Prospect of Whitby
Fam spent a great deal of time in the taverns on the west side of London, especially those that fell within his territory or the territories of one of his three brothers.
They'd divided up the rookeries fairly evenly and established their rule over the criminal elements without question over the last twenty or so years.
Still, as he sat in the Prospect of Whitby at the table overlooking the river, he fought back the memories of the last time he'd been there with Sally Big'uns.
The night Con had killed Bill Green and changed all of their lives.
He took a bite of the sandwich of thick bread, salted ham, and cheese one of the serving wenches had delivered on a pewter plate when he'd first arrived. As he chewed, he studied the buxom, now silver-haired woman who had saved Ban's life.
Sally had to be nearing fifty and some of the years had not been kind to her.
Yet, in the last few years her fortunes had changed, and these days she looked out of place.
She'd been taken in by the powerful Duke of Chelmsford and his duchess, the Pirate Queen of Algiers, better known as Captain El.
Sally wore a fine kerseymere dress and a heavy wool hooded cloak.
Her gloves were kidskin and the black fur of a lining peeked out around her thick wrists.
He'd wager her boots were of fine leather and hand-crafted to fit her wide, sturdy feet.
The Prospect was relatively quiet this time of night.
A few hours before midnight meant the rowdier lightermen from the docks were still at work.
The regulars these days tended to come in and drink themselves into oblivion with little energy for brawls and mischief.
The scrape of chairs and the clink of crockery and mugs served as an undercurrent over muttering voices and the occasional burst of laughter.
A tavern wench with flame-red hair and shapely hips sauntered over to refill Fam's ale and deliver two mugs of hot cider, the curls of smoke still rising from the mixture of heady spices and fermented apple juices.
That's when Fam fully noticed the torn knuckles and bruised wrists of the young nursemaid seated next to Sally.
In spite of the dim lantern light in the tavern he'd already seen the girl's battered mouth and swollen eye.
He and Sally exchanged a glance as the nursemaid lifted the cider with care and slowly sipped.
"You're certain they want this done?" He addressed his question to Sally, though he needed the answer from the young woman, Sally's niece. Maisie, was it? Yes, Maisie Stubbs.
Sally pushed a leather purse across the table. "The missus sent half the money with our Maisie. Poor girl took a beating keeping the awd viscount off the little 'uns in her charge. His own grandchildren, Fam. Out to bugger his own grandchildren."
Fam stared at Maisie, who ducked her head and continued to drink her cider. He allowed the icy poison of the old rage to sink into his blood. "What about the girl in Carrington-Bowles' dispensary? The one the viscount raped and got in the family way? How old is she?"
"She was eleven," Sally said, her expression a mixture of sorrow and disgust. "Mister CB sent word to Maisie's mistress this afternoon. The child died giving birth to a little girl. He saved the baby." She shook her head. "There was no saving the mother."
Fam gripped his mug of ale and turned it slowly in his hand. "If our Rose Street physician couldn't save her, she could not be saved."
"God's truth," Sally avowed.
"My mistress wants the old man done for," Maisie finally said. She met Fam's gaze head on. "My master, his own son, wants the same. He never should have gone for the children. He's evil, Mister Dyer. Will you come?"
Fam took a deep swig of his ale. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Tomorrow night. Tell your master to give the servants their half day.
I want no one in the house save you, your master and mistress, and the viscount.
Make certain the children are upstairs out of the way.
I'll come in through the mews. Leave the door unlocked.
I'll expect the rest of the money once the deed is done.
" He slid the leather pouch off the table and tucked it into his coat pocket. "Do you understand, Maisie Stubbs?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She squeezed Sally's hand and left the tavern as fast as her feet could carry her.
"She'll be safe to make her way back to Mayfair?" he asked Sally.
"Aye. One of the Rutherford lads is waiting in one of His Grace's carriages. So, tell your men to stay here and look after you." She nodded at the two bull-necked men seated at a table close to the front door.
Fam shook his head. Sally might be living high in Mayfair, but she still didn't miss a trick. "How will you get home?"
