When she had composed herself, she clasped her hands on the desk again and waited. Anthony made no attempt to resume the tale.
“Do you mind if I ask a question?” she said after a while.
“What is it?”
“I have wondered about Mr. March’s limp. I am quite certain he had no such difficulty when I met him in Rome.”
Anthony glanced at her in surprise. “Did he not tell you what happened?” His mouth twisted ruefully. “No, knowing Tobias, he would not have done so. Carlisle lodged a bullet in his leg that night. It was a fight to the death. Tobias barely survived. As it was, he spent several weeks recovering from the effects of his wound. I suspect he will have that limp for a long time, perhaps for the rest of his life.”
Lavinia stared at him, stunned.
“I see,” she whispered eventually. “I had not realized. Dear heaven.”
There was another lengthy silence.
“Why are you telling me these things?” she asked eventually.
Anthony gave a small start and looked at her. “I wanted you to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Tobias. He is not like other men.”
“Believe me, I am well aware of that.”
“It is because he has had to make his own way in the world, you see,” Anthony continued earnestly. “He lacks a proper polish.”
Lavinia smiled. “Something tells me that no amount of polishing would alter Mr. March’s character.”
“What I am trying to explain is that even though his manners are not always what they should be when he is in the company of ladies, he has many excellent qualities.”
“Pray do not trouble yourself to give me a list of all of Mr. March’s outstanding qualities. You will likely bore both of us.”
“I fear you will not make allowances for his shortness of temper and his occasional lapse of manners.”
Lavinia flattened her palms on the desk and pushed herself to her feet. “Mr. Sinclair, I assure you that I am quite comfortable with Mr. March’s temper and his poor manners.”
“You are?”
“Indeed, sir.” She came out from behind the desk to show him to the door. “How could it be otherwise? I myself exhibit those very same character flaws. Just ask anyone who knows me well.”
sixteen
She had hoped he would change his mind, but she had been in the business too long to expect such a happy event. In her experience, when a gentleman ended a liaison with his mistress, he rarely resumed the affair. The wealthy rakehells of the ton were easily bored, she reflected. They were forever seeking more fashionable denizens of what they liked to call the demimonde.
But once in a while a wise man realized he had been too hasty in ending a relationship.
Sally smiled with satisfaction and dropped the ticket into the pocket she had sewn inside her cloak. It was a very fine cloak, a gift from him. He had been quite generous with her. He had paid the rent on the pleasant little house where she had been living for the past few months, and he had given her some lovely jewelry. She kept the bracelet and the earrings in a safe place in her bedchamber, knowing full well they were all that stood between her and a return to the brothel in which he had found her.
She refused to sell the jewelry to pay the rent. These were her best working years and they would not last long. She intended to spend them industriously. Her goal was to collect a large number of valuable gifts from a number of men. When her looks and youth were gone, she would use the trinkets to finance a comfortable retirement.
She was proud of her businesslike view of her finances. She had struggled hard to get herself off the streets of Covent Garden, where one was obliged to service the customers in carriages or the nearest doorway. Life was very dangerous and often brutally short at that end of the profession. She had worked her way into the relative security of a brothel, and now she had joined the lower ranks of the more fashionable courtesans. The future looked bright. Perhaps she would one day have her own box at the opera the way some of the most glittering members of her profession did.
She had begun discreetly shopping around for a new protector in the last day or so, hoping to secure one before the rent came due at the end of the month. But she had promised herself that she would not rush into a new connection, even if refusing to do so meant moving out of the little house. She had known other women who had made the mistake of leaping at the first offer in their haste to keep afloat financially. In their desperation, they sometimes agreed to connections with men who proved to be violent or who used them in ways that everyone knew were unnatural. She shuddered when she recalled an acquaintance who had taken up with an earl who forced her to entertain his friends with sexual favors.
She hurried down a shadowy aisle, paying little attention to the eerily lit displays on either side. She was here on business. She glanced at a gallows scene and grimaced. Even if she had been in a mood to tour a waxwork museum, this was not the one she would have chosen. In her opinion, these exhibits were all extremely depressing.
At the end of the gloomy chamber, she found the cramped, circular staircase. She collected her skirts and the long folds of her cloak and went quickly up the steps. The instructions she had received had been very precise.
The heavy door at the top of the staircase was unlocked. It groaned on its iron hinges when she pushed it open. She walked into the dimly lit chamber and glanced around. Although the downstairs displays were not to her taste, she was curious about this room. She had heard that Huggett’s boasted a very unique gallery, one that was open only to gentlemen.
The sign placed near the entrance was painted in elegant blue and gold. She took a step closer and bent down slightly to read it in the poor light.
SCENES FROM A BROTHEL
“Well, now, if that isn’t a dull subject,” she muttered to herself. But perhaps she was jaded because she was in the business.
She walked to the nearest illuminated display and studied the sculptures of a man and a woman writhing on a bed, engaged in a lustful embrace. The man’s face was fierce and intent, almost brutal as he neared his climax. He surged against his partner, the muscles in his buttocks and back straining in a highly realistic manner.
