A Woman of Virtue

by Liz Carlyle

  She looked back to see that Rutledge had vanished into the crowd. But David remained, his expression dark as a growing storm. There would be hell to pay, she knew, as soon as he saw her alone. But that wouldn’t be tonight, would it? For he was going back to Black Horse Lane with de Rohan. And if he lived through that, Bentham Rutledge would try to do him in.

  Cecilia did not know which she feared more. There was little she could do about tonight, other than to pray to God they would be safe. But as for Rutledge, she simply had to think of something. And quickly, too. For it was just a matter of time before one of them blew the other’s brains out—and for no good purpose, she was beginning to think.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In Which Lady Walrafen Concocts a Plan

  During the short, silent journey back to Curzon Street, David refrained from giving Cecilia the scolding she had earned for permitting a scoundrel like Rutledge to flirt with her so outrageously. Instead, he bit his lip and stared into the darkness somewhere beyond her shoulder, for he knew it would not do for de Rohan to overhear another lovers’ spat.

  But what the devil had she been thinking? Had she not listened to his conversation with de Rohan this morning? Yes, she had. But as Cecilia was wont to do, she had simply sailed into dangerous waters on her own. But then again, many would have said Cecilia’s greatest risk had been in taking him to her bed, since he was viewed as far more hardened than Rutledge.

  Though masculine jealousy bit at him just a little, David inwardly admitted that she had probably been well intentioned. Cecilia was not, by her nature, a flirt. No doubt she had hoped to lure Rutledge into revealing himself. While it was possible Rutledge was not involved in the murders, he was still a treacherous man. Perhaps Cecilia had failed to understand that. Perhaps he had best call on her tomorrow and explain it in terms which could not possibly be misunderstood.

  And sooner or later, he meant to catch Rutledge away from the prying eyes of society and finish what they had started. But Rutledge had been right, damn him. Under no circumstance should Cecilia be a witness to such a sordid discussion.

  At last, Cecilia spoke, breaking the fragile silence. “You mean to go on with this foolishness in Black Horse Lane, do you?” she asked, her voice more tremulous than challenging.

  “I do.”

  Almost nervously, she smoothed her hands down the black velvet of her evening cloak. “Then you will return, if you please, past Park Crescent,” she said firmly. “And you will throw a stone at my bedchamber window so that I may know that you have returned safely. If you have not done so by four o’clock, then I very much fear I shall have to come looking for you.”

  David wanted first to laugh, and then to rail at her. Still, underneath it all, he was touched. And of course, he had not the heart to tell her that she’d just publicly proclaimed that he knew the location of her bedchamber. On the seat beside him, the police officer coughed discreetly and stared out the carriage window.

  “I’ll be there by four,” David reassured her.

  “But what if—”

  “I will be there,” he said more certainly.

  After a long pause, Cecilia nodded. “Very well.”

  ———

  “Lor, mum!” exclaimed Etta as soon as Cecilia strode through the door of her bedchamber. “A quick trip, that was. Can’t think why you got all rigged out for so little.”

  Wearily, Cecilia stripped off her gloves as Etta lifted the evening cloak from her shoulders. “Oh, I fear I made Lord Delacourt very angry,” she grumbled, tossing the gloves on to her bed. “He insisted we leave early.”

  Etta’s brows went up at that. “What now? I vow, I wonder if you don’t torture that man deliberately.”

  Cecilia felt her cheeks grow warm. “I’m afraid I let Bentham Rutledge flirt with me just a bit.”

  “Rutledge?” said Etta archly as she folded the cloak over her arm. “That fellow you spied at Mother Derbin’s? The one his lordship thinks is up ter no good?”

  Biting her lip, Cecilia nodded. Had she been wrong to tell Etta so much of what had gone on these last few days? “Really, Etta, Mr. Rutledge was ever so nice,” she insisted. “Almost sad, I thought. And he cannot possibly be mixed up in these murders. I only wish I could convince Delacourt of that before one of them kills the other.”

  Etta pulled a skeptical face. “No disrespect, mum,” she said warningly, “but ‘ow would you know what’s what? I mean—you ain’t exactly experienced in them sort o’ things. Best let Lord Delacourt handle it as he sees fit.”

