In his experience, Quality held themselves above the sad truth of London’s squalor. It was a subject to be discussed in Parliament, not a problem to be solved. What service could this lady seek? ‘Is it a matter of business or pleasure?’
‘I suppose it is a bit of both.’ She retreated a step though she kept her head lowered. ‘And no business of yours.’
Despite her stern set-down, the lady appeared a nervous rabbit, too quick to glance over her shoulder or beyond at the slightest noise, though every motion accentuated her misplaced presence and drew further attention. He watched a suspicious shadow across the street who paid close notice to their interaction. Didn’t the woman know the perils of the area? Did all of higher society live with their heads in the clouds?
Probably.
‘You shouldn’t have come, looking like that to meander through the streets.’ He’d only meant to think the words, yet somehow they’d wound up spoken. In hope of making amends he added, ‘A lady isn’t safe on the streets of Charing Cross.’ He watched and waited, feeling foolish in the altogether.
‘And who are you?’ She measured his worth with a glance down her nose, though most of her expression was lost to the offending scarf.
‘A friend of the area. I’m familiar with these streets, although any clever fellow knows you can’t parade through this part of London unescorted, dressed in fine-spun attire.’ He motioned with his hand to underscore his warning. ‘It isn’t safe.’
‘I’ll thank you kindly to mind your business. Good day.’ She jerked to the left in an effort to pass, slanting a dismissive flick of clear green confidence in his direction. He didn’t move. Her cheeks appeared pinkened by her fluster and when she stepped back in surprise, the sudden motion forced the scarf to drape about her slender shoulders and reveal her face.
A kick in the gut. It was the only way to describe the impact of the lady’s attention. He’d known pretty before and this woman erased every remembrance in his brain. He stuttered to a stop, his next thought lost while his heart raced to a fast-paced thrum. She wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful. Fair skin, long blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight despite they stood in one of the dankest areas of London. He swallowed. Twice. ‘You should take heed.’ Misplaced and unexpected protectiveness rallied the words. ‘The world can change in the blink of an eye.’ Or the shove off a carriage step.
‘I understood your warning the first time; still, I have a matter of great importance to pursue.’
She appeared undeterred, though her voice quavered.
‘That doesn’t change the circumstances.’ Why the devil would this lovely miss seek Maggie? She couldn’t be looking for one of her own, could she? In his experience, no one searched for the children lost to the street. Quality preferred to believe they didn’t exist, or worse, abandoned them there.
‘In that case I have no choice than to return another day.’ Her voice trailed off as her eyes sought his one last moment.
Green. Yes, her eyes were definitely green, the irises trimmed with a muted gold hue, but green nonetheless. A fetching shade he hadn’t seen before, albeit grass and trees didn’t grow in this part of London.
‘I had hoped to find Miss Devonshire at home, but perhaps my goal proved optimistic.’
In an effort to ease her distress, he signalled towards the street. ‘Allow me to hail you a hackney.’ Her eyes shifted to the building over his shoulder as if she wished to see through the walls. ‘Will you walk with me to the corner?’ He wondered at her decision to arrive in this part of the city unescorted, and worse, to accept a stranger’s invitation. Granted, he could portray anyone given provocation, the Earl of Evesham or Duke of Kent, all or none of the worldly gents who frequented the Underworld, as well as a sly swindler or outspoken newsmonger from the corner.
‘I’ve made a mistake. Thank you.’ She turned and walked away as if she strolled through Hyde Park without a worry in the world, her fine leather boots, dangling reticule and embroidered hems all tempting distractions to the seedy undercurrent in the surround.
He called out in her wake. ‘Pay heed to the shadows for that’s where the darkest secrets hide.’
‘Thank you again.’ She shook her head and dismissed his warning without a glance backwards.
A shift of attention from across the street alerted he wasn’t the only one who watched her progress. ‘Wait.’
