The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  “Verona, let’s go.” Mrs. Bosworth grabbed Mother’s arm. She looked the woman over, her eyes sharp enough to draw blood. “Whoever you are, get away from us. You’re no better than you should be and have no one to blame for your circumstances but yourself. Accosting your betters in public like this. Go back to the rookery, where you belong.”

  Mrs. Bosworth hustled Mother up the steps to the street, but Charlotte didn’t follow. Instead she yanked off her muff, tucking it under her arm, and peeled off her gloves. Dudley hovered nearby, shifting his weight, too much of a gentleman to leave without Charlotte but clearly uneasy.

  “Here, take these.” Charlotte held the gloves out to the woman. “What’s your name?”

  The woman studied her skeptically. Her cold-reddened hand trembled as she took the woolen gloves from Charlotte’s fingers. “You look like your father. Same coloring.” She stuck her hands into the gloves. Did she think Charlotte would snatch them back? “My name is Amelia Cashel. Former mistress of the Earl of Tiptree.” She almost sneered, her words bitter and hurt.

  “Charlotte, come here at once.” Mother’s voice shot down the steps.

  “Please, you say you have a daughter? How old is she?” Charlotte dug in her reticule and pulled out her entire savings, meager as it was, forcing down any remorse for the library subscription she had hoped to purchase.

  “Her name’s Pippa, and she’s nineteen.”

  Pressing the coins into the woman’s hand, Charlotte nodded. Her mind raced but felt stunned into immobility at the same time as she hurried up the steps, Dudley coming along behind like a faithful hound.

  She had a sister.

  “Charlotte Tiptree, this might be the most foolish thing you’ve done in your entire life,” she whispered to herself as she hurried down the street, head bent, lugging a basket that bumped against her thigh with every step.

  Ice coated the gutters and glazed the cobbles, and she had to watch her step lest she fall. The darkness didn’t help. She’d left behind the lighted braziers and streetlamps a few blocks ago. “At least you can be thankful that the moon is nearly full.” Though the moonlight seemed to do little good. The stars were mere pinpricks, and the buildings created shadows deep enough for a horde of miscreants to shelter in.

  Having given every cent in her purse to that woman, Charlotte had none for hiring a coach, and her father had taken the carriage out tonight. She was forced to walk. It might be less than two miles from Mayfair to St. Giles in distance, but it was leagues in social standing and safety. Block by block along the Tottenham Court Road, the houses dwindled in size, the side streets narrowed, and her tension increased.

  Her hands ached with cold. She hoped her gloves were even now warming Amelia Cashel’s hands … or Pippa’s. Charlotte had no second pair, and she couldn’t carry the basket and use her muff, so cold hands it was.

  She’d never been to one of London’s rookeries, much less one as extensive as St. Giles. If she wasn’t wont to snaffle her father’s newspapers and read them in secret, she wouldn’t even know what a rookery was, much less where to find one. According to the broadsheets, the rookeries teemed with villains and ne’er-do-wells, women of low morals and men of evil intent.

  Which made tonight’s gambit seem foolish indeed as she bumped along, head bent, trying to keep a grip on both her imagination and her courage lest the one get out of control and the other flee entirely.

  As Charlotte saw it, she had two major obstacles: finding Amelia Cashel’s residence in a warren of tenements and squatters’ flats, and getting back to Mayfair safely. All without her parents any the wiser.

  If her mother knew where her daughter was and what she was doing, she’d grab Charlotte by the cloak and drag her to Aunt Philomena’s on foot, bouncing her every step of the way.

  Dinner tonight had been a nightmare. Her mother had sat as still as a Roman statue. Father presided over the meal as if nothing untoward had occurred. Had Mother even told him? He’d surely find out soon enough, London gossip being what it was. Charlotte toyed with her food, her mind consumed with the knowledge that her father was a philanderer and liar and that she had a sister. Well, a half sister, but a sibling nonetheless.

