Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12 - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 49

By the time that Rosalie let herself into Helen’s house in Clerkenwell, it was almost midnight. Lighting the lamp in the kitchen, she made a pot of tea quietly so as not to wake anyone. Then she sat down by the embers of the fire, still huddled in her cloak. Tonight had been a disaster—not least her encounter with the Captain, who’d managed to disturb her peace of mind in a manner that she guessed would cause her more than one sleepless night.

Why was he there?

Be honest with yourself, Rosalie. Why did any men go there? They went, of course, be they lords or tradesmen, to ogle the girls and pick out one for an hour of lechery upstairs. And at a place like that, her sister’s seducer would have found it easy to spot Linette, with her head full of fanciful dreams.

She drew some blank paper from a nearby table towards her and by the light of the lamp started writing, assuming the easy-going tones of her alter ego, Ro Rowland. Since childhood, she’d found that it helped to write. Her earliest stories had been fantasies, a way of escaping into a place where happy endings existed. Later she’d found that wit was an even more effective weapon against the cruelty of strangers and this was now Ro Rowland’s world—a world not one of heartbreak, but of wry, almost cynical humour.

Tonight your fellow about town Ro Rowland took himself to the well-known Temple of Beauty. And there he observed … The Captain. Damn him, damn him. She stared into the distance, her thoughts unravelling once more. A fencing master, Sal had said.

It had been a long time since Rosalie allowed herself to think of any man with anything other than suspicion. Yet the thought of an hour alone with that dark-haired rogue, using the private room in Dr Barnard’s house for the purpose it was intended, set off a disturbing wobble somewhere at the pit of her stomach. She could not forget the rough silk of his lips and tongue; the warm, muscle-packed strength of his body—his aroused body—moving against hers … Oh, Lord. You stupid fool.

Suddenly she heard footsteps out in the hallway and Helen padded in, her long nightshirt covered by a large India shawl. Rosalie jumped to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, Helen. I didn’t mean to wake you!’

‘I was awake anyway. I heard the hackney and I’m just so glad you’re back safely … Rosalie, why are you still wearing your cloak?’

Because I’m wearing next to nothing underneath it! Airily Rosalie replied, ‘Oh, I’m a little cold, that’s all. Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ Helen pushed her loose brown hair back from her face, adjusted her spectacles and flopped down in a chair. ‘How did you get on at the Temple of Beauty? Was it full of fat old roués?’

‘They weren’t all old!’

‘But they’re all despicable, the men who patronise such entertainments! Oh, I knew that you shouldn’t go.’

Rosalie decided there and then that it just wasn’t safe to tell her friend any more. ‘I was perfectly all right.’ What a terrible lie. ‘It was actually quite boring.’ An even worse lie. Rosalie quickly poured Helen’s tea and curled up on the small settee opposite her. ‘Helen, did you manage to get The Scribbler out everywhere today?’

Helen immediately looked happier. ‘I did. That piece you wrote about the swells in Hyde Park is going down an absolute treat.’

‘Good! Though I hope none of the men I described recognises himself; I’d really hate to get you into trouble. Did you take Toby with you to deliver them?’

Helen sipped her tea. ‘Yes, but I left Katy with Biddy; she’s happy with her.’

Biddy O’Brien was a warm-hearted young Irish neighbour who kept house for her brothers, all in the building trade. She came in every day to clean Helen’s home and the children adored her.

‘Thank goodness for Biddy,’ said Rosalie fervently. ‘But, Helen, you really should allow me to pay you for letting Katy and me stay here.’ She had offered before, but had always been refused.

Helen chuckled. ‘Your Ro Rowland articles are payment enough, believe me. I’ve never sold so many copies of The Scribbler, and people are always asking me who the real Ro Rowland is!’ Her face suddenly became more serious. ‘We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I. You expose the wealthy by making fun of them, whereas I hope to shame them by pointing out the truth. Just as in my report the other day about that haughty woman—the wife of an earl, no less!—who had a young maidservant whipped and dismissed, simply because she accidentally dropped a vase. A paltry vase, Rosalie!’

