by Sam Michaels
Also by Sam Michaels
Trickster
Rivals
Vixen
Siren
Book 4 in the Georgina Garrett Series
Sam Michaels
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
This edition first published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Sam Michaels, 2021
The moral right of Sam Michaels to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN:
eBook: 9781789542202
Paperback: 9781800246089
Cover design © Debbie Clement
Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
To my beautiful granddaughter, Annabella Blofeld.
When you’re a big girl and all grown up, if you ever need reminding of how amazing you are, open this book and read this message from your Nanny Sam – You’re THE BEST!
I hope your life is filled with beautiful stories. Lots of love to you my darling xxx
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
November 1943.: Three years since Georgina Garrett’s arrest.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Become an Aria Addict
November 1943.
Three years since Georgina Garrett’s arrest.
1
London. Holloway Prison.
‘Garrett, a word.’
Georgina recognised the formidable voice of Miss Winter and looked over her shoulder to see the prison warden marching towards her. The woman’s greying hair was pulled tightly back into a neat bun and her lips set in a grim line, giving her a stern look. But Georgina knew Miss Winter’s harsh tone and tough appearance masked a softer side that could be bought for cash. It was a side that few of the other women prisoners ever saw and they’d given her the name ‘Old Frosty Drawers’.
They stood outside of Georgina’s cell amongst the cacophony of women’s voices echoing throughout the prison. After almost three years of internment, the noise of cell doors slamming, keys jangling, pipes rattling and harrowing cries had become a constant hum that Georgina was now accustomed to, though she’d never get used to the sound of a woman howling for her child. And from what she could hear, poor Linda on the floor below must have been brought back from the prison hospital. She’d secretly birthed her baby alone in her cell the night before and no one had discovered it until the morning.
‘Is that Linda I can hear bawling her eyes out?’ Georgina asked, the upsetting noise stabbing at her heart and making her think of her own children.
‘Yes. I reckon her baby only took a few breaths before he died. But Linda held him all night and was still trying to nurse him in the morning. He was blue. Horrible. I think the sight even shocked Miss Kenny and you know what a hard cow she is. We had a right fight trying to get the baby out of Linda’s arms and she ain’t stopped screaming since they took him away. The doctor gave her a sedative but it’s worn off now.’
‘For fuck’s sake. The little mite didn’t stand a chance of surviving. Linda ain’t been well for ages. She should have been in the hospital months ago.’
‘I know, Georgina, but she hid her pregnancy from us all. She’s a silly girl. If we’d known, she would have received a special diet from six months onwards. Instead, she looks half-starved and was still scrubbing floors on her hands and knees just hours before she dropped. And the baby, well, let’s just say that after seeing him, I reckon he’s best off dead.’
‘Maybe, but I’m sure Linda doesn’t share your sentiments.’
‘Probably not, but she’s barmy and that baby weren’t right. Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you. As from next week, you’ll be assigned to domestic duties in the married quarters.’
Georgina looked down into the pint of tepid cocoa she was holding and drew in a long, deep breath. ‘No, I won’t,’ she ground out, seething at the thought of her potential new role.
‘I thought you’d be pleased. I had to pull a lot of strings for this. It’s a cushy number and gets you out of this shithole.’
‘Thank you, Miss Winter, but I refuse to wait on those fascist bastards,’ she whispered.
It was no secret that Winston Churchill had seen to it that Oswald Mosley had been given special privileges and was now serving his time within the walls of the prison with his wife, Diana Mitford. The woman had gained favour with many of the prisoners and was well thought of, a brilliant blonde, her beauty undeniable, and she had shown herself to have a kind heart. But she was a fascist, an enemy of the state, and Georgina remembered her run-in with the Fylfots – they were a dangerous group of men, Nazi sympathisers who’d infiltrated every major institution, and no doubt they had been in bed with Mosley too.
‘You’re not telling me that you’d rather be on the mangle?’ Miss Winter asked.
‘It’s not so bad. At least it’s warm. But can’t you get me on domestic duties at Pentonville?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Georgina. They normally only let the most trusted women work in the warden’s quarters.’
‘I’ve been a model prisoner and I’ve never stepped out of line. Jinny is getting released next week. She’ll need replacing and you know I won’t let you down.’
Miss Winter glanced nervously from one side to the other. It wouldn’t do to be seen having a friendly conversation with a prisoner. ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do,’ she said quietly, ‘but don’t hold your breath.’
Georgina smiled warmly at her ally and stepped inside her cell. The door closed and she heard Miss Winter turn the lock. She had another long and lonely night ahead with only her thoughts and the pathetic pint of nightly cocoa that each prisoner was given. Though as Georgina stood on tiptoes to peek through the small, studded iron-barred window, the early evening sun was just setting and she thought to herself that it could hardly be classed as night time. But this was the prison routine. Lockdown at four-thirty and her door wouldn’t be unlocked again until six-thirty the following morning.
