Marianne pursed her childlike lips and tilted her head to one side. I imagined that when she regarded her rich dandies thusly, they fell all over themselves to please her. "I suppose if I have your word. You usually keep it."
"A gentleman's word is his honor."
She gave me a pitying look. "You have not met some of the gentlemen I know. Very well. Shall we go?"
I rented a hackney at a stand and made Marianne accompany me to the Strand first, where I asked Alice to come with us. I did not know what Jane Thornton looked like, and I didn't trust Marianne not to play a trick on me for the dazzling prospect of ten guineas.
Marianne directed us to Long Acre then along Drury Lane toward High Holborn. After traveling this thoroughfare for a few minutes, we turned to a narrow lane and a little house that looked no different from the somber brick houses surrounding it. I raised a hand to ply the knocker, but Marianne stepped square in front of me and seized the knocker herself.
The door was open by a sullen maid with greasy hair and clean apron. "What'ya want?" was her greeting.
Marianne walked right in. "I'm looking for my sister."
The maid glared at me and Alice. "Who're they?"
"My brother and my maid."
The woman's look told me she no more believed her than if she'd said it had suddenly become July. But she stood aside and let us in.
The house had seemed quiet on the outside, but noise filled the inside. Voices poured down the stairs, women's voices: laughing, weeping, shouting, cursing, singing. An angry tirade rose in the upstairs hall.
"Give that back, ye thieving bitch!" A door slammed, cutting off the rest of the argument.
This was no brothel. The house had no comfortable front parlor for gentlemen to gather for cards or to talk sport before seeking a different sort of sport upstairs. No madam or abbess met us to rub her hands and offer me her finest-or call her bully-boys when she realized she'd not get any money out of me. But this was not a boardinghouse either. It resembled a boardinghouse, but the atmosphere was wrong.
"What is this place?" I asked Marianne. The maid had tramped away down the back stairs.
"It's a house where girls can come who need a rest. Or to lie low. Or for a lying in. Mostly for that."
I craned my head and looked up the dark, dusty stairs. "Who is the benefactor who lets them stay?"
"There is no benefactor. They pay to stay here, same as any boardinghouse. Nine pence a week, bed and board."
"You think Jane might have found her way here?"
"Could be. A girl at the theatre told me yesterday that there's a lady here that's stayed a long time. She came in same as the other street girls, but she's not a street girl. She talks genteel and is obviously well born and bred. But she's ruined like the rest of them. She helps the other girls through their lying-in and talks to them when they're blue-deviled. They call her Lady, but no other name."
My heart beat faster. "May I see her?"
"Cool your heels in the sitting room, Lacey. I'll find her."
Alice and I went to the small and dusty sitting room, while Marianne skimmed her way up the stairs.
"Do you think it's her, sir?" Alice asked. "It's just what my lady would do-never mind her own troubles to help others."
"We'll know soon enough," I said, though my characteristic impatience trickled through me and wouldn't let me sit. I paced while Alice watched me, not daring to hope.
After what seemed a long time, I heard Marianne returning. Another pair of footsteps overlapped hers. I turned, and Alice jumped to her feet beside me.
Marianne entered the room with a small young woman whose back was straight, her eyes large and brown, like a doe's, but holding a calm serenity. A white cotton fichu crossed her shoulders and tied at her sash, and she lightly touched it, as though it gave her comfort.
Alice's dark eyes filled with tears. "It ain't her. It's not Miss Jane."
"You are looking for someone?" The young woman's voice was polite, but her tone held caution.
"A girl called Jane Thornton," I said. "Or she might have used the name Lily."
"You are her brother?"
I shook my head. "Her family is looking for her. I'm helping them."
The woman assessed me a moment then relaxed a fraction, as though I'd passed some test. "If she came here, sir, then she is truly lost."
Alice sat down abruptly. "You've not seen her?" I asked the woman.
She shook her head. "I've lived here since Epiphany and have met no one by those names. She may have used another name, of course."
