The Gentleman Spy

by Erica Vetsch

  “She’s not here.” The parlormaid had followed them up the stairs. “She hasn’t come back all week. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen neither.” She touched her cheek. “Gave me a good slap for it, he did.”

  “Who did?” Charlotte asked.

  “The guv’nor,” the maid said. She bent close, looking around her before whispering, “Him what really owns the place. Not that we knew that before. He smashed in here in a rage and told us he owned all of us, especially Pippa, and that he’d kill us all if he found out we were hiding her from him. We all thought he was just another client before today. A mean one, but nothing special.”

  Several girls huddled in a doorway in various states of dishabille, tightly packed as if to gather courage from their friends. When no one tried to stop her, and no calamity befell her instantly for speaking out, the maid continued in a still quiet but I-don’t-have-to-whisper voice, “He was in a towering rage, he was. Said when he found her, he’d teach her a lesson she’d never forget. He don’t come round often, but when he does, we walk small and hope he doesn’t notice us. He does as he likes around here, takes what he wants, and we pretend it isn’t happening. Never knew he owned the house before tonight though.”

  The women behind her nodded as one.

  “Lord Ratcliffe.” Sir Noel edged past Charlotte to get into Pippa’s room.

  The knot of girls shrank together, and the maid flinched. “You didn’t hear that name from us. You didn’t hear any name from us at all.”

  Charlotte stepped over the doorsill into her sister’s room. Furniture was overturned, drawers emptied, the mirror smashed. The violence of it gave Charlotte an odd, hollow feeling around her heart. Where was Pippa now, and had Lord Ratcliffe found her? “What was he looking for? She clearly wasn’t hiding in here.”

  “This is rage. A tantrum.” Marcus squatted and sorted through a pile of broken china beside the toppled dressing table. “Look for anything that might tell us where she might be.”

  “Why? Why is he after her? Why is he so angry?” Charlotte’s hands shook as she picked up a book, pages bent from being thrown across the room. Without thinking, she read the title page. The Modern Griselda, a novel by Maria Edgeworth. Charlotte had owned a copy before her father burned it. A pang hit her heart, not for the loss of the novel but because she and Pippa had similar taste in books.

  Sir Noel righted a chair. “Lord Ratcliffe is the shadow owner of this brothel. He is, in fact, Pippa’s employer.” He shook his head. “Marcus’s erstwhile informant, Coyne, finally came forth with information last night, and we’ve been able to piece together most of Lord Ratcliffe’s financial network. It turns out he secretly owns several receiver’s shops, taverns, tenements, and a handful of brothels, this one included, in addition to his public holdings in several shipping companies.”

  Marcus rummaged through a pile of silk dresses flung from the armoire. “Coyne has been holding out on me. Feeding me bits and pieces, and all this time he had the information I needed. Partridge wasn’t best pleased with Coyne, I can assure you. He’s probably still quaking after that interrogation.”

  Charlotte picked up another book, and some clipped-together pages fell out. She made a grab at them, noting they were written in longhand. Flipping through the papers, she realized what they were. Names, dates, amounts. A ledger.

  A ledger of Pippa’s customers. Would Pippa seek refuge with one of her clients for a time? Charlotte turned the pages, scanning the columns.

  Then one name caught her eye.

  Hawk. A fortnight ago. Five pounds sterling.

  Charlotte’s vision narrowed, the noises of the others faded away, and all she could see was her husband’s code name in a prostitute’s ledger. Her skin felt as if ice water flowed over it, and her pulse thrummed in her ears. Her mother’s warnings about the unfaithfulness of men crashed about in her head.

  “What have you found?” Marcus came to her side. He took the pages from her nerveless hands, reading them quickly.

  The air disappeared from the room, though she tried to suck in a great lungful. Her vision blurred, and she knew she couldn’t stay in that room a moment longer. Dropping the book she still held, she fled down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the street. She had to get away, to run far and fast and pretend it wasn’t true …

  Hawk. A fortnight ago. Five pounds sterling.

  Her husband had paid her sister for her time and attention …

  She pressed her fists to her temples. It couldn’t be true. Could it?

