Lady of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  They walked in just behind two men who pushed by and barged ahead of them. Stale air laden with smells both human and alcoholic greeted them in the dark, filthy entry.

  The noise came from the second level. Arm hovering behind her in protection, Nathaniel brought her up the tread-worn stairs and they peered in.

  The room served as the gin house. A crowd filled it, sitting on old chairs and a long table and even the floor. A woman propped in a corner had gone unconscious, and from the looks of her dishabille had been trifled with in her stupor.

  There were young children here, drinking like the adults. Several boys no more than fifteen also huddled in a corner with their gin cups, gambling amongst themselves with dice.

  Nathaniel caught the eye of one and held up a shilling.

  The boy casually left his friends and walked over to the doorway. He assessed their garments, lingering a moment on the reticule Charlotte had tucked firmly under her arm.

  “Are you Finley’s boys?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Old John’s dead. There ain’t no Finley’s boys no more, and we n’er were.” He cocked his head toward the others. “We’re our own gang.”

  “Where would I find the boys who used to be with Old John?”

  “There’s some ’ere. Up above.” He grinned salaciously. “They be busy, though.”

  Nathaniel glanced at the ceiling. His mouth’s line turned hard and flat. “I doubt any of the ones above are whom we want. The boy we seek is about ten years of age.”

  The youth grinned again. “Lot you know. Had me first ’fore I was ten.”

  “This one is very dark in eyes and hair. Like a foreigner. Have you seen him here?”

  “I know ’im. Seen ’im with Finley sometimes. Not up there or here a’tall. Not for days.”

  Nathaniel was only too glad to hand over the shilling. He began moving Charlotte back toward the stairs.

  “That one may be at the inn,” the youth said to their backs. “Hear tell the young’uns stayed there.”

  “What inn?”

  “Not a real inn. We cud show ye. Cost three o’ these.” He held up the shilling. “Have to walk, though. The lane is narrow.”

  Nathaniel smiled, but his eyes could have melted steel. “I am not entering a dark alley with your gang, boy. Only you. The others stay here. You can share the money with them later. Try anything, put this lady in any danger, and I will break you in two.”

  Finley’s lair was on a skinny lane nearby that stunk of manure and waste and rot. The old half-timbered structure really might have been an inn centuries ago; and in a different setting and with a coat of whitewash it would have been picturesque. Its roof was pitched high and its base tilted down at one end, where the ground had settled over the ages and split its foundations.

  Nathaniel paid the boy and sent him off. He insisted on keeping Charlotte close as they entered. He had been alert and attentive while he guided her through the fetid neighborhood behind their guide. His arm remained behind her back the whole way, as if he feared she might get snatched by someone passing amidst the bumping crowd that flowed along the lanes.

  “It is used for storage,” he said as they stepped in off the street. He blew dust off a wooden box so the lettering showed. “Wine from France. No tariff stamps, so it must have been smuggled.”

  “It is a wonder it hasn’t all been stolen. The neighbors must know Finley is dead.”

  “Perhaps they fear he will reach out from the grave.”

  They followed a narrow path between the boxes, looking for evidence of children. Nathaniel was able to see over the stacks and he surveyed the walls.

  “There is a door back there. Let us see where it leads.”

  It opened on wooden stairs much newer than the building. Even so, Charlotte had to accept Nathaniel’s firm grasp on her arm to get down.

  Blackness engulfed them at the bottom. She smelled the damp. A quick touch told her this space had been carved out of the ground, and its earthen walls plastered. Hard-packed dirt served as a floor.

  Nathaniel had to duck his head to fit under the low ceiling’s timbers. “Wait here. There is a window over there, between those joists. I will open the shutters.”

  The dark swallowed him. Between the sounds of his boots, she heard a rustle to her left. Her skin prickled. She stepped back so she could make an escape if rats emerged at her feet.