"You help the girls here?"
Lady inclined her head. "I'm one of them. I help as I can. I like to be useful. I, too, am lost, as they are."
My curiosity grew despite my disappointment. "You came here for sanctuary?"
"I came here for my-lying in. I decided to stay, as I had nowhere else to go."
Lady met my gaze with eyes calm and strong, but I saw grief in them. There were no signs or sounds of children here. If her child had not died at birth, she'd have given it up to someone else's care. I read in her that the decision had been a painful one.
Her acceptance made my anger flare. "And the name of the blackguard who made it necessary for you to come to this place?"
To my surprise, Lady smiled. "I will keep that to myself, sir. The sin was not all on his side, and I have been punished."
Had he been punished? I wished with all my heart she'd tell me his name so I could break his neck. I needed to put at least one person's wrongs right.
I handed her one of my cards. "If you hear of a girl called Jane Thornton, or Lily, or if she comes here, please send for me. Her family are worried."
She took my card, read it, and looked as though something amused her. "I will send word, of course, Captain."
I thanked her, and we departed. Another argument began above stairs as we left that house, disappointed and dejected. I looked back once before ascending the hackney, and saw Lady framed in the sitting room window, her white fichu bright against the dark panes. She looked back at me, but did not raise her hand or nod in farewell.
We traveled back down Drury Lane toward the Strand. Carriages from Mayfair were just making their way toward the Theatre Royal, the glittering coaches and glittering people emerging a sharp contrast to the wretches who scrambled to get out of their way. Beggars thrust hands at the fine ladies with diamonds in their hair until liveried footmen drove the beggars away. Across the road, street girls sashayed back and forth and called to the men. Two well-dressed gentlemen broke away to speak to them, never mind the respectable ladies who stood not a yard from them.
I didn't see the Brandon carriage anywhere around the theatre, and Grenville was out of town. Lady Aline Carrington, however, was there in full force, I saw as we passed, the gossipy Mr. Gossington with her.
Our one-seated hackney was crowded with the three of us. Alice, stuffed between myself and Marianne, sniffled into a handkerchief, and Marianne crossed her arms and glared out the window, not bothering to hide her disappointment. We reached the Strand, and I stood down to help Alice out at the end of the lane to the Thorntons' lodgings.
Marianne did not speak to me as we rolled up Southampton Street and through Covent Garden to Russel Street and Grimpen Lane. I paid my shillings and caught up to Marianne waiting upstairs outside my door. She swung around as I stepped off the landing. "What about my ten guineas?"
My mood had soured considerably. "We did not find Miss Thornton."
"I know, but I led you to a good place. If she's belly-full, it's likely she'll go there. I can use the blunt."
"God damn your ten guineas, Marianne."
She reddened. "I like that! I go out of my way to do you a bit of good, and you throw curses at me."
I strode into my sitting room and crossed to the writing table. I scribbled Grenville's address on the back of one of my cards, returned to the hall, and thrust the card at her. "Give Grenville time to return from Somerset, then g
o ask for your bloody ten guineas. Tell him I sent you."
I closed the door on her startled face. The image of Grenville's expression when she turned up on his doorstep filtered through my melancholia, and just for a moment, I let myself feel amused.
The next afternoon, I took a hackney to Curzon Street, the heart of Mayfair, pulling up, just at the stroke of three, in front of the house James Denis had directed me to.
The house reminded me strongly of Grenville's. The outside was plain, without ostentation; the inside was elegant, tasteful, quiet, and expensive. I paused before a painting on the landing, which depicted a young girl standing by a window, pouring water from a jug. The bright yellows and blues and greens were astonishing. I recognized the painter, one of the Dutch school of the late seventeenth century. The painting was exquisite, rare, genuine.
The footman's dry cough tugged me away, and I followed him up the polished staircase. A sharper contrast to Horne's household could not be imagined. Everything here spoke of refinement, of a person who knew the value of things and what made them precious.
