by Shirl Henke
“I told you, you owe the House of Dreams nothing further,” she said.
“This is not for you, er, for your business…′Tis for Gaby. I…” A wry smile twisted his lips. “This reminds me of our first meeting, how deuced awkward I felt, tongue-tied as a boy in leading strings. I want to be certain she reaches France and her cousin safely. If he refuses to take proper care of her, this will help.” He stepped around her desk and laid the note before her.
She read the amount with raised eyebrows. Money to assuage his guilt? No, she knew him better than that. Without reading the earnestness in his eyes she understood he genuinely cared for his Gaby and wanted her protected, even though he could never see her again. “This is enough for a woman to live comfortably for the rest of her life. I cannot—that is, I know Gabrielle will not accept it.”
“I insist,” he said stubbornly.
“No—”
Their argument was interrupted when the door to her office flew open and Grace rushed in, her face red with excitement and her eyes wide with fear. She was still wearing a brocade robe and her hair hung around her shoulders in wild disarray. “Please forgive my interruption but—my God, his granddaughter has been abducted! Right in front of her governess—” She broke into tears, something Grace Winston never did.
“Please, Grace, sit down and explain,” Amber said, rounding her desk to reach her sobbing friend. Taking her arm, she helped Grace to the sofa near the door and sat beside her. “Now, whose granddaughter has been abducted?”
Rob walked over to the small pier table and poured a small portion of Amber’s excellent brandy into a crystal glass. He offered it to Mrs. Winston, saying, “Take your time, dear lady.”
Amber nodded to him gratefully and accepted the glass, handing it to the older woman. Grace took a deep, calming breath and raised the glass to her mouth, then swallowed a sip before saying, “Burleigh’s granddaughter has been kidnapped. He is at his daughter’s home on Old Marylebone Road now. His note simply says that Millicent’s governess took the child for a walk in the Old Marylebone Cemetery—′tis been used as a park for several years, you know.”
Rob and Amber nodded as Grace took another sip of brandy, then continued. “Two bully ruffians suddenly leaped from behind some trees and knocked the poor girl down!”
“They struck Millicent?” Amber asked, aghast.
“No, no,” Grace said, shaking her head. “The governess. They then made off with Millicent in front of everyone. That park is filled with nurses and governesses with their young charges. How brazenly depraved must these savages be to do such a thing? Burleigh knows you have a reliable runner and begs your help,” she said to Amber.
“He will most certainly have it!” She patted Grace’s arm and rose, walking to the wall to ring the bellpull. Then she scribbled a note of explanation, adding the direction of Burleigh’s daughter’s home with instructions for him to proceed there at once. Her footman, Clifton, appeared within a moment. “Please give this to your cousin immediately. We are in desperate need of his services!”
Clifton nodded as he took the note, leaving in considerable haste without asking questions. If the Lady Fantasia said a matter was desperate, that was all that was required. Clyde would know what to do when he received the note.
“Mr. Dyer will be able to locate the child,” she said reassuringly to Grace. If anyone can! “Now, you need to lie down and rest. You’re quite overset.”
“I could not rest while that poor little girl is in the hands of fiends who run virgin houses.” Grace’s eyes were cold as she shuddered in revulsion. “I know what sort of men kidnap beautiful young blonde girls—and why, Amber.”
At the use of the name, Rob blinked. So her name really is Amber Leighigh. He filed that away for future consideration. “Your fears are well grounded, Mrs. Winston. We shall not attempt to deceive you, but Fantasia is right. You should permit us to handle the matter. I have some knowledge of where such ruffians take children.”
“I am most grateful, Lord Barrington,” Grace replied earnestly.
“What do you know about child abductions in London?” Amber asked him.
“In order to write bills dealing with child exploitation, I have had cause to investigate various of these virgin houses that specialize in auctioning children, boys as well as girls.” He sketched a hasty bow to Grace, then turned to Amber and said, “I’m going to speak with several people who have given me information about the most infamous bawds dealing in this vile traffic. I shall send word of what I learn regarding the granddaughter of Burleigh—?”