  The shutter swung. A diagonal column of light flowed into the basement from the tiny, high window. The dusty beam illuminated an astonishing array of objects.

  It glanced over the side of a fine mahogany cabinet, then skimmed the surface of a table set with china. Charlotte’s gaze followed its path onto a Persian carpet, until the spot where it ended on a pair of knees.

  Knees?

  Her eyes adjusted to the light’s diffusion. She made out the form of a crouching person and a jumble of humps around it.

  “Old John lived well in his lair.” Nathaniel had returned to her side. His hold on her arm returned as well, this time with a squeeze of warning. His attention fixed on the humps. “Carpets and fine furniture. He probably ate with silver too. He made a little palace down here.”

  He stepped between her and the knees. His position also blocked the stairs.

  “Come forward now,” he said. “We are not going to hurt you.”

  Faint whispers hissed from the corner. The humps moved. The knees resisted.

  “Go on now,” a boy’s voice said.

  The shadows reassembled themselves into little people. Five children stepped into the light.

  Two were girls no older than twelve, so pale and thin that their eyes looked huge. Two were young boys about eight years old. They tried to appear fierce, but they had not mastered the hardness it would take to hide their fear.

  The tallest bowed his head as he whispered some words in smaller ears. This boy looked to be the oldest, maybe ten or so, and he had very dark hair.

  “Where are the older ones?” Nathaniel asked.

  The dark head rose. Black eyes gazed toward them. The light flowed over a long, soft face.

  Time froze for two instants while Charlotte stared. Recognition sounded in her blood, quickly replaced by a familiarity less specific but more disconcerting.

  Her rational mind quickly assessed both reactions. They had been evoked by the most general resemblance, one extremely vague. Had she not been anticipating something, she probably would have never seen it.

  In truth, now that she looked harder, there was no true resemblance at all.

  “What older ones?” the boy asked.

  “The ones I saw you with outside the Old Bailey.”

  “Gone,” a girl said. “Gone to seek their fortunes, ain’t they?”

  “Harry here would’n go, ain’t that right, Harry? They would’n take us all, so he would’n go,” a boy piped in. He gave Harry an adoring look.

  “Is that your name? Harry?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Is what Old John called me.”

  Charlotte could have done without the unfortunate coincidence. Nathaniel would be hard enough to manage without the evidence that this boy bore the same name as the defendant he had failed.

  “Come up above,” Nathaniel instructed. “We need to decide what to do now.”

  He turned to Charlotte and handed her up. They waited beyond the door while feet trudged toward them.

  “You were mistaken,” she took the opportunity to say. “There is no resemblance.”

  The two girls filed past, eating Charlotte’s ensemble with their eyes. The young boys swaggered next, imitating the bravado of the streets.

  Harry emerged last. He gave them both a good look, displaying the seasoned assessment of an experienced pickpocket.

  The little troop arranged themselves on boxes, waiting, a motley assortment of boredom, masked fear, and challenge.

  “We cannot leave them here,” Charlotte whispered. “Even with Harry’s protection, they will be devoured. And the girls . . .”


  “For once we are of one mind, Lady M. I fear their danger is even worse than you surmise.”

  He stepped forward and addressed the children. “How have you been living? Who has fed you?”

  Smiles and snickers replied to the question.

  “There have been charitable contributions from good folk like yourselves,” Harry said blandly.

  The other boys giggled and gave Harry playful nudges.

  “Oh, aye,” a girl said. “And merchants are generous as saints to poor children.”

  “Saints,” the other girl repeated solemnly. They both broke into peels of laughter.

  “Theft is no laughing matter,” Charlotte scolded.

  “No, ma’m, you be right there.” The first girl’s eyes narrowed on Charlotte’s fine mantle and parasol. “My mum always said the same thing, ’fore she died. Better to starve than be a thief, she said. So she starved.”

  There was no good response to that. Nathaniel came to her rescue. “Whose boxes are these?” He gestured to the stores.

