Читать книгу The Den Of Iniquity - Anabelle Bryant - Страница 13

Chapter Four

‘So did you spit on Rowley Johns’ grave?’ Cole shuffled a deck of cards with lightning speed before splaying them across the table to flip back and forth in senseless distraction. The reassuring chatter of conversation mingled with an occasional shout of celebration from below. The hell was crowded again tonight.

‘No.’ Sin answered with a grunt of regret. He hadn’t achieved his objective at the graveyard yesterday. Not because the man deserved better but because Sinclair was a better man. And, too, he’d become distracted by Ransom on the hunt for a runaway ebony-haired sprite. He should have learned more of her, but his mind had been all over the place, emotions a muddled mess.

It wasn’t until early this morning after closing the hell and returning home to his town house that he allowed himself the luxury of fantasy. She was no doubt a beauty, but something else about the lady fired his blood with unexpected desire. Jaded by wealth and opportunity, myriad women had warmed his sheets and left the next morning without his second glance. But this one, with her raven hair and emerald eyes, gave him pause. Not that he had any room in his life for a woman. Binding relationships were off limits. Life seemed much simpler when not emotionally anchored to another person. The remembrance spoke well of his mother’s hardship and father’s fickle attention.

Like the flick of an overturned card, Sin remembered being called to the headmaster’s office all those years ago. He’d worked hard to achieve the grades expected of him, though he knew his efforts were not valued. He walked a fine line with the headmaster and a false story had given cause to have his mother summoned. With a heartless economy of words, he’d learned his mother had been killed, set upon by highwaymen, and already buried while he’d studied for midterm exams, none the wiser.

His heart shattered in that moment, never to be mended, his mother the only person of value in his life. He was often at her hip, just the two of them through his formative years, and despite his father making brief appearances the rare meetings were composed of reserved conversation and a stilted report of his progress in school. His father would never fail to remind him of his place and the difference between Max and the legitimate heir he’d fathered across London.

From that rejection the bond with his mother grew stronger and they were inseparable until his schooling at Eton. Even then he’d begrudged having to leave her. She was an unending source of love and pride, determined to instil in him a belief his world was not limited by the circumstance of his birth. The impact of her death compounded every sorrowful regret he amassed since that horrible afternoon in the headmaster’s office. It wasn’t until years later that his world exploded for a second time.

Cole snapped his fingers a few inches from Sin’s face with impatient sarcasm. ‘Where are you? Are you listening?’

‘No.’ He smiled. Truth was truth and his friend wouldn’t be offended. ‘I was thinking about something else.’

‘When we met four years ago you told me you’d not rest until you located the three names on your list. With Ludlow having disappeared…’ he cleared his throat and smirked with the comment ‘…and Johns providing the local worms with a hearty meal, that leaves one last man to pursue. Am I correct?’

‘Yes.’ Sin rubbed a hand across the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the strain. One floor down the tables were busy, the girls worked the customers and liquor flowed. Everything was as it should be; yet he couldn’t shake the tension holding his muscles tight. ‘I hired a man to investigate the matter. Pimms will be the hardest to locate considering he’s recently regained his freedom. Instead of providing a clean path to his location, Pimms’ release from prison enables the sneaky cur a wide variety of alliances.’ It was the most he’d shared with Cole whenever the rare conversation of his personal goals arose.

The conversation fell silent as the door to the office swung open.

‘Aah, two for the price of one.’ Lucius Reece, Luke to his friends, completed the ‘three of a kind’ propriety of Underworld. He was the missing bastard of the trio. ‘Anything interesting happen while I was gone?’

‘When did you return?’ Sin motioned to the brandy decanter on the table near the side wall. Peculiar how they shared equal ownership in the hell and each had a spacious office, yet Max’s seemed to be the place where they congregated most frequently. Either that or they more often came looking for him instead of the other way around. True, he’d been distracted of late. Finding two of the men he’d sought for years had a way of monopolizing one’s attention.