  Her husband and her sister … was it spy and informant, or something more salacious?

  Footsteps behind her. Marcus clattered down the stairs, taking hold of her arm. “Charlotte, listen to me. This isn’t what you think.” He held up the ledger.

  “How could it not be? It’s there, in black ink.” All the hurt boiled up in the accusation. The hurt of her father’s betrayal, her mother’s acquiescence, her husband’s secretiveness, her sister’s refusal of help … Charlotte felt she stood alone on one side, with all of them ranged on the other.

  “Yes, it is. I have visited your sister many times. Because she had information I needed. Because she was one of my best contacts. Because she came to me a year ago and saved my life.” He held her firmly but without the cruelty of Lord Ratcliffe.

  She wasn’t afraid of him, only wary of being fed another lie.

  “I have never used the services of any prostitute. I paid Pippa because she told me to, because the overseer of this house demanded a cut of all her income, and because it provided a good cover. If it had become known that I was visiting her for information on her clients, it would have put us both in danger.” He bent his knees to force her to look him in the eyes and then straightened as her eyes held his. “Charlotte, I’m asking you to trust me. I know I don’t have much credibility in your eyes at the moment, but when we find Pippa, she will tell you the truth. I have never been unfaithful to you. Not before our marriage and not since. Seeing Pippa was part of my job.”

  She desperately wanted to believe him. He sounded sincere. He looked earnest. And the story was plausible.

  “She saved your life?”

  “One of her customers used to work for the War Department, and he talked too much, wanting to impress her, no doubt. One night he told her my name and what I did, so when he left, she set about tracking me down. Sir Noel and I made certain that particular leak was plugged, and Pippa became one of my network of informants. In order to hide what both of us were really doing, she kept my name in her ledger like all the others, I paid for her time, and her bosses got a cut.”

  She tried to take it in, to see the logic. Please don’t be lying to me.

  Bleakness entered his eyes when she didn’t respond. There was no time to think anything through, and her only experience with this sort of thing was her father’s obvious and ongoing betrayal.

  His shoulders sagged. “Charlotte, I want you to go down to Aunt Dolly’s and wait for me there. We’ll find Ratcliffe, and we’ll find Pippa, and I’ll bring her to you. She’ll tell you the truth.” He turned her on the pavement and pointed her toward the rescue house at the end of the street.

  Charlotte wanted to protest almost as much as she wanted to flee. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t even feel.

  Sir Noel joined them on the sidewalk. “We should contact the Bow Street Runners. They’ll have the manpower we need to begin checking the businesses and properties Ratcliffe owns. He might be hiding in one of them. I’ll go to their headquarters, and you go back to my office and go through the Coyne papers again, see what we might have missed. Partridge can start combing through the tenements we know Ratcliffe owns.”

  Charlotte walked toward Aunt Dolly’s. Her husband was hunting a dangerous man who had proven he was willing to kill even the Prince of Wales to get what he wanted. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill Marcus if he thought it would help him get away.

  What if she never saw him again?

  F
ootsteps behind her had her turning, but she wasn’t prepared when Marcus grabbed her into a fierce embrace. He said nothing, crushing her to him, burying his face in her hair. After a long moment, he cupped her face, tipped her head back. His mouth came down on hers, kissing her hard at first and then gentling. When he finally broke the kiss, he pressed his forehead to hers. “When I come back, we’ll sort everything out. I promise.”

  Her heart thudded against her stays, and she pressed her lips together against the onrush of emotion his kiss stirred up. She could say nothing, only nod once as he stood her away from him and joined Sir Noel in the carriage. Holding the door open, he said, “I’ll be back. Everything will be all right.” The door slammed, and he was away.

  Please, Lord, let him come back to me. Don’t take this good thing from me.

  She prayed all the way down King’s Place. She prayed all the way up the steps of Aunt Dolly’s house. She prayed all the way down the hall.

  As she opened the kitchen door, she called out, “Belinda, it’s just me.”

  Her hands froze on the frog closure of her cape.

  Belinda had been bound and gagged and tied to a kitchen chair, and Ratcliffe had Pippa held before him, a pistol pressed under her chin.