  “Old John’s,” a girl said. Her insolent tone implied she thought Nathaniel was too stupid to be borne.

  “John is gone. The whole neighborhood knows that. Why would the boxes remain unstolen? The door was not even locked.”

  “A few been took, at night,” the smallest boy said. “We let ’em, right, Harry? But they was Old John’s, and now they are ours and you can’t have them.”

  Nathaniel locked Harry in his gaze. “Did John work alone, with no more than children as his gang?”

  Harry did not reply.

  “Down below there are goods that are not English, just as this wine is French. He had partners beyond the city, didn’t he? Smugglers on the coast.”

  “All I know is there’s men who’ll be comin’, like they do every month,” Harry said. “I expect they’ll be paying right good for our watching the boxes.”

  “No, boy, they will not. If you know those men’s faces, you best be gone when they come. It is why the others left.” Nathaniel walked over to him and spoke man-to-man. “It was good of you to stay so the young ones would have protection. But you can stay no longer, nor can they.”

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  The orphanges that we prefer to use are full,” Mrs. Peddigrew said. “The others are places that make the streets where you found the children a preferable home.”

  “Returning them to the streets is obviously not a choice,” Charlotte said. London was full of children such as these. One could not save them all, but once one came face-to-face with any, there was no alternative but to try one’s best for them. However, this little gang could not await the attention of the charitable organizations through which she normally tried her best.

  Mrs. Peddigrew was the wife of a merchant of middling means who devoted herself to helping poor orphans. Charlotte had met her through Fleur, Dante’s wife. Seeking her advice had seemed the logical solution to the sudden responsibility for the children.

  Now their five ragged charges were being fed in the kitchen of this modest house near St. Paul’s, while the adults decided their fate in the small but pleasant sitting room.

  Mrs. Peddigrew poked at the fuel in her fireplace, her thick body bending to her chore. Her cap’s ribbons joined some loose brown curls dangling along her plump, rosy cheeks. “There are a few schools that would take them, of course.”

  Charlotte heard the unspoken implications. The schools would cost money. The children required a benefactor.

  “I will pay the fees for the schools,” Nathaniel said.

  “We will both contribute,” Charlotte said.

  “Perhaps you will consider buying them new clothes, too, my lady,” Mrs. Peddigrew said. “It is hard for the new ones to show up at a school looking so poor. The other children tease them, even if they were no better themselves a few months ago.”

  “I will see to it tomorrow.”

  “If you arrange the funds, we will take care of it, if you wish. We know where to buy sturdy used garments.”

  Mrs. Peddigrew put down the poker and settled comfortably on her stool. Her head bobbed back and forth while she thought out the rest of the plan.

  “The girls can go to Mrs. Dudley’s school in Middlesex. It is in the country and the air will do them good. Looking wan, they both are. The young boys will be accepted by Mr. Longhorn in Southwark. He is full but he always manages to make room for more, good soul that he is. Now, the oldest one . . .” She pondered Harry’s fate, and her soft face folded into worried creases.

  Nathaniel frowned. “Could he not also go to Mr. Longhorn?”

  “Mr. Longhorn prefers the young ones. The older boys are trouble, and it is just him and his wife. It is very hard to find a good place for a youth over eight, Mr. Knightridge. He could always be given as an apprentice or helper, of course, but . . .”

  She did not have to finish. Everyone knew the dangers for impoverished boys sold into such service. The animals that pulled carts often received better care.

  “Then he can go to a proper school for boys his age. There are many in town, and most take boarders,” Nathaniel said.

  “I doubt he has the necessary education for that, Mr. Knightridge.”

  Mrs. Peddigrew looked apologetic. Silence hung while they considered Harry’s future.

  “There is one possible solution,” Charlotte said. “Mrs. Peddigrew, as you know, my sister-in-law, Fleur Duclairc, is establishing a school for boys up north in Durham. While the structure is built, the headmaster has taken a few students into his house already. I will ask Fleur to recommend that Harry be allowed to go there.”