‘I know. The poor, poor girl …’ Rosalie hesitated. ‘Helen, I did just wonder. If this earl or his wife should hear of your article …’

‘I mentioned no names. And even if they guess, they’ll not dare to take action. That would be as good as admitting their own guilt!’ replied Helen crisply. ‘You know, it’s as if the so-called lower classes aren’t human to these people! Though it’s one thing for me to be as outspoken as I am, but quite another for you, you’re so much younger. Sometimes I even wonder if you should be writing your articles for me.’

‘What, me stop being Ro Rowland? Dear Helen, I adore writing; if you didn’t print my pieces in The Scribbler, I’d find someone else to publish them, I assure you! I am twenty-one, after all! I love exploring London, and all the fascinating people I meet on its streets …’ Her smile faded. ‘Well, nearly all of them.’

‘Be careful. That’s all,’ said Helen crisply. ‘And, Rosalie dear—’ Helen was already delving into a pile of notes on the table ‘—if you’re determined to keep writing as Ro Rowland—’

‘Try to stop me!’

‘In that case, I thought that this might be just up your street, because I know that you were, only the other day, starting to write an article about the rapacious landlords of London who let out hovels for high rents to desperate people!’

Rosalie nodded. The practice known as rackrenting was a subject close to her heart, not least because of that dreadful room off the Ratcliffe Highway where her sister had died.

Helen was adjusting her spectacles and running her finger down a sheet of her own notes. ‘As chance would have it, I heard today about a place in—yes, Spitalfields—that takes disgraceful advantage of poor soldiers. It’s called Two Crows Castle, and it’s not a real castle at all, but a rundown barracks of a place, owned by some ne’er-do-well—I haven’t got his name—who lets out rooms at exorbitant rents to unemployed soldiers. I thought you might investigate.’

‘Of course! Spitalfields, you said? Where, exactly?’

‘The house is in Crispin Street. It’s an unsavoury area even by daylight, so I trust you’re not even thinking of actually going there, my dear! But what I did hope was that tomorrow you might deliver a bundle of Scribblers to the news vendor in Bishopsgate, which is close by. You could take one of Biddy’s brothers with you and just ask some of the shopkeepers there—carefully, mind!—about this Two Crows place.’

Building work was slack this time of year and Rosalie knew that one or other of Biddy’s burly brothers could usually be relied upon to take on extra jobs for Helen—repair work to Helen’s house, errands, or in this case, thought Rosalie wryly, a spot of personal protection.

Rosalie patted Helen’s hand. ‘It sounds just my sort of story. I’ll get your Scribblers delivered, and I’ll make sure I’ve got an O’Brien brother with me before I start asking any questions about crooked rackrenters.’ She was just getting up to tidy away the tea things when the door opened and two sleepy little figures stood there hand in hand.

‘Toby!’ cried Helen. ‘Katy! What are you doing, out of your beds?’

Toby clung to Katy’s hand protectively. ‘She was crying,’ he explained. ‘I thought one of you would hear her, but you didn’t. She’s upset.’

‘Oh, Katy darling.’ Rosalie picked up and hugged the tear-stained infant, who was clutching her battered rag doll. ‘Poor Katy, what’s the matter?’

‘Mama,’ whispered the child. ‘I want Mama.’

Rosalie kissed her, at the same time fighting down the sudden ache in her throat. Taking Katy upstairs to the cot in the corner of the bedroom they shared, she gently sang her to sleep. Tenderness and love she could give in abundance; she would also fight, with all her strength, to make sure Katy was not pointed at, whispered at, as she and her sister used to be as children.

Taking off her cloak at last, she smoothed down her filmy muslin gown and stared into the darkness beyond the candlelight as another memory wrenched her: of her mother dressing both her children carefully for the Christmas service at the nearby church. It had been their second winter in England and snow lay thickly. ‘Mama,’ Rosalie had said, ‘do we have to go? I don’t think they like us there …’

‘Christmas is different, ma chère,’ had said her mother, wrapping Rosalie’s scarf tightly against the winter chill. ‘It is the season of goodwill to all.’

But not to the Frenchwoman and her family. The vicar had turned them away. And her mother’s stricken face, as they trudged home through the snow, would stay with Rosalie for ever.

That same night Rosalie had written a story for Linette, about a party at a magical castle. Linette’s face had lit up as she read it. ‘Will I ever go inside a real castle?’