  Pippa.

  Pippa Cashel. Nineteen years old. Which made her two years or so younger than Charlotte. All her life she’d wished for, prayed for, longed for a sibling, a sister, someone to share things with, to talk with, to laugh with. She knew her parents were disappointed that they had been unable to produce more children, in particular a son, but Charlotte shared that disappointment.

  She had grown up lonely, and a sister would have banished loneliness.

  Charlotte glanced at her father. He looked the same as always, perfectly barbered, impeccably if plainly clothed, his features sharp, his coloring, as Amelia Cashel had said, fairish like her own. She glanced around the dining room, taking in the papered walls, high ceiling, single candelabra on the table, but high overhead a chandelier that could be lit when company came over and her father wanted to impress. A fire in the coal stove had warmed the room, and the food, while plain, had been plentiful.

  But no one had spoken a word during dinner.

  Now, as Charlotte hurried farther from her home in Mayfair, cold, scared, on a mission of mercy that might not even be wanted, guilt smote her. Her sister had none of what Charlotte took for granted every day. Pippa’s mother hadn’t even owned a pair of gloves.

  If Amelia Cashel was to be believed, her daughter, Pippa, was now a doxy? As proper and sheltered as Charlotte had been, she knew what a prostitute was, what happened during the transaction. She had science and medical books to thank for her knowledge, since her mother would never speak of such an intimate subject as relations between a man and woman. If either of her parents knew she read about anatomy and physiology, they would be horrified.

  But the idea of any woman being forced to be employed as a prostitute … Most women of society seemed to believe that a woman who sold her favors did so because she wanted to, because some fatal flaw in her character that she couldn’t overcome made her behave so poorly.

  Was that true?

  Were the Cashels merely subject to their sinful natures?

  If so, what did that make her father, who had kept a mistress for two decades? Who had turned them out without any means of support when he tired of them?

  Shame writhed through her middle, and she gripped the handle of the basket until the wood bit into her hands.

  The air stank. Trash gusted along the street, and the buildings loomed overhead, the upper stories cantilevering out over the ground floors, cutting off the faint moonlight. Lamplight showed around tattered curtains or crooked shutters, and a rat scurried across her path. She stifled a yelp, jumping as it skittered into a pile of old rags crammed into the corner of a stairwell.

  She’d arrived in the rookery.

  A sign hung over one establishment halfway down the block, where light poured from every window. With such frigid temperatures gripping the city, no one lingered on the street. A man hurried from the opposite direction, head bent. He glanced up but wasted no time ducking into the tavern.

  As Charlotte slowly approached, she could make out the sign swinging in the wind from two icy chains. Each swing squeaked, emphasizing the quiet everywhere else.

  The Hog’s Head.

  The sign was in the shape of a barrel—a hogshead—but also bore the carved likeness of a pig’s head.

  Just the head. Severed and sitting atop the barrel.

  She swallowed. A most uncouth advertisement for a public house.

  Still, she’d come this far, and a public house open at this hour might be the best place to inquire as to the Cashel residence.

  Girding herself with what remained of her courage, she put her hand on the door and pushed it open.

  Inside, a room crowded with tables, chairs, men, and talk greeted her. Only a few heads looked up at her entrance, but one by one, conversations ceased and eyes fastened on
her. Her heart thudded painfully, and her lungs felt tiny and crammed into the top of her rib cage.

  The odor of stale beer and unwashed male hit her, and she winced. A fire roared in a massive fireplace, and to the side, an unkempt large man came up a set of stairs from below with a barrel on his shoulder. At the sight of her, he lowered it to the floor with a thunk.

  “Sharkey, me eyes is going wonky. I b’lieve I better be done for the night,” a man to her left said, setting down his glass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a girl had just walked in here.”

  “It is a girl, you buffoon,” the large man with the barrel called out.

  “Cor, get a look at her.” The loud whisper came from the back of the room. “She ain’t from around here, that’s certain.”

