CHAPTER 1
Market Day
“I . . . have nothing worse than folly to conceal: that’s bad enough—”
Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda
London
April, 1820
“Oh, not again,” muttered Alice Littlefield as the fresh round of raindrops pattered down onto the market cobbles. “I was sure we were done for the day!”
“Wishful thinking, I’m afraid,” sighed Rosalind. All around them, the market’s patrons put up their hoods or scuttled for shelter. Barrowkeepers and stall merchants hurried to pull canvas and oil cloths over their goods.
Thankfully, Rosalind and Alice stood under the bookseller’s awning. Alice had spent the past several minutes engaged in a spirited attempt to convince Mr. Fraiser to reduce the price on his somewhat battered copy of History of a Six Weeks Tour by sixpence.
Rosalind’s decision to accompany Alice and Amelia on the morning’s errands had been largely impulse. London’s glittering social season would begin in another fortnight, and Rosalind was finding herself increasingly wrapped up in her role as what Alice termed a “discreet social consultant” for London’s haut ton.
As a young woman, Rosalind had expected adulthood to bring her a good marriage. This would naturally be followed by a pleasing domestic existence as wife, hostess, and mother. But when her father abandoned their family, all those expectations shattered. With the help of her godmother, Rosalind had cobbled together a kind of existence as what society termed “a useful woman”—one who helped out her more fortunate friends by arranging their social lives, dealing with their correspondence and helping run their households.
Most such ladies endured a depressed and dependent life. But Rosalind discovered she possessed a particular talent for assisting ladies in serious trouble, even when that trouble involved theft, blackmail, or murder. What had begun as a haphazard means for an unmarried woman to eke out an existence had turned into a living.
Now, that living had showed distinct signs of becoming a success. In addition to a gratifying number of social invitations, Rosalind found herself with a thick stack of letters from ladies who wished to consult her about matters that ranged from promoting charitable entertainments to finding missing relatives. More such letters had arrived by this morning’s post. It was all very promising, but it also meant a great many decisions needed to be made, detailed plans drawn up, and extra help enlisted. It was dizzying. Rosalind found herself in need of a moment’s pause. A morning out of doors perusing stalls, barrels, and barrows in the market had seemed like the perfect solution.
It also brought the possibility of seeing Adam Harkness. She’d sent a note to his mother’s house letting him know that she and Alice planned to be at Drummond’s tea rooms at eleven o’clock, should Mrs. Harkness and any member of her household care to join them. She had received an answer saying that Mrs. Harkness was engaged, but that Adam Harkness might well be found in Drummond’s at that time.
“There. That’s done.” Alice tucked the book into her basket. She saw Rosalind’s furrowed brow. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll be in plenty of time.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Rosalind hurridly. “It’s just . . . well, I haven’t been able to see Mr. Harkness very often since—”
“Since Cato Street,” Alice finished for her, softly.
Rosalind nodded.
“Do you think he’s still involved with the investigations?”
“He hasn’t been able to say much, but I’m certain he is.” All the more certain because he had said so little.
Alice nodded. “Well, whatever his part is, it can’t last much longer. George says everyone agrees the trial must be soon, and it’s sure to be a Bedlam,” she added.
“Well, that’s only to be expected. They did plot to murder the entire Privy Council at dinner.”
Saying it out loud, the business sounded mad. In fact, Adam believed it was exactly that—pure madness. However, the Privy Council, the magistrates at Bow Street, and even the Crown, took the matter in deadly earnest. Therefore, the trial was going forward, and the charge would be high treason.
Adam had been involved in many difficult cases, and dealt with dangerous men. But this one felt different. As the time dragged on, Adam’s humor had faded and his silences had grown. So had his his absences.
“I don’t see Amelia anywhere,” Alice interrupted Rosalind’s brooding. Amelia McGowan was their housemaid. She was a stout, cheerful, ginger-haired young woman who had proved to be an able assistant to Rosalind in several of her more unusual consultations.
“Amelia knows to meet us at the tea rooms,” Rosalind said. In answer, Alice wrinkled her nose at the rain, but Rosalind saw real worry in her eyes.
“Is something the matter?”
Alice shrugged. “Amelia’s been . . . off the past fortnight or so. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Rosalind hadn’t. That realization startled, and shamed her. The household she managed was not a large one. Amelia was their only maid who lived in. If there was a problem, she should have noticed, no matter how busy she had been.
But then, the relationship between Amelia and Alice had recently developed into something much more than that of employer and servant, and even more than that of friends.
“I’ve tried to get her to tell me what’s wrong,” Alice said. “But she just smiles and says she had a fight with the greengrocer’s wife, or her friend couldn’t go to the play, or something like that.”
“Well, perhaps we’ll see her along the way,” said Rosalind reassuringly. “We can look in at Lorimer’s. I believe Mrs. Singh—” Mrs. Singh was their new cook “—sent her there for some blackberry cordial.”
But they found no sign of Amelia at Lormier’s Apothecary, so they continued on toward the tea rooms. The rain strengthened, causing them to duck their heads and gather up their skirts in a vain attempt to keep their hems dry.
