Into The Hall Of Vice

‘Brilliant. She remains indoors too often.’ Genuine concern marked his reply.

‘She may not wish to speak right now, but society does not need to know about her prolonged reticence. Let them see her on the bench beside me and assume life continues as always. Our mourning period spent in the country stifled any wayward speculation.’ She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. ‘Besides, I hold hope someone will ignite an interest and cause her to respond from necessity or curiosity, an impossible circumstance if she remains locked away here at home.’ Perhaps she’d spoken too forthright, her imagery coloured by inner conflict. Her brother’s brows climbed high before he answered.

‘What if someone aligns with the cabriolet and wishes to converse? How will you explain your sister’s lack of communication?’

‘A sore throat or megrim? A prolonged malaise? If I’m chattering and supplying an explanation of her silence, how dare anyone persist?’ She took another sip, seeking comfort and reassurance in the hot brew. ‘I believe in my heart the right instigation will cause her to speak again. If only I knew what it was. I dare say I would go mad trapped inside my head with nothing but the thrum of my pulse for company, but as we discussed with each and every doctor, the matter cannot be forced. Rosalind maintains fine health otherwise. She may find comfort in no longer using her voice, broken from Father’s death, but how I wish I knew what troubled her to such extreme she chooses to remain quiet.’

‘There is no understanding it. Every physician asserts Rosalind’s silence is a subconscious choice and she will return to rights again, but nonetheless, when I look into her sorrowful face, I question their medical integrity as nothing more than quacks. What sane person chooses to become mute? I wonder if they simply appease me, afeared to inform me of a grave diagnosis that might shade them in disfavour. Meanwhile, it is difficult to sit idle and wait for her to return to the vociferous young girl who added amusement to each day.’ He rifled through a stack of correspondence before he spoke again. ‘Do not mistake my silence on the subject as dismissal. I am at a loss and cannot invest the time I should.’ He continued after the sentimental admittance, reassembled into the stern brother she knew well. ‘It seems I’m forever seeking solutions. Parliament’s most recent bills are a travesty.’ He unfolded another letter as was routine during breakfast and pierced her with a meaningful glare. ‘Return to Stratton House if Rosalind appears uncomfortable in any respect. I know you have her best interest in mind but there are times…’

‘Of course. I would never inflict more harm.’ Her words faded on a mutter, daunted by her brother’s chastisement. How he divided his attention between multiple subjects, when one seemed more important, was beyond her comprehension.

‘I don’t mean to sound harsh. Obey my wishes and do not cause difficulty. I wouldn’t want your best intentions to go awry by way of enthusiasm.’ He splayed a hand and indicated the pile of papers on the table. ‘Everywhere I look I find opposition. I’ll not have it in my household as well.’

‘I understand.’ But she didn’t. Not in truth. Everything had changed since Father’s death. She had lost not just her dear, kind father, but her sister, who chose a lonely silence and incommunicable coexistence. Meanwhile, her brother had assumed the title and since dedicated his time to the consuming demands of the House of Lords more than his own house. With their mother long ago buried, Rosalind was her closest confidante aside from her maid.

‘Is that all?’ Kent resumed his interest in the message left resting near his plate.

‘Perhaps after we return from the park, I’ll visit a new modiste outside Mayfair.’ She strove to inject a pleasant note.

‘Do you want for anything?’ He barely raised his eyes with the question.

‘No. Not at all, though I understand this shop creates the newest fashions and it bides well for Rosalind and I to present our best now that we’ve put away our mourning blacks.’ She took another sip of tea in an effort to keep her expression neutral.

‘Talk of fabric and frippery is best left to your maid.’ His steely gaze punctuated his dismissal. ‘Be sure to take Nan with you.’ Then, with split interest, he glanced to the letter in hand. ‘Another Poor Bill to contend? This proposed system will distort the free market.’

She wrinkled her nose, eschewing concerns of Parliament’s business for another reason entirely. Explaining a stop in Charing Cross to her maid would require some inventive storytelling. When her mother died nine years ago, Nan had stepped in to raise her. The line between servant and friend blurred over time and while the woman was not old enough to serve as mother, there were often instances when the maid assumed the role. Still, Gemma had achieved her goal with a modicum of honesty so she would not waste the unexpected boon.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose from the chair with energised purpose. ‘Let me inform Rosalind so she may make ready for the park.’