“Chipperfield. He is a baronet from Hereford. You met him at the Chitchesters’ masked ball,” Amber replied.
Rob nodded. “I recall him,” he said. “He and your runner and I would do well to compare information as soon as possible. Time is of the essence.”
“If you become involved, Sir Burleigh will know you are…acquainted with me,” Amber said awkwardly, not wishing to think about the baronet’s shrewd observations regarding her feelings for the earl.
“I do not care. Move to the point, he already suspects,” Rob added obliquely. He reached for the door, then paused. “You have a number of seasoned veterans in your employ. It might be wise to have them prepare for a fight. I shall send word to my staff to do likewise since the authorities will not enter a place of business, no matter the cause.”
With that he was gone. Jenette, who had overheard the last of the conversation, walked through the open door and said to her friends, “He is correct, you know. We must prepare to rescue the child ourselves. What of her father—would he be of any use?”
Grace shook her head. “He is a diplomat, posted to Paris currently. Even if he knew how to fire a pistol, which I warrant he does not, he is unavailable. Poor Pamela, she is quite alone. I wish I could offer her comfort, but…” Her voice trailed away sadly. She was the infamous Mrs. Winston, owner of an exclusive bordello, hardly fit company for a lady.
“None of us may comfort the child’s mother, but we can do more useful things,” Jenette said to Amber. “With the help of your men, you have snatched children from the streets and saved them from horrid fates, ma coeur. Now you have not only me to aid you but your earl as well,” she said, looking at Amber as if daring her to protest once again that Barrington was not her earl. When she did not, Jenette nodded approval.
“I shall gather my men, Jeni. Why don’t you see to Grace?” she suggested.
“Will the both of you please desist in speaking of me as if I were not present. I have gathered my wits sufficiently to function. Go about your preparations. I shall await Burleigh and explain about the earl. Now, off with you,” she said, shooing the younger women out of her way as she set the half-full glass of brandy on the table with a sharp click. She rose and headed for her quarters.
Within a half hour, all of Amber’s men from military backgrounds and those possessing other fighting experience had gathered in her office. Jenette stood near the rear of the crowded room. A handful of the men knew she had been a spy for the English during the late war. None appeared surprised to see her there. Amber outlined what had happened and what might be required to rescue the child—if and when they learned where she was being held.
After the men had dispersed to prepare, Jenette remained behind. “I have been thinking…” she said to Amber, but before she could frame her idea, Burleigh knocked on the open door.
When Amber ushered him inside, she could see the haggard bleakness in his usually merry, kind face. The baronet was badly frightened for his only granddaughter, a beautiful child that she and Grace knew he doted upon. “Burleigh, you poor man, we are waiting word from Mr. Dyer. Please, have a seat. I shall send for Grace.”
Chipperfield shook his head. “I have just spoken to her. She is as distraught as my daughter and I. Pamela’s sister is with her and I’ve sent a messenger to Paris to fetch Randolph home. While we wait for Mr. Dyer and the earl to report, there is little else I can do but offer my pro
foundest thanks for your assistance. Since Pamela is already so overset, I have asked both of them to return here once they learn anything. I do hope that is all right.”
“Of course, my dear Burleigh,” Amber said, pouring a brandy for him, which he accepted gratefully. “It is a wise idea for all of us to put our heads together once we know where Millicent is being held. We shall rescue her,” she said firmly, trying to convince herself as much as him.
A far calmer Grace reappeared, dressed in a day gown of purple linen, her hair smoothed into a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat beside Burleigh, taking his hand in hers. Amber explained that her men were preparing for the rescue and that she had received a message from the earl’s man Frog, indicating that he, too, had been instructed to marshal further reinforcements.
“All we require now is to learn where our battle will be fought and devise a plan,” Jenette said. “I have snatched innocents from Madame Guillotine on more than one occasion.” She noted Amber’s nod. Her friend had been one such.
They discussed various possibilities for a while, and then everyone lapsed into brooding silence, tense as they waited for the sound of hoofbeats. Several nerve-racking hours passed. Then Amber, who stood peering out the window, saw Clyde Dyer jump nimbly from a hackney coach. As soon as Boxer ushered him into the room, Burleigh said, “What has taken you so long, sir?”
