Daughters of Night

by Laura Shepherd-Robinson

  ‘I dropped by to see Agnetti,’ he said. ‘I saw your carriage in the courtyard and came to find you. So what were you doing? Picking mushrooms? Burying treasure?’

  ‘Looking for a document, a letter. It was on the ground by the dead woman. Sir Amos doesn’t have it. He thinks I must have imagined it, but you saw it, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I only glanced into the bower. We were on the path outside, remember?’

  Caro looked around herself again, distressed by her failure to find it. ‘It was here. I know it was.’

  ‘Why does it matter? Haven’t you read the newspapers? She wasn’t the lady you thought she was – she was a whore.’

  Her face and hair were damp, her skirts and slippers muddied, and she was suddenly conscious of how she must appear. ‘The letter might be connected to the murder. It could have been dropped by the killer.’

  ‘Surely that is the magistrate’s concern.’

  ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you?’ Caro forced herself to stop looking for it, to look at him. For two weeks, she had sought the opportunity to be alone with him, but now she was doing it all wrong, distracted by Lucy Loveless and her murder. ‘How have you been? I didn’t get a chance to ask you the other night.’

  ‘Well enough. And yourself? Recovered, I trust? Caroline Corsham is made of Toledo steel, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Not always, I’m not. Octavius, I’ve been concerned. You haven’t answered any of my letters.’

  ‘Forgive me. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘With Catullus? My rival?’ She forced a smile. ‘Now that we are here, there is something I need to tell you.’

  ‘And I you. That’s why I came to find you.’ He was looking at her oddly, and a feeling of foreboding rolled over her. ‘Clemency Howard is to wear my mother’s diamonds to the opera tonight. I didn’t want you hearing it second-hand.’

  Clemency Howard? She stared at him; all the words she’d practised dried on her tongue.

  ‘I’m past thirty,’ he went on. ‘Thought it was probably time. My bit for the ancestors. Father’s settled my debts, restored my allowance. Mother’s delighted. So no more letters, if you don’t mind – I know you’ll understand. And it had better be Lord March from now on.’

  She heard him distantly, the ring cutting into her palm. He smiled to soften the blow, and her eyes grew hot. She said the words very fast, so she couldn’t take them back: ‘Octavius, I am with child.’

  He stared at her for a very long time. ‘Why do you tell me this?’

  ‘Because it isn’t Harry’s. It cannot be. And soon it will be too late to pass it off as his.’

  ‘Are you saying it’s mine?’

  Her head shot up, and he arched an eyebrow. ‘You can’t blame a fellow for wondering. I haven’t even asked what you were up to in the bowers the other night.’

  ‘Not that. I swear it.’ She gazed at him helplessly. ‘I fear Harry will divorce me when he finds out.’

  ‘You really think it will come to that?’ His expression softened and he held out his arms. ‘Poor girl, what must you have been going through?’

  She buried her face in his coat, his silver buttons with the Amberley crest digging into her cheek. If marriages could be broken, she told herself, then so could engagements. If he stood by her, the son of an earl, she could survive divorce. But already he was pulling away from their embrace.

  ‘You’ll talk Harry round,’ he said gently, holding her by the shoulders. ‘Nobody’s going to divorce Caro. Especially not a man of sense, like him. He can pack you off to Germany: a quiet place to take the waters, a good family wanting a baby. I hear that’s how it’s done.’

  ‘But what if I can’t? Talk him round, I mean.’ Her voice cracked. ‘I’ll have to leave London, live as an outcast. Lose Gabriel.’

  ‘We won’t speak of it,’ he said firmly. ‘Because it’s not going to happen.’ He frowned. ‘Here, you haven’t mentioned this to anyone, have you? Because Father mustn’t find out. Things between us aren’t yet back on a firm enough footing. And Clemency – Gad, this would break her heart.’

  ‘No,’ she said, faintly. ‘I haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘Let’s keep it that way,’ he said. ‘And try not to worry. Things will work themselves out. They always do.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE COVENT GARDEN market stalls were packing up, the coffeehouses, taverns, bagnios and bordellos busy with a constant stream of customers going in and out. As Child pressed through the crowd, a thin, wan girl selling flowers caught his sleeve. ‘Buy me dinner for a half-guinea, sir? Your love would make me very happy.’