As the time dragged by and the
evening slipped into the dark hours of the night, the prison didn’t become any quieter. These arduous, drawn-out times of confinement were the most unbearable and worst moments for the women. Locked away alone, their minds torturing them with memories of their loved ones on the outside. Their hearts would break for their children. Many would be reliving abuse they’d suffered. Some would cry for their mothers. It was enough to drive the strongest of characters to insanity. Georgina tried to ignore the screams and sobs, the nervous titters and even the singing. She pushed away all thoughts of Alfie and Selina, her precious children being raised by their gypsy grandparents, their father, Lash, long dead. Instead, she focused on her plan.
It had come to her when she’d heard a couple of the borstal girls had tried to escape by scaling the high walls that surrounded the prison. One had fallen and broken her leg but the other had made a clean getaway. Word had spread that every police officer in London was on the lookout for the fleeing girl but they hadn’t found her yet. Georgina smiled to herself, thinking good on the girl, and wished her luck. After all, no one could blame her for wanting out but few had the guts to try. Georgina did. She had the guts. She’d considered escaping on many occasions. She knew she couldn’t do the five years she had left to serve. And now with the possibility of a three-penny a week cleaning job at Pentonville prison, the thought of freedom danced around merrily in her head. She could almost taste it, smell it, touch it. Her liberty was nearly within reach but it relied on Miss Winter and she hoped the guard wouldn’t let her down.
*
In Battersea, Charlotte Mipple checked the time. It was after eleven, an agreeable time to call on Lord Quentin Hamilton for his rent money. Charlotte didn’t like to chase up the posh nob fella but with the Naylor brothers breathing down her neck, she didn’t have much choice.
The Naylors had become a thorn in her side and, from what she’d heard, quite a few folk were being badgered for money by them. The audacity of the pair! The Naylors were nothing more than a pair of louts who’d taken advantage of Georgina being locked away. Now that Battersea wasn’t under Georgina’s rule, the place had become a free-for-all. Johnny and the gang had fallen apart and thugs like the Naylors thought that they could muscle their way into the protection business. In truth, Charlotte wasn’t scared of the Naylors. They didn’t have the organisational skills that Georgina possessed and could never run a small empire. No one could. But the Naylors were good at intimidating. They were just a pair of bullies really. Gawd, she wished Georgina was around to put them in their place and get the old gang back together.
Charlotte gently tapped on Lord Quentin Hamilton’s door. The middle-aged, white-haired gentleman with a waxed moustache rented an apartment in the house that had once been Georgina’s office and a successful brothel. Now, converted into apartments on Georgina’s orders, Charlotte had a one-bedroomed flat on the ground floor. The two-bedroomed apartment opposite was kept for Georgina. It remained empty. Dina, a Russian ex-prostitute, lived in the studio apartment above, next door to Lord Hamilton and Miss Gray opposite him. Miss Gray, an old spinster, kept herself to herself and was no bother. She always put her rent in a scented envelope and would pop it under Charlotte’s door as regular as clockwork. Lord Hamilton, on the other hand, was becoming difficult. Every fortnight, Charlotte would have to chase him for his rent and he’d come up with the most elaborate excuses for paying late. But, Charlotte had to admit, the sophisticated older man did have a charm that always left her smiling.
‘Ah, my dear girl,’ Lord Hamilton announced when he opened his door. ‘Is it that time already?’
‘Yes, but I’ve no doubt you’re going to tell me the most fascinating tale and I shall leave here entertained but empty-handed.’
‘Well, not being one who wishes to disappoint, please, do come in and I shall tell you what happened to me this morning.’
Charlotte rolled her eyes and shook her head in mock disbelief. The man was brazen, though very amusing, and she followed him through to the lounge.
‘Allow me to pour you some tea,’ he said, picking up a fine bone china teapot and filling a matching teacup and saucer.
Charlotte sat in one of the three plush armchairs and gazed around the room. She’d sat in the same chair on many occasions but the fine artwork that adorned the walls never ceased to amaze her. Not that she knew anything about art, but she could tell they were expensive pieces. It was clear he had a few bob, yet she always had this fortnightly struggle to get him to part with his money. And though he called himself Lord Quentin Hamilton, she doubted his title was a real one.
‘Here,’ he said, handing her the cup of tea, ‘Darjeeling with one cube.’
‘Thanks,’ Charlotte replied, wrinkling her nose. She’d have preferred a normal cup of tea instead of the posh muck he always gave her.
