Page 14 of A Gentleman’s Offer

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It was close on eleven on a moonless night, and Sir Dominic De Lacy, accompanied by his silently amused groom Jack Fishwick, was waiting restlessly in the shadows at the end of the mews behind Lord Nightingale’s house in Grosvenor Square. There was, at present, nobody else about, for which he was devoutly thankful, since he knew himself to be lurking in a highly suspicious manner. Should the patrolling Watch happen to pass on their nightly rounds, he would no doubt be questioned, and possibly apprehended as a dangerous criminal and threat to the King’s peace. A housebreaker, or worse. Or, perhaps, the escaped lunatic he’d earlier accused Miss Margaret Nightingale of resembling. The boot was on the other foot now, and such an eventuality seemed all too likely. He ought to have some plausible story prepared to account for their presence in case of being questioned by officers of the law, but his mind was blank and his mouth unaccountably dry. He didn’t imagine that the arrival of Miss Nightingale, in masculine attire, would help matters much. Most likely, it would make things worse. And that was before they went anywhere at all, least of all attempted to gain entry to the dubious establishment in Henrietta Street that was the objective of their crazy journey.

A few weeks since, before he’d been so familiar with the name of Nightingale, his life had been peaceful and ordered. Rational, predictable. Safe. He had his friends, his sporting life – riding, driving, boxing, raising and training thoroughbred horses. If there was any excitement in his existence, he found it there, in the exhilaration of speed and physical exertion. More sedately, he looked after his extensive estates and the people who depended on him for a living, conscious that it was a heavy responsibility that merited being taken seriously. He read a great deal, enjoyed the opera and collected pictures in a modest way. Drinking to excess and gambling, the pastimes of his wilder youth, had begun to bore him long ago, and he’d never been promiscuous by the (admittedly lax) standards of the day. His physical, sexual needs were a small part of his life now, attended to – such a cold phrase, but undeniably accurate – by a woman he’d known for years who lived discreetly near Russell Square and welcomed a select few gentlemen as visitors. Sukie. To call her his mistress seemed inaccurate: yes, he gave her generous financial gifts, but they didn’t flaunt their relationship nor make demands of exclusivity on each other; it was none of his affair what she was doing when he wasn’t with her, as long as she was careful of her health, which he knew she always was. He thought of her as a friend as much as anything else, someone he could be at ease with, but the prospect of parting ways with her upon his marriage, as he’d intended, had caused him little distress. He’d have given her a suitable final present; she’d have smiled and understood and wished him well… It was a while since he’d visited her, he realised. He couldn’t imagine doing so now; he had not the least desire to see her. His relationship with Sukie, if one could call it that, seemed a long time ago; like something that had happened to a different person.

As for his needs beyond the physical… it wasn’t at all the thing to think about them, or even to admit having any. He’d certainly never discussed such a thing with any of his friends, or with anyone else at all. One did not speak of such matters. He wasn’t sure, after the turmoil of the last few days, if he’d ever expected or hoped that such needs might be fulfilled in marriage, or, at any rate, in the kind of marriage he’d come to accept he would make. If challenged, as Meg had challenged him the other morning when they rode together in the park, he’d have struggled to explain in a convincing manner why he’d agreed to his mother’s suggestion of Miss Nightingale as his bride. To say, Why not her? and shrug, was surely unsatisfactory. Meg had clearly thought it so, had told him he was strange. Perhaps he was. It was certainly strange, to put it no more strongly, to have been so quick to fulfil his father’s wish – which might after all have been some casually expressed fancy rather than a deeply felt desire – when his father could never know of it, or give his approval. Or perhaps he’d just been tired of looking for something he’d come to believe didn’t exist, or didn’t exist for him. He needed to sit down and think seriously about all this, but now was hardly the moment. His life a few weeks ago had consisted of nothing but days that had had to be filled; now, there never seemed to be any damned time.

And it was hard to say, returning to the immediate hour and its most pressing concerns, why he had agreed to this preposterous scheme. Perhaps he hadn’t. He couldn’t remember now; that is to say, he recalled perfectly well all his strong and reasoned arguments against doing this mad thing, and Meg’s ridiculous responses, and he recalled nearly giving in to temptation and kissing her, but after that everything was rather a blur, and here he was, nonetheless.

