by Shirl Henke
Grace could see that Amber was struggling with her embarrassment in front of the earl. She picked up on the cue, saying, “Yes, some aging rakes who have lost their ability to perform,” she explained as Sergeant Coulter’s mouth dropped in silent amazement, “believe that if they bed a very young virgin their potency will return. If we had an older man feign interest in such a cure…” Now she looked over at Burleigh, who was beginning to comprehend.
“I would be that old rake,” he exclaimed. “I shall offer a huge amount of money—get the door open so the rest can rush inside when I gain admittance.”
“Ye’re onta something there, Your Honor, ladies,” Dyer said, clearing his throat nervously before he continued. “But, ya see, an old bloke what’s lost his, er, manhood, well, that just ain’t our way inside. Molly might figger it’d take too long, er…” Now it was Dyer’s turn to flush red as a spring beet.
“Please, do continue, man,” Burleigh commanded as Grace nodded encouragement.
“She’d never chance ’ow long it might take for ’im to get it up.” He stopped and clapped his mouth shut abruptly, then doggedly resumed. “What I means to say is it’d be best to have Your Honor pretend to be wanting a cure for the pox.”
“Yes, the only cure for it, according to many leeches, is having a young virgin. Fools believe the pox can be drawn out of the man and transferred into the girl,” Grace clarified as neatly as any Sunday school teacher explaining the miracle of turning water into wine at Cana.
Dyer nodded gratefully. “Just so, Mrs. Winston.” He turned to Chipperfield. “If Your Honor was to offer, after a bit o’ hagglin’, say three hunnert pounds for only a few minutes, Molly would think she could clean up the gel and still auction ’er off later that night as a virgin. Old bawds knows ’ow to fake it. Double her profit, it would.”
Rob nodded with an expression of extreme disgust. “Filthy business, but it might just work.”
“I’ll do it!” Burleigh exclaimed. “I could use my old walking stick, pretend to hobble, flash about some money and gain entry. Then—”
“Then we rush in and seize Molly before she can escape,” Rob said, seeing how it could play out. “The trick will be convincing her to come to the door and haggle.” He looked at the baronet.
Chipperfield’s face was set. “I will drive a very hard bargain.”
Rob evaluated the older man. He was built like a tree trunk, broad shouldered and rock solid. There was not an ounce of fat on him. And, judging by his expression, he could keep control of his emotions sufficiently to play the part.
Grace held her lover’s chin in her hand, saying, “My dear, you look too healthy. We shall apply some of my paints to make you appear ill and older in dim light. Come now, let us prepare.” She and Burleigh stood up.
As Dyer furnished Chipperfield with a brief explanation about how to approach a bawd such as Motley Molly Chub, Amber and Jenette exchanged whispered words. “There will be other children in that place, won’t there?” Amber asked her friend, knowing the answer.
“A woman as evil as this, oui, I imagine she buys many unfortunates, stolen off the streets, even sold by their own starving parents…” Jenette gave a helpless shrug indicating that she had seen far too much in her own brief lifetime. “I know what are you thinking, ma coeur.”
“We cannot just rescue Millicent. We must save them all.”
Jenette nodded with a hint of a smile. “I agree. What do you suppose the gentlemen will think when you suggest it?”
“I shall not merely suggest it but demand it. And what is more, you and I shall accompany them—although we will not tell them that…just yet!”
Chapter Eighteen
Much as I would wish to save them all, it is too dangerous, Fantasia,” Rob said firmly when she demanded they rescue all the children in the virgin house. “We have no way to transport them. They could be killed—”
“Do you think life after being raped by poxed old lechers will be worth living for those children? How long do you imagine such young ones survive in that kind of place before they die of disease or abuse?” she asked with rising anger.
Before he could reply, Jenette cut in. “We have two closed carriages—they are large and will conceal the little ones. How many do you believe there might be, Monsieur Dyer?”
The runner shrugged, considering. “Maybe few as four or five, or many as a dozen. No more’n that at the Goat.”
