Page 11 of The Ladies Road Guide to Utter Ruin (The Ill-Mannered Ladies #2)

11

The following afternoon, I viewed myself in my dressing room mirror with a critical eye. I had worn men’s clothes before, but they had been my father’s and of excellent cut and cloth. This ensemble was baggy in unusual places, and the cloth was only a step or two away from threadbare. Still, the excessive wear had made them unusually soft, and once again, I reveled in the ease of breeches.

“What do you think?” I asked Julia and Tully, my maid.

“Rather good,” Julia said from her seat upon the chaise. “But you must not forget to glue on your side-whiskers.”

I nodded at the reminder as my maid walked around me to view the whole of the ensemble. She was now practiced in voicing her opinion about my disguises and had, in fact, bought the secondhand men’s clothes we were now appraising.

“The shirt and breeches are probably cleaner than what would be worn by one of the lower ranks, my lady, but I figured you didn’t want me to buy any that were infested with lice or fleas.”

I wrinkled my nose. “Absolutely not. We do not have to strive for that much authenticity.”

“Perhaps I could take the neckerchief and dirty it up a little,” Tully said. “The coat hides the cleanliness of the breeches, I think, since it is patched and of a drab color.” She narrowed her eyes in further evaluation. “The hat is an excellent shambles, but we must oil your hair and make it less…done.”

“Then, let’s to it,” I said, untying the neckerchief and passing it to my maid. “I must be away before sundown.”

Tully curtsied and left the room on her errand.

“Miss Grant is pressing me to find a solution to their situation,” Julia said.

I looked up from smoothing my jacket collar. “She has said nothing to me.”

Julia did not comment, which was comment enough. How had I been cast as the villain in this piece? After all, I had been right about Hester accompanying us to see Evan. Besides, Dr. McLeod’s latest examination had concluded that she had rallied a little but not enough to be moved. Not yet.

“If she had spoken to me, I could have told her that I have written to Charlotte on their behalf,” I said. “If Lord Davenport is not in residence at their estate, she might be able to offer them refuge under the guise of an extended visit from us. What do you think? It is the best I can come up with at present.”

Julia considered the option. “It places a great deal upon Charlotte, and we have already asked so much of her.” She bit her lip—a prelude to something preying upon her mind. “My dear, you may want to consider including Lady Hester and Miss Grant in these decisions. They may think it unsuitable.”

I frowned. “Unsuitable? They do not have that many options, do they?”

“Even so, one does like to have control over one’s own life. Especially after having so little.”

I did not know why my sister was being so particular. “Certainly, but at the moment, that control is somewhat hampered by Hester’s condition. Charlotte is the best option and you know she will do it gladly. Anyway, I have sent the letter so we should hear back soon, either way.” I pointed my foot and studied my secondhand boots. “Do you think they look too new?” I asked my sister.

“Hardly,” she said. “They are appalling.”

“Well, I shall find some mud in the stables and walk through it,” I said. “To be safe.”

“Safe?” My sister snorted. “You do realize that our ruse at Hatchards has more or less confirmed to the Runners and Mulholland that we are trying to move without their surveillance, and thus are likely to be meeting with Lord Evan.”

“I know,” I said soberly.

“Then how do you propose to get out of the house without being followed?”

“I will exit the mews with Thomas and Samuel. We are to be fellows slipping out for some fun.”

Julia’s mouth pursed. Unconvinced.

I picked up a collection of coins—a few half crowns, shillings, farthings, pennies, and sixpences—and shoved them into my jacket pocket. I had learned to be armed with money, for it could oil a situation better than wits or weapons. “They are not going to be looking for me dressed in men’s clothes, are they?” I added. “Especially the clothes of a workingman.”

“I suppose not,” she conceded. “Do you propose to enter the club?”

“I do not know. Lord Evan and I will figure it out when we are there.”

I contemplated my reflection again. Neither Lord Evan nor I would be able to enter as gentlemen since neither of us would be clothed in the appropriate evening wear. How, then, would we get in? As ever, we would make it up as we went along. I smiled at the thought, eyeing my grinning reflection. There was a good chance I was enjoying this too much.

“I received a note from Mr. Kent a half hour ago,” Julia said into the silence.

