The Button Box: Gripping historical romance from the Sunday Times Bestseller

‘Things have changed,’ Clara said, forcing her lips into a smile. ‘With Pa safely in the country we can start afresh, as I was just telling Jane.’

Jane eyed the food, licking her lips. ‘Is all this for us, Luke?’

‘It is, and I don’t want to see any waste.’ Luke tweaked a stray golden curl that had escaped from the ribbons in Jane’s hair.

‘There won’t be. I promise.’

Clara was just about to close the shop that evening when Luke arrived.

‘I’m ready,’ she said, tipping the day’s meagre takings into the strong box. The weather had kept customers away and sales had been poor even when the shop was open, but that was to be expected in the middle of winter. Things would look up with the first hint of spring. She glanced at Luke, who was staring at her, a frown creasing his brow. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked suspiciously.

‘Is that all you have to wear?’

She glanced down at her serviceable, but plain grey dress. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact it is. You know how things were with us, Luke. We had to pawn or sell everything we owned, or starve.’

‘I knew things were bad, but I didn’t realise that you only had that rag.’

‘It’s not a rag. This material is best-quality cotton.’

‘It’s dull grey and makes you look like a drab.’ Luke fingered the bolts of brightly coloured fabrics. ‘I want you to have a gown made in this.’ He pulled out a length of emerald-green silk.

It was all Clara could do not to laugh at his choice, but even so, his words had hurt. She tossed her head. ‘That would make a wonderful afternoon gown for a lady, but not for a shop girl.’

His winged eyebrows drew together in a scowl. ‘Marry me and forget all this, Clara. I don’t want my woman serving in a shop all day.’

She met his gaze with a straight look, but this was not the right time to assert her independence. It was an argument they had had on numerous occasions, always ending in a stalemate. Tonight must be about gaining the information that Patches wanted, and personal feelings would have to be put aside. ‘I’m sorry, Luke, but this is my only gown. If you’re ashamed to be seen out with me …’

He reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Of course not. I just want to show you off. Is that so wrong?’ He lifted the bolt of silk and placed it on the counter. ‘I’m a customer now, Clara. I want enough material to make a dress. You know more about that sort of thing than I do.’

‘And what then? Are you going to take sewing lessons?’ She could not resist the temptation to tease him. He meant it kindly, she was sure, but such a gown would be far too grand for her purposes.

‘You can laugh, girl, but I’m serious. I leave it to you to choose the style and find a good dressmaker.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out a leather pouch. ‘How much would that cost?’

‘I’d have to work it out, but it’s an unnecessary extravagance and I’m not sure that it’s proper to receive such a gift from you.’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re such a little prude at heart, my love.’ He tossed a handful of coins onto the counter. ‘Put that in the strongbox and fetch your cloak. It’s bitterly cold outside.’

‘I’ll just make sure that Jane and Betsy have everything they need.’

‘They’re quite capable of looking after themselves for a couple of hours,’ Luke said impatiently. ‘We’ll walk to the Gaiety; it’s not very far.’

‘All right. Just give me a minute to get my cloak and bonnet.’ Clara went through to the parlour where Jane was putting the finishing touches to the supper she was to share with Betsy. ‘That looks good,’ Clara said, smiling. ‘I wish I was staying at home, but Luke is taking me to the Gaiety.’

‘You might see Nathanial,’ Jane said eagerly.

Clara shook her head. ‘I hope not. Luke didn’t take too kindly to him when they met. It would be embarrassing.’

Betsy rested her stockinged feet on the brass fender. ‘I’d love to be taken out to supper, but I’m really too tired. Miss Lavelle was at her worst today. I’m sure she must be troubled with chilblains or something; she’s so crotchety these days.’

‘Perhaps she’s crossed in love,’ Jane said, sighing.

‘You read too many penny dreadfuls.’ Betsy stretched and yawned. ‘Pass me my plate, Jane. I’m dying of hunger.’

Clara put on her bonnet. ‘Don’t squabble while I’m out, and don’t open the door to anyone but me. Make sure you lock up after we’ve gone, Betsy.’

‘Stop fussing,’ Betsy said with a careless wave of her hand. ‘We can look after ourselves. Go out and enjoy your evening. I just wish it was me going to a nice restaurant and not you.’