And here she was, coming along the mews towards him, swaggering with what she no doubt considered to be a masculine gait. It was quite dark here, and he couldn’t see her very well. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. He groaned softly, and his companion suppressed some sound that might have been a cough, but was more likely a snort of ribald amusement. ‘Are you laughing at me, Jack, or just at the universe in general and the fickleness of destiny? Because I know there can’t be anything in the least amusing about this fine young fellow who’s coming to join us, or the prospect of the evening ahead. Nothing at all fucking funny about any of that, as far as I can see.’

‘Just clearing my throat, sir,’ Fishwick replied impassively. ‘Phlegm, I dare say. This night air isn’t good for a man. Dangerous, it is.’

‘Isn’t that the truth?’

She was upon them now, and all other deeper concerns were banished. Her borrowed clothes fit her far better than they should, clinging to and revealing her long legs in a way that did little for his peace of mind. But as if to balance that, she had a horrible, shapeless excuse for a hat set at a jaunty angle on her crisp curls. What little ambient light there was allowed Dominic to see that her eyes were bright with anticipation. ‘Shall we go?’ she said eagerly.

Dominic was relieved to move away from his lurking post, although he dreaded passing into better-lit areas. There would be a greater chance of them being seen, and also, he’d be able to see her properly. But he wouldn’t be distracted from their mission. He wouldn’t. He needed instead to distract himself, urgently, from looking at her, from lingering on the lines and curves that were normally concealed… ‘I loathe your hat with a passion,’ he said with an effort at lightness. ‘It’s the worst hat I ever saw in my life.’

‘It can’t possibly be the worst hat you ever saw. This is London. Horrible hats must be ten a penny. Isn’t there even a man who goes around with a model of a ship on his head?’

‘Yes, Joseph Johnson, an old sailor and ballad singer. I’ve met him and spoken with him, and he wears a cleverly contrived model ship, not an ordinary hat. And it still looks much better than that misshapen monstrosity.’

‘Really? I quite like it. I think it gives me an air.’

‘An air of being deeply disreputable, certainly. An air of having found it in a gutter in a low part of town, and picked it out directly from the mire and put in on your head.’

‘Nonsense. It belongs to Robert – he’s loaned it to me, and warned me that I’ll have to replace it if I lose or damage it, which is quite fair, because it’s his second-best one.’

‘I hate to think what his other hats must be like, then. I will compensate him – in fact, I’ll pay to destroy it. Pounding it back into the dirt where it belongs would relieve my feelings nicely.’

‘Perhaps later,’ she said, ‘when our business is done. I am sure a guinea or two would reconcile Robert to his loss, and God forbid that a dandy’s tender sensibilities should be offended.’ He could hear the laughter bubbling up in her voice, even though he was trying hard not to look at her and mostly succeeding.

The distraction wasn’t really working, though. All this nonsense about hats – was he flirting with Meg? Of course he was, and unless he was truly losing his wits she was flirting back. They were passing along Brook Street now, Jack Fishwick a silent presence at his other side. Just because his old groom wasn’t saying anything didn’t mean he had no thoughts on this whole misbegotten project; Dominic could practically hear him thinking that his master, normally so calm and controlled, showed every sign of having run mad. God knew it was true.

It was only just over a mile to their destination, and walking had seemed more sensible, for purposes of concealment, than taking a hackney carriage. Past Piccadilly, the streets they made their way through grew rapidly less respectable and less safe. If anyone looked closely at them as they passed, they’d seem an odd trio indeed, but nobody seemed inclined to do so, at least not yet. The streets and leafy squares of Mayfair had been quiet enough except for a few carriages – too late for parties to be starting, too early for them to have finished – but as they neared Seven Dials, the atmosphere changed, and became undeniably more menacing. The buildings they passed grew shabbier, and the roads were narrower and dirtier, unswept, with piles of noisome refuse that must be avoided. There were groups of men, and women too, some standing still, talking, laughing and drinking from bottles, some moving about, like them, with a sense of purpose. From the corner of his eye, in the shadows, Dominic could see people in pairs, doing things that would be much better done in private if they must be done at all. He hoped Meg hadn’t noticed, but he expected that she had – she was wide-eyed and silent at his side now – and he would settle for her refraining from open comment.

There were bodies huddled in doorways, too, for what precarious shelter the small spaces offered, bundles of rags that were people. Some of those bundles were heartbreakingly small. After a little while Meg said, all traces of amusement gone from her voice, ‘There are children here. I knew, of course, that there must be… While I have been dancing, and driving in the park, and enjoying wearing Maria’s outrageously expensive clothes, there are adults and little children living on the streets, so close, starving. At the mercy of those bigger and stronger than themselves. Selling themselves, perhaps, in order to eat.’