I turned to face my sister. I had not heard a messenger arrive. And a note, only to Julia? By all rights, he should have written to me—I was the elder sister and head of the household—or at least to both of the Colebrook sisters, to keep it within the bounds of business…and propriety.

“Is that so?” It came out rather more sharply than I had anticipated. “When did he start writing to you and not us?”

“You receive notes from Lord Evan,” Julia countered.

We stared at each other. She was equating Mr. Kent with Lord Evan? Julia’s fair skin flushed; she had more or less admitted she felt an attachment to the Runner. She busied herself adjusting the lace upon her sleeve. “He has been investigating on our behalf.”

“May I read the note?”

She eyed me. “No,” she said, drawing the soft refusal out, “but I can give you the meat of his news.”

What on earth had Mr. Kent written to my sister that she would not allow me to see?

“Are you really not going to let me read it? I let you read my notes from Lord Evan.”

She gave a slight lift of her shoulders. “I am allowed to have my own letters, Gus.”

“Of course you are,” I said, but her refusal still stung. “What is his news, then?”

“He says that Mulholland thinks Lord Evan is still in England. I think, too, that Mr. Kent is aware you lied to him about Lord Evan’s departure.”

“Well, it was bound to happen. The man is not stupid,” I said. “Thank you for keeping quiet on that score.”

“Of course,” Julia said. “Although I do not like lying.”

Especially to Mr. Kent, I thought.

“Mr. Kent also says Mulholland is not officially attached to the Runners in regard to pursuing Lord Evan,” Julia continued. “In other words, he is not under the Bow Street aegis, although Mr. Kent has seen him in the vicinity of the court. Interestingly, upon Mr. Kent’s discreet inquiries, he was warned off asking any questions about Mulholland, and his informant suggested that such interest could jeopardize his position.”

I chewed on my lip. “A subject not to be discussed. Mulholland is, most probably, using the resources of Bow Street but not subject to their oversight.”

“Mr. Kent suggests the same. If Mulholland does anything egregiously outside the law, it will not be associated with Bow Street or the Home Office.”

“Innocence through denial,” I murmured. “And an obscured path to the top.”

So Mulholland knew Lord Evan was in England and had not fled the country as I had tried to convince him. Not only that; our supposition that Mulholland was working for someone of high rank who, for whatever reason, wanted Lord Evan dead appeared to be confirmed. Bad news, all round. And that included, I could not help thinking, my sister’s refusal to share Mr. Kent’s letter with me. I could see only heartbreak for her in that connection—the difference of rank and society between them was too great. And surely my sister had already suffered enough heartbreak in her life.

···

The old hackney carriage smelled of wet straw, sour sweat, and the faint, ever-present perfume of dung. I shifted on the bare wooden seat—the upholstery had for some reason been ripped out—and looked out the window at the passing view of Bow Street.

The sky was darkening toward dusk, my appointed time to meet Lord Evan, and the encroaching evening had already brought out the pleasure-seekers. A pie seller did a brisk trade on a corner to a group of young men, and a well-lit tavern full of patrons flashed by, the scraping lilt of folk fiddlers within following us along the street. If I recollected correctly, one of the entrances to Covent Garden was coming up on our left. I knocked sharply on the cabin wall.

“?’Ere will do,” I yelled. Better to walk the last few streets, especially in this guise. Not many men of my “rank” would spend the coin to hire a hackney, even one as shabby as this piece.

The carriage pulled up. I opened the door, took the step down to the footpath, and lifted my hand in thanks to the driver. Since I had already paid, he tipped his hat and drove on, looking for another fare.

I stood for a moment to get my bearings, earning the muttered curses and irritated glances of those hurrying along the footpath. Ahead was the corner of Russell and Bow Streets. I could walk the long way around to Bedford Street or cut across Covent Garden, a much shorter route. One I would never take on foot as Lady Augusta Colebrook.

I smiled.

Covent Garden, then. And finally, some time alone with Evan. It still felt strangely forward to think of addressing him without a title, even with his invitation. It was an intimacy that I had not had with any man before. Even my brother was Duffy, or Duffield, never James.

“Evan,” I said aloud. Practice made perfect, or at least not so awkward. “Are you well, Evan?” A passing woman glanced warily at the shabby man talking to himself and gave me a wide berth. Quite right. I ducked my head and lengthened my gait into a manly stride toward the market.

