She looked just as she was supposed to. As, she supposed, everyone imagined her to be: a harlot. A lightskirt. A barque of frailty, a lightskirt, en horizontale. As such, the attention she garnered was not surprising. Gentlemen leered at her through their monocles as she sashayed, in Rosetta and Emily’s wake, into the tobacco-filled air of one of the most insalubrious residences of Soho.
But her palms were sweating inside her elbow-length gloves and she could feel the sheen of it on her carefully applied makeup.
Emily had worked wonders on her face so that she almost didn’t look like herself. Actually, she rather liked the way she looked though she was glad her mother would never see her.
Glad her mother had never lived to see her only child become what she had worked so hard to try to prevent. But, really, that was always rather a vain hope for, without a father who would recognise her, and with no money and no references, what chance had Charity of being anything else?
“There he is!” Rosetta’s excited whisper was augmented with a sharp tug of her skirt and Charity glanced up to follow the direction in which she was pointing.
She’d not seen Hugo’s cousin, Mr Cyril Adams, before. The gentleman had only been described to her as a mischief-maker, an untrustworthy type. So very unlike Hugo.
The fact that she’d sent a note to Hugo asking him to come here was the only reason Charity didn’t crumple up in a heap just to see Hugo’s nemesis. Their nemesis.
Mr Adams was about the same age as Hugo and, from this distance, there was a similarity in visage — the square shape of the jaw — but whereas Hugo’s was moulded in a way that made him appear always pleasant-natured, Mr Adams’, when combined with the sharpness of his expression and the glittering intensity of his eyes, made him seem like a man determined to get what he wanted.
Charity tried not to look at him too pointedly. Was she just imagining this, knowing what Mr Adams had done to her darling Hugo? He’d ruined his own cousin, no doubt to further his own ends. Hugo had said even before all this terribleness, that his father favoured his nephew over his own son and had said in as many words that he preferred a man of action over a poet.
“What if he realises who I am?” she asked in sudden panic as Mr Adams glanced in their direction.
“He won’t and that’s why this plan is such a good one.” Rosetta smiled at her, confident for once. Smug, even. “We have two avenues for seeking success.”
“Two?” Charity had only heard of the first. Her heart did a skittering dance in her chest and didn’t settle down. At the far end of an enormous billiards table, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman was flanked by a couple of laughing fellows who seemed to be leering at every woman who entered the room. Like they were sport.
A game of roulette was taking place in one corner and several card tables were occupied by some characters with their heads bent low over their hands.
Charity didn’t know the first thing about how to play the games of chance that were the lifeblood of this place.
She gripped Emily’s lace-edged sleeve. “Will I be expected to play?”
Emily shook her head. “No. I might, though. I’m considered rather a dab hand. Rosetta has a keen pair of eyes and she’ll be doing her best to catch him in the act.”
“You think you will?” Charity put her hand to her chest. Her heart was beating so painfully she thought it would burst out of her bodice.
“No.” Emily’s response was matter-of-fact. “That’s why we think we’ll have to work with our second plan.”
“And what’s that? Why didn’t you tell me?” Charity had done everything they’d asked with such blind obedience but now she realised she’d not questioned them at all.
“Our second plan involves going with him to his room where you’ll hopefully find a list of gentlemen our delightful Mr Cyril Adams is currently blackmailing. Or rather, find the reasons he has dredged up in order to make his little ploy so successful.”
“What? Me?” Charity nearly choked on the word. “How can I possibly do that? I mean, I can’t.”
Rosetta, who had been conversing with a gentleman a little distance away, now turned back, slipping into position next to Emily.
“We rather thought you might protest if we told you. But really, Charity, you’re the only one who will have any chance of doing this. He doesn’t know you at all, you’re very sweet and innocent, and so you’re the last person he’d suspect if you go with him to his room.”
“To his room? Why would he even ask me? And if he does, what if he tries to…?”
