Page 25 of Beneath the Devil’s Mask (The Hidden Hearts Collection #4)
Eight
Coal smoke hung in a perpetual pall over the sagging tenements of Bethnal Green.
Peering through the grimy window of the hackney coach, Sara Palmer pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose.
As the hackney rattled along the cobblestones, she was assailed by far too familiar sights and sounds, ones that she had long tried to forget and put behind her; the decaying boarded-up buildings crammed with poverty-stricken families, the shrieks of the ragged urchins chinking stones at the carriage wheels, the bawdy songs of drunks staggering away from the gin shops.
What had once been a pleasant country village on the outskirts of London had now become a teeming part of the great city, a maze of narrow streets and courts, with dark corners where the struggling poor were tempted with the lure of quick money and often an even quicker death.
The brothels, the flash-houses, the back alleys where hardened men plotted desperate deeds ... it had been nearly impossible to escape being pulled in and dragged down by such places when growing up in Bethnal Green.
Sara congratulated herself that she was one of the few who had managed it.
She prayed that her brother Gideon might yet prove to be another.
She had put him on the stagecoach heading north.
Sara hadn’t cared where so long as it took Gideon out of reach of the London authorities, far from questions and witnesses that might connect him with those two deaths.
Of course, Gideon had protested his innocence to the last, but Sara had paid him no heed. Her brother could be caught with a bloodied razor in his hand and he would insist he had just nicked himself shaving all the while a corpse lay stone cold at his feet.
Whether Gideon was innocent or not didn’t matter. What was important was that for the moment he was safe, that she had gotten him away from the dark influences and temptations of Bethnal Green. If only she could accomplish the same for her mother.
As the hackney lurched over a rut, Sara braced herself against the side of the coach, frowning.
She had tried more than once to persuade her mother to retire to some little cottage in the country.
Sara could have easily afforded to purchase such a thing when she had been Mandell’s mistress.
My lord had been most generous with his money, never questioning how Sara spent it.
But her mother had stubbornly refused. Chastity Palmer had declared she had endured quite enough of provincial village life in her youth. Sara had never been certain of her mother’s origins, but Chastity had always claimed she had been a country curate’s daughter.
Sara supposed that was possible. Mum did show an amazing tendency to quote the Bible when she’d had a drop too much rum.
If such a respectable grandfather did exist, Sara had never met him.
Her mother had run off at the age of sixteen and never gone home again.
She had come to the great city of London seeking romance.
And Mum had found it. Again and again and again. The fact that Chastity Palmer had frequently been paid for her latest amour had never seemed to dim her enthusiasm or her fixed belief in finding her one true love.
Mrs. Palmer still had a strong liking for the men, and during her bimonthly visits, Sara never knew quite what she might find going on in her mother’s flat. As the hackney drew to a halt at the curb, Sara hoped for once Chastity might be alone.
Her mother’s most recent address was a small flat above the pawnshop on the corner.
It was one of the more respectable-looking buildings in the Green, and Mum liked the fact that from her front windows she could see clear up the street and know at once what neighbor was involved in a fight or who was being arrested.
Gathering up the parcel she had brought, Sara alighted from the hackney and paid the driver. Before he even pulled away from the curb, Sara found herself surrounded by street urchins, creeping closer to her skirts like a pack of fierce starving rats.
She had the sense not to wear one of her best ensembles to Bethnal Green, but she was still dressed fine enough to provoke several sneers and comments.
“Look at the lady, will yer, Sam?”
“La-di-da.”
“Hoity-toity.”
One sharp-faced lad, a little bigger and bolder than the rest, darted closer, his fingers inching toward Sara’s reticule. Despite balancing the bulk of her parcel, she was quicker, spinning around and catching the boy’s ear in a merciless pinch.
“Ow-ow-ow,” the lad howled, as much astonished as hurt.
Sara released him with a little shove. “Try that again, you little gallows’ bait, and I’ll rattle your bone box, see?”
She was appalled at how quickly she lost the refined accent she had cultivated over the years, slipping back into the patter of the street. But her fierce growl had the desired effect, the urchins scattering away from her wide-eyed.
Lifting her skirts above the mud and debris, Sara picked her away around to the narrow door at the back of the pawnshop. Mounting a flight of rickety stairs, she made her way to the second floor. She could already hear a burst of raucous laughter from the flat above.
