s elbow.
“Thank you, Maeve,” Aphrodite said, returning her smile. “You do not know my youngest daughter, I think. Francesca, this is Maeve, my assistant.”
“Assistant?”
“Not all of us are destined to become famous courtesans like Madame.” Maeve laughed. “By the way, the little girl wants to play in the garden—with the puppy,” she added to Aphrodite. “It was a gift to one of the girls from a gentleman friend. Your maid is keeping an eye on her. Is that acceptable, Miss Francesca?”
“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Maeve.”
On their arrival at the club, Rosie had decided she was thirsty, and Dobson had taken her and Lil off to the kitchen.
Aphrodite gave her a curious glance but she said nothing, asked nothing. She was not going to make this easy.
“I thought Marietta was going to help you to run the club?” Francesca said when Maeve was gone.
“She is. Marietta is my heir, it is all agreed. Maeve came here to be trained as one of the demimonde, but she was not suited. Not everyone is, and the choice was always hers. So now she works elsewhere in the club.” Her brows rose. “I see you are surprised, petit chaton. Did you think I forced my employees to have connection with men, whether they wanted to or not? Do you think I buy and sell girls like one of those brothels in Mallory Street? Who is this little girl Maeve spoke of? Why did you bring her here?”
She was upset. Her dark eyes were bright with tears.
Shocked, Francesca half rose from her seat. “No, no…Madame, I don’t think that, not at all. I’m sorry. I am not very good at…at this. I am expressing myself badly because I am nervous. Forgive me.”
“I make you nervous?”
Francesca laughed; she couldn’t help it, Aphrodite looked so outraged at the suggestion. “Yes, you do.”
After a moment the courtesan smiled. “I suppose I can be formidable on occasion.” Her smile wavered. “Sit down, please, and tell me why you are here. I promise not to bite you.”
Francesca drew a deep breath. The moment had come. Her explanation came out stiffly. She told her mother about going with Lil to Mallory Street and what she had seen and, in a split second, what she had decided to do. “It happened so quickly,” she said. “We ran and hid, and…and a gentleman helped us. Then I took Rosie home. At the time I didn’t think what would happen afterward.”
But to her amazement Aphrodite seemed to understand, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “You want to save this girl. You want he
r to have a chance at a proper life.”
“Yes,” she replied with relief. “I do.”
“Then what is stopping you?”
“Uncle William. If he finds out about her he’ll blame Mama…” she paused, embarrassed by the slip. “I mean Mrs. Jardine, and I cannot have that, I really cannot.” Her calm voice broke on the last word, surprising her.
“I never liked that man,” the courtesan said stonily. “Now calm yourself, petit chaton. I will take her for you, just until she can be settled elsewhere.”
“Thank you…”
“No, you must promise me something first. You must promise never to put yourself in danger again.”
“That is an easy promise.”
“Good. You mustn’t wander the streets. There is sickness, did you not know?” when Francesca appeared surprised. “It’s the cholera. No one knows how it comes and where it comes from, but it does not discriminate between the wealthy and the poor. It has no pity. At the moment it is very bad.”
“I didn’t realize.” Cholera. She knew of it, and the swift death it brought. Unlike some of the other sicknesses to be found in London, it was not something confined to the slums. Cholera, as Aphrodite said, was no respecter of class or station in life.
Aphrodite sipped her coffee. “You mentioned a gentleman who helped you?”
“Yes, Mr. Thorne.”
“Mr. Thorne?” Her dark brows lifted. “Mr. Sebastian Thorne?”
“Do you know him?” A dark, curling jealousy wrapped around Francesca as an image of Sebastian in the arms of one of Aphrodite’s beautiful courtesans filled her mind.
“He is an investigator, no? I have heard that he is good at his work. And dangerous to those he pursues.”
“Oh.”
Aphrodite’s smile was knowing. “You like him, oui? He is very handsome.”
Francesca turned her face away, pretending indifference. “I hadn’t noticed,” she announced awkwardly.
Aphrodite considered her a moment, and then she shook her head in disgust. “Psht! You can lie to yourself, but do not lie to me. I see it. No”—she held up one long finger—“no more pretense between us. We are mother and daughter, however you would wish it otherwise. Drink your coffee.”