  Crossing to her dressing table, Cecilia sank down in the chair, crushing her fists into the folds of her silk gown. “Oh, Etta! Spare me your lecture, for I know perfectly well that Delacourt will give me one at the first opportunity,” she moaned. “I just know Mr. Rutledge is innocent, that’s all.”

  “Oh, ho!” exclaimed Etta as she began to pull the pins from Cecilia’s hair. “Innocent, now, is he?”

  Vigorously, Cecilia shook her head. “Well, perhaps not precisely innocent—”

  “Stop yer twitchin’, mum,” ordered Etta around a mouthful of hairpins, “afore I poke out an eye.”

  Cecilia tried to sit still. “All I’m trying to say,” she explained as her long, unruly hair tumbled about her shoulders, “is that Rutledge is an incorrigible flirt, to be sure. And quick-tempered, too. But underneath it all, there is something else I cannot quite make out. And I greatly begin to fear that someone will get hurt! Indeed, I begin to suspect Delacourt is on the wrong trail altogether, and I shall never forgive myself if something terrible happens to him because of it.”

  At that, Etta slapped a handful of hairpins onto the dressing table and barked with laughter. “Worrit about Delacourt, are you? Oh, mum, that’s a rich ‘un, that is. He knows what he’s doing, count on it.”

  Cutting a glance up at Etta’s reflection in the mirror, Cecilia pursed her lips. “Oh, you think so, do you? Then let me tell you that at this very instant he is with Chief Inspector de Rohan, breaking into Mother Derbin’s cellar!”

  Pensively stroking a brush through Cecilia’s hair, Etta grew silent for a moment. “Well,” she reluctantly admitted, “that does sound a bit dicey.”

  Cecilia frowned into the mirror. “Indeed, the whole of his behavior has been nothing but dicey these last few days. And if he lives through tonight’s foolishness, he next means to schedule a dawn appointment with Rutledge. I begin to believe I must take steps to put a stop to it.”

  “Oh?” Etta’s stroking hand slowed. “An’ just what do you mean ter do?”

  For a long moment, Cecilia considered it. “I believe I must speak with Mr. Rutledge alone. He and David obviously despise one another, but I daresay I can persuade Rutledge to tell me what he knows.”

  At once, Etta’s hand froze. “Oh, m’lady... I don’t like the sound o’ that one bit.”

  ———

  After sending Cecilia home, David and de Rohan swiftly changed into boots and dark breeches, then sent ‘round for his carriage. Together with Kemble, the trio made their way east toward Black Horse Lane. To David’s surprise, the neighborhood which had been relatively quiet during his visit with Cecilia now thronged with boisterous people, mostly of the lower classes, and more than a few of them looking a trifle castaway.

  De Rohan apparently sensed his disquiet. “The workers have all come to the public houses tonight to be paid,” he said by way of explanation.

  In the darkness of the carriage, David looked at him pointedly. “To be paid?” he echoed. “In the tap rooms?”

  “A common practice, my lord,” interjected Kemble.

  De Rohan snorted. “Allegedly for the convenience of the employer.”

  At that, Kemble laughed bitterly. “Convenient for the tapsters, more likely. And not at all convenient for the women and children who are apt to see next week’s rent drunk up before daylight.”

  Again, David found himself stunned into silence. Soon, his coachman was pulling over as instructed,
some distance beyond Black Horse Lane. Quietly, the three of them got out, David taking down an unlit lantern from his footman as they left.

  “Follow me,” ordered de Rohan, jerking his head toward a dark alley. “This route runs parallel to the main thoroughfare and approaches the brothel from the rear.”

  They set off, the clamor of the street quickly fading into oblivion. With de Rohan in the lead and Kemble closing the rear, they proceeded through the moonlit, twisting lanes at a good clip, the silence broken only by the howl of a distant dog and a faint but rhythmic clink, clinking sound.

  “What the devil is that racket?” David finally hissed over his shoulder.

  “Tools,” whispered Kemble.

  “Aye,” interjected de Rohan bitterly. “Cracksman’s gear, by the sound of it.”

  “You mean there are tools for such a thing?” asked David, incredulous. “I somehow imagined one used a hatpin or a hammer.”