  A wicked gleam lit his eyes. “Ah, just in time. I had thought to take that ugly cow as my insurance, but you’ll do even better.”

  CHAPTER 15

  RATCLIFFE MARCHED THEM both through the back door, keeping the gun pressed hard against Pippa’s back. Charlotte had no choice but to acquiesce to being taken in Belinda’s place. She remembered the anger, the hatred in Ratcliffe’s eyes when he’d accosted her that morning, and knew he was more than capable of killing.

  He forced them to wind through the back gardens of several houses, keeping to the mews whenever possible. Where was everyone? Were there no grooms or coachmen about today? Someone to see them, someone Charlotte might signal to indicate they were in strife?

  But it was Palm Sunday. Most of Greater London would be in church at that moment. Even those who didn’t regularly attend services would make an effort to go this weekend and next.

  And Marcus was racing away from her, headed to wherever Sir Noel’s office was located.

  Several streets away from King’s Place, Ratcliffe bundled them into a black carriage, pushing them onto the floor in a heap. “Stay there and keep quiet.”

  Sandwiched as they were, face to face in the narrow channel between the seats, and with Ratcliffe slamming his boots into Charlotte’s hip as he took the rear-facing seat, neither could move.

  “What were you thinking coming to King’s Place alone?” Pippa whispered against Charlotte’s ear.

  “What were you thinking running away from the safety of Haverly House?” Charlotte shot back.

  “Safety? The man who tried to kill me was eating breakfast at your table.” The words hissed from her lips.

  “If you had told me the identity of the man who tried to kill you when I asked, I would have made sure he wasn’t on the guest list.” She couldn’t believe Pippa was blaming her for their predicament. Then she almost laughed in spite of their troubles. She and Pippa were arguing … like sisters.

  “We’ve got to try to escape. Do you have any kind of weapon?” Pippa asked.

  Before Charlotte could answer, Ratcliffe kicked her. “I said stay quiet.”

  Charlotte stifled a moan, her hip throbbing, and closed her eyes. Lord, help us. Help Marcus to realize we’ve been taken. Help him to find us. And help us to think of a way to get out or to signal someone that we’re in trouble.

  “What are you doing?” Pippa whispered in spite of Ratcliffe’s warning. “Are you having some sort of fit?”

  Opening her eyes to slits, Charlotte said, “Praying. Now hush.”

  “Praying? What good will that do us? We aren’t in church.”

  The sarcastic disbelief on Pippa’s face irritated Charlotte, but it was far down the list of things to worry about. Where was Ratcliffe taking them? Marcus had said he was the shadow owner in several endeavors. If he took them to one of his brothels or pawnshops or taverns, would they ever be found?

  The carriage bumped and jounced, and with every jolt, her shoulder and hip banged the floor. They must be going deeper into the heart of the city, because she could now hear other traffic, horses’ hooves, the clatter of carriage wheels. And the sound of church bells. It must be the noon hour. Palm Sunday services were finishing. People would be heading home to their roast beef and Sabbath afternoons.

  They rode in silence for what seemed forever, traveling farther and farther from the known and familiar. Were they heading into the country? Or to the coast?

  Pippa gripped Charlotte hard as the carriage swerved, taking a sharp right-hand turn.

  “Forget what I said. Don’t stop praying,” she whispered into Charlotte’s ear. “We need all the help we can get.”

  Charlotte nodded, but the fear in Pippa’s voice traveled to her heart. The journey was taking a long time, but she dreaded what would happen when the carriage finally stopped. Ratcliffe had called her his “insurance.” What would he do with her when he no longer needed her?

  Pippa thumped into Charlotte as the road headed down a steep slope.

  Down? Where would they be heading down a steep, cobbled street? Then the smell hit her, dank mud and mildew, at the same moment she heard gulls. They were heading to the Thames.

  The river meant warehouses and tenements, rookeries that bordered the water, bridges to the south side, and boats. Lord Ratcliffe owned ships. She’d heard him talking to General Eddington during the house party about his holdings in several shipping companies, as well as the money he had recently made trading through the London Stock Exchange, which he planned to invest in more shipping opportunities.