  Nathaniel looked relieved at the solution. Mrs. Peddigrew smiled her approval.

  “I was hoping you would suggest that,” she said. “It was not my place to do so. Now, until that can be arranged, we need a place for young Harry to stay. All the children sleep together here, and with his age, and that of the girls, well . . .”

  Another silence hung, this time with the female eyes fixed on the one male in the room.

  Nathaniel nodded with resignation. “I will take him home with me until matters are arranged.”

  “You are too good, Mr. Knightridge,” Charlotte said.

  “The Lord will reward you, sir,” Mrs. Peddigrew said.

  Nathaniel smiled weakly.

  “Did you think that you could save lost boys and bear no cost or inconvenience to yourself?” Charlotte asked.

  Nathaniel stood outside her carriage, demanding that she get out too. He was refusing to close the door, and had been so bold as to order the coachman to come back in an hour.

  Fifteen paces away, a motionless Harry stood amidst the jostling crowd passing on Piccadilly Street. He gazed into the gated front courtyard of Albany. With his thick dark hair and ill-fitting old garments, he looked like a young gypsy among the Saxons.

  “I am not shirking my duty. I am saying you and I are in this together and you will not shirk yours,” Nathaniel replied. “Furthermore, accusing me of seeking to bear no cost is both inaccurate and unkind. I said I would pay the fees for the schools before you did.”

  He offered his hand, in a commanding gesture.

  The idea of entering his apartment again dismayed her. “Goodness, he merely needs shelter for a day or so. Settling him into your home does not require an army.”

  “I remind you that it is a bachelor’s home. Nor do I have any experience with children of any age. That is why I require that you come inside and speak with Jacobs.”

  “Mr. Knightridge, one of the remarkable benefits of being a widow is that no man can ever require anything of me again.”

  He glanced toward Harry, then adopted a careful, appeasing expression. “I misspoke. I do not require it, because I have no right to. I request that you join us and help arrange things. I implore you to do so.” He glanced at Harry again. “Please.”

  Nathaniel Knightridge imploring? Begging?

  She rather liked that.

&n
bsp; “Do you promise to behave as a gentleman?”

  That earned her a devilish half smile. “If that is what you desire today, Lady M.”

  She did not miss the various entendres in his reply. She considered calling for her coachman to drive away, and the door be damned.

  Just then Harry turned. The youth looked terrified at being expected to enter the imposing building. Albany had been a royal duke’s mansion before being converted to bachelor apartments at the beginning of the century.

  The boy’s distress touched her. Nathaniel’s interest in him posed dangers to her world, but that was not poor Harry’s fault. He was just a frightened child cast adrift in the world.

  She held out her hand and Nathaniel helped her step from the carriage. “I do not understand why you need a woman’s help. He requires a bath and clean clothes. How hard is that to explain to Jacobs?”

  “If you are with us, perhaps Jacobs will not walk out, never to return.”

  She accepted his escort through the gate flanked by two fine shops. Harry shuffled alongside, trying to shrink to invisibility. They crossed the courtyard and aimed toward the main entrance.

  “Ah, so you fear a revolt by your manservant and hope my presence will force him to accept the situation. How interesting. You present yourself as master of all you survey, but now I learn that you do not even command your very small household.”

  “Being master of a servant is an easy victory. It is hardly worth my effort. Now, being master of a woman of independent nature and outspoken opinion—that is a challenge worthy of a man’s time. I am thinking I will seek out just such a female and see if I am up to it.”

  “I am sure a man of your importance has more significant wars to fight.”

  “I do not anticipate a war. I foresee only a few brief skirmishes, if that. The woman I have in mind is easily disarmed with a few silly kisses.”

  A servant opened the door to reveal the expensive furnishings of the reception hall. Harry got one glimpse of the interior and dug in his heels.