She snorted. "Between the Four Horsemen on the east side and the Duke of Chelmsford and Captain El on the west side, who would be foolish enough to try and touch me?"
Fam had to smile. "Fair enough. Though I suspect yon gent has more to do with your safety here." He raised his ale in salute to Hercules Smythe behind the bar. "When are you going to make an honest man out of that brawler?"
"I was married once, and once was enough for me. God knows I love him, but I love my own way better."
He tapped his mug to hers. "Here's to having our own way."
"You sure you want to do this, lad?" Sally studied him in that steely-eyed way she had that brooked no lies or evasion. For a flash of a moment, he was eleven years old again.
"Little late to be worrying about my immortal soul now, Sally. Will your niece be well enough when this is done?"
"Captain El trusts the viscount's son's wife.
She got Maisie the position. After what Maisie did to keep that woman's children safe from their own grandfather, she told Maisie she had a place with them for life.
" Sally polished off the last of her cider, leaned over to kiss Fam's cheek, and then lumbered to her feet.
"And I told that limp-cocked son of the viscount our Maisie was under the protection of the Horsemen.
Near pissed himself, he did." She cackled with laughter as she waddled over to join Hercules at the bar.
Fam continued to sit at the table and stare out at the river, a ribbon of black that lapped at the white stones that led up to the stairs at the back of the Prospect.
Once the tavern began to fill up with dock workers, whores, and the usual mix of thieves and sailors, he shrugged into his greatcoat and ducked out the back door onto the lane along the Wapping Wall.
Two tall, muscled men moved out of the shadows behind the tavern to join him as he walked toward his home in White Chapel.
Within moments, the two shorter, heavier men Sally had spotted in the tavern joined them.
He could have sent for his carriage, but tonight he needed to walk.
He always planned best on his feet, and despite his years of experience eliminating problem people, he needed to settle his mind to the deadly task awaiting him.
The March wind off the river swirled around him with a wraith-like lover's embrace and sank into his bones.
But only until the thought of the broken child lying dead in the Rose Street dispensary came to mind.
At the memory of her and her orphan daughter, the thought of tomorrow night's job warmed him all the way home.
The Next Night
14 Berkeley Square
Home of Viscount de Winter
Of course, the rain started in a light drizzle the moment Fam stepped down from his carriage.
He pulled on his gloves and flipped up the collar of his many-caped greatcoat.
He'd had Bull stop the carriage at the head of the narrow, cobbled lane that ran behind the mews of the various townhouses on the east side of Berkeley Square.
"Still want to walk?" Pigeon asked as he leaned out of the carriage, his face illuminated by the single lamp inside the sleek, well-made conveyance.
Light enough for one horse to pull with muffled wheels and an oiled frame, with Bull at the reins they could be back onto Charles Street and halfway to White Chapel before anyone realized they were there.
"I've slept naked in worse than this," Fam said quietly. "Keep a sharp eye. When I come back up this lane we'll need to disappear and be quick about it."
"Don't we always?" Pigeon ducked back inside and silently closed the door.
Fam heard him speak to Sullivan, the other of his men who'd insisted on coming along.
Both of them were likely grousing at being left behind when their job was to guard Fam's back.
There'd be no need tonight. Mayfair was not like the Dials, St. Giles, or even White Chapel.
A few hours before dawn on a Monday morning practically guaranteed most of the households of Berkeley Square would be fast asleep.
The air smelled of coal and burning wood, but lacked the more pungent scents one encountered on the east side of London.
Didn't make the stuff any less icy or sting less as the wind flung tiny spits of rain into his face.
His sources amongst the ranks of the servants in the square told him no beadles walked the streets as most houses were locked up tight.
Except for the one where the gate from the mews into the back gardens stood open enough for him to slip inside without making a sound.
By the time he reached the door into the kitchens, an immaculately dressed lady stood in the light of the branch of candles she held in her hand.
She stepped back and ushered him inside the empty kitchen.
A severely but richly dressed gentleman stood before the baize door that opened to reveal a narrow, dark corridor.