Between the market noise and the drumming of the rain, Rosalind almost missed the shout.
“Miss Alice!”
Alice froze. Rosalind put her head up.
“Miss Alice! Miss Thorne! Help!”
It was Amelia.
Rosalind looked about wildly, but her bonnet’s wide brim hampered her view. Alice grabbed her arm and wrenched her around. Now, Rosalind faced a narrow lane that opened onto a rain-soaked courtyard. A crowd had begun to gather in the yard, but between the onlookers, Rosalind saw Amelia crouched in a puddle. Beside her, a dark-haired woman sprawled on the muddy stones.
Alice moved first. Ignoring the ruts and puddles, she charged down the tiny lane and dropped to her knees beside Amelia. Rosalind yanked her wits together. She spied a young man slouching in the threashold of a shuttered shop, hands in his pockets, watching the excitement.
“Porter!” she cried. The young man started, and straightened, reflexively tugging at his hat brim. “We need a cab! At once!” She held up her reticule to signal she had the money to pay.
“Aye, miss!” He pelted away across the marketplace.
That done, Rosalind pushed her way through the swelling crowd that clogged the lane and ringed about Amelia, Alice, and the prostrate young woman. Voices rose and fell around her.
“Poor dear!”
“Get some brandy in ’er. Who’s got a flask?”
“. . . no better than she should be . . .”
Either Amelia or Alice must have turned the young woman over because she now lay on her side. Her coat was unbuttoned and her muslin dress was soaked by rain. Everything about her from bonnet to boots was good quality, although now completely spoiled by rain. Cold turned her white face and bare hands blue.
As Rosalind bent down, the young woman shuddered, and wretched painfully, but nothing came up.
“Amy . . .” she croaked.
“Hush, Cate,” breathed Amelia. “It’s all right. We’re going home.”
“I can’t,” breathed the young woman. “I can’t.”
“Never you mind now. Trust Amy and lie quiet.”
“Oh, the poor child!” A woman dressed all in widow’s black from boots to bonnet darted forward and knelt beside the girl—Cate, Amelia called her. “Come, help me get her up.”
The woman reached out with black-gloved hands and grasped Cate’s wrists. A dozen well-meaning people surged forward to assist, but a new voice held them back.
“Bow Street! Bow Street. Shift, now! Let me through!”
It was Adam. Oh, thank Heaven, thought Rosalind as he shoved his way unceremoniously through the milling crowd.
“Lie still, lie still, my dear. All will be well.” The widow kept hold of Cate’s wrists. “Will you help me with her, sir?” she asked as Adam reached them. “My carriage is nearby.”
“Amy,” croaked Cate. “Amy, please.”
Amelia looked to Rosalind, mute and pleading. Rosalind understood at once, not everything, but enough.
“There’s no need,” said Rosalind to the widow. “We are her friends. We’ll see she’s gotten safely home.”
“Oh but surely . . .” the woman began.
Gently, but firmly, Rosalind drew Cate’s hands out of the widow’s grasp. “We must hurry before she takes a turn for the worse. Mr. Harkness, if you please.”
“If you’ll forgive me.” Adam bent down between them and scooped the young woman into his arms. Rosalind thought she saw a flash of anger in the other woman’s eyes, and wondered about it. But she could not delay any further.
“I’m having a cab brought,” she told Adam. “He should be out in the square.”
Adam nodded and turned, cradling the girl carefully. The crowd parted reluctantly to let him through. Alice grabbed Amelia’s arm and dragged her after him. Rosalind followed them all.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Alice was saying, as much to the onlookers as to Amelia. “She’s with friends now. We’ll take good care of her.”
“God bless the poor soul,” someone murmured.
“Heaven help her.”
“Bound to be some man . . .”
As soon as they reached the main square, Rosalind spotted the porter waving his arm and pointing to the four-wheeled cab making its cautious way between the stalls.
Rosalind beckoned to Adam. The cab’s driver jumped down to open the door. Amelia and Alice climbed in, and turned to help Adam bundle Cate inside. Rosalind paused just long enough to drop a pair of coins into the porter’s hands.
As Rosalind climbed up into the cab, Adam stripped off his great coat and passed it to her. She opened her mouth to protest, but he just closed her hands with his. “She needs the warmth. I’ll ride up with the driver,” he said.
Rosalind nodded and got up onto the bench across from the other three women. Amelia had wrapped her arms around Cate’s shoulders. The look on the maid’s face was both fierce and frightened. Rosalind felt sure Amelia was willing her own warmth into the body of the insensible young woman. Alice perched on the seat beside her.
The cab jostled as Adam and the driver clambered up onto the box. The driver touched up his horses and they lurched forward.
Moving carefully, Rosalind laid Adam’s coat over Cate, and tucked it around her. She stirred, and her eyes fluttered open, but only for a heartbeat before she sagged back into Amelia’s arms.
“Who is she, Amelia?” asked Alice as she began to chafe Cate’s hands between her own.
Amelia swallowed. “Catherine Levitton. She . . . I worked for her family two years back.”