Sara sighed. It was as she had feared. Mum was entertaining again. If she had not already dismissed the hackney, Sara would have been tempted to turn right around and leave.
But then she would have come all this way for nothing. Bracing herself, Sara climbed the last of the steps and rapped halfheartedly on the flat door. The laughter within was so noisy, she was obliged to pound harder.
The laughter stilled at once, and Sara smiled, fully comprehending.
In this neighborhood, such a thump on the door could well mean the constable or a tipstaff.
After a brief pause, the door was inched open by Chastity Palmer.
Her sagging bosom threatened to spill out of her gown, yet Mum’s middle-aged face still possessed a certain blowzy prettiness.
At the sight of Sara, Chastity’s cautious expression disappeared. She beamed, throwing wide the door.
“Sary! My sweet babe.” She dragged Sara across the threshold, embracing her, package and all.
Sara felt relieved. If she was only Chastity’s “babe” and not her “heart’s darling,” at least she knew that Mum wasn’t drunk. Sara returned the hug, breathing in the scents that had always meant mother to her, cheap perfume and stale gin.
Peering over Chastity’s shoulder Sara glanced around to see who else was present. It was not as bad as she feared. Mum had not been entertaining her latest “romance.”
Seated behind Mum’s small wooden table was only a neighbor, old Mr. Haythorpe, the beanpole of a man who occupied the flat upstairs.
Next to him was a demure woman garbed in black who looked respectable enough to have been a governess.
She was in fact one self-styled Madame Dubonnet, the owner of one of the most exclusive and elegant brothels in the city.
Chastity had once worked for her off and on, and even Sara had had her start in Madame’s house.
Sara had interrupted them amid their refreshments. The delicate china service she had bought her mother was laid out upon the table, but from the reek of spirits in the air and the flushed countenances of her mother’s guests, Sara doubted that anyone had been drinking tea.
When Chastity had had her fill of hugging Sara, she tugged her over to the table, laughing and exclaiming proudly, “Well, would you just look who’s come to visit her poor old mama? It’s our little Sary. Doesn’t she just look grand as a queen?”
Mr. Haythorpe managed to get to his feet. “Sharmed, to see you again, Mish Palmer. Shimply sharmed.”
He would have taken her hand, but Sara shrank away with disgust. The man’s dirt-encrusted fingernails reminded her of his profession as a grave robber.
She was distracted by Madame Dubonnet pacing around her, examining the stitching upon her cloak with an expert eye, lifting the garment up to peer at the ruching on Sara’s gown.
“Oh, you have done very well for yourself, Sara,” she said. “Very well.” Madame nodded wisely at Chastity Palmer. “I always knew the girl would never end up a common whore.”
“There was never anything common about any of my children,” Chastity said loftily.
“You were a credit to my house once, Sara Palmer.” The brothel owner gave a sentimental sigh. “The bishop of Barnwell still asks after you.”
“Does he indeed?” Sara gave a dismissive shrug as she set her parcel on the table, but she could not help remembering. The bishop had been her first lover. How very strange. Out of all the men she had had, the two who had been best in bed had been his holy eminence and that devil Mandell.
Still, Sara had no wish to indulge in such reminiscences. Unlike her mother, she preferred to put the past behind her. She felt grateful when neither of Chastity’s guests elected to linger long. Mr. Haythorpe was going to require some help negotiating the stairs.
Both Chastity and Madame Dubonnet followed him through the door of the flat to make sure he did not fall and break his neck. While awaiting her mother’s return, Sara removed her cloak and bonnet.
Even though she knew it was useless, she could not help strolling about the flat’s single large room, straightening the cushions on the worn settee, wiping dust off the oil lamp, picking Chastity’s nightgown off the floor.
Sara started to return it to the curtained alcove where Chastity kept her bed. But as she brushed the drapery aside, she was stayed by the sound of soft snoring, the sight of a large bulk beneath the covers of the bed, a pair of glossy black boots tossed carelessly on the rug.
It seemed she had been too optimistic. Mum had one more guest after all, and Sara had no desire for an introduction. Sara let the curtain fall, draping Chastity’s nightgown over the back of one of the chairs.