“Well, Your Honor, these things always takes a bit of time. A fellow has to muck about in a few sewers. The governess, she described a little one-armed weasel and a clumsy, carbuncle-faced noddy. Has a good eye for details, that gel. Anyways, I asked about down in the Dials, and found out it were a sorry excuse for humanity called Stump Jenkins and his half-wit chum, name of Corker. They’s been known to snatch more’n one little one off the streets, accordin’ to what I been told. Bein’ as this child is from a good family and looks like a regular little angel, they’ll sell ’er to a virgin house.”
“Virgin house! Good God, I thought such places were a great hum—that they employed chitty-faced young trollops, not children,” Burleigh exclaimed as Grace and Amber exchanged grim glances.
Clyde replied, “Most do, Your Honor, but a few others is the genuine article. Lots of folks hungry out on the streets. Some will sell…they sell, so to speak, ‘first rights’ of their own little ones for three or four pounds. Boys as well as girls. But when scum like Jenkins snatch a particular prime ’un like your granddaughter, they intend to sell her to a bawd who pays lots o’ blunt.”
“Do you know the bawd’s name?” Amber asked in a strangled voice, her worst fears realized.
“Got two of me best men fetching Corker ’ere right now. Nabbed ’em slick as could be goin’ into St. Giles rookery. Jenkins slipped away but Corker, he ain’t so quick. ’e’ll tell us ’fore an auction’s held. They always holds ’em late at night.”
“An auction?” Burleigh echoed in an even more strangled voice.
Rob reined in his big black stallion after it clattered over the cobblestones at the rear of the House of Dreams, accompanied by his former sergeant, Seth Coulter, and five other seasoned campaigners who had fought with him during his years in Spain. They passed by several of Amber’s men, who greeted the earl in discreet recognition. Coulter told the rest of their group to wait, then climbed the stairs after the earl.
Hearing the commotion, Amber rushed to the head of the steps. Surely he would not have returned in such haste with another man who must be a soldier unless…She dared not finish the thought.
“Have you—”
“I have just learned that there is to be a special auction tonight,” he replied, making a swift introduction of the sergeant as they neared the office.
Amber thanked the hard-looking man with the unstylish, heavy mustache and level gray eyes, then asked Rob, “When will this auction take place? Where?”
As they entered her office he replied, “The stroke of midnight tonight. At a virgin house run by a bawd named Motley Molly Chub.” He nodded to Dyer. “Have you heard of her?”
“Indeed I ’ave, m’lord. Old Molly ain’t only a bawd, but a smuggler. Owns a warehouse on the docks and a dozen ’ouses and gin shops round town.”
“But then where is Millicent?” Burleigh asked in frustration, rubbing his hands together frantically.
The baronet’s eyes fixed on the runner, who replied, “Me best guess is one of ’er bordellos called the Goat.”
Rob nodded. “That confirms what I was told. Lots of men with far more money than morals frequent it to purchase children at auction.”
Jenette’s mouth was a thin hard line. “Where is this ordure?”
“In the theater district, sort of,” Dyer replied. “On South Street just round the corner from Cyder Cellars where that actor Kean swills himself every night.”
“We’ll require a map,” Rob said, looking at Amber.
She nodded and walked to a wall cabinet behind her desk. In a moment, she was spreading a map of London across the desk, after clearing off all the books and papers.
Rob and the runner studied the location. Dyer traced a line with one blunt finger. “This is Maiden Lane. South Street comes in just ’ere, m’lord. ’Bout ’ere’s the Goat.” He stabbed the map to illustrate.
Rob turned to Coulter, who stood discreetly behind him awaiting orders. “Sergeant Coulter, your opinion?” As his companion studied the map, Rob motioned to Boxer, who stood near the door, taking everything in. “And yours, Sergeant Major?” he asked.
Amber’s head of security stepped to the desk and looked at the map, as did Jenette, who had spent considerable time poring over maps of Paris for similar reasons. Amber watched the exchange, saying nothing.