“Even twelve children would fit easily in two coaches,” Amber said stubbornly. “We have two boys who are excellent drivers. Grace and I rescued them from the streets, so they know how to take care of themselves. You must bring out all the children as soon as Burleigh has found Millicent and driven away with her.”
Rob looked from her implacable face to Jenette’s equally determined albeit less combative expression. When Grace moved forward, he threw up his hands in defeat. “All right, we will round up all the children we find in that den, but my driver Frog will handle the lead coach. Will that satisfy you?” he asked Fantasia.
She nodded regally. He did not see the wink she exchanged with Jenette.
As dusk thickened and a light fog swirled over London, Rob and the two sergeants inspected their men’s weapons and horses, making certain everyone understood how they were to be deployed when they left the mews behind the House of Dreams. When the earl was satisfied that all was ready, he returned to the house just as Burleigh stepped outside.
“I can scarcely recognize you, sir,” he said in amazement. The baronet looked to be tottering on the verge of death, his gray skin hanging in creases and his eyes sunken back in the sockets.
Theatrically, Burleigh hunched over his walking stick, seeming to use it to support his weight. A larger size of clothes concealed his robust build and made his body appear as wasted as his face. “I think the doorman at that hellish place shall feel safe allowing me inside,” he said grimly.
“Just remember, once you’ve gained entry, wait for us,” Rob reminded him, still concerned that the older man’s fear for his granddaughter might lead him to act rashly.
“He knows his part, m’lord.” A woman spoke behind his back.
Recognizing Fantasia’s voice, Rob turned around—and blinked as if trying to clear cobwebs from his mind. “Fantasia?” he said, looking over the dirty stable boy’s shoulder for a beautiful woman in a bright yellow gown. Standing before him was a slim lad sporting a cap as grimy as his soot-smeared face. A baggy shirt hung over his ragged, torn breeches. His toes peeped out of holes in the scuffed boots on his feet. Both were liberally caked with manure.
“My stable boy Wally’s clothes,” she explained, turning around for his inspection. Seeing him and Burleigh wrinkle their noses, she added, “He had just mucked out the stalls when I asked to borrow them.”
“Where do you think you are going in that absurd disguise?” Rob asked, already knowing the answer. She had a percussion-lock pistol shoved in her waistband.
Amber watched him cross his arms over that impossibly broad chest and glare. She glared right back. Burleigh straightened up off his walking stick and made haste toward his coach, saying, “I shall be ready to leave as soon as you, er, settle matters.”
“You have no idea what kind of hellish place and dangerous people we are dealing with.”
“And you do? Come, m’lord. Before you first came here, had you ever visited any sort of bordello?”
“I’ve inspected factories and almshouses in the worst slums and gone in disguise into flash houses as well. Why do you think my speeches before Parliament have been so vivid? I’m a veteran of the war on the Peninsula. You—”
“I have seen more cruelty than you might imagine,” she snapped. “M’lord, we are wasting time. I am going and so is Jenette,” she said as her companion rounded the corner, also disguised as a grubby lad. She, too, carried a pistol tucked in her wide leather belt.
“This is insane. I know you can shoot well, Fantasia, but two women, no matter how skilled
they are with firearms, will only be in the way.”
“How will those terrified children react to a group of hard-faced soldiers storming in and trying to carry them off during a fight with Molly and her men? Once inside, we can take off our caps and the little ones will see we are women. We can calm them and get them to climb into the carriages waiting by the door. Quickly, safely.”
“She is right, mon seigneur,” Jenette said softly. “You will require our assistance, oui?”
“Remember what Mr. Dyer cautioned us,” Rob argued. “We dare not fire shots. Bow Street is nearby and the last thing we wish is to have the authorities intervene.”
“Certainement. I am prepared,” Jenette said in a deceptively quiet tone as she slipped a wicked-looking blade from her belt.
