by Liana Lefey
Abigail’s chin trembled ominously. “I like the name me mum gave me.”
“You can keep it if you wish,” Jacqueline told her. “But I recommend that you at least change your surname. Pick something common and unrelated to your current surname or any previous associations.”
A sudden grin broke across Fanny’s face. “I’ve always ’ated me name. I’d like to be called Emma. As for me surname, what about Stone? There must be ’undreds of Stones in London.”
Jacqueline nodded. “Emma is common enough, and I think Stone a simple and solid surname. Very well, you will be known here as Emma Stone.”
Abigail pouted at her sister. “But if you change your name, I ’ave to change mine, too, or we won’t be sisters no more.”
Fanny—no, Emma—bent to look into her sibling’s eyes. “What about you keep Abigail for a middle name?”
“Don’t be daft,” retorted the younger girl. “Only rich people ’ave middle names.”
Again, the older one grinned. “Yeah, but nobody knows we ain’t fancy, does they? If not, then pick summat else, summat no one will know but us. What about that story Mum always used to tell us when we was little—the one about—”
“The princess an’ the magic rose?” Abigail’s face became thoughtful. “Rose. I could be Rose Abigail Stone.”
“I like that,” said Emma, putting an arm about her sister’s thin shoulders. “I think Mum would’ve liked it, too.”
After a long moment, the little girl nodded her head. “Rose, then. An’ you can call me Rosie—but only you.”
Good. It would be much easier to conceal them now. “Emma and Rose Stone. Excellent. Now, as I said, no one but me needs to know who you were or where you came from. As far as anyone else is concerned, you were sent here by an uncle after the loss of your widowed mother to poor health.”
“Yes, ’eadmistress,” said the two girls in unison.
Pleased, Jacqueline smiled. Quick learners, this pair. They will do well.
Chapter Three
September 19
Will looked around with satisfaction. Everything he’d need to present the appearance of a bachelor of modest means was packed into the crates lining the hall. Posing as a man who’d supposedly lived in his employer’s house and on his largesse for seven years, he could take very little in the way of furnishings. Granted, he wasn’t to actually live at the school, but he might have visitors. The illusion must be complete.
The familiar comforts of home would be waiting for him when he returned—all save the one he wouldn’t part with. He gave the back of his favorite armchair a fond thump. It’s certainly worn enough to pass inspection.
A nice raise in pay since working for Gonson hadn’t made him any less frugal. Already, he’d managed to save a tidy sum. As soon as this job was done he would make the move to a better part of London and propose to Miss Witherspoon. Mother, who’d arranged their introduction, had deemed the pretty, well-to-do tradesman’s daughter a “perfect match.” The three hundred pounds the girl would bring to her marriage had likely influenced this opinion somewhat, but the money mattered little to Will. His bride had only to be biddable, economical, and, above all, respectable.
Miss Witherspoon met all three qualifications, and Will knew he ought to be thrilled with such a good catch, but the best he could muster was acceptance. He was expected to marry, and marry, he would. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine setting up house with Miss Witherspoon, but in his mind’s eye, her blue eyes turned hazel, and her blonde hair darkened to brunette…
Trouvère. She’d been in his thoughts almost constantly since their encounter. What is she hiding at that school?
Chuckling to himself, he shook his head to clear it. He truly hoped Miss Witherspoon was as meek and tolerant as she seemed. His job demanded long and irregular hours, sometimes lengthy periods of time away from home, and a mind that was always on the case.
According to his mates, a constable’s wife was either content or contentious. He prayed for the former. Regardless, marrying her would make Mother happy, and a wedding would be at least two years off. He wanted to prove himself indispensable to Gonson and be well established within his fledgling organization before putting on the nuptial shackles.
But that was all in the unwritten future. For now, there was a job to do.
The last of the crates was loaded into the wagon bound for his new residence, a modest suite of rooms in Number 16 Dover Street, a short walk from the school. Though tiny, it was in a far better part of town than this. If he continued to impress Gonson, he might be able to one day afford a house there.
It would be nice to raise a family somewhere safe—if there was such a place in London. The reward for solving this case would mean he’d have better options from which to choose.
Don’t put the cart before the horse. Focus.
It was an odd case, to be sure. For the last two years, a man had been killing brothel proprietors. So far this year, four had fallen prey. The previous year, it was eleven. All the victims—it galled him to think of them as such—had been known to either peddle underage flesh or cater to clients with extreme appetites of the sort that often resulted in a violent death for the working wench.
Not long after the first few bodies had turned up, the night blossoms of Covent Garden had begun to affectionately refer to the anonymous author of the slayings as “London’s St. Michael” or, more simply, “the Archangel.” Rumor had it some of them knew who he really was. Will and his mates had tried bribery, threats, even imprisonment, to loosen tongues, but no one had given so much as the slightest hint as to the man’s identity.
And why would they? These days, most of London’s brothels were being more careful in how they treated their wares, so as not to call down the Archangel’s wrath. The few remaining that catered to clients with darker tastes had simply been forced deeper underground. Making our job that much harder. And someone was supplying flesh to them. His theory as to who it might be was one Sir Gonson had found interesting enough to explore.