  De Rohan gave a grunt of astonishment. “For a man with such diversely skilled servants, my lord, you are remarkably ill informed.”

  Again, David made no answer, for he did not know what to say. Kemble was deuced odd. Where on earth had Rannoch found the fellow? David was willing to lay a goodly wager that the man had not spent the whole of his life as a valet.

  It took but five minutes of walking before David recognized that they had come out in the opposite end of the alley which ran behind Mother Derbin’s and the tobacconist. In a shaft of moonlight, de Rohan paused and pointed into the shadows. “The stairwell is beneath that window,” he whispered. “I’ll stand watch.”

  “Now, let us see what we have here,” said Kemble with a measure of relish. Without misstep, the valet made his way down into the black pit of the stairwell. In the darkness, David could hear his gloved hands sliding expertly back and forth across the wood.

  “Afraid of wandering through St. Giles to buy my porcelain, were you?” whispered David dryly.

  Intent upon his work, Kemble ignored the sarcasm. “Three locks,” he confirmed, sounding very unlike the persnickety, effete gentleman’s gentleman David had thought him. “And all of them remarkably alike. Exceedingly considerate, I should say.” With another clink-clank, the valet put his tools down.

  To David’s surprise, Kemble had eschewed his normally dapper dress for trousers and an old frieze surtout, all in solid black. Now, but a few feet below, he could barely be seen. With de Rohan standing above, David listened as the valet knelt to rummage through his small black bag. Gingerly, he withdrew two or three silvery objects, and then struck a tinderbox to light a small stub of candle. After passing it up and down the door, he blew it out again, then set to work.

  Almost at once, David heard the little snick of the first lever tumbler as it eased into place. The locks were obviously well used, and the next two followed shortly. It was just that easy.

  In a matter of seconds, David had descended into the cloud of stale urine and damp mold which hung about the stairwell. Cracking open the door, he pushed it inward just an inch. Inside, no light shone, but the musty odor of an unused cellar was remarkably absent.

  Carefully, David slipped past Kemble to step inside, pausing to listen. Above, he could hear the faint tinkle of an ill-tuned pianoforte and the rumbling tread of people moving about Mother Derbin’s drawing room. But below, all was bathed in silence.

  Quietly, he knelt to light the lantern. If someone were to be caught, he wished it to be only himself, since this bit of foolishness had been his idea. The wick sputtered, then flared to life, bathing the low-ceilinged room in yellow light. Lifting the lantern, David passed it about, chasing shadows from the corners as he moved. The windowless room was all but empty.

  He exhaled a sigh of relief, unaware until that moment that he had been holding his breath. Over his shoulder, he motioned to Kemble and de Rohan. “You two needn’t come in if you don’t wish to risk it,” he said, even as they both slipped inside.

  De Rohan pushed shut the door and began to prowl through the room, as a panther might prowl in search of his next meal. His boots were silent on the earthen floor which was smooth and free of debris. Along the rearmost wall, two wooden trestle tables flanked a tall cupboard. The inspector’s eyes lit upon it, and swiftly, he yanked open the doors, which swung free on well-oiled hinges. Empty.

  In silent warning, David gestured to their right, toward the narrow wooden stairs which descended from the main floor. Opposite them, the center wall was set with a small, crudely fashioned door made of planks and bolted shut with a rough-hewn wooden bar.

  For a moment, de Rohan studied it. “Another room,” he said quietly. “Let’s have a look.”

  One by one, they squatted down and crawled through the door. Inside, the floor beneath them dropped down another two feet, but there was a great deal more to see. Here, the ceiling was even lower, and the floor neatly laid with flagstone. Against one wall sat four crude wooden bunks with what looked like straw mattresses. On a low table, a candle stub sat in a clay dish which overflowed with melted tallow. A broken teacup lay in pieces beneath it. Other than that, this room, too, appeared empty.

  “I think we’re beneath the tobacco shop,” whispered de Rohan as David moved through the room, lifting his lamp and passing it all about. He looked back at the plank door, noting the bolt affixed to the inside. A room designed for privacy, then.

  Suddenly, something crunched beneath David’s boot heel. He stepped back and squatted down to pick it up. It was a small wooden slat with a bit of brass hinge fashioned into it. “Look here, de Rohan,” he whispered in the darkness. “What do you make of it?”