‘It’s all too true, and it can seem overwhelming,’ Dominic told her soberly. ‘Hopeless. But it isn’t, not entirely. There are people who care, and who are trying to do something. My father was one of them – he saw what you see, and it was the children above all who elicited his pity and concern too. The Foundling Hospital takes babies, of course, but older children who have fallen through the cracks and are scraping a precarious living on the streets had been sorely neglected except by a few religious organisations. He wasn’t religious, but he bought a building not too far from here, set it to rights, and endowed it with money. Though he died ten years ago, his work continues.’

‘You continue it?’ Was that disbelief in her voice? It shouldn’t sting – they barely knew each other, after all.

He said lightly, ‘He left money and instructions in his will to make sure I did.’ He did not say that he had added to it; that would sound like boasting. ‘Money is the easy part. Time is much more precious. I don’t give much of that, and actually, it has always been an enterprise run mainly by women. It is better so. It’s hard enough for women to win the trust of those who have been betrayed by the world, perhaps abandoned or cruelly mistreated by their parents; for men, it is almost impossible. And to teach the children that fine young gentlemen in fashionable clothes – men who have gold to offer them – might be persons they could place their reliance on is not, in fact, necessarily a useful lesson. Better they stay wary.’

‘I can see the truth in what you say,’ she answered sombrely. ‘But I am very glad to know that something is being done. Perhaps?—’

He interrupted her. ‘Forgive me for being uncivil, but you may see for yourself that efforts are being made, as well as hearing about them.’ They had almost reached their destination – they were in Bedford Row now. ‘Do you observe those two women there, surrounded by children, and the tall man standing somewhat apart from them?’

A little ahead, just before the left-hand turning into Henrietta Street, a curious scene was playing out. A handcart had been set down, and ragged children – a few of them disturbingly tiny, most of them apparently in their teens – were crowding around it. Some of them were clamouring excitedly, others were silent and wary, darting glances about them as though they feared some trickery or ambush. They held steaming mugs, and clutched paper wrappings from which savoury smells reached the observers, even at this little distance. Dominic had not been surprised to come across the cart – he knew that this was one of Angela’s usual nights, and he’d been looking out for her, knowing she was as regular as clockwork in her patrol and could, perhaps, be of some help with his mission tonight.

A tall young African man stood to one side, surveying the scene with a frown between his brows. Two women were handing out the food and drink to the children under his watchful gaze. They were both past their first youth, perhaps in their forties or so, warmly dressed against the evening chill. One of them was white, short and stocky, and the other, a woman of above-average height with an impressive figure, was also African, her head wrapped in a colourful cloth in place of a bonnet.

The watchful man moved closer to her, and spoke a few words, and she glanced up sharply, a warm smile dawning on her face. ‘Dominic!’ she said. Her eyes darted to his companions, and she nodded at Jack Fishwick in obvious recognition, but if she thought Meg’s presence odd – whether she’d guessed she was a girl or not – in this place and at this hour, she said nothing of it.

Dominic strode forward and took her hand. ‘Angela, well met,’ he responded, pressing it. ‘I wondered if we might find you here, and hoped we would. This is no time for formal introductions, but Angela, this is a friend, who had best remain nameless just now. This is Angela, known to all as Mother Jones, and her companions Susan and Aaron.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you all,’ said Meg politely, trying to sound manly. She said nothing more, and Dominic thought she must be somewhat stunned by everything that she was seeing. Lord knew what she made of it.

The children still crowded about the two women, careful to avoid coming too close to the newcomers, and Dominic said, ‘Can I have a word or two with you, Angela? I know you’re busy, and I won’t keep you a moment; I just want to ask you something.’

‘Of course,’ she said, brows raised, and stepped aside from the cart, leaving Susan to continue handing out provisions and speaking with the livelier of the children; some of them were silent, and did not answer her when she addressed them, but they were all eating and drinking with ferocious attention. Aaron continued to keep watch over them all, his vigilance unrelenting.

‘Jack, which house is it?’ Dominic said. They’d moved forward and were almost at the junction with Henrietta Street, so that they could see down it towards the piazza. There were still knots of people about, crowding around the doors of a rowdy tavern nearby, but nobody approached them or appeared to pay them any mind. This was a place where ordinary standards of dress and behaviour could not be said to apply, certainly not during the hours of darkness, and far stranger sights than their little group could no doubt be seen here every night of the year.