  The light vanished. The sound of the horses’ hooves changed, echoed strangely. They had driven into a building. A powerful smell that overwhelmed the river odor hit them.

  Tobacco.

  The carriage stopped with a lurch, and Charlotte’s forehead hit Pippa’s chin. Ratcliffe used her as a stepping stool, grinding his boot against her hip as he opened the door and stepped out. With an extreme lack of gentleness, he yanked on Charlotte’s ankle, jerking her toward the open door.

  She kicked out, striking him in the gut, and scrabbled to the ground, her hair falling into her eyes as she tried to run. Her escape ended after two steps. Ratcliffe clamped her wrist, spinning her around and forcing her into his body with a thud. He twisted her arm behind her and with his other hand grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back. Pain shot through her shoulder, and she thought it might come apart.

  “If you’re going to be more trouble than you’re worth to me, you’re going to find yourself floating facedown in the Thames.” He yanked her hair, causing stinging tears to form in her eyes. “Pippa, keep her in line. You know what will happen if you don’t.” With one final snatch of her hair, he shoved Charlotte away. She staggered back, and Pippa, just climbing from the carriage, caught her. Charlotte cradled her injured shoulder, stunned at his violence.

  “Watch them.” Ratcliffe motioned to the coachman. The driver, a lean man, held his coachman’s whip in both hands and nodded.

  Charlotte shoved her hair out of her eyes and took stock. They were in a warehouse. All around them huge barrels stood in tall stacks. Black stencils proclaimed the contents to be tobacco. The smell was overpowering.

  Pippa nudged Charlotte. “Don’t goad Ratcliffe’s temper. You don’t know him like I do. If you push him, he’ll lash out, and he enjoys causing pain. We must bide our time and look for a way out. You’re supposed to be known for your brains. Use them.” She kept her voice low and her face averted from the coachman.

  Her brains. What use was a lot of knowledge of Greek and Roman history in this situation? She looked up at the rafters high overhead, then at the area around the coach. Everywhere she looked, barrels and barrels of tobacco. What could she do? How could
she effect their release?

  What she needed was some sort of signal, a way to let Marcus know where they were.

  Ratcliffe returned, motioned for the coachman, and took Pippa’s arm. “Hurry now. Walk in a normal manner, and don’t draw attention to yourself. You, take her. Both of you, put your hoods up.” The driver took Charlotte’s elbow, tugging roughly at the hood of her cloak to get it over her bright curls. Ratcliffe made certain they saw his pistol, hidden under his cloak, and marched them toward the door.

  They emerged into the sunshine, and Charlotte blinked. She had never been to the Isle of Dogs and the London Docks, but that must be where they were. A forest of masts and yardarms bristled against the blue sky, sails furled, hulls rocking gently. They walked quickly over the cobbles along the quayside.

  “Keep your heads down,” Ratcliffe ordered.

  Charlotte complied, but she scanned the warehouses, the ships, the dockyards as best she could beyond the edges of her hood. She’d never seen so many ships in her life. Even if Marcus traced them to the dockyards, how would he find them amongst this armada?

  As they crossed a gangplank, she tried not to look down at the water lapping against the ship’s side. A dizzy spell rocked her, and her stomach lurched.

  She got seasick punting on Layer Brook at her father’s country estate.

  Lord, if You were ever going to give me a good gift, I could use an idea right about now.

  “Anything?” Marcus asked Partridge, who had just returned from a foray into one of the worst tenements in Limehouse. They stood in Sir Noel’s office above Hatchards. Marcus combed through the papers Coyne had given up late last night, searching for other possible bolt holes Ratcliffe might have escaped into.

  “No one’s seen a thing.” The big man shook his head, taking off his hat and slamming it against his thigh. “They’re telling the truth. I made sure they were more afraid of me than of Ratcliffe. If he’s hiding, it isn’t in there.”

  Marcus slapped the papers onto St. Clair’s desk. Where could Ratcliffe be? And where was Pippa? Had he caught up to her somewhere after she’d left Haverly House? She’d been missing for hours.