‘I’m sure your turn will come, and yours too, Jane.’ Clara turned to see Luke standing in the doorway. He might have taken to a life on the wrong side of the law, but with his fair hair waved back from a high forehead, clean-cut features and wide-set grey eyes he had an air of distinction and could easily pass as a gentleman. Just when she thought she knew every facet of his character, Clara discovered something new about Luke Foyle. She hated his way of life, but there was something about him that was both intriguing and fascinating.

Betsy shot him a sideways glance. ‘Ta for the grub, Luke.’

He bowed from the waist. ‘You’re most welcome.’

‘You look very smart,’ Betsy added, looking him up and down. ‘Look at those buttons on his waistcoat, Clara. I bet they’re real silver.’

‘I wouldn’t wear anything less,’ Luke said, chuckling. ‘You have an eye for fashion, Betsy. I paid a handsome price for them.’

‘You’re a shameless peacock.’ Clara hustled him into the shop. ‘We won’t be late, girls.’

The ice-cold air took Clara’s breath away as they trod carefully on the frozen surface of the snow. Above them the indigo sky was studded with twinkling stars and wisps of cloud danced across the silver face of the moon. It would have been a night for romance, had it not been for the grim task ahead. Luke tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and the scent of bay rum and Macassar oil filled her nostrils. It seemed that the noxious smells of the city had been frozen out of existence, for the time being at least, and when they reached the Strand, lights blazed from the theatres and eating houses, creating a magical snow scene. Ice seemed to fill Clara’s lungs as the cold grew more intense and it was a relief to step inside the Gaiety restaurant where they were enveloped in the aroma of good food and the heady scent of wine, gentlemen’s cologne and expensive perfume.

The cloakroom assistant checked in their outer garments and the maître d’hôtel seemed to know Luke and led them to one of the best tables. A waiter hurried up to present them with menus and took their order. Luke made a selection from the wine list. ‘You’ve very quiet, Clara,’ he said when the waiter had filled their glasses and moved away. ‘Is there something on your mind?’

She covered her confusion by taking a sip of the ruby-red claret. ‘No, of course not.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ He eyed her over the rim of his glass. ‘I know you too well. What is it?’

She met his intense gaze and realised suddenly that a lie was out of the question. ‘I went to see Patches again.’

‘You did what?’ His raised voice attracted the attention of the diners at the next table.

‘She had given me three days to pay off Pa’s debts, but she sent for me today.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. She wants certain information and she’s threatened to take it out on Jane if I don’t do as she asked. She plans to get even with you for fighting with her son.’

‘I can stand up for myself, but that’s not all, is it? What is it she wants you to do? Come on, Clara, you know that you can’t keep anything from me.’

She could see the tell-tale pulse throbbing in his temple and his knuckles were white as he grasped the stem of his wineglass. ‘She said she would cancel Pa’s debt if I found out where the Skinners have their hideout. She wants them dead.’ Clara’s voice broke on a sob.

‘Why didn’t you tell me all this in the first place? How much did Alfred owe?’

‘Eight guineas, but she’s increased it to ten because I can’t raise that much money, at least not quickly. I suppose I could if I sold the shop, but that’s my livelihood now.’

‘Your father has a lot to answer for. He’s taken the coward’s way out and left you to take the consequences.’ Luke drained his glass and reached for the bottle. ‘You won’t have to do what Patches wants and you won’t have to find the money. I’ll sort that old bitch out once and for all, and that idiot son of hers.’

‘How? What are you going to do?’

‘It’s not your problem now. This has become personal.’ Luke sat back as the waiter appeared with their food. ‘Enjoy your dinner, and then I’m taking you home.’

‘You don’t know Patches. She’s evil.’

‘I know Patches only too well, and it would take more than a pock-marked old woman to frighten me.’

‘You won’t do anything stupid, will you?’

His eyes twinkled and he raised his glass to her. ‘So you do love me?’

‘I don’t want your death on my conscience,’ she said with a reluctant smile.

‘I suppose that’s a start.’ He raised his glass. ‘Let’s enjoy the evening.’