The Russell Street entrance into Covent Garden was little more than a narrow laneway between Carpenter’s Coffee House—one of the ramshackle permanent buildings that bordered the square—and a higgledy-piggledy collection of stalls, lean-tos, baskets, and carts. Some of the vendors were packing up their wares for the day, but a good number were still selling in the last of the light.

Through the rumble of carts, shouted instructions, and hum of chatter, I warded off calls to buy the last bushel of potatoes—patently not the last bushel—a pound of nuts, and a rabbit ready to be skinned for the pot. One of the basket women, a broad-shouldered amazon even taller than me, stepped into my path, offering to carry my goods for “penny o’ mile” in a broad Irish brogue. I shook my head with a smile and received a gap-toothed grin in return as I headed alongside Carpenter’s into the market proper.

If the entrance was a shambles, then the market itself was complete mayhem. I paused, looking for a way into the crowd, the noise and colors and clashing smells like a chaotic opera surging across every sense. Here was a world Lady Augusta would never experience, and the exhilaration of it sang through my blood.

“Get on, man.” An impatient voice from behind chivvied me into action.

I waded in, threading my way past a secondhand shoe seller, half-empty baskets of glassy-eyed fish, and a collection of pungent oyster barrels surrounded by diners tipping their heads back to eat from the shell. A rug seller, stacking his intricate wares back into his cart, stepped back into me and touched his forehead in hurried apology. I showed him my palms—no harm done—and continued on past eels being fried over coals, the rich, meaty fish smell striking my innards. Ahead, four women called to a raucous group of young men. One of their number, a tall redhead in a grubby green gown that showed bony shoulders and a good deal of meager breast, mimed an offering with her mouth and hand, then laughed at the appreciative hoots from the men. As I approached, her attention swung to me.

“Fancy a fumble, love?” she called, flashing a surprisingly intact smile. “How about a tug for a penny?”

My face heated: I was not sure what she meant, but it was clearly obscene. I quickened my step, but amid my alarm, a thought occurred. We knew the whereabouts of the club, but maybe one of these women had actually been inside it or at least heard more about its activities. Indeed, maybe this woman. Surely she would prefer to take a coin for information than…whatever she was offering.

“Where?” I called back.

She jerked her head to one of the alleys between the permanent buildings.

Did I dare?

I gave a nod; apparently, I did.

She beckoned. “Let’s see your coin, then.”

I fished a penny out of my pocket and held it up. With a nod she turned, and I followed her past the three women who were still trying to entice the group of young bucks.

The alley was strewn with old cabbage, discarded pieces of wood, broken gin flagons, and a dismembered rat carcass. The stink of urine and rotting vegetation caught in my throat, making me cough. Lifting her filthy hem, my hostess picked a way to the far corner where the ground had been cleared of refuse but was still damp from use as a privy. She stood at least an inch taller than my own five foot nine and was perhaps ten years younger. Life had whittled her face into gaunt hollows, but behind the grime, her smile was friendly and a pair of rather pretty blue eyes evaluated me.

“Well now,” she said, reaching for my groin. “Let’s see what we have here.”

I pressed myself against the wall of the building, rapidly realizing what a “tug” meant. “Wait!”

She withdrew her hand, squinting at me. “You don’t need to be afeard of Long Sal, my love. I done this afore. I ain’t gonna pull it off.”

“How about a shilling, instead?”

She stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. “How would the likes of you have a shillin’?”

I dug my hand into my pocket and withdrew the larger coin. She eyed it, her mouth pursing. “And what would you want for that?”

“Long Sal, is it?” I asked.

“That’s what they call me.” She nodded to the building. “We can go inside, if you want. We got a straw mattress in there.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want that. I want to talk.”

“Ha! You be funnin’ me.”

“No. I am serious.”

She rubbed her mouth, considering this unusual turn of events. “A shillin’, just for talk? About what?”

“There is a club in Bedford Street. In number 2. Do you know of it?”

“Aye,” she said, puzzled. “It’s for the quality. They get girls from here sometimes, but I ain’t never been.”

“Have you heard anything about their activities?”

She crossed her arms. “You talk a lot better than them clothes say you oughta. What’s your game?”

“I am just trying to find out about the club. And you will get a shilling out of it.”

Her eyes found the coin again. Would she talk or not? A shilling was a substantial lure, but maybe her natural distrust would overcome it.