‘Some day, why not? There’ll be food, and dancing, and—oh, we shall wear such pretty dresses, Linette!’

‘There might be a prince!’ Linette’s eyes shone. ‘And he will dance with me, and I will be a princess … Won’t I, Rosalie? Won’t I?’

Now Linette was dead, along with all her dreams. As Helen bustled around downstairs putting out the lamps, and Katy slept, Rosalie vowed anew that she would never rest, until she’d found the man who’d destroyed her sister’s life.

Lord Stephen Maybury was sitting alone in the candlelit library of his fine house in Brook Street. And the more he pondered on the events of the evening, the darker grew his thoughts. The girl. The girl with impossibly fair hair and turquoise eyes, at the Temple of Beauty tonight … Who in hell was she?

When Markin, his serving man, had informed him earlier about the new one who’d joined Dr Barnard’s troupe of so-called actresses, and how she resembled the other, Stephen had put it down to Markin’s imagination.

But Markin, whose visage was made sinister by a pale scar, had been, in his way, adamant. Markin had spies everywhere; that was what Stephen paid him for. Markin had seen her himself, he’d told his master, entering the building early this evening to get ready for her first night on stage with the other women. Looking nervous.

‘This new one, my lord,’ he told Stephen, ‘no one could say she’s the exact image. She’s older, for a start. But I could see something …’

Could she be family? God forbid. The other one had been gently born, a virgin, a mistake in other words, and Stephen wanted no past scandal rearing its ugly head. So he’d gone to look for himself. And the new girl was not at all what he’d expected. There was a physical similarity, yes. But this one was spirited. Defiant. His lip curled. My God, he’d have enjoyed breaking that spirit.

But if there was a connection, it could mean danger. And his questioning of the girl tonight had been wrecked by damned Alec, who even after Stephen had paid those footmen to give him a beating, had friends running to defend him from all corners of the building!

More than ever Stephen wanted his younger brother destroyed. Alec had been a torment to him since childhood—taking Stephen’s place in their father’s affections, parading himself in his army uniform all around town. Then last year Alec had fortuitously sealed his own fate and got himself disinherited.

But his brother could still be a threat. Best for now to do what he suggested and leave town for a while. Just in case Alec was tempted to do anything rash.

As he cursed his brother anew, Stephen’s eye fell on a cheap news sheet he had picked up earlier. The Scribbler, it was called. Idly, he flicked through it. And he froze.

Why Lady A. feels she has the right to so viciously punish a poor young maid for a minor accident—to inflict such suffering over a mere broken vase!—is, dear reader, beyond the average citizen’s comprehension …

Stephen’s blood boiled. He called Markin, who was dressed in black as usual, and thrust the news sheet at him. ‘Find out where this sordid scandal-sheet is published, will you? And check out the Temple of Beauty, for more about that fair-haired whore!’

There must be a way to find some weakness in his brother’s armour. And bring Alec to his damned knees—for good.

Rosalie got up purposefully the next morning. Last night she had been a scantily-clad Greek goddess, publicly on display. This morning—well, plump Biddy O’Brien, Helen’s cheerful housemaid, had put it best as she settled Katy in her chair and gave her warm milk and toast. ‘Oh, Miss Ros,’ Biddy cried, ‘you look ready to convert the heathen!’

And Helen added drily, ‘My dear. You appear not only dressed for church, but set to preach the sermon.’

Rosalie smiled and poured herself tea. ‘Hardly. Are any of your brothers at home this morning, Biddy?’

‘They are, Miss Rosalie. They’ve got a roofing job this afternoon, but they’ve got the morning free, so they’ll probably just lie around waiting for me to feed them, the great lummocks!’

Helen was looking puzzled. Rosalie quickly drew her aside and whispered, ‘You remember? This morning I’m going to investigate the place called Two Crows Castle.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Helen looked anxious. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it …’

‘Of course you should,’ soothed Rosalie. ‘You can see I’m dressed as a drab little widow …’ she pointed to the cheap ring she wore ‘… and I’m going to take Biddy’s brother Matt with me, just as you suggested. I’ll deliver your Scribblers to Bishopsgate, as well. Don’t look so worried, Helen. It’s broad daylight, and with big Matt O’Brien at my side no one will come near me!’

