Jack stepped in front of Frances, blocking her view. “Belinda! What are you doing here?”
Good heavens, did the rake consort even with poor, broken-down whores like this one?
Frances’s stomach twisted. She was in danger of adding to the filth on the walkway. She hadn’t thought any man would take this woman up on her offer. Surely Lord Jack could do much better. But what did she know? Apparently a rake only cared that his companion was female.
The woman made a noise that sounded like a cross between a curse and a squeak of fear. “Lord Jack! I didn’t recognize ye.”
“Because you aren’t wearing your spectacles. Have you lost them again?”
“Maybe.”
Jack sighed and shook his head. “I’ll get you another pair. Now tell me, why aren’t you at the Golden Leg?” A note of frustration had joined the anger in his voice. “You promised to stop working the streets after I persuaded them to take you on as a scullery maid.”
This was certainly an odd conversation for a rake to be having with a whore. Well, it wasn’t her concern. Now that she knew she was heading in the right direction, she could make a dash for Frederick’s boardinghouse while Jack’s attention was focused elsewhere.
Frances looked around. Ah, for once a bit of luck—the place was just across the street and down a few doors. This was her golden opportunity.
She moved quickly and quietly.
Belinda shrugged. “This is easier work, milord, and it pays better.”
“And?” He knew Belinda. There was more to the tale.
She looked back toward the Nag’s Head as if she might flee in that direction. “And I was caught ’elping a gent at the inn, if ye must know. They tossed me out.”
Jack expelled a long breath. He knew what “helping” meant—she’d been caught doing some sort of sexual favor.
“Blast it all, Belinda, we’ve talked about this. You can’t be ‘helping’ gentlemen.” He struggled for control. He must remember Belinda had not had the advantages he’d had growing up. She didn’t think like he did. None of the denizens of Covent Garden did. If they got an opportunity to earn a bit of money—or to steal it—they took it. They lived in the moment with no thought of the future.
Perhaps because so many of them had very little future.
The children—he had more luck with the children, but even they often sank back into the desperation of poverty and crime.
It was times like these when he thought seriously of giving up and just being the careless, thoughtless, irresponsible fellow he’d been before he’d stumbled over his first abandoned baby right after Ned’s son had died in childbirth. “I should find you work in a convent.”
If he wasn’t so frustrated, the look of horror that settled over Belinda’s features would be amusing.
“Not a
convent
, milord.” A cold wind whistled down the narrow street, and she shivered, hugging herself tighter. “Maybe a dress shop. I’d like to work in a dress shop. I’m good with a needle, I am.”
A dress shop. Where was he going to find a dress shop that would hire the likes of Belinda?
Well, it was worth a try. At least in a dress shop she’d be less likely to encounter men looking for her other skills. “Very well, I’ll see what I can do. Where are you staying?”
Belinda looked down and shifted her weight. “Here and there.”
Which meant the streets, an especially dangerous choice now that someone was cutting women’s throats. He fished some coins out of his purse. “Here. Meg at The Spotted Dog will put you up for a day or two.”
“Thank ye, milord.” She stuffed the money down the front of her dress as she sniffed. “If Mother Wilton weren’t so high and mighty—”
“Belinda, stop. You know you’re too old for this line of work.”
“Gammon! A woman’s never too old fer fun”—she grinned, showing a mouthful of yellowed, broken, or absent teeth—“as I’d be ’appy to show ye or the fine lad who was with ye.”
“Was?” He turned. Bloody hell, Francis wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He wouldn’t have—
He had. The damn, disobedient whelp was over at number thirty-four, talking to what must be the landlady of his brother’s boardinghouse.
The tall, bony, white-haired woman who’d finally opened the door after Frances’s increasingly desperate knocks glared at her. “What do ye want?”
“I’m here to see my brother, Frederick Hadley.”
The woman’s glare turned to a scowl. “He ain’t here.” She started to close the door.
Frances lunged to catch it. “What? But I’m quite sure this is his address.”