Mayhap it was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that jarred loose the tender memory and freed the stifled yearning for kindness, but whatever the cause, Cole woke the next afternoon with a desire to visit Charing Cross. There his makeshift mother lived in a stark flat where, over several past years, she’d housed and protected numerous lost boys, sharing what little she had and wanting nothing in return. As when she’d raised him, the only rules to abide were a strict sense of purpose and honesty in every form, most especially in regard to crime. She kept the lads fed and clothed, taught them the barest education and left each with an indelible understanding of gratitude and kindness to do better by others. It wasn’t until many years later that he understood the sacrifices she made in order to pay rent and purchase necessities.

Two decades ago Cole was one of these lads.

Cole.

He grinned. The remembrance of how he’d chosen his name still held the power to amuse. Shoved from a fancy carriage out onto the street as a tiny lad, his aristocratic father demanded he not return.

‘I have no need of a dirty bastard. Your mother should have known that before she left you on my doorstep. Now off with you and forget this day.’

The stranger, his father, waved his arm as one might shoo away a stray dog. With a forceful push down the extended steps, Cole butted into the side of a merchant’s wagon and watched his father’s fancy carriage roll away, unable to forget the barren fear and utter dejection as he wept for his mother through the night. By morning his emotions had run dry. Determination and pride replaced his previous trepidation. He crawled from beneath the wagon where he’d hidden from rats and predators interested in fresh victims among the overcrowded squalor of St Giles, only to meet with further condemnation and disapproval.

‘Git.’ The merchant of the wagon had arrived, his arm raised, a blackened shovel in his meaty fist. ‘Empty your pockets before you go. You won’t steal from Hewitt Coal and you won’t make a home beneath my wagon neither, you little thief.’

Cole stared at the angry merchant a long minute before he turned and ran, his lungs near bursting from exertion. On that day, a new child was born. Cole Hewitt. He’d chosen the name to forever remind of his self-made promise to overcome his humble beginnings and dismiss all knowledge of the past. When he’d stopped his race against time and regret, he’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and fought tears, motionless and defeated. From that moment on he’d survived day to day, hungry and cold, until a worn pair of boots intersected his path where he’d hidden in the dank corner of an empty alley.

His life would have become just another dreadful story if Maggie hadn’t scooped him up and offered him shelter. Eventually she taught him his worth and, with that new-found belief, he vowed to become a better person, achieve success and never look back. He would forget his past, wipe it clean from his memory and build a thriving future that had nothing to do with his parents’ rejection.

He shook his head with pride, unwilling to forage through the despicable memory of his abandonment and the hardships of the years that followed. Today was not that day.

Dressing with alacrity, he hailed a hackney for the ride to Charing Cross, able to keep the rest of his unpleasant past at bay. Then, after purchasing a bouquet of lilies from a flower cart, he knocked on the door, only to discover no one answered. Where might Maggie-girl be at such an early hour? He pressed his ear to the panel. Not a sound stirred within.

He called her his makeshift mother, but she was no more than ten years older and, at thirty-seven, she’d made her life’s work to better the lives of the pallid faces lost to the streets. So many abandoned urchins benefited and, with his accumulated wealth from the Underworld, he’d provided most every advantage for her generosity to reach others.

He eyed the modest house, its wooden porch swept clean of debris, the windows freshly washed. How often had he offered to purchase Maggie a fine townhouse in Mayfair, but she stubbornly refused to leave, dedicated to those less fortunate? Instead he set her up in fine rooms, at least the best this area possessed, and this too was his legacy, an opportunity to make his past a matter of selective remembrance. And in that way, poverty was a blessing. No one asked questions in Charing Cross. It was easier that way.