The body of the woman had been modeled with a voluptuous abandon that was no doubt guaranteed to interest the average male viewer. Large breasts and well-rounded hips that could have graced an ancient Greek statue were paired with tiny, elegant feet. But it was the woman’s face that caught Sally’s attention. There was something familiar about the features.
She was about to move closer to get a better look when she heard the faint scraping sound in the darkness behind her. She jerked her attention away from the waxwork.
“Who’s there?”
No one spoke or moved in the thick shadows. For no discernible reason, her heart started to pound. Her palms went cold and damp. She knew these signs. She had experienced them from time to time in the old days on the streets. Some of the men who had approached her had triggered this odd reaction. She had always heeded her intuition and declined to service those who made her feel this way, even when it had meant going hungry for a day or two.
But this was no stranger trying to lure her into a dark hackney. Surely this was her protector, the man who had paid her rent for the past few months. He had sent for her, asked her to meet him here. There was no need for this anxiety.
A small chill went through her. For some reason, she suddenly recalled the old gossip that had circulated in the brothel about his previous mistress having committed suicide. Some of the more romantic among her associates had claimed the woman’s heart had been broken and viewed the event as a great tragedy. But most had shaken their heads at the foolishness of allowing one’s sensibilities to overwhelm common sense.
She herself had wondered about it all at the time. She had had a passing acquaintance with his former mistress. Alice had not struck her as the type to make the mistake of falling in love with her protector.
>
She shook off memories of poor, foolish Alice. But another whisper of dread shivered through her. It was the nature of the displays, she thought. They had affected her nerves.
There was no call to be alarmed. He was playing one of his games.
“I know you’re here, my handsome stallion.” She forced a coy smile. “I got your message, as you can see. I’ve missed you.”
No one stepped out of the shadows.
“Did you send word to have me meet you here so we could act out some of these scenes?” She giggled a little, the way he liked. Then she clasped her hands behind her back and started down the aisle between the waxwork tableaux. “How very naughty of you, my stallion. But you know I am always happy to oblige.”
There was no response.
She stopped in front of a dimly lit exhibit of a woman crouched on her knees in front of a man whose member did a great deal of credit to the artist’s imagination. She pretended to examine the rigid pole with an air of grave consideration.
“Now, in my opinion,” she declared, “your cock is even larger than his.” It was a lie, of course, but lying to the customer was an essential skill in her profession. “Of course, I may have forgotten the exact dimensions, but I would be delighted to measure it again for you. Indeed, I cannot think of a more fascinating way to spend the evening. What do you say to that, my fine stallion?”
No one spoke.
Her pulse was not slowing. If anything, it had picked up the pace. Her hands were clammy. It was impossible to fill her lungs with air.
Enough. She could no longer fight the old street fears. Something was very wrong.
Instinct took over. She stopped resisting the impulse to escape. She no longer cared whether or not her former protector wanted to resume their liaison. She wanted only to escape from this chamber.
She whirled and fled back down the aisle. The door was invisible in the heavy darkness at the far end of the gallery, but she knew where it was.
There was a sudden stirring in the deep pool of shadows to her right. Her first, crazed thought was that one of the waxwork figures had come to life. Then she saw the weak light glint on a length of heavy iron.
A scream rose in her throat. She knew now that she would never make it to the door. She turned, raising her hands in a vain attempt to ward off the blow. She stumbled backward. Her foot struck a wooden bucket sitting on the floor. She lost her balance and fell. The bucket tipped over, spilling filthy water across the floor.
The killer moved in, the poker raised high for the murderous blow.
In that instant, Sally suddenly understood why the waxwork prostitute in the first display had seemed familiar. The figure had Alice’s face.
seventeen
The Gryphon was warm and dry but that was about all that could be said in favor of the smoky tavern. Nevertheless, as he made his way through the crowd, Tobias thought those qualities were definite assets on a damp, fog-bound night.
The fire on the massive hearth blazed with hellish good cheer, illuminating the establishment with an evil, flaring light. The serving maids were all large, buxom, sturdily built wenches. The similarities in their figures were not a coincidence. Smiling Jack, the proprietor, liked them that way.
Tobias had changed his clothes for this venture. Garbed in a dockworker’s well-worn trousers, ill-fitting coat, shapeless cap, and heavy boots, he drew little attention as he passed among the rough patrons of The Gryphon. The annoying catch in his stride was a good complement to his disguise, he thought. Most of those around him made their livings in injury-prone ways, not all of which were legal. Limps such as his own were common. So were scars and missing fingers. Eye-patches and wooden legs were also sprinkled liberally about the premises.
A broad-bosomed serving maid blocked Tobias’s path. She gave him an encouraging grin. “ ’Ere now, me ’andsome man, what’ll ye ’ave tonight?”
“Got business with Smilin’ Jack,” Tobias muttered.
He made it a point to converse as little as possible with the staff and patrons of The Gryphon. The rough, dockside accents he adopted for these visits saw him safely through short exchanges. He was not certain they would hold up in longer, more involved discussions.