“
Was
his address. He married and moved out last week.” The landlady tugged on the door again, but Frances was stronger.
“Married?”
“Yes, married. And I don’t rent to no married fellows. Only single men—and no female visitors allowed. There’s enough fornication on this street without my inviting it under me own roof.
Will
you let me close this door?”
“You must be mistaken.” The woman could not be referring to Frederick.
“I am not.” The landlady sniffed disdainfully. “He took up with some theater trollop. Good riddance, I say—and good day to you.” She tugged on the door once more, harder this time. “Let go!”
From the corner of her eye, Frances saw Jack approaching. He did not look at all pleased with her. “Did he say where he was moving?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. Now if you don’t let go at once, I’ll call the bloody watch.”
Frances doubted the watch was in hailing distance, but it was clear the landlady couldn’t help her, and Jack had almost reached them. She did not want him hearing her real family name.
“Very well.” She stepped back. “Thank yo—”
The woman slammed the door in her face.
Jack reached Francis right after the door banged shut. He grabbed the boy’s arm and shook it. “What do you mean—”
He stopped. Francis’s face was red with anger. “What’s the matter? Shall I break the door down? I can force our way in if you need me to do so.”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Isn’t this where your brother lives?”
“Lived. He got married.”
Oh, damn. He’d been afraid something like this would happen. “And, er, you didn’t know anything about it?”
Francis shook his head.
“I see.” Actually, he didn’t see. He didn’t live in his brothers’ pockets, but he couldn’t imagine not knowing if one of them was undertaking something so significant as marriage. “But you must have known he was betrothed?”
“No. I had no idea. Frederick never wrote, at least not to me.” Francis’s jaw hardened. “He should have written. I had a right to know, blast it.”
“Yes, you did.” Jack led him back to the street. Poor boy. He probably hero-worshipped his brother. There were only four years between Jack and Ash, but he’d admit to doing a little hero-worshipping himself when he was younger, especially when he was this boy’s age and Ash was sixteen or seventeen, a man in his young eyes. And there was far more of an age difference between Francis and his brother. Francis likely had never seen his brother’s feet of clay.
“Maybe he hasn’t had time to pen a letter. Or maybe it got lost. These things happen. Or perhaps he wrote to your aunt and was waiting to tell you in person.”
“No, I’m sure Frederick didn’t write. He’s as bad as our father, always trying to avoid responsibility.” The boy glared at him. “Unless . . . yes, that must be it. Puddington must have known; that’s why he’s been so vague and evasive in his recent letters. And Aunt Viola—she
did
get a letter right before the blizzard, which she was quite secretive about. Damn it, that’s why she tried to sell me to Mr.—”
The lad stopped abruptly and shot Jack an extremely guilty look.
“Francis!” Jack took him by the shoulders and made him meet his eyes. Surely he had misunderstood, but if he hadn’t, he would be finding the boy’s aunt and making it very clear to her that he would not tolerate trafficking in children. No wonder Francis had been afraid of him at the Crowing Cock. “If your aunt was planning to sell you, I will see that she is punished. You don’t have to worry that I’ll return you to her.”
Francis gaped at him. “Oh no. I didn’t mean . . . that is . . .”
Children often defended their abusers. He’d learned that over the last four years. He’d had no idea how dark the human soul could be until he’d started taking in abandoned children and helping the poor prostitutes. It sounded as if this aunt was the only family Francis had besides his brother and . . .
“You mentioned your father. I had just assumed . . . is he still alive, then?”
Francis shrugged. “As far as I know. I haven’t seen him in years.”
So the father would be no help. Damn it, some men should be castrated—but then Francis wouldn’t be here. That was what he reminded himself whenever he began to despair. Men—and women—did terrible things, but there was always hope for the children.
“And your mother?”
“Died when I was young—” She coughed. “Younger.”
So there was only the aunt and the brother. Or . . .
“Who is this Puddington fellow?”