But his warning came too late. A scamp, not unlike the boy he once was, although he’d never nabbed a purse, darted across the roadway and yanked the reticule from the lady’s arm. Her squeal of distress sent an arrow through his heart when he’d only just warned her to be careful and now she’d fallen prey.
Were he to chase the little thief he would leave the lady unprotected. By the same token, he could hardly play hero if he stood idle while the scamp made off with the goods.
‘Stay here.’ He dared a touch to her upper arm. ‘Don’t move away from this house.’
He set off in a run, hoping the thief had stopped to rifle through the contents and discard the reticule, thus leaving behind a clue. Still, fencing a lady’s purse brought equal coin, so he remained doubtful.
With his belated reaction and the overcome streets of Charing preventing any telltale path, he quit pursuit before he’d advanced half a block. A few choice curses added to the cacophony of the place he once called home, the sticky-fingered scallywag able to dodge and dart with more skill than a squirrel.
With efficient briskness, Cole returned to find the lady where he’d left her. At least there was that. He heaved a sigh of relief as his first order of business.
‘I could not catch him. I would ask a few questions of the population but, in my estimation, you will never see your belongings again.’ He waited, anticipating a loud bout of tears.
‘At least it was only coin and not something more valuable.’ Her comment snared his attention. She seemed hardly bothered by the turn of events. How peculiar. She pierced him with a crystalline gaze that communicated on another level altogether. ‘Thank you, Mr…’
‘Goodworth.’ A note of sadness prodded his conscience at the false name. Then, like always, he pushed through it. ‘At your service.’
She smiled and the sun shined a little brighter. ‘I’m Lady Amberson.’
‘Well then, Lady Amberson…’ He’d known she was gentry. ‘Allow me to see you where you need to go. My point has been proven by the loss of your purse. We shouldn’t invite additional mishap.’ He extended his arm to lead her away in an act of gentlemanly expectation. ‘Right this way.’ Without further hesitation he moved on, the unspoken agreement that she would follow a gamble of sorts. ‘I know these streets well and can nab a hack without delay.’ They reached the corner. With a wave and sharp whistle, true to his word, a rented hackney pulled to the curb. ‘Please take the lady wherever she needs to go.’ He paid the driver and turned towards Lady Amberson to offer his hand. ‘That should do it.’
She climbed into the cab with a quizzical look he would remember always. The driver flicked the reins and then they were gone.
Chapter Three
Gemma bounced on the leather bolster, her thoughts as jumbled as the rickety ride she endured for the sake of anonymity. Her brother’s head would roll off his neck if he knew the risk she’d taken for the narrow opportunity to learn the details of Father’s death. She had no explanation for the niggling insistence something problematic occurred that night. Despite what she was told hours later, when her father’s body had been returned to Stratton House and news of the death of the Duke of Kent had begun to break, she believed in her heart things went amiss, circumstance doubtable.
According to her brother, Father had perished in a tragic accident. A carriage run off the road by some type of conveyance that caused a calamity of large proportion, of which her father became victim. Yet what of Winton’s suggestion of a supposed visit to Charing Cross? Why would her father need to visit Miss Devonshire? And who was this wo
man who may have been the last person to ever speak to her father?
Gemma needed to contrive another visit to Charing Cross and that would not be accomplished easily. She’d lied to Nan and sent the servant on a fool’s errand in order to escape her scrutiny and venture out undetected. Now Gemma’s conscience pained from the falsehoods.
Questions swirled in a storm of discontent. With her sister unwell and brother on guard, she had no one to offer help. Not a soul. Thank heavens, Mr Goodworth seemed congenial by half. Something about his manner, his familiarity and kind grin assured he’d meant her no harm, for while she strove to portray a confident, independent woman, her heart beat as if it would burst. It was clear the poor man lived a dismal existence, his greasy hair and sallow complexion a banner of impoverished existence – although he did have lovely eyes, a light brown with glittering flecks of gold, reflective through his spectacles. She shook her head with the ridiculous embellishment. Perhaps she wished too much to find something good in everyone. Glistening eyes might be a sign of terminal disease for all she knew of the plague-ridden conditions in Charing Cross.