  If it did, Child thought, thinking of his wife and Sophie Hardcastle and every other woman who’d ever crossed his path, you would be the exception to the rule.

  The door to the Shakespeare’s Head was kept clear of rabble by two stout men in greatcoats. They gave Child a long look-over, but let him pass. In the polished mahogany taproom, well-dressed gentlemen sat around, drinking, laughing, smoking and talking, many with harlots on their laps or hanging off their arms. This was where Harris’s List was compiled and distributed, and copies were on sale behind the bar. It was also where the Whores’ Club met in an upstairs room.

  A giant with a ragged ear and a smear of a nose guarded the stairs. ‘I’ll let you up for half a crown,’ he informed Child. ‘But if they throw you out, that’s your affair.’

  Child ascended the stairs, the sound of raucous women’s laughter growing steadily louder. The landing spilled with stragglers: harlots fanning themselves, drinking ratafia punch. Child murmured his apologies as he pushed between them, prompting indignant comments and ribald remarks.

  The room was a press of women. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, some pleasingly plump, others tiny as children, others again as tall as Amazon queens. A few more exotic faces stood out: a pair of pretty Lascars, an ebony beauty, and a white-faced girl who looked like she came from the Japans. Child’s eyes swam with ribbons, ruffles and lace; soft skin; pert breasts; rouged cheeks; reddened lips. Christ, he thought. A whole damned tribe of them.

  A woman on a velvet throne rang a silver bell, and the room fell silent. She had the black tresses and ivory skin of an Italian Madonna, and the gimlet eye of a Smithfield horse broker. On the table by her side sat a squirrel in a golden collar, eating sugared almonds from a china dish. She took a long draw on her pipe, and hashish smoke curled around her face. ‘I am Amy Infamy, Chairwoman of the Whores’ Club. This meeting is in session. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m a thief-taker,’ Child said, ‘looking into the murder of Lucy Loveless.’

  A murmur broke out amongst the harlots, and the chairwoman rang her bell again, startling her squirrel. ‘Lucy Loveless was not a member of this club.’

  ‘She used to be,’ Child said. ‘Before you threw her out.’

  The chairwoman’s eyes flashed. ‘That’s what happens when you break the rules.’

  ‘What rules did she break?’

  The chairwoman turned to the only other male in the room: a lad of about sixteen, seated at a secretary desk. ‘Hector, proceed to the next item.’ She pointed her pipe at Child. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Item six,’ Hector read from his leather book in pert, petulant tones. ‘Dispersal of the whores’ hardship fund.’ The lad had the look of a link-boy, with his angelic face and head of tousled yellow hair. Many of the wealthier harlots employed pretty boys like him to light their paths at night, offering a degree of protection in exchange for pennies and the opportunity to meet wealthy pederasts.

  ‘Listen,’ Child spoke over him, addressing the assembled women. ‘Lucy was stabbed over a dozen times. She died choking on her own blood. There is a monster out there, and it could be any one of you next. Don’t you want him caught?’

  Another low murmur. Again, the chairwoman rang her bell.

  ‘Lucy knew the risks,’ she said. ‘Go selling yourself at Vauxhall like a tuppenny jade, what do you expect?’

  He
ctor gave him a slanted grin. ‘You never know before you know, Mr Thief-taker, sir, and the moment when you do, it is too late.’

  ‘If Lucy was selling herself in dangerous circumstances,’ Child said, ‘it was because she’d lost all her clients. You had a part to play in that. A fine way to treat one of your members – that’s what people are saying out there on the street – asking why the Whores’ Club won’t even pay for a funeral. I’m surprised the newspapers haven’t learned about your role in this yet. Be a pity if someone were to tell them.’

  Child supposed Orin Black counted as a person on the street, even if he was overstating the case a little. The Whores’ Club cared about their reputation, but if he hoped his threat would change their minds, he was wrong.

  The chairwoman scowled. ‘This club was in the right of the matter. Lucy had served time in Bridewell. Not for picking pockets. She’d played the Ring Game.’

  Hector made a circle with his finger and thumb, and slid it on and off the index on his other hand. ‘You know the Ring Game, Mr Thief-taker? A sad story in a darkened tavern, a gold ring for sale . . .’