‘That one on the right at the end – the far corner,’ Fishwick said. ‘There’s a cove on the step standing guard, can you see, sir, Mrs Jones?’

‘Thank you. What do you know of that particular house, ma’am?’

It was so pleasant not to have to engage in endless explanations. Angela replied readily, her deep, lilting voice making music of the stark words, ‘It’s a brothel, of course – but I assume you knew that – much like any other. Run by a woman, as they mostly are, a woman my age, goes by Sally. It’s no worse than most, and better than many. That is to say, the girls there are usually fifteen or upwards, and I’ve heard nothing of them being held there against their will, or having their clothes taken from them, or any such unpleasantness. They even have a doctor in to check them over every now and then, for all the good that does. I hope that answers your questions, Dominic?’ Her ironic tone said that she was consciously refraining from asking questions and that he should be appropriately grateful for her forbearance.

‘Thank you – that’s good news, as far as it goes. We’ve been told about a runaway abigail we believe is staying there, a girl by the name of Jenny Wood. And a young lady, perhaps, a blonde, might be there too. Not the sort of woman you’d generally expect to see in such a place. We have no reason to think that either of them is being constrained in any way, but they may be taking refuge there.’ It was a long shot, but he had to ask. Angela and her two helpers were out on these streets several nights a week, rain or shine – it was just possible they might have seen something.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know any of the current inhabitants. If they’re full grown, or more or less, you know I don’t concern myself with them overmuch. I have enough to do. There’s church ladies who try sometimes… Good luck to them, I say, for all their moralising.’ She sounded exhausted for a moment, depressed and unlike herself. It was as he’d told Meg a moment ago – even Angela, who’d devoted her life to helping London’s most vulnerable, couldn’t kill herself by trying to rescue everyone, so great was their number, however much they might need it and deserve it.

Jack cut in, ‘Mrs J, begging your pardon, young Jenny’s got a suitor, if that’s the word, been making her life a misery. He may be the reason she’s here, assuming she is – he’s forced her out of a comfortable situation with his attentions. We know he’s followed her here, tried to gain entry to the house, but failed. It’d be nice if someone could have a quiet word with him sometime soon, teach him the error of his ways.’

The woman who called herself Mrs Jones smiled, her eyes bright and lively again. ‘That sounds like the sort of thing Aaron might just be interested in. It’s none of my affair, of course, but if you were to give him a description of the man…’

‘That I will, ma’am,’ said Jack. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank Aaron, not me. Do you need his help, though, with this mysterious business of yours, Dominic?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘We’re not forcing our way in.’

She surveyed him measuringly. ‘No need, I’m sure. Look at you, so fine as you are – they’ll welcome you with open arms. But they won’t like it, you know, if you start asking too many questions.’

He shrugged. ‘There’s always bribery.’

‘There’s always robbery with violence, Dominic, if you start flashing the cash.’

‘I’m armed.’

‘Still, be careful, my dear. We’ll be here for a little while longer, and then we’ll move into the piazza for a time. We’ll keep our eyes open for you as long as we can, but then we’ll have to head off home.’

‘We don’t plan to make a lengthy stay. If Jenny’s present – it’s really too much to hope that the other girl I mentioned might be hidden away there – we just want to talk to her for a moment.’

‘That’ll be a novelty for her.’ She reached up and touched his cheek lightly. ‘Well, I’ve told you to be careful. You’d best get on. But tell me, before you go, how’s my lovely Davey doing? I hear you’re a terribly strict employer.’

He grinned. ‘He’s the strict one. No man is a hero to his valet, you know. But I try to live up to his expectations. It would be a crime to disappoint him.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. He’s one of my great successes, you must know, and the children are always so excited when he visits us and tells us stories of his life. And that reminds me, I was going to send you a note to tell you, I’ve just had word Annie will be back in London very soon; the regiment’s moving. I’ll let you know when she arrives. I know she’d love to see you – they all would.’

He smiled at her, his worries forgotten for a moment. ‘That’s good news. I’d like that.’ He could feel Meg’s silent, curious presence at his side. She must have overheard, she must be wondering what it all signified, but it was a long story, not his secret but that of others, and besides, there was no time. They needed to get inside that house, and out of it again, without any trouble. They needed to get Meg home safe. No more delaying.