Dismissing the familiar reminiscence, he retrieved the brass key from his trouser pocket and turned it in the lock. Inside, he lit the lantern on the hook near the door and placed the bouquet on the kitchen table for Maggie to discover when she returned. He hadn’t eaten and a full stomach would do well to start his day, but instead of nabbing a biscuit from the breadbox, he ventured to the bedroom where he stored a few personal articles in the top drawer of the armoire. He removed the jar of bootblack and adjusted the standing mirror upward so he could see his reflection. Then, with a nimble touch, he worked the black grease through his hair, darkening the golden strands to pitch in less than a heartbeat. He cleaned his hands on a cloth kept there and, with the scarcest vestiges of residue on his fingers, massaged a tinge of colour beneath his eyes, into the hollows of his cheeks, just enough to alter his complexion to ashy and tired, cautious not to appear sickly. He’d kept a day’s growth of whiskers for a scruffy, uncivilised affect. Last, he moistened the gum paste and attached an unkempt moustache, so bushy it appeared almost a beard. A useless pair of spectacles completed his transformation.

Whistling a cheerful tune, he cleaned up his handiwork, replaced the items and donned a jacket he kept in the hall closet before he locked the door and made to leave. With his initial plans deterred, he would make use of the afternoon with another endeavour.

He had only one foot off the stoop when an ordinary rented hack pulled to the curb in front of the address. No one ventured far into Charing Cross. Most especially by hackney.

Some people walked.

Most people ran.

Charing Cross was a community of habitual crime. The poverty-stricken population saw no way to survive without repeatedly plundering victims and therefore stole from each other as much as any fool who roamed without protection and wherewithal. While this particular area had elevated to a modicum of respectability in a broad sense, only a few blocks south a semi-derelict warren of dilapidated houses and open sewers rivalled the worst living conditions in all London.

More than a little intrigued, he watched as a woman disembarked. This was no place for a refined lady. Her intricately stitched gown and wool pelisse tempted his smile to surface as much as the long scarf wrapped around her head, to shadow her face or add allure. One could never tell. She must be gentry, but hadn’t she any sense? Only a fool arrived in the middle of Seven Dials wearing anything that resembled quality. She would draw more attention than had she disembarked in the nude. That same smile broke free. His swindling days were long behind him, still he could spot an easy mark with surety. What could the lady be about?

He had no time to consider it further as she aimed directly for the steps where he stood, her face narrowed with a look of determination, her petite figure rigid with purpose.

‘May I help you?’ She was a pretty piece of muslin, or at least held the potential to be. Right now her brows were lowered and mouth pinched tight into a grimace, while that unbecoming scarf covered most all other features.

She raised a delicate gloved hand as if to release him from his offer. ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice was an even-tempered whisper. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend.’

‘Miss Devonshire, is it?’ He couldn’t imagine who would wish to speak to Maggie. Even the most well-intended charity folk didn’t venture into this area alone. Maggie was in the practice of helping lost children, those neglected by unprincipled parents who would otherwise be left to loiter and wander were someone like she not to intercept their terrible fate. And while charity had its place, forgotten orphans were not an aristocratic preoccupation by any means.

In his experience, Quality held themselves above the sad truth of London’s squalor. It was a subject to be discussed in Parliament, not a problem to be solved. What service could this lady seek? ‘Is it a matter of business or pleasure?’

‘I suppose it is a bit of both.’ She retreated a step though she kept her head lowered. ‘And no business of yours.’

Despite her stern set-down, the lady appeared a nervous rabbit, too quick to glance over her shoulder or beyond at the slightest noise, though every motion accentuated her misplaced presence and drew further attention. He watched a suspicious shadow across the street who paid close notice to their interaction. Didn’t the woman know the perils of the area? Did all of higher society live with their heads in the clouds?

Probably.

‘You shouldn’t have come, looking like that to meander through the streets.’ He’d only meant to think the words, yet somehow they’d wound up spoken. In hope of making amends he added, ‘A lady isn’t safe on the streets of Charing Cross.’ He watched and waited, feeling foolish in the altogether.

‘And who are you?’ She measured his worth with a glance down her nose, though most of her expression was lost to the offending scarf.

‘A friend of the area. I’m familiar with these streets, although any clever fellow knows you can’t parade through this part of London unescorted, dressed in fine-spun attire.’ He motioned with his hand to underscore his warning. ‘It isn’t safe.’