Something in her eyes reminded him of the Spanish partisan women he had met during the war. “I believe you, but Fantasia—”
“I am coming, too. I’m strong enough to wield a cudgel. Any of your men might be forced to fire a shot. We will be as careful as they to see that it is not required.”
He looked from Fantasia to Jenette. “What would you do if I refused? Shoot me? No, on consideration, please do not answer that.” He sighed and muttered an oath, then stared at Fantasia with narrowed green eyes. “When we reach the Goat, you will remain with the carriages until we clear the place. Then I shall signal for you to come in and attend to the children, is that understood?”
“It is understood, mon seigneur,” Jenette replied, dashing off toward the stable and the carriage.
Amber nodded. “I understand.” But that does not mean I shall obey. “As you reminded me, you are the one with military experience.” But I know what it is like to be held prisoner.
Fantasia’s two coaches, with Amber and Jenette in the first one, headed down Charing Cross, their plain black exteriors and shabbily dressed young drivers attracting little attention in the twilight. When they neared the virgin house, they pulled up, one at each end of the street. They were far enough away from the Goat as not to cause alarm. If not for Dyer’s description, they would never have recognized the virgin house. There was no identifying sign hanging over the door, which was made of stout, well-scarred oak. It would take a battering ram or a cannon shot to break it down.
As Boxer’s men trickled in from above South Street and hid themselves, Rob dispatched three of his men to slip around the rear of the big ugly frame building with peeling gray and green paint. They took their places, one in the alley and the other two at the sides, to make certain no one escaped through a window or a back door.
Satisfied that everyone was in position, Rob dismounted, handing his reins to Sergeant Coulter, who already held the reins of the other horses. “As soon as O’Keefe, Cooper, and I lunge out of Chipperfield’s coach and breach the door, everyone rushes in on the double,” he said. “Watch that no one fires a weapon unless absolutely necessary.”
Coulter resisted the urge to salute, but said, “Yes, sir, Captain! Er, m’lord.” He watched the earl stroll casually around the next corner to where he knew Burleigh’s coach waited at the prearranged rendezvous point.
Frog sat on the driver’s perch, appearing unconcerned, as Rob quickly leaped inside. O’Keefe and Cooper were seated across from the baronet. The two burly men had served with Rob and Coulter during the war. They all exchanged nods of grim understanding. Then the earl rapped on the roof and Frog snapped the reins, heading for the Goat.
When Chipperfield’s coach stopped at the entry, Rob whispered to him, “Remember, you must get the bawd to come to the door.”
“I will do it,” Burleigh replied.
It was difficult to credit that the old man climbing down from the coach was the robust baronet. He hobbled to the door and knocked. Rob and his men watched, poised to leap out. “All right, Burleigh, all depends on your being as good as Kean,” the earl murmured.
Everyone except for the men behind the Goat observed from their scattered vantage points when Chipperfield struck the door with his walking stick and waited.
A small spy window in the door opened and a hoarse voice challenged, “Wat ye want?”
Burleigh gave a good imitation of a racking cough and spat on the cobblestones at his feet, then said, “I’m of a mind to sample the virgin that’s supposed to be auctioned tonight—if the chit really is a virgin.” He spat again.
“Sure ’n he could’ve convinced me,” O’Keefe whispered to Cooper.
“Come back at midnight and bid with the rest o’ the toffs,” the doorkeeper said, starting to slam the little window closed.
Burleigh beat upon the door once more and yelled, “Look at this, you carbuncle-faced cork brain!” As soon as the window reopened, he shoved a fistful of banknotes toward it. “My leech says a real virgin will draw off this damnable pox. The younger the gel, the better. Word is around the gaming hells that you have a real one and I’ll pay double for her!”
The pockmarked doorkeeper’s eyes widened as he saw how much money the old devil was practically shoving in his face. “Er, I gotta ask the mistress. Just wait.”
Burleigh grimaced in satisfaction. Excellent. Motley Molly Chub was coming to the front door herself. She would not escape with his precious Millicent!