She saw the other two girls exchange smiles. With a faint shrug of her shoulders, Rosetta said, “If Hugo doesn’t win back his fortune, you’re going to lose him forever. And you’re going to have to hike your skirts and spread your legs for any gentleman who desires it at Madame Chambon’s.” She encompassed the room with a sweep of her arm. “Any gentleman here, for that matter. We don’t want that, as we’ve told you. But surely the risk of doing this just once with Mr Adams is worth it?”
Charity felt her insides shrivel. She closed her eyes as Rosetta went on, “However, if you succeed in finding what you’re looking for, Emily and I have secured promises of enormous gratitude from various of our regulars while it will also ensure your Hugo is vindicated.”
Charity put her hand to her mouth, then quickly altered her expression knowing of course that her shock and horror would only draw attention to them. Forcing herself to look natural, she whispered, “You brought me here to find out what your gentlemen wanted to know? Not to help Hugo?” She’d thought them her friends. Believed they were acting only in her best interests.
Emily grasped her shoulder as she turned away. Drawing her into the shadows of a fringed, red velvet curtain, she spoke as if to an errant child. “We set about discovering how we might protect you from what you see as a fate worse than death, Charity. And if the waters have been muddied, don’t blame us.”
The expression on her normally sweet, placid face, was fierce. “Rosetta and I have been exploring myriad ways we might bring down Mr Adams in order to vindicate your Hugo.” She bit her lip, appeared to hesitate, then ploughed on. “Each evening, when the gentlemen arrive downstairs to choose who to while away a few hours of their time with, we have accepted only those whom we believe might have some useful knowledge of Mr Adams.” Her fingers dug into Charity’s shoulder as she emphasised her point. “Because information is the only currency that can benefit any of us. And the best we could come up with is that your Mr Adams is a cheat but a clever, slippery cheat who has never been caught.” She sighed. “And is unlikely to be caught tonight. But he is suspected of dabbling in blackmail and that is what is of most interest to our gentlemen.” She indicated Mr Adams across the room with a furtive look. He was in conversation now with a couple of other gentlemen, one elderly, one young, neither of them the fast set as far as Charity could tell, if their attire and demeanour was anything to go by.
The Red Door was a gaming hellhole but even respectable members of society came here.
“The elder gentleman is Mr Russell. He enjoyed my favours two nights ago though he will not acknowledge me in public, naturally. He fears that information that would compromise his son and possibly destroy his political ambitions may be in the hands of Mr Adams. And he’s prepared to pay a great deal to ensure this does not happen.”
“But this is all…impossible to ascertain. I cannot do so, surely? Where would I even begin to look? And with him wide awake having…having had his way with me?” Charity blinked back tears. She had to be stronger than this. But she was not going to sacrifice herself for such dubious gains.
Nervously she glanced over her shoulder. “I’d make a mull of it. I’m not clever like you,” she added to Rosetta who had just returned to the conversation.
“Mr Adams would be far too suspicious of us,” said Rosetta. “However, you, who have never been seen at Madame Chambon’s or anywhere else for that matter, would make the perfect candidate.”
>
“He already has me in his sights.” Charity felt a surge of panic at the memory. “You heard Madame Chambon saying he was asking for me the night after Hugo lost to him. He wanted to exact an even greater revenge on Hugo.”
“But he has no idea what Hugo’s beloved looks like. I agree, if he did, he’d be suspicious of your motives. But you are an ingenue. Do you see the way the gentlemen are looking at you? They’re intrigued. They’ve never seen you grace the velvet sofas of Madame Chambon’s where they seek diversion. You’re young and full of grace and Mr Adams, from the way his gaze keeps darting in this direction, would be most amenable to a little show of interest from you.”
With a pat on her shoulder, Rosetta pushed Charity forward.
“I’ve had no practise in what I should do. I’ll ruin everything.” Charity knew she looked as panicked as she felt.