Oh, damn, now her goose was well and truly cooked. “A, er, family acquaintance. Stodgy old fellow. Knew my father. I’m sure you wouldn’t like him.”
Lord Jack looked skeptical. “Does he live in London?”
“Yes, I believe so, but I don’t know where.” That was true; she had only his office address. “Why do you ask?”
“Because now that your brother has moved—and if what you say is true, I refuse to send you back to your aunt—we’ll need to find a home for you, at least until I can track down your sibling.”
Oh God, that was right. Now that Frederick had gone off, she had no place to stay. It was just like her brother to leave her in the lurch.
“Don’t worry.” Jack started back toward the curricle. “You can stay with me for the time being.”
“What?!”
She stumbled, and Jack caught her.
She shrugged out of his hold and kept walking. She couldn’t stay with Jack. Sharing a room with the man had been scandalous, but at least it had been at a small, out-of-the-way inn. No one knew of it except for the Findleys and—
Pettigrew, of course. And Mr. Dantley, but he hadn’t made the connection between Frederick Hadley and Francis Haddon. Pettigrew had, and Pettigrew would spread the story far and wide.
And Pettigrew lived in London. Had likely been just a little behind them on the road.
The story of her stay at the Crowing Cock was bad enough—well, it was hard to imagine how it could be worse—but if she brazenly lived with Lord Jack in London . . . “I can’t stay with you.”
“Of course you can. Greycliffe House has a ridiculous number of bedrooms.”
“Ah.” Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be
so
bad. The only other option was to ask him to put her on the stage back to the Crowing Cock, and chances were there wasn’t another coach leaving today. And her purse was near empty—she’d have to beg the fare from him. Plus, now that he’d got this idea into his head that her aunt was selling boys . . .
And there was no way she could explain without revealing her gender.
Oh, it was all such a mess.
Well, surely she could keep up her masquerade until tomorrow. Somehow she’d get him to drop her at Puddington’s door; she couldn’t have him come in and meet the man, because then he’d also discover she was a female. Once she saw Puddington and got her money, all her problems would be solved.
She stumbled again, this time over something she hoped was a mutton bone as they passed a narrow alley, and Jack grabbed her arm.
“Watch where you put your feet.”
“I didn’t
mean
to trip. I—”
He held up his free hand, his expression suddenly intent. “Shh. Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” She listened. Jack had sharp ears. It took her a moment to pick up the sound, a faint mewling. “You mean the cat?”
“That’s not a cat, blast it.” He glanced around. “Bloody hell, where the—”
Frances heard the sound again. “I think it’s coming from the alley.”
“You’re right.” He plunged into the dark, dank, narrow space. Frances hung back—the place smelled as bad as a midden—but Jack’s fingers were still locked around her arm, so she had no choice but to stumble after him. At least she was wearing Frederick’s old clothes—she’d throw them out as soon as she could.
It was a very good thing she couldn’t see what she was stepping in. She slipped on something large and mushy, skidding into Lord Jack just as he stopped. His arm went round her, holding her against his body.
A dog, barking wildly, leapt up from a bundle of rags and ran over to jump on Lord Jack. His breeches would have to go on the trash heap also, and they were far finer than Frederick’s castoffs.
Jack swore, but not at the dog.
“Stay here,” he said and went over to pick up the rags.
The dog transferred his attentions to Frances. There was enough light to see he was of average size and indeterminate origin, with floppy ears and a plumed tail curling over his back. She patted him absently, trying not to think of the fleas and other vermin he might be gifting her with. “Why are you bothering with—oh.”
The rags cried.
“Oh my God. It’s a baby.”
Chapter 4
Lies have a way of coming back to haunt you.
—Venus’s Love Notes
“Yes.” Jack sounded angry, not shocked or surprised, and he carried the bundle securely as if he’d handled infants before. “A boy—he looks to be a month or two old. He’s lucky the dog was here or he would have frozen to death. Come with me.”
She hurried after him, the dog following at her heels. Once they were free of the alley, Jack turned right and banged on the first door he came to.