Clara hardly slept that night for worrying about Luke. He had seen her home, but had left immediately, having laughed off her fears and promised to return next day to let her know that matters had been settled satisfactorily. He had seemed supremely confident in his own ability but she had her doubts. The whole sad affair could end up in one of the gang wars that were the scourge of the East End.

She rose early and went about the chore of lighting the fire and filling the kettle with snow as the pump in the back yard was still frozen. The grey-white world outside felt cold and alien, adding to her feeling of foreboding.

Betsy appeared just as the kettle came to the boil, and after snatching a cup of tea and a slice of bread and jam, she rammed her bonnet on her head and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. ‘If Miss Lavelle isn’t in a better mood today I’m giving in my notice. I don’t care if I never find another job, but I won’t be treated like a skivvy.’

Clara was used to listening to her sister’s grumbles before she set off each day and she ignored this last remark. ‘I’ve made a sandwich for you.’

Betsy eyed the brown paper package with distaste. ‘She won’t allow us to eat in the workroom in case we get grease on the material.’

‘Never mind. Take it anyway and eat it on the way home.’

‘I wish you’d stop being so cheerful. We’re stuck here, in this tiny shop with hardly a rag to our backs and we have to rely on Luke for our food. It’s all Pa’s fault and I hope he’s suffering too, wherever he is now.’ Betsy tucked the sandwich into her reticule and flounced out of the parlour.

Clara sighed and shook her head. Betsy was right, of course, but there was no point in dwelling on the past. What happened now was more important. She followed her sister through the shop and out into the street. She was about to lock the door when Betsy uttered a gasp and bent down to pluck something from the snowy pavement.

‘Look what I found.’ She held out her mittened hand and a tiny silver button winked in the light of the gas lamp. ‘I’ll swear this is from Luke’s waistcoat.’

Clara took it from her. ‘Yes, I’m sure it is. It must have come off when he saw me home. I’m certain he would have noticed if it was missing in the restaurant.’

Betsy pointed to a dark stain on the churned-up snow. ‘That looks like blood.’

‘It’s your imagination,’ Clara said sharply. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for work.’

‘Maybe he slipped and fell,’ Betsy insisted. ‘You should go round to his lodgings and make sure he’s all right.’

‘Luke can take care of himself.’ Clara stepped back into the shop and closed the door, but her knees were trembling and the button seemed to burn into the palm of her hand. She hesitated for a moment and then reached under the counter for the button box. It would be safe there, and buttons came off easily enough. She would make sure it was sewn on more securely when she returned it to Luke.

‘Clara, are you there?’ Jane’s voice brought her down to earth with a bump. It was silly to worry about a lost button, and the stain on the snow might be anything. Even if it were blood that didn’t mean to say it was Luke’s. Betsy was over-imaginative at the best of times. Clara hurried into the parlour.

‘I’m here. I just saw Betsy off to work.’

‘She’s forgotten to take the hat I finished off,’ Jane said anxiously. ‘She’ll be in trouble again.’

Clara thought quickly. It was still only half-past seven, and there was no point in opening the shop before nine. ‘I’ll take it to her, if you don’t mind being left alone again.’

‘Of course not. I feel quite safe here, and thanks to Luke I can make some toast for my breakfast. There’s butter and jam – it feels like Christmas.’

‘I’ll open up when I get back. There probably won’t be any customers until later this morning. It’s still freezing outside.’ Clara took her cloak from the peg and slipped it on. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ She picked up the bandbox containing the hat, blew Jane a kiss and set off after Betsy.

Knowing her sister only too well, Clara had guessed correctly. Betsy did not know the meaning of the word ‘hurry’. She caught her up as she meandered along the Strand in the direction of Miss Lavelle’s shop.

‘You left this behind,’ Clara said breathlessly. ‘And you’re going to be late as it is.’

Betsy glared at the hat box as if it were to blame for her employer’s faults. ‘Thank you.’

‘Hurry up, slowcoach.’

‘I will if you promise to go and see Luke. I’m worried about him.’

‘Anyone would think he was your beau, Betsy. I’m going there now, if you must know. Now please, run the last few yards so that at least it looks as if you’ve tried to get to work on time.’