  ‘Switched at the last moment for one of pinchbeck or brass? Aye, I know it. In Deptford they call it the Grieving Widow.’

  ‘Here in London, we call it fraud,’ the chairwoman said. ‘And any crime greater than picking pockets is against our rules of membership. Our good relations with Bow Street depend on it.’

  ‘How did you learn about her crime?’

  ‘An anonymous letter from a concerned party. We confronted Lucy and she admitted it. A vote was held, and the verdict was unanimous.’

  ‘Aye,’ someone called out, ‘she’d had enough chances already.’

  Child whirled round to find the woman who’d spoken, one of the pretty Lascars. ‘Why do you say that?’

  She only grinned.

  The chairwoman stroked her squirrel, pointing at him again with her pipe. ‘So tell the newspapers what you like. All we did was protect the public from a lying, scheming doxy. Somebody call for Crispin. He needs to go.’

  ‘Just one moment more.’ Child made a placatory gesture with his hands. ‘I’d like to talk to a girl named Kitty, if she’s here? She was a friend of Lucy’s once. Whatever their differences, I’m sure she’d like to help find her killer.’ He scanned the ranks of whores, eyes fastening on a flame-haired harlot with freckled skin. ‘Are you Kitty?’

  She batted a silk fan in front of her face. ‘Call me any name you like for five guineas.’

  He was getting nowhere, and the whores were enjoying that fact. ‘Out,’ some of them started to chant. ‘Out. Out. Out.’

  Child raised his voice, his cheeks reddening. ‘How about a soldier with a redcoat and a scar? Did anyone ever see him with Lucy? He accosted her in the street. Might have attacked her before.’

  The room seemed to bristle as one. Pursed lips, sullen stares. They knew the man. He was sure of it. The chanting grew louder: ‘Out. Out. Out.’ Someone threw an apricot and it struck him in the chest. He ducked to avoid a handful of sugared almonds. He appealed to the redhead again: ‘Are you Kitty?’

  She only laughed. The chairwoman rang her bell more vigorously, and the squirrel leapt from the table, knocking over her glass of punch. The gold chain attached to its collar was secured to a bracelet on the chairwoman’s arm. She hadn’t noticed the creature’s plight and it hung there choking. Hector jumped up to assist, colliding with Child as he did so, just as the giant with the ragged ear strode through the door.

  ‘Crispin, I have asked this gadfly to leave.’

  Child appealed to the women one last time. ‘This soldier might have killed Lucy. She was one of your own once. I don’t understand why you won’t help me.’

  As he gazed at their hostile faces, the giant seized hold of his collar, steering him roughly through the chanting crowd. He propelled Child down the stairs, and out the tavern door, where he offered a few words of kindly advice: ‘You know how they make wine? They crush the grapes with their feet. Come back any time soon and I’ll turn your face to claret.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A BOWL OF warm water sat on the polished marquetry desktop of Caro’s escritoire. She was cleaning the dirt from the ring she’d found at Vauxhall with a paintbrush. Miles had drawn the curtains against the darkening Mayfair streets, but a draught was blowing in from somewhere, and the candle flames danced. Gabriel was playing at her feet, building unsteady towers out of painted blocks on the Turkey carpet.

  The ring’s stone was red and oval – a garnet, she decided – carved with the face of a woman in profile. The stone moved under the brush, as though it was coming loose, but as Caro examined it more closely, she realized that the stone was designed to pivot on a golden pin. Turning it all the way around, she saw that the reverse of the stone was carved with the head of a goat. It was extraordinary. She’d never seen anything like it.

  The candles flickered again, and the leaping shadows caught Gabriel’s eye. ‘Monster, Mama, Monster!’

  The ring looked centuries old, heavy and exotic, cold in her palm. Yet one of the assaying marks stamped into the band, a seated figure of Britannia, indicated that the ring had been made on British shores. The remaining assaying marks – those that signified the jeweller and the date of manufacture – were a mystery to Caro, and she decided to take the ring to her own jeweller in the morning.

