by Adele Clee
It was such statements that reinforced her unsuitability to work on the streets. “And do you honestly think he’d use the money to buy food?”
“We could have bought him a meat pie.”
“And watch him turn his nose up at our generosity. There are better ways to help the poor than supporting their need to sell stolen spirits.”
Mrs Chambers sighed. “As always, I suspect you’re right.”
After dodging two boys clutching a stolen loaf while a baker chased their heels, Daniel turned the corner and escorted his companion to the house on Maiden Lane.
“As I’ve never been to such an establishment before,” Daphne Chambers began as she searched the facade with some curiosity, “I doubt it is as easy as you knocking the door and fluttering your long lashes.”
“Is that your way of saying you think my eyes possess a feminine quality?” Daniel mocked.
A sweet smile lit up her face as she stared into his eyes. It was a vision he’d pictured on many a cold, lonely night.
“I know many ladies who would give everything they own to have eyes as attractive as yours.” She paused, then added, “Unless you’re in a bad mood, which I understand is fairly frequently, then they lose their lustre.”
Compliments usually failed to penetrate his steely composure. He was not a man who needed praise to feel worthy. Far too many people spouted drivel in order to win favour. But Daphne Chambers was not one of them. When she gave praise, she meant it.
“Then I shall try my best to convey a positive disposition when in your company.”
“Perhaps if you lost the beard, I might be granted the opportunity of seeing you smile,” she replied with a hint of amusement.
Daniel stroked his facial hair. “Does it not make me look more distinguished?”
“If distinguished means looking ten years older, and like a man who’s slept in a bush for the past year, then yes.” Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the downstairs window. “With the price of candles, you’d think the occupants would avoid closing the drapes during the day.”
“What the eye doesn’t see the lips can’t tell,” he said. “Privacy is a priority when dabbling in unlawful pursuits.”
“Yet you presume the occupants will allow you entry.”
Daniel stepped up to the door, raised the brass knocker and let it fall. “Mr Cutter knows he can rely upon my discretion.”
“Mr Cutter?”
“The custodian. One of his patrons blackmailed him, and he hired me to fix the problem.” Cutter was more like a mother to the gentlemen who sought the freedom to dress and act how they pleased. “Periodically, he pays me to wander the house and search the rooms as a deterrent to those who might have similar ideas. I usually send Bostock.”
Before another word was spoken, Cutter opened the spy hatch, which to anyone passing looked like any other wooden panel, and with a narrow gaze scrutinised them from head to toe. It took but a few seconds for his suspicious expression to brighten into an inviting smile.
“Mr Thorpe! What an honour it is to have you call upon us.” Cutter’s chubby cheeks glowed and his tone brimmed with admiration. Daniel found it somewhat unnerving though he would never admit so to Mrs Chambers. “Let me open the door for you at once, sir.”
The rattling of keys accompanied the clunk of a lock or two. Cutter hid behind the door, his flamboyant hand gesture beckoning them into the hall. As soon as they crossed the threshold, he slammed the door shut with the urgency of a man seeking sanctuary from a pack of bloodthirsty wolves.
“Goodness me.” Cutter patted his brow with the lace-trimmed handkerchief and sucked in a deep breath. “Blasted street urchins will be the death of me. Lord knows how they sneak in here. We found one hiding under the bed in Catherine Parr’s room. The blighter was stealing from the guests when they were otherwise engaged.”
“Catherine Parr?” Mrs Chambers said.
“All the bedchambers are named after the wives of Henry VIII,” Daniel informed.
Daphne Chambers raised an amused brow. “Then I assume there are not many who want to stay in Jane Seymour’s room. The poor lady is said to have died in her bed.”
Cutter turned his attention to Mrs Chambers, his wide eyes settling on the generous bosom ensconced in green silk. A sight Daniel found equally hard to ignore. “Ah, my initial assessment was correct. I need hear but one word to confirm a person’s gender.”
Mrs Chambers frowned.
“Many ladies knock Mr Cutter’s door,” Daniel said, “though their clothing does not always convey their sex.”