It jerked open, revealing a scowling giant, a man a good handbreadth taller than Jack and weighing at least twice as much. He had a scar over his right eye and a flattened nose that looked as if it had encountered far too many fists.
“What do ye—” The giant’s eyes widened as they focused on Jack, and then his face paled as his gaze continued down to the baby cradled in Jack’s right arm. “Er, what are ye doing here, milord?”
“What does it look like I’m doing, Albert? I need to speak to your mistress.”
Albert’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his cravat. “I dunno, milord. She’s awful busy. If ye come back tomorrow, maybe—”
“I don’t care if she’s entertaining Prinny himself, she’ll see me now,” Jack said and pushed past him.
Frances stepped in behind Jack. She didn’t wish to be inside this house—she was very much afraid she knew what it was—but she wanted less to be alone on the street.
“Hey, ye can’t come in here, ye miserable cur.”
Frances scowled, but Albert was addressing the poor dog, not her. He swung his foot. The animal must have had experience with this form of greeting, because he dodged and ran back outside, whining. Albert shut the door.
The baby started crying again—a weak, thin, pitiful sound.
“I assume Nan is in her office,” Jack said, striding through the foyer toward a closed door.
“Yes, milord, but—” Albert was almost wringing his ham-sized hands.
“No need to announce me.” Jack paused with his fingers on the doorknob, and glanced at Frances. “You stay here.”
Frances looked around the garish foyer and felt her flesh creep. The walls were decorated in bloodred flocked wallpaper and overly ornate, vaguely obscene, gold wall sconces, and the paintings had naked—
“And don’t look at the artwork.”
She jerked her eyes back to Lord Jack. “I’ll come in with you.”
“No, you won’t.” He pointed to a straight-backed bench. “Sit there. I promise I won’t be long.” Then he threw open the door and went into the room.
“Lord,” Albert breathed, “the mistress will be mad as a buck. She’s been trying fer days to get the Earl of—”
“What the
bloody
hell,” a man shouted from the room. “Can’t a fellow have a bit of privacy, for God’s sake?”
“Now, Ruland, I’m sure—” That was a woman’s voice.
“I’m sure I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back, madam.”
“Oh, damn,” Albert muttered as a fat, balding man with startlingly bushy gray eyebrows came barreling out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The man glared at Frances, turning his brows into one imposing hedge, as he struggled to button his fall. “What are you gaping at, boy?”
She opened her mouth to tell him exactly what she thought of men, especially men of his advanced age, frequenting brothels but she caught Albert’s worried expression before she spoke.
Ah, yes. Perhaps she should hold her tongue. She
was
masquerading as a boy, after all. “Nothing, my lord.”
Something heavy thudded against the closed door. Perhaps she was just as happy not to be in that room.
Ruland looked her up and down. “Who are you? You don’t look or sound like one of the filthy Covent Garden brats.” His beady eyes narrowed. “You came with Jack, didn’t you?”
The man must be memorizing her face. “Yes, my lord.” She wished she could grab the hideously obscene statue of a pregnant woman and lascivious snakes off the table to her right and bash the lewd lord over the head with it.
“I’ll find out who you are, you know”—he finally got his fall buttoned—“and, more importantly, what Jack is doing with you. He’ll be sorry he interrupted me.”
He tugged on his coat sleeves and turned to Albert, who was holding out his hat and walking stick. “Open the door, you idiot,” he snarled as he grabbed his things.
“Yes, milord.” Albert bowed as the man departed, then shut the door and collapsed against it. “Mother of God, now we are in the suds!”
“Why?” For a frightening-looking fellow, Albert was turning out to be no more dangerous than a field mouse. “I mean, it must certainly have been”—she flushed—“awkward when Lord Jack walked in on the man and your mistress, but it didn’t look as though . . . he obviously wasn’t . . . well, he couldn’t have been in the middle of, er, anything, could he?” She was digging a hole; she could feel herself going deeper and deeper. Albert was staring at her as though she were a lunatic. “Isn’t he just full of bluster?”