  “Here, lovey, come sit wif us.” A pockmarked man jumped up and grabbed an empty chair.

  “No, come sit with me.” A rotund man with a florid face scooted his chair back and patted his thigh. His eyebrows waggled, and his lips shone wetly in the light from the fireplace.

  Charlotte’s mouth went dry as she searched from one face to the next for any sign of … well, perhaps for someone who didn’t look either disreputable or lascivious … or both.

  Several chairs scooted back, and their occupants rose, fanning out and approaching her slowly.

  Her knees felt quite mushy, and her heart threatened to batter its way out of her chest. Which made her angry. Why should she cower? These men had no right to frighten her so.

  “Gentlemen, I will ask you to mind your manners. I’m in need of some information, not attention.” She kept her chin up and tried to make her eyes fierce, but the crack in her voice didn’t fool even her.

  They continued to advance, crowding her back toward the door. She held the basket in front of her, and with one hand strove to find the door latch behind her without taking her eyes off the men.

  “What information are ye lookin’ for, me dove?” A hulking fellow with a beard that seemed desperate to hide his entire face grinned, showing off a few gaps where his teeth should reside.

  For a moment, Charlotte couldn’t remember why she was there. She blinked. “I need to find the home of Amelia Cashel and her daughter, Pippa.”

  The men stopped moving. The biggest man scratched his cheek, his fingers rasping in his beard. “Whatcha lookin’ for Pippa Cashel round ’ere for? She ain’t ’ere. She’s too good for St. Giles by a long stretch. She’s up in King’s Place. Is that where you come from? If ya do, I’m going to have to save my pennies and visit you up there.” His eyes flared, and he licked his lips.

  Charlotte shook her head, unable to look away. This must be how a mouse felt when facing a snake. “No, I was told she lived in St. Giles. Her mother told me just today.”

  “Her mum lives round ’ere, but not her.”

  Disappointment seeped in, and for a moment Charlotte forgot her precarious situation. She wasn’t going to meet her sister tonight.

  “What you want with her anyway? We’ll keep you company tonight.”

  Her fingers found the latch behind her, but before she could open the door, the large man planted his palm on the wood over her head and leaned close. His hot, nasty breath puffed against her cheek, and she pressed away from him only to find that another man had come up on her left. His eyes were gimlet sharp.

  “Been a while since we saw a fresh face around here. You do look like you could be a King’s Place dolly-mop yourself, though yer dressed more like a nun. But still, there might be somethin’ interesting under all that fabric.” His hand, nails crusted and filthy, reached for her hood, yanking it back. The abrupt motion and Charlotte’s endeavor to evade him tugged pins from her hair. Her yellow curls tumbled about her shoulders, and several men sucked in quick breaths.

  “Blimey,” one man breathed. “Look how clean her hair is.”

  Charlotte tried to stuff her curls out of sight and tug her hood back up, but with only one hand, she made the situation worse, feeling pins slide and tangle in her hair.

  “I’m sayin’ it now. I get her first.” The big man shoved the smaller man aside. As his giant hand reached for Charlotte’s arm, she squirmed around, icy fingers scrabbling for the latch.

  A whistling sound followed by a thud froze everyone in the room. Glancing up, Charlotte spied a bone-handled knife vibrating softly, embedded in the door. Was it possible for blood to truly run cold? Her vessels felt as if the Thames ran through them.

  She feared if her eyes widened more, they might come right out of her head. A knife? What had she been thinking, venturing alone into the rookery at night? She was an idiot. She should be committed to Bedlam.

  “Stand down, gentlemen.” A deep voice, all the more frightening because it was so calm and controlled, filtered around the bar patrons from the back of the room. “I’ll be taking the lady.”

  Some of the men on the fringes resumed their seats, but the few right around Charlotte scowled and remained where they were.