‘I’ll thank you kindly to mind your business. Good day.’ She jerked to the left in an effort to pass, slanting a dismissive flick of clear green confidence in his direction. He didn’t move. Her cheeks appeared pinkened by her fluster and when she stepped back in surprise, the sudden motion forced the scarf to drape about her slender shoulders and reveal her face.

A kick in the gut. It was the only way to describe the impact of the lady’s attention. He’d known pretty before and this woman erased every remembrance in his brain. He stuttered to a stop, his next thought lost while his heart raced to a fast-paced thrum. She wasn’t pretty, she was beautiful. Fair skin, long blonde hair that shimmered in the sunlight despite they stood in one of the dankest areas of London. He swallowed. Twice. ‘You should take heed.’ Misplaced and unexpected protectiveness rallied the words. ‘The world can change in the blink of an eye.’ Or the shove off a carriage step.

‘I understood your warning the first time; still, I have a matter of great importance to pursue.’

She appeared undeterred, though her voice quavered.

‘That doesn’t change the circumstances.’ Why the devil would this lovely miss seek Maggie? She couldn’t be looking for one of her own, could she? In his experience, no one searched for the children lost to the street. Quality preferred to believe they didn’t exist, or worse, abandoned them there.

‘In that case I have no choice than to return another day.’ Her voice trailed off as her eyes sought his one last moment.

Green. Yes, her eyes were definitely green, the irises trimmed with a muted gold hue, but green nonetheless. A fetching shade he hadn’t seen before, albeit grass and trees didn’t grow in this part of London.

‘I had hoped to find Miss Devonshire at home, but perhaps my goal proved optimistic.’

In an effort to ease her distress, he signalled towards the street. ‘Allow me to hail you a hackney.’ Her eyes shifted to the building over his shoulder as if she wished to see through the walls. ‘Will you walk with me to the corner?’ He wondered at her decision to arrive in this part of the city unescorted, and worse, to accept a stranger’s invitation. Granted, he could portray anyone given provocation, the Earl of Evesham or Duke of Kent, all or none of the worldly gents who frequented the Underworld, as well as a sly swindler or outspoken newsmonger from the corner.

‘I’ve made a mistake. Thank you.’ She turned and walked away as if she strolled through Hyde Park without a worry in the world, her fine leather boots, dangling reticule and embroidered hems all tempting distractions to the seedy undercurrent in the surround.

He called out in her wake. ‘Pay heed to the shadows for that’s where the darkest secrets hide.’

‘Thank you again.’ She shook her head and dismissed his warning without a glance backwards.

A shift of attention from across the street alerted he wasn’t the only one who watched her progress. ‘Wait.’

But his warning came too late. A scamp, not unlike the boy he once was, although he’d never nabbed a purse, darted across the roadway and yanked the reticule from the lady’s arm. Her squeal of distress sent an arrow through his heart when he’d only just warned her to be careful and now she’d fallen prey.

Were he to chase the little thief he would leave the lady unprotected. By the same token, he could hardly play hero if he stood idle while the scamp made off with the goods.

‘Stay here.’ He dared a touch to her upper arm. ‘Don’t move away from this house.’

He set off in a run, hoping the thief had stopped to rifle through the contents and discard the reticule, thus leaving behind a clue. Still, fencing a lady’s purse brought equal coin, so he remained doubtful.

With his belated reaction and the overcome streets of Charing preventing any telltale path, he quit pursuit before he’d advanced half a block. A few choice curses added to the cacophony of the place he once called home, the sticky-fingered scallywag able to dodge and dart with more skill than a squirrel.

With efficient briskness, Cole returned to find the lady where he’d left her. At least there was that. He heaved a sigh of relief as his first order of business.

‘I could not catch him. I would ask a few questions of the population but, in my estimation, you will never see your belongings again.’ He waited, anticipating a loud bout of tears.

‘At least it was only coin and not something more valuable.’ Her comment snared his attention. She seemed hardly bothered by the turn of events. How peculiar. She pierced him with a crystalline gaze that communicated on another level altogether. ‘Thank you, Mr…’

‘Goodworth.’ A note of sadness prodded his conscience at the false name. Then, like always, he pushed through it. ‘At your service.’

She smiled and the sun shined a little brighter. ‘I’m Lady Amberson.’