The footman opened two double doors of rich walnut and ushered me into a library. The room smelled of books and wood and of a fragrant fire on the hearth. My boots sank into a red and black oriental carpet without sound.
Mr. Denis sat behind a large desk devoid of everything but one small stack of clean paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen. He was much younger than I'd expected; I put him to be in his late twenties at most. His hair was brown, close-cropped, and curled naturally, and his eyes were small under black brows. His mouth was straight and long, his face square. He rose while the doors closed behind me and motioned for me to advance.
As I limped forward, I noticed the large man standing still as a statue near the window. His arms were folded across his large chest, and he watched me from heavy-lidded eyes, as though he were half-asleep.
Denis came around the desk and shook my hand. He was of a height with me. His face might be described as handsome, but when I looked into his dark blue eyes, I saw nothing. No emotion, no speculation, no thoughtfulness. Nothing. If eyes were windows to the soul, the shutters of James Denis were firmly closed.
"Please sit down, Captain." Denis returned to his desk and rested his hands on the bare surface before him, as if fully expecting to be obeyed.
A pair of damask chairs waited in the middle of the carpet. I moved to one of them and sat.
Denis studied me a moment with his emotionless eyes. "Please clarify something for me. Are you an acquaintance of Mr. Grenville or of Mr. Horne? It is most unlikely for a gentleman to be both."
"Grenville is the acquaintance," I answered. "I met Horne by chance."
"And you prevailed upon Horne to write to me for an appointment. Why?"
"He told me that you obtained things for gentlemen."
Denis inclined his head a fraction. "I have, in the past, provided certain assistance to people I know. I do not know you. What is it that you hoped me to find for you?"
I made an uncomfortable movement, but I was determined to brazen it out. "A young lady."
"I see. For what purpose?"
"What do you mean, for what purpose? For what purpose do you suppose?"
"You might have a benevolent streak and wish to adopt an orphaned young woman to raise as your own. Or you might want a companion to share the rest of your hopefully long life. Or you simply might want someone upon whom you can relieve your base lusts."
A trickle of perspiration slid down my back. "It is the latter, I am afraid."
Denis regarded me for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was even more colorless, as though he regarded me with distaste. "You could obtain such a thing for yourself. London has an unfortunately large commodity of women for just that purpose."
"I do not want a girl from the streets. I want-a young lady." I had difficulty making my mouth form the words.
"And you believe I can find one for you."
"As you did for Mr. Horne."
In the silence, a green log popped and a smattering of sparks hissed back into the fire. "He told you this?"
"Not in so many words. I drew the conclusion."
Denis studied me for a long time, his expression still neutral. Finally he spoke, as though ending an internal debate. "What I obtained for Mr. Horne cost him a large sum of money. A very large sum. Such a thing was difficult, dangerous, and I must admit, distasteful. You, Captain, cannot afford it."
"No," I said. "But Mr. Grenville can."
His lids lowered briefly. "Mr. Grenville would hardly lend you money so that you could satisfy yourself on a respectable virgin. He is careful of his acquaintance and unlikely to cultivate a friendship with a man of such disgusting tastes."
I made a conspiratorial gesture. "He does not need to know."
"He knows everything about you," Denis said. His blue eyes bored into mine. "As do I. I suggest, Captain, that you drop the pose."
Chapter Eighteen
I said calmly, "I have always been bad at lying."
Denis sat back and rested his hands, palms down, on the desk. "Yes, your skills are remarkably ill developed. What is it you truly came here to discuss?"
I looked him straight in the eye. "Miss Jane Thornton. And her maid."
Nothing, not even a flicker of recognition. "Who are they and what have they to do with me?"
My pulse beat faster. "You procured them for Mr. Horne. The late Mr. Horne."
"I did read in the newspaper of Mr. Horne's unfortunate death. London is a dark and violent city, Captain."
