Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  Penny nodded. “Violet,” she whispered. “They were me mum’s favorite.”

  She speaks of her mother in the past tense. Already she is beginning to put her old life behind her. “Excellent choice. You are certain?”

  Another nod.

  “Then from this moment on you will be known as Violet. As for your surname, I thought Gladstone would do nicely.” Because she was so young, Jacqueline thought it best to choose for her. “What do you think?”

  “I like it,” the girl said after a moment. “It sounds happy.”

  Jacqueline smiled. “I thought so, too. Tonight you will be introduced to some of the other girls, and tomorrow you can tell me if there are any in particular you might like to become better acquainted with.”

  There were two rooms with empty beds now that Suzette and Coralline were gone. In particular, she felt Violet would make a good replacement for Suzette. The child was quiet and thoughtful, and the girls in that room—especially Janet—would be a good fit. But she would let Violet help her make that decision.

  “Headmistress?”

  “Yes?”

  “What if they don’t want me?”

  She knelt and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Violet’s ear. “Everyone here is wanted, my dear.” She smiled at her young charge. “I must go prepare for dinner. Mrs. Sloane will be by to fetch you in a few minutes.”

  “Do I have to go?” came the plaintive reply she’d expected. “Can I not just stay here like I did last night?”

  “I know it can be difficult meeting new people, but you cannot remain hidden away forever. Best to get it over with quickly and have done,” Jacqueline said firmly, standing. “You will soon have many friends here, mignon.”

  Violet’s face was doubtful, but she nodded. “I never had no friends before. I was the only brat Madame let stay in the house—said it was ’cos she liked Mum, an’ I didn’t bother no one.” Her gaze flicked to the window, where outside the light was fading. “It’s nice here—I like the window—but it’s terrible quiet. Not like our attic. At night I could hear the music below an’ everyone laughin’. But Mum never let me go down after dark. She locked the door every night.”

  Jacqueline’s throat tightened. The child had been locked in an attic for her own safety, her nightly lullaby the sounds of debauchery. Still, it could’ve been much worse. Something of her inner feelings must have shown on her face, because Violet’s cheeks reddened.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’—but me mum ain’t bad even if she is a whore!” the little girl said with tears in her eyes. “She left me when she went to work, but she was always there when I woke up. Always.”

  The word “whore” from the mouth of a six-year-old would’ve shocked anyone but Jacqueline. “Your mother is not a whore,” she told her, hating the foul taste of the word. “According to the letter that accompanied you, she is currently employed as a kitchen maid. And you are not a brat. I don’t ever want to hear you refer to either her or yourself in such insulting terms again. Your mother is a maid and you are a young lady and a scholar. Do you understand?”

  Violet’s bottom lip trembled. “Yes, Headmistress.” The child squirmed. “Wh-what is a whore?”

  Mon Dieu… Well, at least she now knew for certain the girl had been sheltered from the worst of it. “An ugly word, and not one I want you using ever again. When you are older and if you are still curious about it, I will explain—but not now. It’s time for me to go downstairs. Mrs. Sloane should be here any moment to collect you.”

  “I’m sorry,” blurted the girl, halting her exit. “Madame called Mum…that word. She shouted it at her when Mum told her I’d never work there. It was the day we left. I told Mum I’d help out if it meant we could stay, but she only got angry and said she weren’t havin’ me turn out like her.” Her head drooped, and her voice wobbled. “I’m the reason she had to leave. If it weren’t for me, Madame would never have got cross with her.”

  “Your mother loved—loves you,” Jacqueline said softly. “She wanted a better life for you, one she could never give you in that place. But she also left for her own sake—the work she did there was not safe. She is much better off where she is now. It’s a great sacrifice both of you made, but a necessary one, if either of you is to succeed.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Sloane appeared to escort their young charge down. “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you—give me about ten minutes before leaving, and all will be ready,” Jacqueline told her. “And Mrs. Sloane, this young lady’s name is Violet Gladstone.”