Mrs Chambers gasped as recognition dawned. “You thought I was a man?”
“One can never be sure.” The custodian fiddled nervously with the ruffles on his shirt. “Patrons spend months perfecting the grace of the feminine form. Even so, a lady’s soft melodic tones are harder to master.”
“Well, I do not know whether to be flattered or offended.” Mrs Chambers ran her fingers over her lips and patted the ebony hair below the rim of her bonnet.
“Oh, you must be flattered, my dear.” Cutter took to waving his handkerchief around again. “It takes layers of powder to create such a clear complexion. Now, follow me through to the drawing room where we may speak in private.”
As Daniel gestured for Mrs Chambers to follow Mr Cutter along the gloomy hallway, he bowed his head and whispered, “Don’t look so glum. There is nothing masculine about you. Every part of you oozes feminine appeal.”
She looked up at him, a little startled. “Are your kind words merely a means to appease my injured pride?”
Daniel cursed inwardly for giving a voice to his thoughts. “No, purely to convey what is apparent to most virile men.”
“And you count yourself a member of this group?”
“Have I not just said so?”
Mr Cutter escorted them into a dimly lit room at the rear of the house. The thick burgundy drapes were drawn. The only light came from the candles burning in the wall sconces, and it brought to mind thoughts of a previous case where Daniel had been hired to prove it wasn’t a ghost rattling the door knob at night.
“Pray take a seat.” With a few flicks of his handkerchief, Cutter dusted the cushions on the carved mahogany sofa. “I shall ring for refreshments.”
“Do not go to any trouble on our account.” Daniel raised his hand hoping the man would stop flapping. “We have an urgent appointment elsewhere, and so I shall come straight to the point.”
Cutter stopped abruptly and gave them his full attention.
“There was an incident at a modiste shop,” Daniel continued. “I have a strong suspicion that the person responsible spends time here.” Mr Cutter’s molly-house was the only establishment to cater to those gentlemen in society who considered themselves progressive. “We mean the man concerned no harm, but simply seek to confirm he is the culprit.”
Cutter put a hand on his portly stomach. “Am I allowed to ask as to the nature of this incident?”
“The fellow smashed the front window,” Mrs Chambers said, “and then staggered away from the scene mumbling incoherently. Witnesses describe him as tall and lithe, wearing the clothes of a gentleman.”
“My dear, you have just described half the gentlemen in Mayfair.” Cutter shook his head. “What led you to my door?”
Daniel cleared his throat. “I believe the same man who asked the modiste to make a gown with nothing more than measurements, is the same man who smashed the window.” Even logical thought required a certain creativity. “Humour me, Mr Cutter. The gentleman will be of good breeding, intelligent, yet emotionally unbalanced.”
Mrs Chambers took a step forward. “Maybe the internal struggle between the heart and mind affects his ability to reason.”
At some point in their lives, most people experienced the imbalance between what they wanted to do and what they should do. Sometimes, cutting the heart off to all emotion was the only way to achieve a peaceful existence.
“The majority of me
n who spend time here display excessive bouts of sentimentality,” Cutter said as he rubbed his chin. “Though they tend to swoon rather than smash windows.”
“Can you think of anyone whose internal conflict is apparent to all?” Daniel said.
With meditative strokes of his neat white beard, Cutter contemplated the question. “There’s Mr Harrison, or Rosalyn Harrison to us. She is forever complaining about her inability to pass for a woman. I found her gargling a strange liquid bought from the apothecary that is said to soften the voice.”
“So, Mr Harrison dresses as a woman when here?”
“Yes,” Cutter nodded. “When in a good mood, Rosalyn is quite popular.”
Daniel cast Mrs Chambers a sidelong glance. As a working woman she challenged accepted modes of conduct yet, with her tilted head and slack expression, it was obvious she found the thought of Mollys bemusing.
“And Mr Harrison is often volatile, easily angered?”
“Not always, no. I’d say his moods tend to border on self-pity. It’s his limp.” Cutter spoke softly. “One struggles with the feminine graces when hampered by such an obvious affliction.”