  A cloaked and hooded figure advanced, weaving between the tables. As he came, he tugged his muffler up to cover the lower part of his face. Digging into an inner pocket, he flicked a gold coin toward the bar. “Drown your disappointment, boys. I’ll shout a round for the house.”

  This moved several more away, but Big Beard stayed planted in front of Charlotte.

  The hooded man reached around him and plucked the knife from the door. It disappeared under the cloak. “Barney, didn’t the last time you crossed me teach you anything?” His voice dropped to a whisper that feathered across Charlotte’s skin.

  She looked from one to the other. Were they going to brawl right here and now? And could she escape while they were thus engaged?

  But the giant’s shoulders went slack, and he bobbed his head like an ox. “Sorry, Hawk.”

  With a small flick of his fingers, the cloaked man motioned Barney aside, took Charlotte’s arm, and opened the door. Behind him, men crowded the bar, clamoring for their complimentary drink.

  The man called Hawk—what kind of name was that?—steered her out into the cold darkness, his grip on her elbow firm.

  “What on earth were you thinking? Are you lost, or have you merely misplaced your reason?” His voice remained muffled behind his scarf, but his breath puffed in clouds through the wool.

  “Neither, sir. Unhand me.” She jerked her arm in his grasp, but he held on. “Let me go, or I shall be forced to scream.” Terror built in her throat.

  “Then I should be forced to silence you.” He leaned close, and his breath brushed her cheek. “I’ve no intention of harming you, but keep quiet. You’ve drawn enough attention to yourself—and me.”

  He sounded at least a bit educated, and … kind? Though impatient too. He set off the way Charlotte had come, his strides long and Charlotte trotting to keep up. The basket thumped against her leg with every step.

  “Where do you live? From the look of you, it can’t be St. Giles. No St. Giles girl would be so foolish as to beard a public house full of strange men at night.” His tone said he thought she had pillow ticking for brains.

  If he hadn’t just rescued her from such a ridiculous situation, she would’ve had more of an argument for him.

  Without waiting for an answer, he hurried toward the Tottenham Court Road. For a few minutes she trotted at his side, but finally, out of breath and out of temper, Charlotte jerked hard to free herself from his grasp and stopped. The cold air seared her lungs, and her breath hung in silvery mist as she gasped.

  “Sir, I am not a barrow to be shoved along the street.” She set the basket down and righted her cloak and hood, her hair still tumbling over her shoulders. “I thank you for your assistance back there, but I am quite capable of seeing myself home.”

  “I doubt that. Any woman who would stroll into the rookery at night, when she’s clearly well out of her element, shouldn’t be trusted to find her way home again.” His voice came from deep within his hood, and his features, other than the glitter of hi
s eyes, were obscured.

  Charlotte bristled, a hundred hot words leaping to her tongue, but she remembered in time that he had rescued her and that her mouth had already gotten her in trouble more than once today. With an effort, she said, “Sir, I assure you, I am fine now.” She stooped to pick up the basket, realizing she hadn’t accomplished her mission at all. “Oh, slipslops and malaprops, I didn’t find Amelia Cashel’s house. Now I have to go back.” She jerked the basket off the cobbles, but the man halted her with his hand on her wrist.

  “You’re not going back in there, not now, not ever. You have no idea how close you came to disappearing forever tonight. Now, come with me.” He took the basket from her and laced his fingers through hers, tugging her along, but more gently this time. Her hand warmed, nestled in his, even through his gloves. When they reached the main road, as if by a conjuring trick, a carriage appeared.

  “Where to, sir?” the cabbie asked.

  The man looked at Charlotte. “Well?”

  “Portman Square,” she muttered.

  She felt rather than saw the surprise in her rescuer’s expression. Because of her plain cloak, he probably thought she looked more like a housemaid than the daughter of one of the owners of a house at that prestigious address. Let him assume. He handed her up into the carriage, and before she could tell him that she had no money for the fare, he swung up beside her.