‘I rode into London a few hours ago, visited my apartments and then headed here. Is something wrong? The two of you look morose.’ He splashed a generous amount of liquor into two glasses and handed one to Sin. Cole didn’t drink and no one pried into the reason.

‘Not at all.’ Cole abandoned the cards and strode to the glass overseeing the floor below. One yank of the curtain pull and the men had a clear view of the tables; though were anyone to peer up at them, the gambling gents spending money and risking wagers would see a mural on the wall depicting blue-black caverns, hollow and empty, a distant golden moon, untouchable and out of reach now that one had entered the Underworld.

The window offered an irreplaceable advantage, which kept everyone honest, most especially patrons who strove to achieve the opposite. Cheats, punters, sharps, and pickpockets were easily monitored from above. If a swindler fell into his cups too deep, threatened a ruckus or handled one of the girls in an unacceptable manner, the action was noticed and remedied with fluid alacrity.

Tonight the hell hummed with energy, the promise of profit thick in the air, a tangible force that crawled across the carpet, inched up the gilt paper wallcoverings, invigorated by each outrageous wager at the tables, whether piquet, loo or faro. The discreetly lit interior thrummed with the forbidden temptation of fortune to be won or lost, a temptation most all high-flyers and skittle-sharps failed to resist.

Sin, Cole and Luke weren’t lords. They were bastards, but in this place, on their property, they ruled with more power and conviction than any dandy wagering coin on the felts. The situation suited and pleased on the shallowest echelon, allaying the itch of unresolved dispute that accompanied daily existence. Still they were intelligent men who battled demons on a personal level that no measure of wealth, success or acknowledgement could conciliate.

‘Any luck?’ Sin broke the quiet with his enquiry.

‘No. My stepbrother chose to hide his secrets well. I spoke to every mudlark and dredge man along the Thames, yielding not one bloody clue. Times are desperate when I beg information from a sweeping boy or doxy in Seven Dials and come away with little for my effort.’ Luke’s low growl echoed the pain the admission cost him. ‘But I’ll find my son. This I vow. Nathaniel deserves better than to be a pawn in my stepbrother’s deranged machinations.’

‘Rightly so.’ Sin eyed Cole beside him. ‘And you’ll have our assistance as needed.’

‘Thank you. At the moment, I’ve employed every device and opportunity possible, but I’m not so foolish as to turn away help if it leads me to my son.’ Luke shook his head slowly. ‘What could my stepbrother possibly stand to gain by taking Nathaniel? He might have hurt me in any number of ways, but this…this cuts the deepest.’

The three stood stoically at the window, perhaps contemplating their personal wounds and goals instead of their accumulation of wealth, which prospered and flourished with each roll of the dice under their feet.

Not wishing to waste one day in her efforts to reform Maxwell Sinclair, Vivienne dressed with renewed spirit. An ambient hum of excitement invigorated her senses at the thought of the new endeavour. Nothing else had achieved her interest since her mother’s passing. That alone proved it the right choice.

The house remained quiet, her stepfather and the servants the only other residents, but the fresh morning brought with it abundant sunshine, a rarity for London this time of year, and she embraced the warming rays as a good omen her intentions would be successful. With a slight nod Vivienne dismissed Ann, her young maid, and gathered her shawl and reticule, the calling card tucked safely inside.

She found her stepfather in the breakfast room. His demeanour appeared buoyed by the fresh day as well.

‘Good morning.’ She smiled and took a seat to his left. For many long months she’d taken a tray in her room, too broken to sit at the table and stare across at her mother’s empty chair, but of late she’d managed to accept the loss that scarred her life and plan for the future. Visiting Sophie and Crispin had underscored how much she needed to return to living within society. She was only twenty-three. Someday soon she would need to think about marriage. She flitted her eyes to her stepfather. He would be left alone when that day arrived and she would move on to build a life without him. The thought should sadden her, but for some peculiar reason the realization evoked something akin to relief.

