Page 16 of Murder in Matrimony (A Lady of Letters Mystery #4)

ELEVEN

Dear Lady Agony,

I was disappointed to read of your being blackmailed. For shame! Has the dreadful person desisted?

Devotedly,

Dreadful Business

Dear Dreadful Business,

Thank you for your kind words, and thanks to all who have written letters of generous support. I need not tell you how much they mean to me, but they do. Very much. Again, thank you.

Yours in Secret,

Lady Agony

The evening crept by at a lethargic pace. Aunt Tabitha droned on about the wedding breakfast for an hour, and that only covered the topic of the three-tier cake and almond icing. Then it was on to meat: pork, lamb, and fowl. By the time they discussed wine, Amelia had drunk two glasses of her own.

In Amelia’s opinion, which Tabitha did not share, the wedding should be a simple, happy send-off like the one she and Edgar enjoyed. People went to too much extravagance today. Heartfelt congratulations were all one really needed to celebrate the joyous day.

“Heartfelt congratulations—and ten joints of meat.” Tabitha had tsked. “Really, Amelia, thank goodness I am planning the meal.”

Eventually, Amelia escaped the conversation and put on her costume.

She checked her reflection in the glass.

She really did like herself with blonde hair.

Tabitha was right; she was better at disguises than déjeuner.

She enjoyed playacting as much as she had as a child at the Feathered Nest, where they put on weekly skits.

Tonight, she was a gin enthusiast by the name of Polly, who liked nothing better than a tipple after a hard day of selling flowers.

With her experience, she would slip into the Plate & Bottle without notice. But would Simon? That was the question.

As she stole down the servants’ staircase, she wondered what he would be wearing.

If he gave them away with a ridiculous top hat or silk cravat, she would be supremely unhappy.

His kid gloves would be a tell of his wealth and finery.

She should know. Isaac Jakeman had found her out by the same means.

But she knew better now. No detail was too small to escape a criminal’s notice.

Underestimating them was a mistake she couldn’t afford to repeat.

Amelia looked left and right. Few pedestrians dotted the area, and those she scanned easily. A man, a man, a man, a woman. She frowned. It wasn’t like Simon to be late. Where was he?

“You make a fetching blonde, but I must admit, I prefer brunettes.”

She spun around, facing Simon—who did not look like Simon at all but a pirate. His black hair was mussed, as if he was just thrown from a ship, and he wore an ordinary white shirt, open at his tan throat, and breeches with a tear at the knee.

She swallowed. Concentration was going to be harder than she thought. “Is that so? I rather like being a blonde.”

“I hired a cab.” He tipped his chin. “There, at the corner.”

“A wise move.” After they entered the cab, however, Amelia wondered how wise she was to enlist Simon in her latest plan to gather more information about the Rothschild family.

Isolation sat between them like a loaded gun.

They’d been alone together before, but always as themselves.

These people they had created, these facades, had somehow done away with the decorum they had to follow.

She was left with the shape of his throat, the swoop of his hair, and the cut of his breeches.

“I discovered the Plate & Bottle has been in operation for over a decade.” Simon fastened his shirt cuffs, which were a bit too white to look well used. “Meals were once served there, but now it’s a drinking establishment, well known by locals. It should provide a good mix of patrons.”

“Good. Good.” Amelia repeated the word because her mind was blank.

“Good?” Simon pressed. “Not, ‘Where did you get the information?’ or ‘Who did you interview?’ or ‘Why did you not wait for me?’”

“Where did you get the information?”

He smiled, and she came undone a little.

“I thought you’d never ask. I found it out by my valet.

He’s a bit of a roughneck, if you recall.

I found him outside a gaming hall, selling oranges, and I hired him immediately.

He knows all the seedy places in town. I don’t know why I didn’t think to inquire before. ”

“Did he know the Rothschilds?”

“He knew of Mr. Rothschild, the proprietor. Not personally, of course, but he said the man bartends most nights.” He paused and then continued. “He thought well of him, though. I got that impression.”

“Did he mention his wife?”

Simon shook his head.

“Rose?”

“No one else.”

“Oh.” Amelia let out a disappointed breath.

He frowned. “But still, the father. Open a decade.”

“Yes, good work.”

He preened in his seat. “Do you like my costume?”

“Very much.”

“I imagine you are surprised I could pull it off.” He had a look of smug satisfaction. “It is convincing?”

“Quite. You look like a pirate.”

He leaned in, and she could swear she smelled salt water. “A pirate, Amelia?”

Amelia looked into his sea-green eyes, sighing at the sound of her name in his mouth. She’d dreamed of sailing away with a pirate since she was a little girl, and gazing into his rugged visage was perhaps the closest she’d ever been to achieving it. She swallowed, nodding silently.

“Forgive me.” He raised his dark eyebrows into a crafty look. “I forgot how much you like pirates.”

He was teasing her, but with one more moment in the cab, she would have shown him just how much she liked them. As it was, the driver announced their arrival near the Plate & Bottle, and she refocused on the gray East End street outside and their task at hand.

Despite the late hour, the street was crowded with people.

A man flung open the door to the pub, narrowly missing a woman who sat near the entrance, waiting for her husband to get his fill.

Seeing it was not him but another man, she dropped her eyes again, focusing on a fissure in the pavement.

Simon walked past her and opened the door.

Amelia ignored her as well, but it was harder, she guessed, because she knew how much most women depended on men for their livelihood.

Flower sellers, matchbook makers, serving classes, and even governesses could and did make money.