Miss Levitton’s breath came in a rattling wheeze. The sound sent a shiver crawling up Rosalind’s spine.
“She’ll need a doctor,” said Alice.
Rosalind nodded. “There’s a man up the street from us. We’ll try there first. Amelia, have you any idea what brought her to this state?”
Amelia shook her head, but caution flickered behind her eyes. Alice caught it too, and frowned.
The cab rattled on. Rosalind found herself counting Miss Levitton’s breaths. It seemed to her that they were coming more slowly, even as the cab picked up its speed. All the while, Amelia held onto her, stroking her shoulders, murmuring encouragement.
Alice’s face was stony, but she kept hold of Miss Levitton’s hands, offering what warmth and comfort she had to her and Amelia both.
At long last, the cab pulled into Portman Square, and turned onto Orchard Street. Miss Levitton, who had been lying quiet, shuddered violently, and began to wretch yet again.
Adam pulled the door open. Rosalind climbed down at once.
“Adam, will you go to number 12 and bring Dr. Kempshead? This young woman is very bad.”
“At once.” He pressed Rosalind’s hand briefly, and then called up to the driver. “You stay and help the ladies, Johnson!”
Johnson touched the brim of his hat in answer. He was a burly, weathered man, and had no difficulty carrying Miss Levitton inside and up the stairs. While Rosalind let him into the guest room, Alice ran to the linen cupboard. Amelia disappeared below stairs, hopefully, to get a hot brick for the young woman’s feet and perhaps some brandy.
If she can be made to swallow it.
As soon as Cate Levitton was laid on the clean bed, Rosalind dismissed Mr. Johnson, telling him that if he went to the kitchen, he could get his fee from Mrs. Singh. As soon as the man was gone, she set to work on getting Cate out of her sopping clothes.
Cate shuddered. She struggled, and coughed. Rosalind rolled her onto her side. She coughed violently and wretched yet again. Rosalind’s skin crawled in sympathy.
Alice shouldered open the door, her arms heaped with blankets and nightclothes. In a matter of minutes, they had gotten Miss Levitton into a clean nightdress with dry stockings on her feet and a flannel cap over her wet hair. The guest room had no fireplace, so Rosalind laid all three quilts Alice had brought over her.
Amelia appeared with hot water and towels and a basin. Her eyes were bright red from crying, and her face was almost as pale as her friend’s.
Miss Levitton rolled onto her back. Her eyes flickered open for a moment. Her mouth moved. Rosalind thought she meant to speak, but her face contorted and her body spasmed. Alice grabbed the basin out of Amelia’s hands and Rosalind rolled the poor girl toward it. But again, nothing came out. The shudders slowed, and stilled. Miss Levitton’s eyes drifted shut. Her entire body slumped.
“Oh, no,” breathed Alice.
Rosalind saw it too. She turned the girl onto her back and leaned close, trying to feel for breath or pulse. As she did, she heard heavy feet pounding up the stairs.
A lean, grizzled man with prodigious sideburns burst into the room. He dropped his worn valise onto the bed.
“You! Back! Out!” The doctor barked at Rosalind. He dropped his bag and began rolling up his sleeves. “You!” He pointed at Alice. “Get her head up, put that bolster under her! She can’t breathe lolling about like that! You!” This was to Amelia. “Open those curtains! We need light in here!”
Alice and Amelia moved at once to obey. So did Rosalind. She backed out of the room and closed the door. She stood there for a moment, her hand pressed against her stomach as she tried to collect her whirling thoughts.
She heard movement downstairs.
Adam.
Rosalind hurried down to meet him.
CHAPTER 2
Sordid Companions
“It was quite indifferent to me how they got money, provided they did get it.”
Edgeworth, Maria, Belinda
Francesca Finch sailed into the dingy flat. She looked around her with disgust. The place seemed worse than ever, with its whitewashed walls that were more gray than white and all the stiff, uncomfortable furnishings. Drab curtains hung where there ought to have been doors. The fire smoked and the lone window was cracked, so that no matter how many rags they stuffed into the sill, a knife-edged draft still sliced through.
“What happened, Fran?” Jack turned down one corner of the paper he was reading to look at her. He sat in front of their tiny hearth, with his feet propped up on the hob. A teapot and a plate of sandwiches waited on the table at his elbow. Apparently impervious to the cold, he was in just his waistcoat, shirtsleeves, and stocking feet. “Did you find the girl?”
“Yes, I found her.” Francesca jerked at the fingers of her black gloves. “For all the good it does us.” She tossed the gloves onto the horsehair sofa and sent her black bonnet sailing after them.
“Can’t say I like the sound of that,” said Jack.
Jack Beachamp was a handsome man, in a raw, unpolished way. He still kept the burly frame he’d earned as a prizefighter before he had given up the sporting life to become a thief-taker. His naturally pale skin was permanently bronzed by sun and wind, his hands were scarred and calloused, and his long nose was crooked. His curling, dark hair hung about his ears, as long as any poet’s. The combination gave him a roguish, dangerous look, like a highwayman from the old days. ...
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