However, the manner in which he’d run through the street after the boy who had stolen her reticule proved he was not terribly depleted. He’d risked his personal safety on her behalf with nothing to gain aside from gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a coin. Hadn’t vied for attention. Instead he’d cautioned her with an articulate warning, his refined speech in contradiction to his outward appearance.
Unlike Winton. The thought of Winton sparked a flame of annoyance. Barter for a kiss? She thought not. At least she had the span of a week to investigate Miss Devonshire before confronting him again. Perhaps Mr Goodworth would be there when she ventured back to Edith Avenue. He did seem a helpful, harmless man, no matter he lived on the streets. She certainly hoped he was in good health. He stood a full head taller than she and the breadth of his shoulders and manner that he purported himself did not immediately evoke thoughts of vagrancy. Not that she knew much concerning the deprivation, but the familiar complaints voiced by her brother described a different depiction than Mr Goodworth’s congenial disposition. When the man had smiled, it was as if she could see a whole different person inside the downtrodden exterior.
Oh, how her brother would condemn her sympathies and accuse her of romanticising the scourge of greater London. He held little tolerance for the poverty-stricken population.
The hackney slowed, caught in a muddle of traffic on Hart Street, and she turned her attention towards the sidewalk, where a string of shops and eateries bordered the roadway. Stalled for the time being, her gaze settled on a coffee house at the corner where she noticed with surprise Lady Sophie Daventry sitting behind the large glass window. This area, not far from Mayfair, proved safer for outings. The urge to talk to Sophie and perhaps form an alliance, or at the least a reassurance, took hold with such demand Gemma knocked on the driver’s box before she could think the better of it.
Gathering her skirts, she exited carefully and made her way towards the table where Sophie sat alone. As if Sophie expected someone, she caught her eye immediately, replacing an expression of surprise with a delayed smile. Gemma wove her way through the pedestrian traffic and walked to the side of an unoccupied chair.
‘Sophie, it’s good to see you. May I sit down? I have a matter of personal nature to discuss.’
Sophie motioned to an open place at the table. ‘I’m happy for the company. Do sit.’
She didn’t offer more and Gemma was too pleased at the opportunity to hesitate. As always, Sophie portrayed the startling beauty most men found irresistible although the sparkle of mischief and perhaps unharnessed impulsivity in her eyes alerted the stronger gender to proceed with caution.
Once niceties about the present coincidence were dispensed, Gemma delved into the heart of the matter. ‘I have wondered if you attend the Bardsleys’ card party for the same reasons I do or if you genuinely prefer to play Loo?’
Their eyes caught and Sophie seemed to assess Gemma’s worth, not in an untoward or disdainful way, more in the manner of a friend who is worried how much of a confidence to share and whom to regard as the right person.
‘I hope to discover information to help my family cope with a crisis, but I’d rather not divulge the details. Please understand.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Gemma shook her head in the positive. ‘I attend for the same reason, although my father’s death is public knowledge. I can’t help but feel something’s left untold, the dubious incident unsettled in my heart. My brother will not speak of it and Rosalind, my sister, will not speak at all.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Sophie’s cheerful smile dropped away. ‘Have you had any luck gaining clues? All I’ve discovered is that Lord Hodge studies my décolletage more than his cards and Lord Winton is as genuine as a clock with three hands.’
‘Indeed.’ Gemma’s brows raised high. ‘Winton promised me information in exchange for a kiss.’
‘He didn’t? That’s scandalous.’ Sophie’s eyes flared before she blinked several times. ‘I hope you told him to go straight to the devil.’
‘I didn’t, sadly, though I mentioned his information had no way to be proven and therefore didn’t warrant the boon. I think he believes himself irresistible. He proposed I wear a particular gown next Friday when I deliver the kiss simply because he favours the colour.’ She huffed a breath of impatience. ‘I could never be with a man who affects airs and regards others as insignificant, at call to do his bidding. Can you imagine?’ She tried her best to mimic his overbearing arrogance and the two ladies burst into giggles.