Albert shook his head. “No, lad. Ruland is as bad as they come. Nan thinks he’s the one who’s been killing all the girls; she was going to try to find out tonight, but then Lord Jack came and ruined it.”
“Someone is killing girls?” That’s right, she
had
read something in the papers about prostitutes and one or two society women turning up with their throats slashed. She couldn’t quite comprehend the tragedy—well, yes, murder was always horrible, but these women had clearly chosen to engage in dangerous behavior, so what could they expect? As she remembered from the papers, even the society girls had been no better than they should be.
But of course Albert and the denizens of this house of iniquity would be concerned. Their lives were the ones most in danger. “Shouldn’t your mistress go to the authorities with her suspicions?”
Albert shrugged. “They don’t care about a few dead dolly-mops. Nan says they’re ’appy to have some of the trash cleaned up. That’s why she’s looking into it herself.”
“Ah.” It was a little disconcerting to hear her own theory repeated, but obviously these people understood the risks and their place in society.
“Who’s here, Albert?”
“Lord Jack.”
Frances looked up to see two women on the landing just above her. They seemed to be about her age and were dressed in gauzy, almost transparent dresses of better quality but otherwise much like the one Belinda, the old drab in the street, had been wearing.
Her stomach twisted. More prostitutes.
She looked at the closed door to the madam’s office. When in God’s name—if the Almighty could be thought of in such a sinful place—would Jack come out? He couldn’t be doing more than talking with the woman, could he?
Her stomach twisted again.
No! No, of course he wasn’t. Not with the baby. Even a rake of Jack’s reputation couldn’t do whatever rakes did, with a baby whimpering so near at hand. And he hadn’t looked at all amorous when he’d burst in on the madam.
“Where’s that devil Ruland?” the shorter girl asked.
Albert grinned. “He just left.”
“Thank God!” she said as the two came down the stairs. She looked at Frances. “Who’s this?”
Oh Lord. Frances glanced at the closed door again. Surely Jack would appear at any minute.
“Francis Haddon,” Albert said. “ ’E says Lord Jack is taking ’im to ’is brother.”
The girl smiled. “And now you have to cool yer heels, waiting fer Lord Jack to finish his business.” She walked closer; Frances stepped back. “Would you like me to help you pass the time?”
Clearly the woman wasn’t suggesting a pleasant chat. Frances took another step back and bumped up against the bench. “No, thank you.”
The taller one giggled. “I think you’re frightening him, Bessie.”
Damn it, she wasn’t frightened. She just had to maintain her disguise.
Albert lumbered over. “Lord Jack won’t be ’appy if ye scare the lad.”
“Oh, pish,” Bessie said. “I’m just going to make him happy like I do you, Albert.”
Albert actually blushed. “’E’s only a boy.”
“He’s taller than me,” Bessie said. “Let’s see if he’s interested.” She reached for Frances’s crotch.
Good Lord! Frances jerked back, lost her balance, and sat down abruptly.
Bessie laughed. “What? Are you still a virgin?”
“Yes.” Frances glared at them. “I am.”
“Temper, temper, Nan.”
Nan glared at Jack and then bent over to pick up the candlestick she’d thrown at the door. “Why the hell did you have to come tonight, Jack? I had Ruland just where I wanted him.”
“With his breeches down around his ankles? I didn’t know you had a hankering for the earl.”
“I don’t.” She put the candlestick back on the table with rather more force than necessary. “He’s a disgusting, fat, selfish, arrogant blackguard, but I think he might be the Silent Slasher. I was going to try to find out tonight.” She glared at him, but he saw the fear in her eyes. “Martha from Maiden Lane showed up dead down by the Bucket of Blood while you were gone.”
“Martha? Damn.” Martha had been saving to rent a house in the country and had almost had enough money put away. She’d been smart and cautious and had generally avoided the Bucket of Blood due to all the prizefights it hosted.
The bundle in his arms whimpered.
“Oh God, where did you find this one?”