“His limp,” Daniel repeated. The pawnbroker mentioned seeing a gentleman with a similar impediment hovering outside the modiste shop. Perhaps the man seen staggering away from the scene was not drunk at all. “Can you tell me where I might find Mr Harrison?”
“Why, he is upstairs practising for the play.” Cutter leant forward. “You are welcome to speak to him, but the lady must remain here.”
As though a bitter wind had swept in from the north, the air in the room turned frosty.
“I am Mr Thorpe’s partner in this case, not a wanton widow eager for entertainment.” Daphne Chambers squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “As such, I shall accompany him when he makes his enquiries.”
Cutter held up his hands. “Please, my dear, I mean no offence. But it is not wise to parade about the upstairs rooms when we are open for business.” Cutter squirmed when the last few words tumbled awkwardly from his lips. “Certain assumptions will be made.”
“Mr Cutter, besides the fact I am more than capable of dealing with most situations, have you failed to notice the impressive breadth of Mr Thorpe’s chest? Does he look like a man who would see a lady harassed or harmed? No. I would enter a pit full of vipers if he were my companion, and so I hardly think gentlemen in gowns will prove to be a problem.”
A hard lump formed in Daniel’s throat. Her faith in his ability was not unfounded. He had saved her life once. The memory of chasing away the mugger, of seeing her body tremble as she crumpled to a heap in the dark alley, roused a pain like no other. He’d taken her home, sat with her while she slept, until her neighbour came to relieve him. That night, he took solace in a bottle of brandy. And he prayed for a way to bring his friend back from the grave so someone could protect the reckless widow.
“Mr Thorpe.” Cutter coughed to get Daniel’s attention. “I said I trust you do not object to the lady’s request.”
“Mrs Chambers is a highly skilled enquiry agent,” Daniel said. Well, that’s what he’d told himself when he stopped following her at night, when she refused to listen to reason or obey his command. “And she’s right. Anyone wishing to hurt her will have to deal with me.”
Mrs Chambers looked up at him and smiled.
Cutter shook his head numerous times. “This is a place of sanctuary for those who seek to escape from the prejudices of the world. The ladies are not comfortable with men brawling.”
“Trust me.” Daniel cast the custodian an arrogant look. “One word is all it takes for me to bring calm to a situation.” He was aware of Mrs Chambers’ gaze drifting over his face, searching, probing. “You’ll not hear a raised voice or cross word. I promise you that.”
“Then you may proceed upstairs.” Cutter flicked his chubby fingers at the door. “You will find Rosalyn Harrison with the other ladies in the private parlour. It’s the first door on the left in what used to be the Seymour bedchamber. The name is on the plate. Oh, and if anyone questions you, Thorpe, just say I asked you to call, but you’re yet to discover why.”
Daniel nodded and escorted Mrs Chambers to the upstairs floor. They followed the dull tinkling of an out-of-tune pianoforte and the high-pitched screech that occasionally broke into a baritone.
The door to the Seymour room was ajar, and so they slipped inside so as not to cause too much of a distraction.
“Bravo, Miss Melinda. Bravo!” a man cheered from the small row of seats positioned in front of the pianoforte. His greasy hair was parted in the centre, and his hand shook as he held up his monocle to examine the ladies. “You have the voice of a nightingale, so sweet and full of gaiety.”
“Oh, my lord,” the lady replied, though her hook nose, square jaw and the dark shadow gracing her jaw confirmed the silk gown and white wig were merely a means to create a facade. “Were it not for Miss Brown’s excellent playing I fear I would sound rather mediocre.”
“Nonsense,” another gentleman cried from his seat at the card table at the back of the room. “You are an accomplished young lady, Miss Melinda.”
The lady put her hand to her lips and tittered as she batted her lashes and looked to the floor.
“And we have two more come to hear your delightful playing, Miss Brown,” came another masculine voice from somewhere in the audience.
All heads turned in their direction though it was Mrs Chambers who captured their attention. Greedy gazes travelled over her curvaceous form. The lady known as Miss Melinda cast a jealous scowl while Miss Brown stared in awe.