  Mrs. Sloane turned a cheery smile on Violet. “And a lovely name it is! Come, dear. Let’s put a fresh apron on you.”

  Jacqueline left the pair and hurried downstairs. On her way through, she couldn’t resist taking a quick peek down the hallway to see if Mr. Woodson was still there. A pang of disappointment shot through her at the sight of his darkened doorway. Stop it. The whole point of avoiding him was to bring about a return to sanity.

  She could hear the murmur of high voices as she approached the dining hall. Silence fell when she entered, and she nodded approval. “Miss Gladstone will be down in a few minutes. I want you all to remember how you felt when you first arrived and give her a warm welcome.” She cast her gaze across the sea of faces, meeting the eyes of those she wanted to encourage in particular.

  When she turned to join her colleagues at the staff table, the bottom dropped from her stomach. What in heaven’s name is he doing here? Before she could wipe the stunned expression from her face, Monsieur Woodson acknowledged her with one of his glittering smiles. Gathering her wits, she made her way over and took her seat.

  Agnes bustled over with a fresh pot of tea. “I was beginning to worry summat had happened,” she said as she poured. “All’s well, I take it?”

  “Yes,” she told Agnes, flustered by the fact that Woodson was still there. “She will be down presently. Mrs. Sloane is bringing her.” Even as she spoke, the door to the dining hall opened to admit the pair. Standing, Jacqueline went and introduced the anxious little girl to her peers before leading her over to the table where some of her future roommates were seated. When she returned, Woodson was blessedly engaged in conversation with Mrs. Orson.

  The question burned on the tip of her tongue, barely held in check by her tightly clenched teeth: why was he taking the evening meal here? There was no way to inquire without sounding unfriendly. She tried to content herself with eating in silence while everyone else talked.

  Woodson addressed her just as she was about to take the first bite of dessert. “After we spoke this afternoon, Mrs. Hayton sent a message informing me Mrs. Inman had fallen ill. She adjured me to take my evening meal here.” His lips curved in the little half smile that turned her insides to jelly. “I must say the fare is more than tolerable. The company, too.”

  He’d cast a glance about to include the others, but the comment brought a rush of blood to Jacqueline’s face nonetheless. “I daresay your companions are missing you this evening.”

  “I doubt it,” he replied with a chuckle. “More likely, they’ve grown weary of my constant rambling about the goings-on here. It’s improbable that anyone besides me finds the girls’ mathematics marks to be of any interest. Yet they’re always polite enough to ask after my day’s activities. I try to be succinct.”

  The merry blue eyes twinkling from behind his spectacles disarmed her entirely. “I’m sure it’s the most exciting news of the day for some.”

  His soft responding laugh resonated through her. “None of my fellow boarders leads so dull a life—not even old Mr. Watlow. He was paid a visit by his son and daughter-in-law yesterday. As I understand it, they’ve been trying to persuade him to come and live with them in Cornwall. He has expressed his desire to do no such thing, but they are most insistent.”

  If she’d had a family member come and beg her to move to the country with them while she was staying at Mrs. Hayton’s, she wouldn’t be here. She refrained from saying it, ho
wever. Small ears were everywhere. “I’m sure he will make the right decision.”

  “I told him he ought to go. You should have seen the look he gave me. I count myself fortunate to have been seated by the fire or I might have frozen on the spot.”

  She could well imagine. “He puts up a fuss but is really a very sweet gentleman. When I first inquired about the rooms to let, it was he who persuaded Mrs. Hayton to give me the front suite rather than the back, which he took for himself. He said the light from the windows in the front would annoy him. But I know he said it only to benefit me.”

  His smile broadened. “Then it’s as I suspected; there is a gentle being beneath the rough—”

  A blood-curdling scream from the kitchen cut him off. Jacqueline shot to her feet and at once made for the door. Woodson, to her surprise, reached it before her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Will’s heart pounded, and his muscles tensed in readiness. When he entered the kitchen, he half expected to find the place awash in blood. Instead, there was a cluster of aproned women huddled around another seated in a chair. “What happened?”