But Rosalie’s plans went awry almost immediately, because Matt and his older brother had been called at short notice to another job that morning, according to little Joe, the youngest of the family, who at only ten was not much use as a protector.

Rosalie hesitated for only a moment. Then, heaving up her canvas bag of news sheets, she walked down to Clerkenwell Green to hire a hackney cab.

At busy Bishopsgate, the driver softly grumbled as he lifted her heavy bag out of the cab for her. ‘You deliverin’ the Bible or some such round ‘ere, missy? Best make sure you’re well away before the alehouses get crowded at noon. And don’t say I didn’t warn yer!’

Rosalie took charge of her bagful of Scribblers. ‘Consider me warned,’ she said lightly.

A slight breeze lifted the concealing veil of her severe bonnet. The driver looked at her curiously, then his eyes fastened on the plain wedding band on her finger. ‘Why, yer only young. Quite a fetching little thing …’ She snatched her veil down again. ‘Well, well,’ he sighed. ‘You take care now, missy.’

Bishopsgate was busy. First she delivered the copies of The Scribbler to the news vendor, who took them eagerly. ‘These should go like hot cakes, miss!’ he said. ‘‘Specially if there’s a piece in by that fellow Ro Rowland—my gents are fond of them!’

Rosalie smiled. ‘I do believe there is.’ And, her bag now much lighter, she walked on towards Crispin Street.

Thank goodness Helen and Biddy didn’t know she’d ventured here, alone.

Immediately she found herself in a different world. The ancient buildings leaned in over the street, three, sometimes four storeys high; they were unkempt, with broken windows, and in the roughly paved lane dogs nosed amongst heaps of rubbish. Ragged children gathered by doorways, even their attempts at play half-hearted in this oppressive neighbourhood.

As she hesitated, an urchin came up boldly to stare at her and Rosalie asked the grubby child, ‘Can you tell me which house is Two Crows Castle?’

‘It’s the big ‘un, see.’ The child pointed. ‘Can’t miss it. All the soldiers live there.’

Rosalie swallowed and nodded. It was a huge old house set back from the road, with a bunch of men slouching outside, defying the freezing February drizzle that had just started to fall. It must once have been a grand mansion, but grand was no longer the word that applied to it. The broken crenellations resembled nothing more than gapped teeth; the stuccoed façade was cracked and stained. Clearly, as the district had sunk into poverty during the last fifty years, so had this place. And the man who charged the homeless ex-soldiers to live in such squalor was once an army officer. Shameful.

She became conscious of rough-looking people assessing her from open doors, of the smells of greasy cooking and ale from the various taverns. Her heart missed a beat. Time, most definitely, to go. She turned to head back to Bishopsgate, where the street would be busy with shoppers and the atmosphere less menacing. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. And a hand grabbed her arm.

‘Now, what may you be wantin’?’ a rough male voice demanded. ‘Some kind of charity lady, are yer?’

She spun round to see a small but fierce-looking individual in a tattered soldier’s uniform, his whole demeanour made even more sinister by the black eyepatch he wore. A big golden dog hovered close to him, growling softly. And soon there were more men looking her suspiciously up and down, men who’d been loitering outside the ominous building known as Two Crows Castle.

Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but gasp, ‘How many of you are there in that place?’

‘None of your damned business, pardon my French,’ Eyepatch said tersely. ‘I’ll let you off with a piece of advice—don’t go stickin’ yer ladylike little nose into other folks’ affairs. Now, be off with you!’ The dog barked in agreement.

In the circumstances, it seemed sensible to do precisely what he said, but at least a dozen ragged men had come to crowd round her in a distinctly menacing sort of manner. They were big. They were blocking her path. Rosalie’s heart was thumping hard. You idiot, coming here alone …

‘I’ll be on my way just as soon as you let me pass!’ she said, rather faintly.

She felt acute relief as the men slowly stepped aside.

Then Eyepatch said, ‘Wait. What’ve you got in that bag of yours?’

Rosalie swallowed. ‘It’s empty. I’ve just been delivering something, and now I really must go.’

‘Empty, eh? Let’s just have a little look-see.’