“Please,” Mrs Chambers began, “continue with the delightful show.”
Her voice possessed the soft, soothing quality that stirred the senses. It was a sound that appealed to most men. A sound the other ladies in the room struggled to master.
“Yes, please continue,” Daniel reaffirmed leading Mrs Chambers to the empty sofa before a patron made an illicit proposition and fists flew.
There was an awkward moment of silence. Miss Brown tinkled her keys to distract the gentlemen in the seats from the stunning beauty who had just entered the room. Of course, it wasn’t the feminine form they sought. The lady at his side lacked the tools necessary to satisfy these particular men.
“Why are they staring at me like starving dogs eyeing a juicy slab of beef?” Mrs Chambers said as Miss Melinda’s barely adequate rendition of The Mermaid’s Song drifted through the room.
“The women who frequent this establishment are not women at all,” he replied unable to hide the hint of amusement in his tone. “No doubt the men are mesmerised by your perfect disguise. The ladies only wish they were half as attractive.” He met Mrs Chamber’s gaze, and she swallowed deeply.
“Heavens, Mr Thorpe. I’ve barely heard a word from you in the last few years and yet you have paid me three compliments in the last hour alone. Perhaps you’re keen to unsettle me.”
Damn.
As a man detached from emotion, he often spoke his mind. What need had he to hide the truth? People’s opinions mattered little. So why did he fear telling Daphne Chambers his innermost thoughts? Probably because the more time he spent in her company, the more likely he was to drop to his knees, clutch her hands and beg to know why the hell she refused his suit three years ago.
“It was merely an observation,” he countered. “I state the facts as I see them.”
“A general observation or a personal one?” When he frowned, she added, “Is it your personal opinion of my countenance or how you deem others see me?”
Bloody hell.
Why could she not nod and giggle like the simpering miss murdering Haydn’s masterpiece on the pianoforte?
While Daniel endeavoured to form a reply, his attention was drawn to the insipid lady shuffling past, her gaze rooted to the floor.
“Come.” Daniel stood abruptly and offered his hand to Mrs Chambers. “Our business demands we leave.”
“Wha
t, so soon? But I’ve only just sat down.”
He pulled her to her feet. “Mr Harrison is leaving the room.”
Mrs Chambers turned and stared at the figure attempting to squeeze unnoticed through the narrow gap in the door. “But how do you know that’s—”
“Never mind. I’ll explain later.” They hurried out into the hall. Only the missed note on the pianoforte and a sudden screech from Miss Melinda indicated anyone had noted their departure. “Mr Harrison,” Daniel called out to the figure hurrying across the landing.
The person ground to a halt but did not turn around.
“We wish you no harm,” Mrs Chambers said.
Daniel stepped closer. “Surely you know why we’re here.”
With the information gathered from the pawnbroker, and from the gentleman’s impediment, it was obvious they’d found the right fellow.
Mr Harrison turned slowly. “What … what do you want with me?”
“Two things,” Daniel said bluntly. There was no time to pass pleasantries. They had one more visit to make to complete their business, and it was difficult to focus when all he cared about was discovering the identity of Daphne Chambers’ mysterious intruder. “We require a confession and an explanation.”
“A confession?” Mr Harrison’s hollow cheeks accentuated his timid countenance. He was one of life’s victims. No doubt problems followed him wherever he went. “But it is obvious to everyone that I’m a man. And don’t ask me to explain that which I fail—”
“Do not play games, Mr Harrison. Admit to being the person who caused the damage at Madame Fontaine’s shop and agree to pay for the repairs. That is all we require. Twenty pounds should suffice.”
“Twenty pounds!” the gentleman cried, all trace of feminine intonation abandoned. “For a broken window.”
Mrs Chambers sucked in a breath. “I believe you have just confessed, sir, as Mr Thorpe made no mention of the window. Though I agree, twenty pounds is far too steep for a pane of glass.”
Mr Harrison clasped his hands together in prayer. “It was a stupid lapse of judgment. Perhaps Madame Fontaine will allow me to work to repay the debt for I do not have a spare shilling to my name.”
