“If he were a captain, he’d have half pay.”
“True. Midshipman then, never promoted to captain. Perhaps he’ll come by the Blue Heron this week.”
“Make it his birthday, and I’ll give him a drink and a seat at the bar.”
Charters grinned. “An appealing offer, Flute. We shall resurrect our man Timpson.”
“Speaking of resurrection men, Sparks and his men are outside. They wish to meet with Charters.”
“Do they?” Charters returned to the desk, turning the ledger’s pages until he found the one for Sparks’s team. “Perhaps they wish to apologize for not meeting our expectations for good stock.”
“More likely they wish a larger percentage of the profits. Will you see them?”
“They should meet with Georges. If there’s dissension, he settles it best.” Charters rose and returned to the wardrobe, Flute playing his valet. In a matter of minutes Charters had applied the face paints to make himself appear older, transforming completely into Georges, an aging fop who still wore the white-powdered wig of his youth. His suit was richly embroidered with matching waist and tailcoat, dating from at least twenty years before, and his wrists and neck were surrounded by a heavy lace. As Georges, Charters struck a theatrical pose for Flute. “Do I look like myself?”
“You will once the door opens, and your face settles into Georges’s terrifying calm.”
Charters held back a laugh. “It’s delightful to have a partner with no fear of me.”
“We have taken each other’s measure. I think our men Barnard and Clifton should follow them in.” Flute pushed the carving into his pocket, but kept his small carving knife in his hand. It would serve as a threat, even if a small one.
“The bodyguards are your domain, Flute. Act as you see fit.”
Flute opened the door and nodded the crew in. The men—three of them—followed their leader, Sparks, a small man with quick fists and a temper to match, into the center of the room. Standing before the desk, they held themselves puffed up, as men did at a tavern when anticipating a brawl. Behind Sparks’s crew, Barnard and Clifton—broadly built men who had been Flute’s former comrades at sea—took their places on either side of the door.
Flute stepped to the side of the desk to stand at Georges’s left. He held the knife openly enough that two of Sparks’s men’s eyes widened, then he removed his carving from his pocket and began to carve.
Georges sat without speaking, waiting for their bravado to fade in the face of his silence. After almost a minute, the men began to shrink back to their normal stances. Only Sparks was unaffected.
“We came to meet with Charters. Where is he?”
“Ah, so sad.” Georges’s voice was lisping and affected. “Mr. Charters, he is not available at present. But I am here. And we think so much alike, he and I, that many find it is like talking to the same person.”
The men shifted their weight, looking to Sparks for their cues. Sparks examined Georges, his eyes focusing on the man’s lace and ornate clothing with the eagerness of a thief who had identified his mark. “We’ve worked for Charters for almost six months now, and we want a bigger cut of the profit. We take all the risks, and you sit here with your lace and flounces, making lists.”
Georges flipped the lace at his wrist and took a stick of pumice from the desk drawer. “Let me explain our expectations, as I’m sure my colleague Charters did before.” He pitched his voice soft enough that they had to be silent to hear him. “We are all businessmen. When you proposed to join our resurrection scheme, we outlined the market and your place in it. We build relationships with our partners to gain the best merchandise at the least risk.”
“There’s plenty of bodies just waiting to be taken. We lose money with every relationship.”
“Yes, but if we buy cadavers rather than steal them, our partners do not call the watch when we dig.” Georges filed the nail on his forefinger in six swift strokes.
“We dig; you don’t,” Sparks objected, but Georges ignored him.
“You were to partner with the local cemeteries to build a steady, reliable stream of cadavers with no provenance and no relatives. Paupers, prostitutes, orphans. From those partnerships, you were to mine fifty bodies a week, prepare them for our clients, then deliver them discreetly to the addresses we provide. We equip you with linen for wrapping, a cart for carrying, and a small fund for bribes and other essentials. But, sadly, Mr. Sparks, your crew hasn’t met our goals in any week so far.”