Shortly preceding every Archangel-attributed murder, a prostitute had vanished from the slain proprietor’s bevy. And none had gone alone. In every case, the miss in question had been a mother. In every case, her child or children had disappeared along with her. The word among London’s whores was that the Archangel had taken them to safety before wreaking his vengeance.
Will suspected otherwise.
Outlets in which to sate London’s more aberrant consumers were fewer now than ever before, and the price for indulgence had risen accordingly. Those able to meet the demand stood to become very rich. But one couldn’t simply snatch women and children off the streets without raising a hue and cry. Stealing them from rival bawdy houses, however, was another matter.
Therein was a ready supply, already trained and accustomed to the work. And who would protest if a whore and her brat vanished? Given the Archangel’s celebrated reputation as a savior, they would go with him willingly.
No fuss, no fight. Easy prey. A few days later, he goes back and kills the proprietor, thinning the competition while simultaneously furthering his own legend.
It made perfect sense—especially in light of recent events.
A few weeks ago, seventeen prostitutes, all known to work at a particular bawdy house, had been garroted. Covent Garden’s alleys had been strewn with their bodies in a slaughter that had taken place over the course of a single night. The brothel’s proprietress was gone—most likely to the bottom of the Thames.
Will was sure it was the Archangel’s work. Someone must have threatened to expose him, and the deaths of all those whores had been his way of covering his tracks.
The anonymous tip that had led him to Madame Trouvère’s school wasn’t one that could be ignored. The first of the murders and disappearances had coincided with its opening two years ago. He suspected the school was, in reality, a through-house, and it was now his job to investigate and prove it.
If Trouvère was pa
rt of the ring of flesh traffickers, he’d find out. If it were true, he’d see her brought to swift justice at the end of a rope along with all involved—after identifying the Archangel and any other accomplices. No matter how alluring, her beauty wouldn’t save her from the hangman’s noose.
“We’re ready, sir.”
Jarred back to the present, Will followed the man out and climbed up beside the driver. The ride was a long one, with the wheels hitting what seemed like every dip and rut in the road. It became smoother nearer the school, where the thoroughfares were better maintained.
While his assignment wasn’t in the wealthiest part of town, the streets here were laid out in an orderly fashion rather than all arsy-varsy with buildings wedged between narrow, winding alleys. There were streets for shops, streets for houses, and parks between to keep them separate. And with the abundance of lampposts, he suspected crime was all but unheard of in the neighborhood.
Don’t get used to it. This is only temporary.
Mrs. Hayton, the landlady, greeted him with a saccharine smile. “Good morning, Mr. Woodson.” She proffered a key, which he took. “Your rooms are all ready for you, sir.”
“Thank you, madame.” He paused in the act of turning. “Mrs. Hayton, how long have you known Madame Trouvère?”
“Nearly three years,” she answered, her expression becoming bittersweet. “She stayed here while the school was being renovated. A nicer young woman I’ve never met—and an excellent tenant. I worried at first when she moved out, her being alone and so young, but she’s got a good head. Pity her husband died, but she’s made a place for herself. Be sure to tell her she’s still welcome to visit any time. It’s been a long while since we last spoke.”
“I’ll give her your regards when I see her tomorrow,” he promised, giving her a winning smile.
It took only a short time for the men to bring his belongings up the narrow stair and place them in his modest suite. Modest it might be, but it would do very well indeed. An oriel window provided a clear view of the school’s front door, which was seven houses down and across the street. He placed his armchair there instead of before the fire, the better to keep watch over the thoroughfare’s comings and goings.
A teacher. Of mathematics.
It was a bloody good thing he had a head for numbers and remembered a lot of what he’d learned at university. The curriculum the headmistress had outlined was basic, addressing only what a young woman would need to know to manage her income and calculate weights and measurements. A boys’ school would’ve required higher and more abstract mathematics, but her goal was to ensure only that her graduates left with enough knowledge not to be cheated of their earnings or be taken for fools at market.
Despite her youth, Madame Trouvère’s demeanor was one of almost militaristic command. Her employees had addressed her with respect. They’d also met her eyes whenever they’d spoken. That alone told him something. Most underlings strove to ingratiate themselves with an employer by displaying outward subservience, but hers behaved more like soldiers. Proud soldiers. Unity like that was rarely seen outside a veteran army regiment. It bespoke a shared purpose.
Will had seen both sides of that coin and knew not to be taken in by appearances. Thanks to Sir Gonson’s leadership, he and his mates stood unified against the wickedness that festered in the foul underbelly of their beloved city. But there were those capable of influencing others to evil, as well. Like Madame Trouvère, they were often attractive, intelligent, and persuasive. Lies flowed from their lips like honey to cozen those too simple to realize their part in a larger scheme. Some even believed they were doing good, when in truth they were but feeding the beast.
It was hard to imagine someone as lovely as Madame Trouvère being involved in such corruption, but he’d witnessed it time and again. Evil loved to mask itself in beauty. Instinct told him whatever was going on behind those walls, she had everyone involved.