‘Good morning. You look lovely.’ He motioned to the footman standing at attention near the sideboard. ‘Tea, James.’ He returned his gaze. ‘Would you like something special from the kitchen? I can have Cook prepare you anything you’d like. I’m so pleased to have company this morning.’

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’ She spread a thick layer of raspberry jam across a slice of bread, still warm to the touch. ‘Mother will be missed in my heart always but I cannot stay locked in my room for ever.’

‘Then it is time.’ He canted his head to the side and stared at her for what seemed an inordinate stretch—so long that her pulse began a race in her veins, the feeling most uncomfortable. Her chewing slowed in wait of what he might say.

‘Sometimes when you speak or when the sunlight slants through the window at an unexpected angle, I see such a strong resemblance, it is like your mother is still with us.’

Vivienne swallowed, though she needed to force the mouthful down. She took a long sip of tea. ‘But I am not Mother.’ Her soft-spoken statement seemed to jar him from whatever imaginings he’d entertained.

‘Of course not.’ He made a point of smiling in her direction before he folded and then refolded the napkin beside his plate. ‘Don’t listen to me, Vivienne. I am so pleased for your company at breakfast I should keep my mouth closed instead of conjuring maudlin thoughts.’

‘No.’ She would never wish for him to feel censured. ‘We may speak of whatever you’d like.’ She exhaled, feeling more comfortable than only a few minutes before.

‘How will you spend your day? Are you in need of the carriage?’ He too appeared more at ease and opened the newspaper where it lay in wait at the corner of the table.

Still the arrangement was awkward without her mother present. Mealtime usually centred on conversation shared between the two women. She’d never felt the need to inform her stepfather of her daily schedule as she usually accompanied her mother on calls or received friends in the drawing room. With a twinge of guilt she finished her bread with large bites and hurriedly explained how she intended to continue her mother’s efforts.

He nodded with approval though she’d spilled it all out rather quickly. ‘See, I am correct. You are more like your mother each day.’

Accepting his words as praise she excused herself and informed Henderson, their butler, she needed the carriage brought around. Nettlecombe was located on the opposite end of London from Mayfair. Situated on Weymouth Street in Bloomsbury, the multi-level house represented old England more than the stylish design of the Daventrys’ three-storey town house.

At times, Vivienne believed when she crossed Oxford Street and travelled beyond Grosvenor Square she entered an entirely different world; though collectively the population, whether it included orphans, lords, nabobs or cits, composed the heartbeat of London. Apparently she would need to adjust her categorical consideration to include gaming hell proprietors. The idea caused her mouth to twitch as if she kept a secret on her tongue and refused to let it out.

The ride to Drury Lane was lengthy no matter the hour was early. She would leave her carriage to wait in the shopping district of Wellington Street and discretely hail a hackney to take her the remaining distance to Mr Sinclair’s establishment. A current of excitement accompanied the solidification of her plan.

Wanting to pass the time in a more productive fashion she removed her journal from her reticule and with capricious attention focused on the list she’d composed earlier, but after a few minutes she abandoned the attempt. Not much later the carriage rolled to a stop. She spoke briefly to the driver and then set off to purchase fresh flowers. She’d asked Cook to prepare a goodwill basket, the servant accustomed to Vivienne’s charitable requests.

Now, with the basket looped over her arm and a small bouquet of daisies in the other hand, she walked to the corner and hailed a hackney to take her to number eleven Bond Street, St James Square. The wiry driver, unshaven and potent-smelling, cast a curious eye at the basket and flowers before accepting her money with a grimy smile. They set out at a discombobulating pace. Vivienne sat primly, legs pressed together, basket and flowers on her lap, for fear she might bounce out of the flimsy gig. A sense of relief paled her excitement when the conveyance finally pulled to the kerb. She exited without a glance over her shoulder and across the cobbles she went.