“There’s no need to pay the undertakers when we can just look for newly filled-in graves.”
“But after you identify the graves, you must dig up the body, undress it to leave the clothes in the grave, then remove any hint of earth, and, if you misstep, you must deal with the watch or the magistrate. Our method typically requires only pickup and delivery. Of course, you may increase your profit by cutting the hair and selling it to the wig makers. That was our agreement, was it not?” Georges flipped the lace on one wrist.
The men stood silently, looking to their leader.
“That was our agreement.” Sparks looked confused, as if the conversation had gone awry with no warning. “But we want a new one.”
“If your team cannot meet the demand, I have other crews who would welcome more territory.” Georges waved his hand in a slow, definite flourish, slightly moving the lace around his wrist.
Sparks fisted his hands at his side. “You can’t get rid of us. We know how many bodies have come out of the gambling hell below and we know who killed ’em.”
“Ah, gentlemen, you may have a number, but in British law, a conviction requires a body. Besides, if you are correct, would I not find it easy to dispose of four more cadavers, should that become necessary?” He rested his hands carefully on the desk and paused, letting the silence draw out until even Sparks seemed subdued. Then Georges leaned back, steepling his fingers before his face. “Twenty cadavers this week. If you do not meet that goal, then we will reconsider the terms of our agreement.” He paused. “I recommend you meet the goal.”
Georges turned his attention to the ledger before him, silently writing notes as the men stood waiting. After several minutes of ignoring the men completely, Georges looked up. “Flute, please see Mr. Sparks and his men to the hall. They have merchandise to collect.”
Sparks spoke. “We might have a bit of a problem.”
“Problem?” Georges set his pen down slowly, then looked up at the group. The three shuffled their feet in response to his gaze, but Sparks remained silent.
In the face of Sparks’s silence, the brawny member of his crew with the pockmarked face spoke: “Just a bit of a tussle—nothing we couldn’t handle—but a man got killed. We got rid of the body. Took it right down to the surgery.”
“Likely, no one even knows he’s dead,” the third man offered helpfully. “He was one of them French e-me-grays, no family, no friends.”
“Then why do you bring this tussle to me?” Georges picked up his pen and returned to his work.
“We thought the building was empty, but another man was there.” Sparks, now a petitioner rather than a champion, twisted the brim of his hat between his fingers.
Georges set his pen down with an audible tap, then rose, leaning forward over the desk, both hands flat on the surface. “And this man may have seen you commit murder. For it was a murder, wasn’t it?”
The men looked sheepish. “Some surgeons want a better sort of body, ones that died of something other than syphilis or cholera or by hanging at the crossroads.”
“So you decided to harvest a body before it was dead. And you may have a witness.” Georges sat back in his chair. “Here’s the rule, men. You kill no one that I haven’t given you the word to kill. You steal no bodies that I haven’t given you the word to steal. You work for me, not for yourselves or for the surgeons.”
“Yes, sir,” the men answered in unison. “What do we do now?”
“You find your witness. Then you bring him to
me, and I will discover what he does and doesn’t know.”
“And if he saw us?”
“Then he will join his friend at one of the schools. And you will make it up to me that I’ve had to go to such trouble. Now out, all of you. And before I see you again, I expect you to have collected the bodies waiting for you at the pauper’s field.”
The men trailed out, one behind the other, and Flute’s men followed them, pulling the door shut behind them.
Charters nodded to the seat beside his desk. “Do we believe them?”
“I think they are confessing because they believe they were seen.” Flute settled in.
At a tap on the door, the men grew silent. One of Flute’s men leaned his head in. “They took the tickets for the Blue Heron.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lena refused to wake up. In her dream, she was nestled in a vast delicious pillow under a feather blanket, both light and oh-so-warm. When she awoke, her feet would be so cold that she could no longer feel her toes, and her back would ache from the sagging bed. When the cries of the vendors selling their wares told her the day had begun, she’d rush to the Rotunda, meeting her crew just as dawn spread across the sky, and they would work until past dusk. But at no point in the day would she be warm—not like now. She clung to the dream, snuggling under the covers, sheets so soft that they could only exist in a dream—or the house of a duke.