“I’d say we cannot just ride up to the place and risk drawing attention,” Boxer said.
Coulter nodded agreement. “Close in, that neighborhood.”
“We don’t wants to alert ole Molly’s boys,” Dyer agreed.
“How many men do you have?” Rob asked Boxer.
“I have four men ready to ride on Lady Fantasia’s orders,” the sergeant major replied.
“I have six men. All together we would look like a troop of cavalry riding down South Street,” Rob said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “We must split our forces.”
Jenette surprised the men by leaning forward and tracing her finger over a route on the map. “Charing Cross and High Holborn?” she suggested.
Coulter’s startled expression was filled with more than a bit of male superiority as he looked at the Frenchwoman, but Rob knew something of her background and suspected more. Amber interjected, “Jenette spent years eluding Fouche’s Secret Police in the sewers of Paris. Heed her. No one is better at helping people escape.”
Rob gave Amber a curious glance but said nothing. Had Jenette rescued Amber from the person or persons from whom she now hid? Another matter to consider later. He returned his attention to the intersection on the map that she had indicated. At once he understood what she meant. “Sergeant Coulter, we’ll go east along Holborn to Drury, then south. Here”—he pointed to a turn—“then cut past the south side of the market and we’ll be at the head of South Street. Boxer, your men go east. Take Maiden Lane to the bottom of South Street. If we all arrive at dusk, we’ll have the cover of shadows and time enough to get the child out long before the auction.”
“A pincer movement, like being back on the Peninsula,” Coulter said, eyeing the Frenchwoman, wondering if that was what she, too, had in mind. Boxer only nodded his approval of the plan.
“Then we crash into that damnable den of iniquity and whisk my granddaughter away,” Burleigh said with rising enthusiasm.
“Won’t be all so easy, Your Honors,” Dyer interjected.
“Are her bouncers armed?” Rob asked, knowing that most brothels employed former pugilists to maintain order with fists and truncheons.
“Don’t know for sure, but ole Molly, she don’t need bully boys. She’s the canny one, she is,” Dyer said, scratching his h
ead. “She’s made lots o’ blunt smuggling since the war with Boney started. Ain’t stopped since the peace, neither. Every hidey-hole of ’ers has secret rooms and such to stash stolen goods. Last year the Customs raided one o’ her sties up in St. Giles Rookery. Found lots o’ French brandy and such, but ole Molly had herself an escape tunnel in the basement. Led out to a sewer. The bawd disappeared like fog in sunshine.
“See, Molly don’t take no chances,” Dyer continued as Rob muttered an oath beneath his breath. “Half the time, she’s up in Kentish Town, living like a nob. But with this kind o’ auction, she’ll be at the Goat for sure. Too much quid selling an honest-to-God little angel. She’ll want to handle it ’erself, but if she smells trouble, mark me, she’ll get out and take the gel with ’er.”
Burleigh slumped into a chair and put his face in his hands while Grace placed her arms around his shoulders and offered silent consolation. “There must be something we can do,” she said desperately.
Rob stood, rubbing his chin, his thoughts whirling as various ideas played out in his mind. He sorted and rejected one after another with growing frustration. “We need a bloody diversion,” he said, then flushed. “My apologies, ladies,” he quickly added.
All three women shrugged, indicating they did not blame him. They had heard far worse on many occasions during their varied life experiences.
Rob began to pace back and forth, now thinking out loud. “A fire, perhaps? No, in such a crowded area of wooden buildings, we could endanger the child. A brawl outside the place—we could incite a good fight—but then Molly might take Millicent and run, if she’s half as wary as Mr. Dyer indicated.”
“If I might suggest a better alternative?” Amber said, breaking into his conjectures. Everyone looked at her with interest, most significantly Rob, who nodded.
“What is it you have in mind, Lady Fantasia?” he asked.
“I have heard that the despicable men who take part in purchasing children often do so based on an old superstition.” She flushed slightly beneath Rob’s stare but continued. “Grace and I have had this particular request made of us and refused any further admittance to the men for even suggesting such a thing…”