But livelihoods were more than money. They were houses, businesses, and property that wives could not hold.

If it seemed foolish to Amelia that a wife should wait outside a bar for a husband, she was wrong.

It might be the only way a man returned home in the evening to pay the rent that supplied the roof over her head.

The single-room pub was dim, and Amelia was thankful for the bleak cover.

A mirror above the bar reflected an oil lamp on a worn piano, and she and Simon sat down at a corner table, basking in its obscurity.

Although dim, the pub was friendly, with casual conversation and laughter mingling.

Patrons celebrated the end of the day with pints of ale gently sloshing out of their glasses as they roamed from bar to table.

Simon fetched them two pints, and Amelia took a small sip. Simon took a larger one and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. She gleaned the hint and took a deeper drink, not displeased with the taste of it. Her wig was making her warm, and she was grateful for the cold ale.

The man at the next table chuckled and said, “Tough day, luv?”

“Indeed, it was,” she answered in a thick Somerset accent.

“What day in’t a hard one,” Simon added convincingly. “But I ain’t complaining. It could be worse. Look at Cross. Just killed this week.”

“I reckon he went to hell just like the rest of us will.” The man added in a low voice, “If the world has any justice at all, that is, and I ain’t saying it does.” He tipped his chin toward the bar. “Rothschild was a happy man once. Cross should have stayed out of his business.”

“The old vicar got what he deserved.” Simon took a long drink of his ale.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t saying either way. I’m only saying a man, priest or no, should mind his own business.”

Amelia thought the notion was ironic coming from someone who was speaking freely about someone’s business with strangers. “I say he did get what he deserved. Little Rose might be alive today if it weren’t for him.”

“Some might say you’re right.” The man emptied his glass of ale. “And others might say she was dead anyway.”

Simon leaned a large elbow onto the table, his head dipping. “What do you mean?”

“Milly Hines?”

“Who?” Simon asked.

The man’s craggy face grew bored. “Mrs. Rothschild’s friend who worked here.”

“Right, Mrs. Hines.” Amelia nodded evenly. She hoped she sounded like she knew whom she was talking about even though she hadn’t heard the name before. “How many years ago was that now?”

“Oh Lord. Three years, I suppose? Knifed down after her shift by drunkards. Lost the use of her leg after that, then lost her husband, too. She relies on the charity of others now.” The man shook his head.

“No wonder Mrs. Rothschild turned devout. If I weren’t who I was, I might too. ” He stood to get another pint of ale.

Simon and Amelia shared a look of surprise.

Mrs. Rothschild had a friend who was hurt at the pub.

After a long night of serving, the woman suffered an attack that changed the trajectory of her life.

It was no wonder that Mr. Cross encouraged people to find other places of employment.

Factories were dangerous but perhaps not as dangerous as the streets of East End London.

It was hard to comprehend which one was worse, or if the two were even comparable.

The detail had Amelia doubting everything, including her ability to discern life outside of Mayfair. For all she knew, she was investigating the wrong pub, the wrong church, and the wrong people. She took a swig of ale.

“Careful. You’ll get tipsy.”

“I hope I do. This case has boggled me from start to finish. What I want to know is why Mr. Cross was murdered and by whom. Not all this.” She indicated their surroundings.

“Mr. Cross was all this,” said Simon. “This was his work.”

Amelia didn’t think she could feel any lower, but she did.

Mr. Cross was his work, and his work was the East End.

She knew that better than anyone, yet Simon had been the one to say it aloud.

Every string she pulled unraveled another spool of thread she’d rather let alone.

She had Miss Rothschild’s death to investigate as well as Mr. Cross’s.

Now there was the damage done to Mrs. Hines.

Amelia took another drink.

“Chin up, Amelia.” Simon swigged his ale. “You’ll get this sorted out in that pretty head of yours. You always do.”

She slid him a doubtful look, and he tweaked her cheek.

A broad-backed man with stubby fingers began to finger the keys of a broken pianoforte, the ale in his glass quivering as he steadily progressed. Despite the piano being out of tune, the sound was tinny and bright, and several patrons cheered him on.

When he got the notes to his liking, he cleared his throat and began to sing, “Come to the garden, Maud. For the black bat night has flown. Come to the garden, Maud. I am here at the gate alone. I am here at the gate alone.” The song was not targeted at the imaginary Maud from Tennyson’s poem but a real woman to his left, at whom he was lovingly batting his eyelashes.

Whoever she was seemed to enjoy the attention and moved closer to the instrument with every refrain.

Her actions garnered several whoops from the crowd, and she curtsied politely before joining him on the bench.

When he was finished, she praised the performance with a kiss on his cheek, and he pretended to swoon.

Then they both took turns at the pianoforte, their hands flying across the keys in a raucous polka.

A few chairs slid backward, and Amelia was surprised to find hers sliding back also.

Behind her stood Simon, his hand proffered as if he was in a fine Mayfair ballroom.

But when they began to dance, they acted as they never had in Mayfair.

Perhaps it was the disguises, or perhaps it was the pub, or perhaps it was their own neglected desires.

Whatever it was, no one would have recognized the couple by the swing of their hips or the laughter on their lips or the way their bodies met, warm and perspiring at the end of the song.

Simon held her that way for a long moment, her chest heaving from the exercise and her mind buzzing from the ale or the turns or both.

Then he kissed her, not the soft warm caresses she was used to.

But a hot, short kiss that left her wondering who this pirate was—and how she had ever lived this long without him.