The day came back to her in a rush. Her accident. The bodies. The magistrate. Clive. Strong and kind. Every time she had faced trouble, he had acted to help her. But not just her; he’d paid a street beggar extra so the child would have something to eat.
Under the covers, she stretched out her arms and legs. After her day’s adventures, her muscles should be stiff and hard, but they felt supple and rested. She couldn’t remember arriving at the duke’s house or undressing for bed, but her night shift—she almost hoped he had put her in it—was a delight. At least she had fallen asleep in his arms.
Clive. Eventually his attentiveness would chafe, but not yet. For now, she would enjoy his gentle presence . . . and his glorious kisses. She warmed at the thought of his hand cradling her neck, her lips devouring his.
Did any painting convey that particular moment of bliss? She searched her memory. Most depicted the moments before a seduction—the outstretched hand, the bouquet of flowers, the teasing glances. But there was one painting: Antonio da Correggio’s Jupiter and Io. She’d seen it in Vienna. In it, Jupiter, hidden in a cloud, embraced the naked Io, his hands giant, smoky paws on her bare back, Io’s face transported in pleasure, her own hand encircling the god’s. Io’s face was lifted in rapture to accept the god’s kisses. How would it feel to greet Clive as Io had Jupiter? To accept his touch, his kisses, his warmth all the way to the core of her being? She sighed, more a swoon than a sigh, knowing Clive’s embraces would feel glorious. Stretching against the expensive bedding, she let herself imagine it, and the imagination made her wonder . . . why not? Why not enjoy their partnership fully, until it ended?
Unfortunately, now that she was awake, she couldn’t allow herself more than a moment of indulgence. Sighing, she steeled herself for another day heavy with responsibilities. She draped a Chinese silk dressing gown over her shift, the fabric shimmering in the firelight. Such elegance. She hadn’t worn a silk dress in years, and to have worn two in less than a day was a delicious excess.
They had returned from the Masons so late that she couldn’t have slept more than a few hours, but somehow she felt rested and refreshed. Her room was still dark, save for the light of the fire on the hearth. The curtains fell in heavy puddles, blocking light and cold. It was a room crafted for those who wished to sleep in luxury, not those who had jobs. The house wasn’t yet stirring, though a servant had recently fed her fire. How had she not heard them?
Outside, dark would still be resting on the city, the sun just starting to make its way across the sky. She relished the city in its last quiet moments before the day. In the fire’s half-light, she walked to the windows and drew the curtains back.
She recoiled, blinking against the bright light. Not dawn. Not even early morning. No, noon or later. The cries of the street vendors hadn’t reached her ears because the duke’s house sat back from the street behind high walls. Her comfort and ease disappeared in an instant, replaced by a near panic. The Rotunda! The crew would have come to work, and, not finding her there, gone home with no work done. Panic turned to fury, welling up from the bottom of her belly and filling her chest and throat.
How. Dare. He? Each word was a condemnation. Letting her sleep the day away! That wouldn’t help her finish the exhibition! Didn’t he understand that? But what did she expect? Men often thought that help was the same as control. She’d merely hoped Clive was made of better stuff. She blinked away the beginnings of tears—she had no time for regret.
She ignored the fashionable walking dress laid out on a chair for her. Normally she would have marveled at the softness of the fabric and the delicacy of the colors. But she had no time. Finding her freshly laundered clothes tucked in the wardrobe, she pulled on her blouse, Turkish trousers, and skirt as usual, and tucked a plain fichu around her shoulders and into the front of her blouse. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: with no night cap, her long hair had escaped its plait to form a heavy mass around her face. She began to repair it, then stopped. She’d already spent too much time considering how her appearance might please him.