He coughed a few more times, loud enough to be heard through the heavy door. After several minutes, the window opened again and a handsome female with eyes as glacial and dead as an arctic winter peered out at him.
“We are holding an auction at midnight,” she said with diction so precise that Burleigh was certain she had practiced to erase any trace of her flash house upbringing.
However, she did not close the window when he again raised his fistful of banknotes. “I know about the auction but have no desire to make my plight public. Besides, I only want to use the gel for a few minutes to draw off my pox. I’ll pay fifty pounds for the treatment and then you may sell her to the very devil for all I care.”
Molly Chub had not come from a St. Giles flash house to become owner of a far-flung smuggling and prostitution empire without recognizing a business opportunity when she saw one. She studied the wasted face and expensive clothing of the man at her doorstep. He looked sick enough to be desperate and rich enough to pay far more than the fifty he clutched in his fist.
In and out. She smirked, knowing that the sick old rake would only use the chit for a few moments. Then she would have time aplenty to treat the little brat with warm alum water to tighten and shrink the torn tissue. When she bled the second time, the drunken auction winner would believe he had been the cause of it. A handsome profit for one night’s business. But first, this transaction.
“The chit is only twelve, a golden-haired little angel. I could not sell her virginity for less than a hundred.”
Burleigh felt the bile rising in his throat. Just hearing the evil woman describe his Millicent in this manner made him want to tear the heavy iron hinges from the door and smash it down on her. But he controlled his fury and bartered back, “Seventy-five pounds.”
Molly’s eyes narrowed. “One hundred or you may wait and appear in public at the auction.”
Chipperfield coughed again and cursed, giving voice to the rage boiling inside him as he replied, “Very well, a hundred it is, you mercenary bitch!” To spur her to open the door, he reached into his waistcoat and extracted more banknotes.
As the door swung open, Burleigh deliberately stumbled against it as he entered. Motley Molly Chub stood directly in his path, backed by a hulking giant of a man with no front teeth. The woman wore a gown of pale blue satin and as skillfully applied face paints as his own—to the opposite effect. She was stunningly beautiful in an icy way with snow white hair arranged in elaborate curls on top of her head. The diamond necklace at her throat glittered almost as much as the greed in her dead gray eyes.
Shark’s eyes. He had read of the great killing beasts. Here was a smaller version, every bit as deadly…and far more brutal. To feed her greed, he reached into his pocket
and pulled another fistful of banknotes out, shoving them into her bejeweled claws.
“If you will follow me up the stairs,” she said, turning her back as she began to count the loot.
The toothless brute guarding the entrance started to reach for the door when Chipperfield dropped his walking stick directly in front of him. The baronet bent to pick it up, blocking his opponent as the door to his coach sprang open and his three companions leaped out. The gatekeeper tried to step around the old man, but Burleigh grabbed him behind his knees and attempted to throw him on his back. It was like trying to lift one of the Elgin Marbles. The huge doorman must have weighted twenty stone. Chipperfield sank to his knees as a ham-sized fist started to crash down toward his face.
Hearing the commotion, Molly dashed for the stairs, money flying as she clutched it to her bosom with one hand while the other raised her skirts so she could run in heeled slippers. She screeched an alarm, dropping banknotes like a maple shedding leaves in a high autumn wind.
To avoid being smashed in the face, Burleigh ducked his head into the giant’s crotch and sank his teeth into the bulge of his indecently tight breeches. The gatekeeper let out a squeal of pure agony. The supposedly sickly old man’s arm reached between the guard’s legs to grab his belt. The brute froze, afraid to punch because of the blindingly painful hold his opponent had, clamped on like a leech.
As Rob and Cooper dashed past him in pursuit of Molly, O’Keefe stopped to intervene. Burleigh opened his mouth just enough to growl, “I bite again and you’ll be singing soprano!”
At that instant the big Irishman struck the doorman on the head. As he crumpled unconscious to the floor, Chipperfield shoved himself free and spat in disgust. “I do thank you, Mr. O’Keefe.”