  De Rohan and Kemble drew near, facing each other across the piece of wood. Kemble stroked his index finger over the brass hinge, then lifted his eyes to the police officer, his expression knowing. “The metalwork is elaborate—Asian or Indian, I should guess,” he said.

  His face grim, de Rohan took the slat and roughly drew his thumbnail over the wood. For a moment, he regarded it in silence. “Mangowood,” he finally said. “And you’ve a good eye for metalwork.”

  Just then, David’s eye lit on a small footlocker shoved beneath one of the bunks. “Look there,” he whispered, jerking his head toward it. “A seaman’s chest, do you think?”

  De Rohan knelt to drag the chest from beneath the bed. Inside lay a bundle of rags, a brass bowl, a few tallow candles and a small, four-bladed knife, curled like long, wicked fingernails.

  Gingerly, the police officer picked up the strange tool. “A nashtar,” he whispered hollowly.

  “What the hell is that?” asked David, holding the lantern over the open chest. “It looks like some tool of the devil.”

  “In a manner of speaking, it’s precisely that,” answered de Rohan darkly. “This is a lancet used to harvest poppy juice. Someone must have kept it as a souvenir.”

  “Opium smuggling,” said Kemble succinctly.

  David looked back and forth between them. “But opium is perfectly legal,” he said tightly. “So someone is bringing in opium for unlawful purposes, I take it?”

  Grimly, de Rohan nodded. “For the very worst sort of purposes, I should say. And bypassing the Customs House to do it.”

  “It sounds as if we need to pay a visit to the Queen of Kashmir, does it not?” said David.

  In the dim light, de Rohan shook his head as he stared down at the elaborate lancet. “I do not know,” he mused. “Certainly, this looks Indian. But opium is usually imported from Turkey, perhaps Egypt.”

  “Legally taxed opium, you mean,” interjected Kemble. “But if a person had regular access to an India-bound merchantman...?”

  Absently, David knelt and plucked the brass bowl from the contents of the sea chest. “What does its origin matter?” he mused, studying the intricate design. “I cannot imagine one would store anything legally imported in the cellar of a brothel.”

  With a grunt of agreement, de Rohan shoved the wooden slat into the pocket of his greatcoat. “You are right
about that,” he answered, as David touched the bottom of the brass bowl, which was covered with dark resin. “What have you there, Delacourt?”

  Still holding the bowl in one palm, David reached out a hand to Kemble. “Look here, old boy, give me one of those silvery tools of yours.”

  At once, Kemble drew two from his bag, his brows drawing into a puzzled frown.

  David took one, then scraped a little of the resin onto the tip and knelt to hold it over the flame of the lamp. Kemble and de Rohan squatted down to watch as David tilted the tool this way and that over the heat. Quickly, the lump turned pale, softening like a glob of candle wax. Soon, it began to swell, and then bubble and hiss.

  Immediately, David carried it to his nose, gingerly inhaling just a whiff. “Ugh!” he exclaimed, jerking away from the smell. “Definitely opium.”

  Kemble’s expression darkened. “You’ve visited opium dens, then, my lord?”

  With two quick swipes, David raked off the residue onto the toe of his boot. “Once or twice,” he quietly admitted, addressing the cobblestones. “The unfortunate consequence of a dissolute life, you are no doubt thinking.”

  “I should certainly be pleased to hear otherwise,” de Rohan growled.

  David laughed a little bitterly as he rose from the floor. “Let’s just say I’ve had occasion to go searching for lost souls,” he confessed. “Regrettably, friends can disappear into such places, and one never knows if or when they will emerge.”

  Abruptly, de Rohan stood. “Foolish friends you have, my lord.”

  “Neither opium eaters nor fools are rarity amongst the beau monde,” admitted David.

  “And it is in part your frivolous beau monde which creates a black market for this vile merchandise,” de Rohan bit out.

  David passed the tool back to Kemble. “I know that,” he said quietly. “And I’m not proud of it.”

  “Well, I just wish to God they would use their wealth to bribe the legal substance from some greedy physician,” de Rohan snapped. “Then they might stay in the West End and die in their own beds, rather than bring their filthy habits into my neighborhood.”