“You are a queer one,” she finally said. “From what I heard they got a taste for the floggin’ and other specials like that. Most times not too bad and the coin is good. Enough to pay for any hurt. I knowed one girl got nearly enough for a year.”

I leaned forward. “So girls come out hurt?”

“Sometimes, but a whole year of food and roof is worth it, ’ey?”

I nodded, more to hide my horror at such exigencies than in accord. “Have you heard about anyone who has gone missing from the club or died from their injuries?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You lost someone? Is that why you askin’?”

“No.”

She considered me again. “I’ve heard that sometimes there be a girl inside the club who ain’t from the Garden or in the game. A cit from the middlin’s, or even genteel.”

“Genteel girls, are you sure?”

She shrugged. “Just heard it. Might be runaways, ’ey? They oftentimes end up on their backs. But I ain’t heard of anyone goin’ missin’ or slippin’ the mort direct from that club.”

That did not quite tally with what Dorothy the flower seller had told us: girls going in but not coming out.

Long Sal lifted a bony shoulder. “Mind you, there be a lot of us, and not just ’ere in the Garden. It could’ve happened. Lots of things happen to the likes of us and not a soul knows about it. Sometimes we’re lucky and sometimes we’re not. It’s just how it is.”

Her measurement of luck was very different from mine.

“One last question. Do you know the names of any of the men who go to the club?”

She laughed. “Aye, we meet up for a gin and chop every week.” She held out her cupped hand. “They got no names, just like we don’t for them.”

I dropped the shilling into her palm. “Thank you.” I paused, then smiled. “Long Sal.”

She gave a wry huff of appreciation and bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, sir, for the shillin’.” She turned to go, then swung around again, her head tilted in a motherly fashion. “This much coin gives you a mod of advice too. You may be dressed like us, but I know you be a gentleman and…maybe not on the straight course.” I opened my mouth to deny my gentle status, but she held up her hand. “Don’t fret, I’ll say nothin’. But it ain’t good for the likes of you to be asking questions round ’ere. Alone. Go back to where you come from. And don’t mess with them at that club. They got the world sewn up and no one’s going to change it. Nothing changes, mister. We all stay where God puts us.”

I gave a bow, for the advice and her discretion. She held up the coin with a grin—a triumphant celebration of her sudden wealth—then tucked it into the folds of her gown and together we made our way back to the main market.

Ahead, the Covent Garden St. Paul’s Church rose above the stall and tent rooftops, my landmark in this sea of busy, noisy industry. Beyond it was Bedford Street and Lord Evan. With one last wave at Long Sal, I skirted a stack of baskets full of hazelnuts and headed for the church.

St. Paul’s portico was littered with empty baskets and discarded crates, guarded by two threadbare little girls and an indignant brown terrier. The little girls each held up a hand as I approached but had no hope in their eyes. Long Sal’s resignation still rang in my ears: We all stay where God puts us. I dug my hand into my pocket, found two farthings, and dropped one into each palm as I passed, then took the steps down to the yard behind the church. A sudden oasis of quiet amid the chaos. I nodded to an old man who sat upon a bench and crossed the cobbles to the narrow laneway that led to Bedford Street.

The lane smelled of cooked onions and cat piss. Ahead, a couple leaned up against the laneway wall, locked in what looked to be far more than an embrace. Should I retreat? I looked back at the church, but this was the quickest way through and I did not fancy trying to fight my way back across the market. I tucked in my chin and strode past the entangled pair, catching a shocking glimpse of grinding hips, pale thighs, and thrusting buttocks. I quickened my stride, trying to outpace the sound of skin slapping skin and gasping rhythmic cries.

I emerged onto Bedford Street, breathless, my skin hot with an odd shame. Good God, was that the Act? My friend Charlotte, Countess Davenport, had on my request described the mechanics of it, but I had never thought it to be so naked, so vigorous, so…loud. Part of me wanted to look back. No, such an urge offended all decency.

Eyes forward, I forged on, legs trembling, across Henrietta Street and toward Dorothy’s corner, the old flower seller crouched as usual upon the pavement.

Across the road, at the junction of Maiden Lane, a figure rose from a doorway, holding a flagon. I recognized the broad shoulders and laconic tilt of the head, and my heart quickened in an entirely new way.

Evan.