Betsy rolled her eyes and turned away, but she did walk a little faster than usual, and Clara waited until she saw her enter the premises. She could sympathise with her sister, but they needed the money, little though it might be. One day Betsy would be a fully qualified milliner and able to command a high price for her creations – until then she would have to put up with Miss Lavelle’s idiosyncrasies and foul moods. There was no escape for working girls, other than a suitable marriage, and even then that was not necessarily a recipe for a happy ending. Life was not a fairy tale. Clara set off for Luke’s lodging house in Hanging Sword Alley. It was a long way down Fleet Street, she had only been this way once before and that was in Luke’s company. She put her head down, ignoring the comments from passing draymen and carters, all of whom offered to give her a lift in return for favours not expressed in words, but their meaning was obvious.

She reached the lodging house in the narrow alleyway off Whitefriars Street, and knocked on the door. A feral cat shot past with a dead rat in its mouth and a mangy dog in hot pursuit. She knocked again and this time the door was opened just a crack.

‘What d’yer want?’ The woman’s voice was gruff and the words were slurred with drink although it was still early morning. The smell of gin fumes curled upwards in a plume of bad breath as it evaporated into the cold atmosphere.

‘I want to speak to Mr Foyle.’

‘He ain’t here. Never come home last night, according to the slut I pay to empty the slops. Best try the brothels, love. That’s where they usually end up.’ She slammed the door in Clara’s face.

Chapter Six

As the hours went by and still no word from Luke, Clara’s fears intensified. Until now she had had supreme confidence in Luke’s ability to take care of himself, but that was before she had met Patches Bragg, when the world of the gambling dens and the criminal gangs had seemed unreal. It had not occurred to her that Pa was so deeply involved with the criminal fraternity, but now she realised just how far he had sunk. For the rest of the day her thoughts kept returning to the silver button nestling amongst its brothers, and the patch of blood in the snow. It had all but disappeared into a mushy grey slush, but the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.

Clara closed up early, making the excuse of going out to purchase hot pies for their evening meal, but instead she made her way to the club in Angel Court. There was no hope of finding the money that Patches had demanded, but that paled into insignificance in the light of Luke’s disappearance. There was only one way to find out if Patches and her gang were involved. She rapped on the door and waited, but no one came. She knocked again, and when there was no reply she turned the knob and found to her surprise that the door was not locked. With her heart hammering against her tightly laced stays, she stepped inside.

‘Is anyone there?’ Her voice echoed throughout the building. There was no sign of Bones or Old Tom, and the only sound was her own ragged breathing. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but perhaps Luke was there in that dank cellar, bound and gagged and unable to communicate.

She made her way through the dark corridors and down the flight of narrow stairs to the basement, and there was no sign of life or sound of anything other than the creaking of old timbers. She opened the door to the gaming room. Light filtered hazily through the grimy window; it was dim but even so she could see that the place was deserted. The tables were bare, as were the shelves behind the bar. Patches and her punters might never have existed other than in her imagination. Clara bent down to pick up a round gaming token that had been overlooked. Even in the semi-darkness she could see that it was similar to the ones that Pa sometimes brought home in his pocket. But for this tiny object she might have been led to believe that she was in the wrong place, or that she had dreamed the whole sorry business.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made her spin round. She held her breath, poised and ready to run. She had expected to see one of Patches’ men, but it was an elderly woman who stood in the doorway and she looked as scared as Clara was feeling.

‘Who are you?’ the woman demanded tremulously. ‘What are you doing here?’

Clara was shaking from head to foot, but it was with relief and not fear. ‘I might ask the same of you. Where is Patches?’

‘Are you one of her gang? I don’t want no trouble. I’m just the cleaning woman.’

‘No, I’m not one of the gang,’ Clara said angrily. ‘Where have they gone?’

‘I dunno, and I don’t ask questions. Nor will you if you’ve got any sense. I’ve got work to do, and you’d better go about your business, whatever that might be.’

‘I need to know what happened here last night. Please tell me anything you know.’

‘Go away and let me get on. I got a family to feed and I don’t know nothing.’ The woman glanced over her shoulder. ‘He’s coming.’ She scuttled into the room and pushed past Clara, brandishing a broom.