"You destroyed an entire family, damn you. For his paltry fee."
Denis's smooth fingers tightened the barest bit. "If I had done what you accuse me of, the fee would not have been paltry, I assure you."
I no longer tried to rein in my temper. I'd had enough of people caring nothing for the missing Jane, and for Aimee, frightened and destroyed. I rose. "You procured her, and you sold her, just as you sold the painting to Grenville and his friend."
I sensed a movement beyond my right shoulder. The man at the window, no longer looking half-asleep, had come alert.
Denis gave him a small, subduing gesture. "Gentlemen sometimes ask me to obtain for them things that others cannot. It is expensive. One needs planning, the right contacts. I can do what they can't. That is all."
"You cloak it in vague words, but you sold her the same as you would a prostitute to a nunnery."
Faint color touched his cheeks. "If you have come here to crusade, I suggest you rethink your position. I know you've questioned my coachman, and you questioned Horne and Grenville. But I warn you, Captain. Do not interfere in my business. You do not have the power or wealth to do so with impunity. And do not think to hide behind your friend Grenville. His greatest quality is his discretion. He will not help you."
"Do you expect me to turn my back as you ruin young women and their families?"
"You must do as you please, of course."
I rested my fists on his desk. "Horne didn't pay you for it either, did he? That's why you went to see him the day he died."
Denis steepled his fingers and regarded me quietly over them. "My financial arrangements are my own affair."
"I know Horne owed you money. That fact has not been hidden. Did you murder him, then? Because he would not pay?"
"How foolish for me to kill a man who owed me money. I prefer to have money in my coffers than blood on my hands."
"And you wouldn't be able to pursue his heir for it, because you would have to explain the business transaction," I said. "I doubt you keep any records. I suppose I will have to satisfy myself with the fact that you will never see tuppence for Jane Thornton's ruin."
Denis regarded me through another long silence before he unclasped his hands. "I admire your bravery, Captain. Very few men would think to enter my house and make such accusations to my face. Or perhaps you simply do not know your danger."
"I was warned." Grenville had told me not to come here
alone. Pomeroy had told me I was insane. I was beginning to think they were both right.
"And you came anyway?" Denis asked. "I must say, you have astonished me." He rose. "I bid you good day, Captain."
My breath came fast, and I did not take his outstretched hand. "I can't say I wish you good health."
The corners of his mouth twitched the slightest bit. "You are refreshingly blunt, Captain. But have a care. Do nothing more to inquire into my business. It is not worth it."
His eyes, again, held no menace, but I sensed a cold ruthlessness behind them. That coldness no doubt inspired fear in those who became acquainted with him.
I had lost my fear long ago.
I did not say good-bye. I simply turned and left him.
*****
I returned to my rooms, enraged and no further forward. Yesterday, I had believed that Denis murdered Horne, but after meeting him, I changed my conclusion. I believed Denis when he said he would have gotten more out of Horne if the man had remained alive. Denis must have been in a fair temper with Horne in order to pay him a personal visit.
I toyed with the idea that Denis had told the brute of a man who'd stood guard in Denis's study to physically frighten Horne, and said brute had accidentally killed him, but I discarded that idea as well. Denis was too careful. The brute would not have made a mistake. And Denis certainly would not have murdered a man when he'd been publicly seen paying a call on him.
But no one else had called on Horne that day. I was back to nothing. Perhaps the wretched Bremer had murdered his master after all. Or the cook had, because Horne hadn't sufficiently appreciated her sweetmeats. Or Hetty had in a fit of zealous righteousness. Or the frail Aimee had, then tied herself up and locked herself in the cupboard from the outside, all the while managing not to get a drop of blood on herself.
I seized my notes from the writing table and flung them into the fire. All my efforts had produced nothing. Grenville was still pursuing the question of Charlotte Morrison in Somerset, while I blundered about London to no avail. My leg ached, I'd spent a fortune on hackney coaches, and I'd done nothing useful.
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