‘I had an interesting episode while exploring Charing Cross this afternoon.’ Gemma waited for Sophie’s reaction with the mention, anticipating shock and outrage. She wasn’t disappointed.
‘Good heavens! Charing Cross? You are more daring than I believed.’ Sophie took a long sip and folded, then refolded, her napkin. ‘You remind me of my dear friend, Vivienne Beaumont. Well, she’s Vivienne Sinclair with her recent marriage, but will always be Vivienne Beaumont to me.’ This explanation seemed to satisfy Sophie. ‘She knew what she wanted and went after it, boldly trespassing at the Underworld gaming hell and embracing a future of happiness. She recently married one of the proprietors. For a time she was truly lost, but her future couldn’t be brighter now.’
‘The Underworld? I don’t know of it.’ Gemma leaned closer, anxious to glean understanding.
‘Women are not supposed to know of it while men believe it one of London’s best-kept secrets, an exclusive club where every buck and nobleman wagers against their future inheritance. I haven’t visited myself although I’m told it’s one of the most popular indulgences; a dangerous place, full of enormous wagers, flowing liquor and a high disregard of society’s rules.’ She leaned closer now too. ‘And if I may confide in you, the Underworld is one of the last places my brother visited before abandoning London, so I’m absolutely desperate to get into this alleged hall of vice. It might provide the clues I need to find him, or at least, convince him to return home. Otherwise he’s abandoned London and fled with no trace of discovery.’
‘Oh.’ Gemma understood her friend’s dedication. ‘Thank you for your trust, Sophie. I have a sister who causes me concern. I know how awful it feels to carry the burden of familial discontent and the hopelessness that accompanies the situation.’
‘We have a lot in common then, don’t we?’ Sophie matched her candid stare.
‘We do.’
They sat in companionable silence a few minutes longer, the crack of the whip and rolling traffic outside an ambient backdrop to their inner thoughts until Gemma voiced a suggestive proposition.
‘Couldn’t Vivienne gain us entry into the hell? Now that she’s married to one of the owners, she could invite friends inside, could she not?’
‘I’m sure of it, but I’ve hesitated asking that very same question for many reasons. Vivienne has just returned from her wedding tri
p and I dare not burden her with my worries at the moment. Perhaps, once she’s settled… though something more important which holds me back, my parents have strictly forbidden I go anywhere near the Underworld. They hired a man for assistance in the search and have only me now.’ After a few breaths and without warning Sophie’s expression shifted, her eyes bright with a mischievous gleam. ‘Although you do have a fine point. If we went into the hell together and left in the same manner, I can’t see the harm in the little adventure. My brother was first to warn me to the perils of the establishment and yet he was last seen there before he vanished. I miss him dearly, but more so I need to know of his safety and happiness. We are…’ She paused, a shadow of sorrow colouring her eyes. ‘Were very close. I despise disregarding my parents’ wishes but, like you, I believe there is more to the story if only I embraced the opportunity to discover it.’
‘We have a plan in the making.’ Gemma tapped the tablecloth with her fingertip to underscore her intent. ‘I’ve not been forbidden from entering the Underworld. My brother will never know were I to take the risk and in that way we can help each other. He hardly notices activity beyond our breakfast conversation and remains consumed with his acts of Parliament.’ Gemma’s mouth twisted in a mulish frown of disappointment. ‘I daresay I could help you with little effort on my part.’
‘This could work to our favour.’ Sophie nodded. ‘We can join together to advance our individual causes and assist each other without breaking the stringent rules placed on our involvement. Two are better than one and all that. I like your manner of thinking. How can I help you?’
‘Oh, Sophie, this idea is brilliant.’ She dashed a quick squeeze to Sophie’s hand atop the table. ‘Next Friday at Loo, would you mention my father’s passing and see if something is said at your table? It can’t hurt to pose a few questions.’ Her optimistic determination proved contagious.
Into the Hall of Vice Page 3