“In the alley next door. Does he belong to one of your girls?”
“Of course not. My girls all take precautions—and the ones who do make a mistake, I send off to your place in Bromley. You know that.”
He did know that. Nan might be a madam, but she sincerely cared for the dashers who worked for her and tried her best to run a safe, clean business. “Yes, I know, but I’d hoped to be wrong. This baby desperately needs to suckle. Get me a clean shawl, will you?”
“Only if you promise to buy me a replacement.”
“I always do, don’t I? Bring me one of the older ones. It’ll be softer.”
“You should just let him die,” Nan said as she went into another room to do his bidding.
Nan said that all the time. He understood her callousness, but he refused to share it. He couldn’t, not since Ned’s baby had died at birth. He hadn’t been able to save his nephew’s life or lessen Ned’s pain, and he hated how powerless that still made him feel. But collecting even a few of London’s discarded children helped. At least he was doing
something
and not standing helplessly by, anger and frustration and gut-wrenching sorrow knotting in his chest.
Thank God he had a gift for making shrewd investments, so he had plenty of funds at his disposal. He’d far rather spend his money on his charity houses than another horse or carriage he didn’t need.
“You know I can’t do that, Nan.”
Nan came back with a bright red shawl—she had rather garish taste. “But you should. The world doesn’t need another bastard, and the poor bastard doesn’t need to suffer poverty and hunger and cruelty.”
Jack knelt to spread the shawl on the floor. “My children aren’t hungry, and no one treats them cruelly. They learn a trade when they’re old enough, so they can make their way in the world.” He removed the filthy rags the baby was wrapped in. The poor infant was very thin.
“You’re a dreamer, Jack. You’ve been doing this . . . what? Three or four years? Soon you’ll marry and have children of your own, and you’ll forget about this little hobby.”
“No, I won’t.” Any woman he married would have to accept the importance of his Bromley houses. Not that he had plans to tie the knot anytime soon. For one, he’d yet to meet a woman who wouldn’t shriek and pull back her skirts or call for her vinaigrette if she were to meet any of his brats. And for another—well, Mama and Father might have made a success of an early marriage, but his brothers had not. He’d wait until he was at least thirty before even considering matrimony.
Nan watched him wrap the infant in her shawl, her arms crossed, a look of resigned pity on her face. “He’ll likely die, you know.”
“He might make it.” Jack wouldn’t give him good odds, though. The baby should be kicking and screaming in hunger, but instead he was limp and lethargic. Jack finished tucking the ends of the blanket securely around him and stood. “Tell me about Martha.”
Nan shuddered. “She died exactly like the others, her throat slashed ear to ear.”
Martha’s death put the number of women killed at seven: five prostitutes who lived and worked in the Covent Garden area and two women of the
ton
—Miss Fielding, a daring debutante who’d been rumored to entertain young blades in secluded corners at society’s balls, and Mrs. Hubble, a notorious and now equally dead widow.
“Why do you think Ruland’s the Slasher?”
“Who else could it be?” Nan grimaced. “The man’s as evil as they come.”
Nan was letting desperation cloud her thinking. “I grant you he’s not pleasant, but I’ve encountered worse.” Ruland had always struck him as a bully—mean, but at heart a coward.
“But think, Jack. He goes to all the social events, and he frequents the brothels.”
“That’s true of almost every male member of the
ton
, Nan.”
Her brows slanted down and she opened her mouth as if to argue . . . but sighed instead. “You’re right, of course.”
“And what the hell were you doing alone with him if you thought he was the Slasher? Do you have a death wish?”
She shrugged, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Albert would have come if I’d called.”
Nan knew better than that. “Even if Albert had been able to reach you in time—and you’re well aware speed is not his forte—everyone, including Ruland, knows you just have to tap the fellow on the jaw and he’s down for the count.”
Her face grew pale, making the rouge on her cheeks stand out as if she had a fever. “But what if the next victim is one of my girls, Jack? I can’t stand by and let that happen. I have to do something.”