At first her mind whirled with the right words to say, the exact conversation to be had with Mr Sinclair, but as she crossed the street and approached the address a diffident qualm caused her steps to falter. She stopped near the kerb, safe on the pavement beside an umbrageous chestnut tree where she could muster her courage and consider the residential location lined with two-storey buildings in varying shades of brick and slate. Nothing about the conventional environment suggested a lively gaming hell thrived across the street. If indeed she’d arrived at the correct address, Mr Sinclair proved cleverer than she’d given credit, his gambling establishment essentially hidden in plain sight. Deep in admiration, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a male voice questioned her from the other side of the tree trunk.

‘Watching number eleven, are you?’

The stranger was dressed in brown from head to toe, as flat and dull as the tree bark where he’d all but blended in aside from the startling scar on his face. No one could mistake it, a jagged white line from his eye socket to his chin and just as unsettling as the jarring hackney ride. She wasn’t one to speak to strangers, already troubled by her recent pangs of ambiguity, and so she moved away, staring over her shoulder to ensure he did not follow her as she took the steps, dropped the brass knocker and prayed the door would open.

She darted a glance across the roadway but as far as she could tell the man was gone, dissolved into the ever-present murmur of city life. Drawing a deep breath, she dropped the knocker again, more solidified in her purpose and quick to regain the delightful anticipation of seeing Mr Sinclair again. His hypnotic stare was the exact balm needed to soothe her ruffled feathers. But no one answered. Disappointment caused her shoulders to sag and she placed the basket at the foot of the door, uncertain how to proceed.

‘Looking for Sin, are you?’ A lad, no more than ten years at most, approached the bottom stair, his hands busy with a pair of dice tossed into the air in a pretentious game of catch.

‘I am.’ She reclaimed the basket and descended the stoop. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’

The boy straightened his posture, a half-smile tilting his cheeks. ‘For a shilling I do.’

‘Oh dear.’ She should have anticipated the ruffian entrepreneur would place a price on the information. Clearly she’d need to develop more savvy business acuity. She placed the basket at her feet and opened her reticule to extract the coin but she held it tight, unwilling to offer it forward. ‘That depends on the information you share, young man.’

‘You should call me Ace.’

‘I’d rather call you by your given name. I’d wager your mother chose your name with heartfelt consideration so I’ll use it and you’ll answer if you have any hope of receiving payment.’

Thwarted, the lad dropped his grin, clasped his dice in one fist and flipped a peek to the locked doors above them. ‘I’m Thomas and you’ve no chance of catching anyone here now. ’Tis morning and the hell’s been open all night. Sin is sleeping with some bawd by now.’

Unimpressed by the lad’s mimic of swagger far beyond his years and likely obtained from places he should never have frequented, Vivienne waited. He stared at the coin and then, in his first show of boyhood, eyed the basket with earnest longing as he laid one hand across his flat belly.

‘I have raspberry jam and fresh bread, sugar biscuits and sesame cakes if you spend a few minutes telling me what you know, but be warned I have no patience for bouncers or Banbury tales.’ She adopted a strident tone and watched him closely. Indeed, she might be better at this than she originally thought.

‘Aye. I understand.’

They settled in companionable silence, on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the entrance of the gaming hell before she removed the linen napkins and other contents of the basket in an unlikely picnic. She allowed the lad to dine first and when his appetite was satisfied, good heavens he was a bottomless pit, she cleaned up their mess while he regaled her with everything observed as he earned coin at the kerb watching expensive cattle.

‘And Sin won’t want flowers.’ He ended with a sharp nod towards the abandoned bouquet. ‘Men like us don’t like flummery.’ He said this with such disparagement she almost laughed outright.

‘Then what do you suggest, Thomas?’ She stood, ready to take her leave. A part of her felt disconsolate for she hadn’t met Mr Sinclair, yet another brighter part rejoiced to have fed Tom thoroughly.

‘He likes Miss Mirabel well enough.’ He looked her over with wide-eyed assessment. ‘I reckon he could like you too.’

More than a little appalled, Vivienne cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t imply…’ What did she mean by soliciting advice from a streetwise urchin? ‘Very well, Thomas. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this morning. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘I doubt it.’ He had the dice in the air again, his boyish expression replaced with a contrived expression of cynicism. ‘But you never know.’