Clara attempted to leave but found her way barred by a swarthy man wearing a billycock hat and a heavy overcoat with its collar pulled up to his unshaven chin. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded, squinting at her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

‘I’m looking for Luke Foyle,’ Clara said, hoping she sounded more confident than she was feeling. This man had an air of menace about him that made her feel distinctly threatened, but to her surprise his frown was replaced by a broad grin, exposing a row of uneven, yellowed teeth.

‘What’s your name, lovely?’

‘I’m Clara Carter.’

‘So you’re the one,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Luke has an eye for a looker, and that’s the truth.’

‘Where is he?’ Clara demanded breathlessly.

‘You might say he’s had to go on a trip for the sake of his health, miss. You won’t be seeing him for quite a while.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Haven’t you heard? There was a fight between the Skinners’ gang and the Braggs’ last night. Very bloody it was too. Those what are left have scarpered.’

‘Who are you?’ Clara demanded furiously. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’

‘It don’t matter who I am, my duck. I’ll be off soon meself, but it’s a pity about Foyle. You’ll get over him in time.’

Clara felt a bubble of hysteria welling up inside her, but she mustered every scrap of self-control in an attempt to sound calm and collected. ‘What happened to him?’

‘I told you, girl. He left the country and he won’t be coming back for a long while. If he does he faces the hangman’s noose. D’you understand me now?’

‘Did he kill someone?’ Clara’s breath caught on a sob. ‘Was it Patches? Is that why this place is deserted?’

‘I ain’t prepared to say no more. The less you know, the better. Go home, girl.’ He was about to walk past her but she caught him by the sleeve.

‘Why won’t you tell me where Luke has gone?’

He shook her hand off as if it were an annoying bug. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? How very remiss of me. He’s taking in the delights of Paris, so I believe.’ He sauntered off to inspect the bar, or what was left of it, giving Clara the opportunity to escape.

It was not until she was outside that the full force of events overtook her and she leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. It had all begun with a gambling debt, but everything had spiralled out of control, and now Luke had left the country, if that man was to be believed. There must have been a scuffle outside the shop, which would account for the bloodstain on the snow and the loss of a waistcoat button, but what happened after that would remain a mystery.

She walked home slowly, stopping to buy three hot mutton pies from the pieman, and three baked potatoes from the stall a little further along Drury Lane. Her movements were automatic and she was still in a state of shock. She had done her best to persuade Luke to get away from the gangs, and he had managed to keep that part of his life separate, treating it almost as a joke. Now the reality of gang warfare had struck home – Luke must have killed someone, maybe Patches herself, and he had fled for his life. He was a marked man and if he returned to England he would face the full force of the law.

The sound of footsteps made Clara glance over her shoulder. Home and safety were just a few yards away, but to her relief she recognised a familiar figure. With his muffler flying and his hair tousled by the wind, Nathaniel came hurrying towards her with his violin case slung over his shoulder. As he came to a breathless halt she noticed that he had done his coat up on the wrong button and his stiff white collar was coming undone as if he had lost a stud in his hurry to get dressed.

‘Clara, I thought it was you.’ He sniffed the air, like a hungry hound. ‘Mutton pie, my favourite.’

‘You’re welcome to join us, Nathaniel. There’s plenty to go round.’

‘I wish I could, but I’m already late. I should have been at work ten minutes ago. I just hope the conductor hasn’t noticed that I’m not in my place.’

‘Another time then,’ Clara said, smiling, ‘but perhaps you ought to stop off for a moment and fix your collar. You do look a bit untidy, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘I was so busy composing that I forgot the time.’

‘You seem to have lost a collar stud.’

‘Devil take the wretched things.’ Nathaniel ran his hand through his windblown hair. ‘I’m always losing them, but I can’t stop now. May I call on you soon, Clara? I don’t want to intrude.’

‘That would be very nice.’ Clara had to suppress the sudden desire to laugh. In the midst of murder and mayhem Nathaniel represented a different world that was infinitely more appealing.

‘Splendid.’ He backed away, smiling. ‘And I haven’t forgotten about the tickets for the show …’ His voice trailed off as he broke into a run, heading in the direction of the Strand.

Clara walked on slowly, making a huge effort to compose herself before she arrived at the shop. What had happened last night was something she wanted to keep to herself for as long as possible.