Eyepatch was drawing closer. Rosalie looked round desperately for help that clearly wasn’t going to arrive. She’d remembered that her bag wasn’t quite empty, after all. Grasping it tightly, she turned to run. But her long cloak hampered her and suddenly Crispin Street was alive with scowling ruffians, appearing from every doorway, every alley, from the walls themselves, it seemed. Could things get any worse?

They could, and they did. She dropped her bag and saw it fall open. Oh, fiddlesticks. Yet more men gathered, and Rosalie whirled round, her heart pounding painfully. The lethal piece of paper that had fluttered from her bag was drifting towards the gutter; one of the men snatched at it and gave it to Eyepatch.

Rosalie, feeling a little faint, saw Eyepatch scowling at it. Not The Scribbler, but a few notes she’d been jotting down in the cab—ideas for her next article. Something not intended for public scrutiny anywhere, let alone here. What a tumble, as Ro Rowland would say.

‘Please give that to me,’ she said rather weakly. She was fervently hoping the ruffian wouldn’t be able to read.

‘No, hold on,’ said Eyepatch, ‘this looks interesting.’ And slowly he began to decipher her scrawled notes, while his companions gathered round.

‘Your fellow about town wants today to draw your attention to the scandalous practice of rackrenting. Rackrenting?’ He lifted his head to glare at her. ‘Who wrote this?’

‘Just somebody—well, it’s me! I—I amuse myself, during carriage rides, by writing things down, silly things—’ She tried to grab the sheet back, to no avail.

He hung on to it grimly. Started again. ‘Scandalous practice of rackrenting. What is truly—truly—’ Eyepatch broke off. ‘Can’t read the rest of this flummery.’

Thank God for that.

But there was no reprieve. For someone else—a big, redheaded man—was announcing, in a broad Scottish accent, ‘Awa’ with ye, Garrett, I can read the rest. It says, “What is truly shameful is that many of those who are thus exploited are former soldiers, forced to live in squalor at a place called Two Crows Castle …”’

The dog barked. They were all pressing around her again. Eyepatch looked at her with his one eye. ‘Exploited? By God, we ain’t exploited here at Two Crows Castle. We don’t like people who write filthy lies about our Captain, do you hear? As he’ll tell you himself—’cos he’s on his way right now!’

Her heart, she was sure, had stopped beating. The Captain?

Don’t be a fool, Rosalie. There must be dozens of ex-army Captains in town. Nevertheless she pulled down her veil as far as it would go, until she felt like a blinkered horse with a fly-gauze over its face.

Just in time.

For at that very moment, the crowd was parting to let someone through. A man who was saying, ‘What in the devil’s name is going on, Garrett? And—what’s that damned dog still doing here?’

At the sound of that husky male voice, her heart sank to the soles of her little laced boots. No. No. It can’t be …

Eyepatch had for some reason shoved the dog out of sight. ‘This woman, Captain,’ he was saying importantly, ‘she’s come ‘ere bold as brass, with a pack of filth about this place, and about you!’

The bruise on his cheek had darkened since last night. Otherwise he looked just the same, in that loose grey overcoat that hung carelessly open over his tight buckskin breeches and dusty riding boots. And, hands on his lean hips, he was just watching her, with those hard eyes in which, today, there was no hint of the humour or kindness that he had allowed her to glimpse last night. He took the sheet Eyepatch thrust at him, absorbing her brief but lethal jottings swiftly; then he said levelly to Rosalie, ‘Well, madam? Are you or are you not responsible for this pack of lies?’

She prayed fervently for the ground to open up and swallow her. He must be the rackrenter. The owner of Two Crows Castle. The man whom she’d allowed, to her eternal shame, to kiss her last night. All she could hope was that, in her spinsterly garb, he would continue not to recognise her. And it was too late, now, for denial; she just had to brazen this out.

‘Lies?’ She lifted her veiled face to boldly meet his dark gaze. ‘Perhaps you just cannot stomach the truth!’

Eyepatch gave a nasty leer. ‘Oh, you’re a brave ‘un, to challenge the honour of Alec Stewart, the best swordsman in town!’

Oh, my God. This time she really did feel the blood freeze in her veins. ‘Did you say—Alec Stewart?’

The Captain surveyed her, still clearly puzzled by her veiled visage. ‘That’s me all right,’ he said narrowly.

And horror—nausea—shook her.

For the name Linette had breathed as she lay dying was—Alec Stewart.