  “Elsie! What is it?” said Trouvère at the same time.

  They glanced at each other, and he fell back a step, mentally kicking himself for having forgotten his place.

  “Oh, ma’am!” wailed the kitchen maid, half rising to greet her. “I went to fetch another bucket of coal, and I saw…” Trembling hands rose to cover her mouth, stifling a moan. Her eyes rolled, and she began to slump.

  Dashing forward, Will grasped her upper arm and hauled her upright. “What did you see?” he demanded, shaking her a bit to rouse her.

  Elsie’s lids fluttered. When she looked up at him, stark terror was written on her face.

  “I would never hurt you,” he murmured, looking her in the eyes and easing his grip. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “It’s not you I fear,” she said, her tone indignant despite her waxen cheeks. “In the courtyard, there’s a—a dead animal of some kind. I didn’t look too closely at it, but I think it’s a dog,” she quavered. “There was blood all around it—and writing. I was too afraid to stay and read it.” Her eyes flew to her mistress. “You cannot let the children see it, ma’am. You have to keep them downstairs until it’s been taken away!”

  Releasing the girl, Will turned to the headmistress. “I’ll go and have a look. Stay here.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Her hazel eyes spat fire. “This is my school, monsieur. I will not hide while there is a potential threat to it loose on the grounds!”

  “You cannot go out there alone,” he retorted. “I’ll go with you. In fact”—he gestured for the cook and one of the other kitchen staff to come along—“we will all go. If the culprit remains, it’s highly unlikely he’ll attack four armed people. Each of you take up a lamp and something to defend yourself with, and come with me. Elsie, where exactly is it?”

  “In the center of the courtyard,” she said, shuddering. “You cannot miss it.”

  Grabbing up a lamp and one of the larger knives from the block, Will led the way out through the back door. He stopped only a few feet beyond. Elsie was right; he saw it at once—because it was surrounded by flickering candles. He counted six of them, dimly illuminating a lump in the center.

  Whoever had done this had clearly wanted it seen.

  Motioning for the others to hang back, he moved carefully toward the lights. What he saw as he approached with his lamp turned his stomach. Lying on the ground amid the candles was a skinned animal—it was indeed a dog—with a gaping hole in its chest where its heart had been carved out. He knew this because the missing organ lay beside the dog with a long knife embedded in it.

  A smear of blood at the tip of his shoe caught his eye. He stepped back and lifted his lamp. A bloody message had been painted across the courtyard’s flagstones.

  THE BITCH WILL DIE

  Dread crept into Will’s veins. First, the message on the board. Now, this.

  “What is it?” called the headmistress.

  “Wait!” he shouted back. He peered into the courtyard’s dark corners but could make out very little. The lamp he carried effectively blinded him. More people were needed out here with lights to ensure the author of the gruesome message was gone. He began to head back—and was met by the headmistress.

  “You ought not to—” he began, but it was useless. She strode right past him, lamp held high, and he was forced to follow.

  Upon stopping, she stood and stared at the macabre tableau in silence.

  “This is no prank,” he urged. “It’s a direct threat, and it must be reported.”

  She continued to gaze at the bloody scene, the only indication that it disturbed her being the trembling of the lamp in her hand. “Monsieur Woodson, I don’t suppose I could prevail upon you to assist me in clearing this away? The children’s bedroom windows overlook this courtyard.”

  “You may indeed—but first we must determine how the intruder got in and report this to the watch.” He glanced back to those waiting and marked that more of the staff had ventured out to cluster near the doorway. “We need more lights,” he called out. “And someone bring a sheet or a tablecloth. Keep the children in the dining hall until further notice!”

  A few minutes later, they were joined by Mrs. Sloane, Mrs. Orson, and two of the kitchen staff.