Sitting in an armchair adjacent, Lord Hamilton waved his arms in the air with a theatrical grace. ‘Honestly, Charlotte, this war is costing me a fortune. I’m afraid I’m shy of the rent thanks to my good deed of the day. Let me explain.’
‘Please do,’ she said, intrigued to hear more.
‘The paperboy hasn’t been delivering my copy of the Times, as I believe he has the measles or something equally dreadful. And you know how I like to do the crossword over breakfast, it’s good to tax the brain first thing in the morning. So, I went to the newsagent to collect the paper, and while there a young woman came in with three children. Now, you know I’m not a snob but it was clear that the family were in dire poverty. I try not to allow things like that to bother me but this dear child, a girl, told me it was her birthday and that she was five years old. I wished her best wishes and rather naively asked her what presents she’d received. Of course, the poor thing had nothing. Her mother informed me they’d lost their house thanks to a bomb and her husband was missing in action. I had the rent money on my person and felt compelled to help the family so I handed the mother one pound and each of the children a shilling.’
‘That was very kind of you but you’ve had all day to go to the bank and get some more money,’ Charlotte said sceptically.
‘Yes, and I was on my way but became distracted when I bumped into a dear friend of mine, Lady Winslow-Jones. I haven’t seen her in years. Her husband and I attended Cambridge together but he passed away some time ago. She informed me that since his death, she’s been struggling with the maintenance of their rather grand house and asked me to return home with her to evaluate several paintings. I couldn’t refuse, after all, Lady Winslow-Jones is the cousin of Queen Mary’s lady-in-waiting.’
At this point, Charlotte found herself smiling and not believing a single word. Lord Hamilton’s tales mostly involved members of the royal family, or reminiscences of his great expeditions across India or his time in the Middle East with the Sheikh of Dubai. But then he rose to his feet and walked across the room to where something under a dustsheet leaned against the wall.
‘I took this from Lady Winslow-Jones,’ he said and whipped the dustsheet off to reveal an oil painting in a gilt frame of someone regal looking. ‘It’s an original of Prince Jacques Francois Leonor de Goyon de Matignon, Prince of Monaco by Robert Gabriel Gence.’
‘He looks like a right Nancy boy if you ask me,’ Charlotte said as she studied the painting, unimpressed.
‘My dear girl, this exquisite piece of art is worth more than you could ever imagine and Lady Winslow-Jones has commissioned me to sell it on her behalf.’
‘Good for you, but what about the rent?’
‘I don’t think you’re quite grasping the enormity of this. Once I’ve sold the painting, which I’m reluctant to do as I believe it should remain within the royal circles, but none the less, my commission will be extravagant! Enough to pay you a lifetime of rent in advance.’
‘Blimey, who’d have thought a picture of a bloke in frills would be worth a fortune,’ Charlotte guffawed, still not being taken in by his story.
‘It is, and I’d appreciate your patience as
I am going to be incredibly busy finding a suitable buyer. But then, my dear, you will have my full attention and a full year’s rent.’
Charlotte looked into his blue eyes, which were bright with excitement. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm for the painting didn’t rub off on her. She had no time for fancy art and just wanted the rent that was due. Especially as the Naylor brothers were going to be badgering her for the protection money. ‘One week,’ she said firmly.
‘Two. Two weeks and I hope to have secured a deal.’
‘Fine, two weeks,’ she answered with a sigh. ‘But if you don’t cough up, you’re out.’
‘Please, Charlotte, there’s no need for vulgarity. And I wish you’d accept my offer of elocution lessons.’
‘No, you’re all right, thanks. I like how I talk and don’t want to sound like a stuck-up cow,’ she said dolefully, thinking of Nancy Austin, the posh tart who’d snitched on Georgina. Granted, the woman was dead. Georgina had made sure of that when she’d rigged the safe and it had exploded in Nancy’s face, but that hadn’t saved Georgina from getting sentenced to eight years in prison for fraud. ‘I’d better get going. Thanks for the tea,’ she said, rising to her feet.
Lord Hamilton showed her out and after collecting her coat and bag from her apartment, she climbed into the car parked outside. It had been Georgina’s car but now Charlotte drove it, though she didn’t have a driving licence. Johnny Dymond had taught her how to drive. The pair had become good friends and, since Georgina’s prison sentence, he was the only one of the old gang who she still had contact with. The rest of the men had disbanded. With their boss banged up in Holloway, the criminal business had fallen into chaos and their operations had become susceptible to scrutiny from the long arm of the law. Georgina had immediately given instructions for the brothels, The Penthouse Club and the protection rackets to be closed down. No one had been happy about it at first, but they soon realised that they couldn’t operate without their leader.