“It’s your obvious lack of experience that will win the day, Charity,” said Emily. “Madame Chambon believes it and you’re one of her favourites. She actually wants you to win your happily ever after with your beloved Hugo.” She pursed her lips and exchanged a wry look with Rosetta. “She said it would be a feather in her cap to promote a real wedding in view of Violet’s disappointment.”
“You’ve been discussing it with Madame Chambon?”
“And the other girls. We thought it would be best to bring you here without the benefit of the information we’ve just imparted to you.” Rosetta smiled comfortably.
“Hugo will help me,” Charity muttered under her voice and with a defiant look. “He knows I’m coming here tonight and he won’t let anything bad happen to me.”
Rosetta rolled her eyes. “We left a note at Madame’s to say you were elsewhere. Please don’t look so upset but he had the potential to ruin everything.”
Charity stared up at the two girls and then at the swarming, terrifying room before her. She caught an interested look or two from some of the male contingent and quickly looked away as heat burned her cheeks.
In a few days Hugo was sailing away. She knew that when he finally disappeared out of sight it might well be the last time she’d ever see him again. And for all his fevered attempts at securing her future, the money and promises he’d put in place would not last for long.
What choice did she have? She simply had to take her chances tonight.
“You might need this, Charity.” Rosetta dug in her reticule and handed what Charity at first thought to be a lace handkerchief before she felt something hard beneath.
“Put it straight into your pocket and only use it if occasion demands,” her friend said, lowering her voice and appearing to remove a piece of lint from her shoulder as she moved her head closer. “It’s a pair of dice, loaded to favour a four and a five. As I said, Emily and I will be handling the gambling, if called upon but, in a place like this, one never knows what might happen. Nor would anyone believe someone as sweet and innocent looking as you capable of underhand tactics.”
Charity stared about the room, mostly populated by men so that she and the few other finely dressed women stood out as the demimondaine.
In the dim light, they seemed to move in and out of focus; one moment dressed in dark suits, the next in wolf’s clothing.
Indeed, they were wolves who would converge on her when she was without a protector. The accusations of childlike innocence with which Emily and Rosetta charged her were true. Her guileless mother had taught her nothing of life. Not that Charity had spent much time with her mother since she’d worked for as long as she could remember to look after her mother’s imbecile older sister. That had, she supposed, been some small use for an illegitimate child who could not be acknowledged by the family. And, after that aunt had died — without ever having addressed Charity by name — Charity had found herself on a coach to London, to make her own way in the world following her mother’s funeral.
The only people who had ever been kind to her were Madame Chambon and the girls.
And Hugo.
She bowed her head for a second, then brought up her chin. “So tonight will be a test of my abilities. I have no idea what will be required of me and I’m certain I won’t succeed in ferreting out any useful information. But if I can help Hugo in any small way, and ensure that his own future is not blighted forever, I will.”
“Oh, look,” said Emily, pointing. “Mr Adams is coming this way.”
Chapter 5
The knowledge of how much he needed to achieve in such a short time hung heavily on Hugo’s shoulders as he turned his footsteps towards Soho.
At any other time, he would have stopped to wonder at the miracle wrought by a blanketing of pristine snow upon a poor neighbourhood, turning it into a wonderland of beauty and promise.
He might have felt uplifted by the carollers on the street corner praising the Lord their Saviour in pure, joyful voices.
But the familiar words of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen brought pain not comfort to Hugo’s ears as he bowed his head and trudged past them.
Fear not, then said the angel,
Let nothing you affright,
This day is born a Savior,
Of virtue, power, and might;
Hugo was all too aware that he should have been able to comfort Charity with such sentiments, reassuring her that he would be her saviour, a man of virtue, power, and might.
Instead, he was going to have to explain to her that the best he’d managed was to find her a position as a photographer’s assistant. And then, suspicious of the man’s motives in wanting a young and pretty assistant, he’d turned down the job offer.