  “I warn you—it’s unpleasant,” he advised as they approached.

  The women let out a collective gasp of dismay as Mrs. Sloane passed him a parcel of canvas.

  He unfolded and draped it over the dead animal. “Mrs. Sloane, have you the key to the gate?” At her jerky nod, he held out his hand. “Will you please accompany me?”

  The instant Will drew aside the heavy drape separating the courtyard from the construction area, he saw the gate had been left ajar. “I thought this was to be locked every day after MacCallum’s last man left?”

  “It was locked,” the woman said, frowning. “I locked it myself!” Scuttling forward, she bent and took hold of the chain wrapped around the iron bars at the gate’s center and lifted it. The lock was still there, still closed, dangling from one end along with another shorter length of chain. Bending again, she lifted something from the ground and examined it. “It’s been cut!”

  Holding his lamp close, Will saw the link she’d picked up looked as if it had been filed thin before being severed. “This took several nights’ work,” he murmured, turning it over in his palm. “Three or four, at least. Whoever did it could not have worked on it for any length of time without being discovered by the night watchman.”

  “If it was done at night,” fumed Mrs. Sloane. “The lock and chain stay out all day—I saw no point in lugging it back and forth. One of MacCallum’s men must have tampered with it without me noticing. I never thought to check the links.”

  He swung the gate closed and latched it, marking how quiet was its movement. On checking them, he saw the hinges had been freshly greased. “Have you any more chain like this inside?” He didn’t want to waste time examining each link for damage. There was too much else to be done.

  “Aye. I’ll fetch it and tell Headmistress what’s happened.”

  “Thank you. And tell her I said to wait with the others until we can get this gate secured again.” While he waited for her return, Will peered into the moonlit street, every sense straining as his gaze darted from shadow to shadow.

  Trouvère’s initial reaction had been telling. Most women would’ve screamed on seeing such a message directed at them, or at the very least gasped in horror. Not her. With the exception of her shaking hands, she’d appeared utterly calm, almost resigned.

  What the devil is really going on here?

  It seemed forever before Mrs. Sloane returned with the promised length of chain, the lock, and three more staff members bearing additional lamps. Will breathed a little easier as he wrapped the chain around the bars and secured the entrance once more. Nothing had moved in the
shadows beyond, but he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that eyes were watching.

  “Our carriage driver, Mr. Young, has been sent to fetch the constable,” Sloane told him as they made their way back.

  He prayed it was someone he didn’t know. “Is there access to the school from the carriage house?” he asked her sharply.

  “No,” answered Sloane. “The door between is locked and barred school-side. It’s a stout one, too—oak, thick as my wrist—same make as the Tower’s. A horse could not break it down.”

  “Good,” he muttered, feeling better. Unless someone on the inside was helping the author of the message, the only other way in besides the front door was now sealed. If the culprit were still here, he wouldn’t be able to get out without a key—or a good length of rope.

  On reaching the others clustered around the draped carcass, he made a decision. “We must check the building from top to bottom. Mrs. Sloane, I’ll want your keys, if you please. Headmistress, you have yours?” She nodded, and he continued. “Groups of three, room by room, every nook and cranny. We’ll meet back in the dining hall. Hopefully, by then the constable will have arrived.”

  “What about the children?” said Mrs. Orson. “We cannot keep them down here all night.”

  “As soon as we’re certain it’s safe, you can send them on to bed.”

  Mrs. Sloane spoke up. “They’ll want to know what’s happened. What should we tell them?”

  “The truth—or part of it, rather,” he replied. “Someone got in and made mischief in the yard. We’re ensuring they’ve gone. The simpler the explanation, the better. They don’t need to know the details.”

  Throughout all of this, Trouvère remained pensive.

  Bending, he snuffed out the candles. “Everyone, inside. Take your lamps. We’ll make certain the children cannot see anything when we bring the constable out to have his look. Headmistress, you’re with me, and Mrs. Sloane. We’ll search on our way to the front.”