‘Well then, Lady Amberson…’ He’d known she was gentry. ‘Allow me to see you where you need to go. My point has been proven by the loss of your purse. We shouldn’t invite additional mishap.’ He extended his arm to lead her away in an act of gentlemanly expectation. ‘Right this way.’ Without further hesitation he moved on, the unspoken agreement that she would follow a gamble of sorts. ‘I know these streets well and can nab a hack without delay.’ They reached the corner. With a wave and sharp whistle, true to his word, a rented hackney pulled to the curb. ‘Please take the lady wherever she needs to go.’ He paid the driver and turned towards Lady Amberson to offer his hand. ‘That should do it.’

She climbed into the cab with a quizzical look he would remember always. The driver flicked the reins and then they were gone.

Chapter Three

Gemma bounced on the leather bolster, her thoughts as jumbled as the rickety ride she endured for the sake of anonymity. Her brother’s head would roll off his neck if he knew the risk she’d taken for the narrow opportunity to learn the details of Father’s death. She had no explanation for the niggling insistence something problematic occurred that night. Despite what she was told hours later, when her father’s body had been returned to Stratton House and news of the death of the Duke of Kent had begun to break, she believed in her heart things went amiss, circumstance doubtable.

According to her brother, Father had perished in a tragic accident. A carriage run off the road by some type of conveyance that caused a calamity of large proportion, of which her father became victim. Yet what of Winton’s suggestion of a supposed visit to Charing Cross? Why would her father need to visit Miss Devonshire? And who was this woman who may have been the last person to ever speak to her father?

Gemma needed to contrive another visit to Charing Cross and that would not be accomplished easily. She’d lied to Nan and sent the servant on a fool’s errand in order to escape her scrutiny and venture out undetected. Now Gemma’s conscience pained from the falsehoods.

Questions swirled in a storm of discontent. With her sister unwell and brother on guard, she had no one to offer help. Not a soul. Thank heavens, Mr Goodworth seemed congenial by half. Something about his manner, his familiarity and kind grin assured he’d meant her no harm, for while she strove to portray a confident, independent woman, her heart beat as if it would burst. It was clear the poor man lived a dismal existence, his greasy hair and sallow complexion a banner of impoverished existence – although he did have lovely eyes, a light brown with glittering flecks of gold, reflective through his spectacles. She shook her head with the ridiculous embellishment. Perhaps she wished too much to find something good in everyone. Glistening eyes might be a sign of terminal disease for all she knew of the plague-ridden conditions in Charing Cross.

However, the manner in which he’d run through the street after the boy who had stolen her reticule proved he was not terribly depleted. He’d risked his personal safety on her behalf with nothing to gain aside from gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a coin. Hadn’t vied for attention. Instead he’d cautioned her with an articulate warning, his refined speech in contradiction to his outward appearance.

Unlike Winton. The thought of Winton sparked a flame of annoyance. Barter for a kiss? She thought not. At least she had the span of a week to investigate Miss Devonshire before confronting him again. Perhaps Mr Goodworth would be there when she ventured back to Edith Avenue. He did seem a helpful, harmless man, no matter he lived on the streets. She certainly hoped he was in good health. He stood a full head taller than she and the breadth of his shoulders and manner that he purported himself did not immediately evoke thoughts of vagrancy. Not that she knew much concerning the deprivation, but the familiar complaints voiced by her brother described a different depiction than Mr Goodworth’s congenial disposition. When the man had smiled, it was as if she could see a whole different person inside the downtrodden exterior.

Oh, how her brother would condemn her sympathies and accuse her of romanticising the scourge of greater London. He held little tolerance for the poverty-stricken population.

The hackney slowed, caught in a muddle of traffic on Hart Street, and she turned her attention towards the sidewalk, where a string of shops and eateries bordered the roadway. Stalled for the time being, her gaze settled on a coffee house at the corner where she noticed with surprise Lady Sophie Daventry sitting behind the large glass window. This area, not far from Mayfair, proved safer for outings. The urge to talk to Sophie and perhaps form an alliance, or at the least a reassurance, took hold with such demand Gemma knocked on the driver’s box before she could think the better of it.