  The candles blurred before her eyes. Lord March was to marry Clemency Howard. Her grief was not for him, but for herself and her situation. What a fool she’d been to think that he’d stand by her. He’d been more worried about his damn father than about her or the child. Humiliation battled with anger, but neither would serve her now. She forced herself to confront the unpalatable facts.

  That evening’s mail had brought no letter from Harry. Soon she would have few enough options left. Wait it out, throw herself upon his mercy when he returned from France – or act.

  I can help you, dearest Caro, if you’ll only let me.

  Lucy’s words. Or Lucia – as she had been four nights ago at the Carlisle House masquerade. Caro recalled the strains of the orchestra, the swell of conversation, the rattle of dice. Then, as now, all she could think about was Harry and Lord March. Her husband’s mysterious absence, her lover’s refusal to answer her letters. It had dampened any desire to dance or game, and she was distracted in conversation, watching corpulent Cupids twirl ageing milkmaids across the ballroom floor. Harlequins and dominoes, sultans and vestal virgins – and, walking among them, a lady in a black-and-gold half-mask, drawing the eye of every gentleman in the room. Mysterious, darkly exotic, wearing a black lace headdress with matching feathers, and petticoats of golden crêpe under more black lace. Curious as to her identity, Caro had followed her progress around the ballroom, until the woman lowered her mask for a moment – as if searching for someone in the crowd – and she recognized Lucia. Indignation warred with delight, and she almost sent a footman over. But remembering how she’d felt when Lucia had returned to Naples without saying farewell, she’d only called for another glass of punch.

  A short time later, however, when someone tapped her upon the shoulder and she turned to see Lucia smiling broadly – she’d been unable to resist a smile herself.

  ‘Dearest Caro,’ Lucia had said, in that throaty Italian accent, which Caro now knew to be a fraud, ‘can you ever forgive me for deserting you? Oh, how I’ve missed you.’

  Which had rather settled the matter. They had conversed for an hour over wine: about events in Naples, Harry’s trip to France, and Lucia’s plans for her time in England. ‘This noise, this heat,’ Lucia had said, at last. ‘Shall we go somewhere quieter? The garden, perhaps?’

  Caro, feeling faint herself, had readily agreed. Yet as they walked from the ballroom, the balance of her nausea had suddenly tipped. Clutching a hand to her mouth, she ran into a corridor, reaching the water closet only just in time. Lucia walked in after her, seeing her in all her discomfort. Despite Caro’s embarra
ssed protests, she had taken charge of the situation: loosening her corsets, stroking her back, stroking her hair. Afterwards, she had steered Caro to a cloakroom with a chair, disappeared, and returned with water and a sponge. Somewhat shaken by the incident, overwhelmed by Lucia’s kindness and her own despair, Caro had burst into tears.

  ‘There,’ Lucia said, holding her as she sobbed. ‘Whatever is the matter? You can tell me anything, sweet Caro.’

  Which only made her sob all the harder.

  ‘Is it possible that you anticipate a happy event?’ Lucia said. ‘My sister is always the same. In floods every time, but the clouds will part. Sad in the womb, happy in the world, that’s what I say.’

  Caro had pulled away, staring in horror. How had Lucia guessed? She was not very far along – just one missed course, nothing to show yet, save a little bloating. Some women might not even recognize the signs in themselves. And yet Caro knew, just as surely as she’d known with Gabriel.

  ‘It is merely a bad oyster. Please, say nothing of this.’

  ‘My mistake.’ But a little later, as Caro was straightening her gown, Lucia gave her a long, shrewd look. ‘It must be lonely, your husband being abroad these past few months. Perhaps that has contributed in some small part to your distress?’ Another look, this one rich in unspoken meaning. ‘Maybe you’d like it all to go away? Your sickness, your anxiety? Say the word, and I will forever hold my tongue. But I can help you, dearest Caro. If you’ll only let me.’

  Looking into her small, brown eyes, Caro had been struck by their trustworthiness – which was ironic, given everything she now knew. Perhaps it was the wine, or Lucia’s kindness, or simple desperation, but a single word fell from her lips: ‘How?’

  ‘I know an apothecary who makes a particular tincture. It is not without risk – some women react very differently to the herb than others – but it works more often than it does not. I could bring it to you tomorrow night? Where will you be?’