It seemed that every moment since his disastrous evening with Cyril he’d been on the back foot trying to salvage something from the wreckage of his life.
He’d tried so hard to find some respectable employment that would make it easier for Charity to be accepted as his wife upon his twenty-fifth birthday but it seemed word had got around. No family member or friend of any female relative had need of a companion let alone a governess. It was as if they all knew his little secret and had closed ranks against him.
Nearby, a ladder-man was pasting advertisements to a hoarding. Pausing to cross the road, Hugo looked up at the posters of electric corsets and others advertising miracle cures for chilblains and scrofula. The young woman with her hour-glass figure proclaiming the healthful effects of her combinations reminded him of Charity with her long, chestnut tresses and peaches and cream complexion and he was struck by the most intense desire to run all the way to the dreadful house where she lived and commit to memory the feel of her curves as he buried his face in her fragrant hair.
Not that he deserved this, though he liked to think she would draw some comfort from his assurances that he’d die rather than see her forced into prostitution to keep body and soul together.
He dug in his pocket and withdrew the painting he’d worked on since he’d sketched her so hastily as she lay sleeping just before he’d left her. He wanted to study it in the natural light for he’d been somewhat feverish as he’d worked at his masterpiece in the semi-darkness.
He touched the tendrils of hair at her temples. If only he had his paintbrush with him now, he could render the soft curls a little more perfectly.
He unfolded the picture and held it up. It was, perhaps, one of his finest works, despite the fact that in real life her hair was more lustrous than he’d rendered it.
And her eyes were much more arresting than he’d managed, though he wasn’t displeased with the finished piece.
However, all pleasure evaporated at the reminder that he was giving her this because of their impending separation. He’d done numerous drawings of her this past week, wanting to commit her image to his memory but wanting, also, to ensure she’d be in no doubt as to how important she was to him.
A sudden gust of wind whipped the drawing out of his fingers and he tried to snatch it before it caught an eddying breeze that lifted it, fluttering airborne for a moment, before arriving level with the ladder man.
“I say!” Looking down from his precarious position, the ladder man snatched at Hugo’s work of art, turning to look at him with a grin. “Nice young lady like this ought to be admired by the world!” he declared cheerfully as he pasted the back with glue then slapped the drawing over the single gap on the busy hoarding.
“You can’t do that!” Hugo protested but the ladder man ignored him as he sloshed his glue-laden paintbrush over the front for good measure.
“Not going to see your young lady this evening, then?”
Hugo, about to protest further, turned to see Lord Belvedere on the other side of the road. The fellow looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world and Hugo tried to push aside his real thoughts as he nodded in greeting. Belvedere was off to foreign lands, adventuring by choice, leaving behind Charity’s friend, Violet. Life was easier if one had no scruples, he supposed, though he liked Belvedere, nonetheless.
“I’m going there now,” he said, crossing the road.
“You won’t find her at home.” Lord Belvedere had resumed walking but he said over his shoulder, “Got to dash. But anyway, I saw her just now at the Red Door.”
Hugo watched Belvedere disappear around a corner while he tried to assimilate what Charity would be doing in such a den of iniquity. Nothing safe, he feared, and wondered if her friends had persuaded her to go there with them.
His anxiety increased as he made his way to the notorious gambling den.
Cyril frequented places like this.
But not Charity. Why would she go there unless she’d got it into her head to take matters into her own hands? To try to beat Cyril at his own game?
Charity knew nothing of places like this. For all that she lived in a brothel, she was remarkably sheltered.
He hastened his stride.
Taking on Cyril meant Charity would be throwing herself into the path of a man without compassion or morals. He’d eat Charity for lunch and spit her out, if only to spite Hugo. Cyril was a bounder, a cheat, a reprobate. Ever since they’d been children they’d been at war. If Cyril wanted anything to do with Charity, it was only so he could use her as the ultimate revenge against Hugo.
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