But the headmistress had slipped. Her nervousness after they’d encountered the two girls at the end of his tour told him their appearance had been an accident, a mistake. More would surely follow. All but the cleverest criminals made more than one blunder. She’d make another.
Touchy business sometimes, ferreting out the truth. In this particular case, he sensed it would take time. Time to gain the students’ trust and, hopefully, that of the other teachers. Once they grew accustomed to him, they’d relax their guard and loosen their tongues.
He’d be there waiting, listening.
Above all, he must appear nonthreatening. Being the only male in an all-female institution put him at a distinct disadvantage—at first, anyway. A chuckle rose in his throat as he began unpacking. If my sisters could see me now. How ironic it was to have fought so hard in his youth to assert his masculinity, only to have to resort to the survival tactics of childhood in order to cope now.
Already, he’d won over Mrs. Hayton—a dyed-in-the-wool spinster if ever he’d met one. It was unfortunate he couldn’t use her to gain further insight into the mysterious headmistress, but it would be dangerous to question her too much concerning her former tenant. It might get back to Trouvère, and that would be no good at all. The best he could hope for was that she’d drop some useful information now and again in conversation.
The distant tolling of bells from a church a few streets down was fortuitously timed with the emergence of his mantel clock. Synchronizing it, he realized it was nearly time for the evening meal. Removing and dusting off his worn jacket, he hung it in the wardrobe and donned something cleaner so as not to offend his hostess.
Hayton’s other tenants were already gathered in the downstairs parlor. There were two other gentlemen, one elderly and soft about the middle, the other young and thin as a walking stick, as well as one sour-faced, middle-aged woman. The lady wore no ring and looked as though she’d never danced in her life. She stood by the fire, glaring at the room’s other occupants, her back as rigid as a gallows pole, her hair tightly bound and covered by a lace cap. Her basilisk gaze settled on him, and the furrow between her brows deepened.
Mrs. Hayton swept in. “Miss Flanagan, you will come and meet Mr. Woodson, won’t you? Mr. Woodson, this is Miss Flanagan, my faithful friend and companion since we were…well, a long time. Miss Flanagan, this is Mr. Woodson, the gentleman who has taken the uppermost suite. He’s accepted a position as a teacher of mathematics at Madame Trouvère’s school.”
He bowed before the stern-faced lady. “A pleasure, madame.”
“Likewise, sir,” the spinster replied stiffly.
Awkward silence fell. Forcing a smile, he broke it. “Are you acquainted with Madame Trouvère?”
Her chilly gray stare flicked up to impale him. “I am.”
At a loss, he forged on. “Everyone I’ve met who knows the lady seems to think highly of her.”
“As they should. She’s kind and generous.” Miss Flanagan cocked her head to the side. “Tell me, sir, what made you apply for a position at her school?”
One good sniff was all it took to smell the rat in the room. “Until recently, I was employed by Lord Mulgrave as schoolmaster for his children, and now the youngest son and daughter—twins—have gone. Young Master John is away at Eton now, and Lady Julia to finishing school. I was no longer needed. When the advertisement remained in the paper for so long, I took it as a sign.”
Slowly, she nodded, her sharp eyes still assessing him. “Not many men would be bold enough to apply when a preference for female applicants is indicated. I’m surprised she accepted you.”
As am I, madame spy. Looking down, he affected an embarrassed laugh. “Madame, of the eight children born to my parents, I’m the only male and the youngest of the brood. In addition, having taught Lord Mulgrave’s older daughters for a number of years, I feel well-qualified. Evidently, the lady thinks so, too.”
Mrs. Hayton gave her companion a quelling look. “If she welcomes you, then so do we.” Her cheer returned as she clasped her hands against her
ample bosom. “Heavens, but seven sisters! I’m an only child—Mama was too ill after my birth to give me any siblings, God rest her soul. But I have Miss Flanagan,” she said, favoring her companion with a syrupy smile. “After six years at my side, she’s quite the sister to me.”
The corners of Miss Flanagan’s mouth lifted a little and her cheeks pinked with pleasure at the compliment, transforming her arctic expression to one of surprising warmth. “You are too kind, Eleanor.” When she turned to him, her manner was a tiny bit less frigid. “Welcome to Hayton House, Mr. Woodson.”
Taking leave of the ladies, Will approached the two gentlemen. The elder looked up and scowled. “Another bookworm has been added to our company, I see,” he growled rudely, glancing up at his companion. “That should please you, Mr. Sharpton.”
The younger man stepped forward and addressed him with good cheer. “Don’t mind him, he’s just out of sorts because Mrs. Hayton selected you rather than the other fellow.” He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, clearly believing the other man incapable of hearing. “That one was even older than him. I doubt the poor fellow could have trod the stairs more than twice a day, if that.”
Will took his eagerly outstretched hand, hard put not to return his conspirator’s grin. “While I pity the fellow his infirmity, I’m exceedingly grateful to have benefited by his loss,” he whispered back. “This house is but a short walk to my new place of employment. William Woodson, at your service.”
“Lionel Sharpton,” replied the other man. He gestured to their elderly companion. “And this is Mr. Watlow.”
Will offered his hand and was surprised when the old fellow snorted and looked away.