“Jack’s in ’is room at the back.” The maid nodded toward the hall that led to the rear of the tavern and winked. “Best knock afore ye open the door.”
She moved off through the crowd, her tray of mugs held high overhead.
Tobias worked his way along rows of tables and benches. At the far end of the tavern, he found the dingy hall that led to the room Smiling Jack was pleased to call his office. He went down the passage and stopped in front of the door.
A muffled shriek of feminine laughter reverberated through the heavy wood paneling. Tobias rapped loudly.
“Begone, whoever ye are out there.” Jack’s voice rumbled like a load of coal. “I’ve got business in here.”
Tobias wrapped one hand around the knob and twisted. The door swung inward. He lounged against the jamb and looked at Smiling Jack.
The huge proprietor of The Gryphon was seated behind a battered desk. His face was buried in the large, naked bosom of the woman perched astride his thighs. The wench’s skirts were hiked up to her waist, displaying plump buttocks.
“I got your message,” Tobias said.
“Is it you then, Tobias?” Smiling Jack raised his head and squinted. “Bit early, aren’t ye?”
“No.”
Jack groaned and gave his companion a playful pat on her bare backside. “Off with ye, lass. My friend here’s in a hurry and I can see he’s a mite short of patience tonight.”
The woman giggled. “Don’t mind me, Jack.” She wiggled her bottom. “I’ll just sit here and carry on with what we started while the two of ye discuss yer business.”
“Afraid that’s not possible, sweetheart.” Jack heaved a regretful sigh and gently eased her off his lap. “You’re a distraction and that’s a fact. I can’t concentrate on me business affairs with you workin’ yer wiles.”
The woman laughed again, stood, and shook out her skirts. She winked broadly at Tobias and took her time exiting the room. Her generous hips moved in a rolling motion that held the undivided attention of both men until the door closed behind her.
Her laughter echoed in the hall.
“A new employee.” Jack closed his trousers. “I think she’ll do nicely.”
“She does appear to be possessed of a cheerful disposition.” Tobias dropped the dockside accents. He and Jack knew each other too well.
Tobias knew, for instance, the tale behind the grotesque scar responsible for the name Smiling Jack. The stitches that had closed the knife wound had been set by a poor seamstress. They had healed into a death’s-head grin extending from the corner of Jack’s mouth to his ear.
“Aye, that she does.” Jack heaved his bulky frame erect and waved Tobias to one of the ladder-back chairs near the hearth. “Sit down, man. It’s a mean night. I’ll pour ye some of my good brandy to ward off the chill.”
Tobias took one of the unforgiving wooden chairs near the hearth, reversed it, and sat down. He folded his arms on the back and tried to ignore the ache in his leg.
“The brandy will be welcome,” he said. “What news do you have for me?”
“There are a couple of matters that may interest you. First, you asked me to look into the backgrounds of some of Neville’s women.” Jack poured brandy into two glasses. “I have turned up one or two items of interest on that subject.”
“I’m listening.”
Jack handed one of the glasses to Tobias and lowered himself back into the chair behind his desk. “You told me Neville is in the habit of selecting his women from the brothels rather than from the ranks of the fashionable high-flyers. You were right.”
“What of it?”
“I’m not certain why he prefers the less expensive sort, but I will tell you one thing. When women plucked out of the brothels throw themselves into the river, th
e authorities don’t take much notice.” Jack grimaced. The expression twisted the scar into a ghastly imitation of amusement. “There are even a few who will say good riddance. One less whore selling her favors.”
Tobias tightened his fingers around the glass. “Are you telling me that more than one of Neville’s light-skirts have ended up in the river?”
“I cannot say how many of his women have drowned themselves after he cast them aside, but two, at least, seem to have been unable to endure their broken hearts. A woman named Lizzy Prather killed herself a year and a half ago. Several months back a wench named Alice was also dragged out of the river. There are rumors that three more are dead by their own hand.”
Tobias sipped the warming brandy. “Hard to credit that so many females would succumb to severe melancholia after Neville was through with them.”
“Aye.” Jack’s chair squeaked in protest when he leaned back. He ignored the warning and laced his hands on top of his expansive belly. “Make no mistake, it happens now and again. There’s always a few foolish girls who actually believe they’ve found true love with a wealthy man and get their hearts broken. But most of the wenches know what they’re about when they get involved with a man from Neville’s class. They milk him for all the baubles they can get and move on to the next cove when they find themselves havin’ to pay their own bills again.”
“A business arrangement on both sides.”
“Aye.” Jack took a hefty swallow of brandy, put down the glass, and wiped his mouth. “Listen well now, because here’s the most interestin’ bit about this particular affair.”
“Yes?”
“Neville’s latest doxy, Sally, has also disappeared. No one has seen her since yesterday afternoon.”
Tobias did not move. “The river?”
“Too soon to say. I haven’t heard of her body being pulled out of the water, but that can take a while. All I can tell ye at this point is that she’s gone. And if my sources can’t find her, no one can.”