She needed to confront him and call her crew back to the Rotunda. If she hurried, they could still accomplish something today.
She slipped Horatio’s note into her pocket, then rushed into the hall and down the stairs. A servant, shocked at her haste and rough hair, directed her to the morning room where brunch and Clive waited.
She refused to notice the buffet laden with cheese, eggs, jellies, and meats, though her stomach rumbled at the smell of freshly baked bread.
Clive sat at the table, absorbed in work, surrounded by neat piles of paper. His back to the window, the winter light diffused around his head and shoulders, making him look like a saint or a god.
“Good morning, Miss Frost.” He glanced up for barely an instant, then scribbled intently on one of his papers. “Help yourself to the buffet while I finish.”
His face was intent, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated, and she forced herself to look away from the beckoning fullness of his lips. Instead, she waited with a cold patience, her hands fisted at her sides. She wanted her complaint to receive his full attention.
“Aunt Agatha insisted that we let you wake naturally.” When his eyes met hers, they widened in surprise, then acceptance. “One doesn’t argue with Aunt Agatha, but I should have anticipated you would be displeased.”
“I’m not displeased: I’m angry.” She held out her palms, rejecting his words. “You and your peers may sleep away the day, but thanks to your aunt Agatha, I’ve lost a full day’s work.”
“In that accounting, you must balance the lost work hours against the improvement in your health.” He stood, examining her with the concentration of a physician. “Your face is less drawn, your color much improved, and your hands appear to be healing nicely.”
Lena looked at her hands. The scrapes were sealed over, the skin a healthy pink.
“When was the last night you had a healthful sleep?” Clive’s voice was gentle, and his brows furrowed.
“It doesn’t matter.” She refused to be mollified. “I don’t matter. All that matters is opening my panorama on time.”
“I would disagree, Miss Frost, you matter a great deal. I would say . . .” He paused as if uncertain how to proceed.
“You would say what?” she prompted.
“Without you, there would be no panorama, so you can’t separate the problem into it and you.” He answered as if proud of his logic.
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected; in fact, it wasn’t any answer she’d expected.
“Though you
were not present this morning, your very detailed instructions were,” he continued matter-of-factly. “From before sunrise to about an hour ago, I and my brother Seth, with the help of your man Louis, directed your crew to complete the tasks you had outlined.”
At the buffet, Clive filled a plate with various foodstuffs.
“What happened an hour ago?” Watching him, Lena felt her stomach rumble. But to eat might suggest she was accepting his rationale, and she’d learned long ago to be suspicious of any man’s control, even one as seemingly well-intentioned as Clive. Even so, Lena’s anger began to subside.
“My cousin brought my sister home. Your crew is used to taking orders from a woman: Judith and Ophelia are used to giving them. It seemed a perfect match.”
Clive held out the plate he’d just prepared. When she refused it, he placed it on the table beside her. “Judith could have beaten Napoleon years before Wellington did, so you may find all your work for the week done in a single day. But do not worry: Judith is following your instructions to the last detail.”
Lena couldn’t imagine how her crew would respond to four strangers telling them what to do. “But your relations know nothing about a project of this sort. My crew—”
“—cheered when we explained that you would be taking the morning to recuperate.”
“They cheered?” Lena felt confused. Somehow her world had turned upside down.
“Your crew wish—as much as you—for the panorama to be a success, but they believe you have pushed yourself far harder than is wise or healthful.”
“It’s . . . I . . .” She brushed her hand through her unruly hair. Somehow he had anticipated all her objections. Finally, she blurted out, “I can’t have strangers in the exhibition hall. We’ve worked too hard to generate public curiosity to let the subject become public knowledge now.”
“The curtain remains in place. There’s no need to move it to arrange the gutter or clean out the space beneath the platform for the musicians.” He pushed the plate toward her. “Sit and eat, then we will go to the Rotunda.”
Reckless in Red Page 17