Into the Hall of Vice

by Anabelle Bryant

  Chapter Two

  Cole locked Charlatan’s stall, housed within the supervision of Marleybone Livery, and began his walk home. It was a clear, starry night and despite his jaunt to Covent Garden, meant to chase away perpetual restlessness, he couldn’t shake the disquieting agitation that hummed within. He needed distraction. Something meaningful to define his purpose. Of late it seemed he helped everyone except himself.

  For half a breath he considered visiting the Underworld, the gaming hell he owned and operated with two associates, Maxwell Sinclair and Luke Reese, but in a last-minute decision he aimed towards home in desperate need of a solid night’s rest. Besides, it was his turn to be absent from the hell. More and more he was at a loss to fill time outside of work and sleep, the latent distractedness one of the reasons he’d ventured to Covent Garden in the first place, though his better sense told him to make a different choice. He did have other interests.

  Sinclair and Luke were occupied with personal pursuits and seemed not to notice his lack of focus. Recently he’d obtained information Sin needed to resolve an important issue and likewise volunteered to assist Luke as he searched for his lost son, but as far as his own life’s goal was concerned, Cole remained at odds.

  In regular routine, he followed the side alley leading to Seymour Street where he conveniently jumped the fence which bordered some upper’s flower garden. This access cut across the property on to Wigmore where he kept his apartments. He inwardly cringed whenever someone referred to his address, a bastard set up in a fine neighbourhood of snobbery, but he worked hard and strove for better things, aware investment in prime real estate proved smart business.

  This evening the streets were noisier than usual and, as he approached the plot where he trespassed as habit, he noticed two servants arguing behind the house. What they debated he dared not examine too closely.

  He harboured no worries of being caught trespassing, able to assume an assortment of identities to ensure he’d continue on his way. Survival had taught him a bevy of skills which required few articles of disguise. With imitation at the ready, he could play the offended aristocrat, bleary-eyed sot, or passion-dazed cod’s head just returned from a lover’s assignation. How easily he’d hoodwinked myriad peers, preying on their arrogance and impatience to create distance from him. With certainty, it was the single worthwhile skill he’d gained from an unscrupulous youth on the slum-riddled streets of the city’s underbelly.

  Still, a note of disappointment accompanied the conclusion. With the servants outside he’d need to find an alternate route away from the property he’d meant to dissect, which was laden with abundant honeysuckle and lavender in full bloom, the fragrance of the shrubbery an immediate balm and particular favourite.

  Anticipating his unexpected detour, he plucked a cluster of blooms that poked through the fence and placed it between his lips to chew on the stem. He shrugged away regret and sidled behind a thick stone wall which created a barrier to his left. Then he skimmed low to skirt the perimeter in search of a gate or fence to hurdle. He’d almost reached the corner when he overheard voices on the other side. Slowing his steps to remain undetected, he kept an ear to the conversation, noting the dulcet tones of a woman’s voice, cultured and proper quality. A man answered before he could consider it further.

  Oh, but this gentleman was cunning. A promise of information in exchange for a kiss. Cole admired the gentry cove’s smooth efforts, surprised and pleased when the clever lady caught him in the trap and reversed the proposition.

  Charing Cross? Is that what the man had mentioned? Cole knew the roadway and every corner of the surrounding area from his tragic youth. Little more than a street urchin, he’d roamed the connected alleys of nearby neighbourhoods, nabbing whatever odd tasks were offered, mucking stalls, catching vermin for the grocer or scraping soot from narrow chimneys, although the confined space of the firebox always caused his heart to pound. Two pence from a lazy stable hand, a shilling from a nob who needed a message delivered, and another earned for discarding innards for the fishmonger. The sum added to a bowl of broth by end of day. Life was easier then. A wistful frown curled his lips with the melancholic remembrance. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.

  Without further hesitation, he eased closer to the wall, waited until silence insisted safety abound and then, with nothing more than a fleeting glance of the woman’s blonde hair and slim figure as she ventured indoors, he moved on.

  ‘Good morning, Gemma. What are your plans for the day?’

  Gemma smiled in automatic greeting to her brother though inside she fought an instant spark of frustration. She understood the responsibility of care and protection for her and her sister rested upon his shoulders, but each day, week, month since their father’s sudden passing, Kent demanded a precise accounting of her daily schedule, making her personal endeavours near impossible to achieve. Nevertheless, as had become habit, she detailed her plans in respect of his request. ‘I thought to convince Rosalind to take some air in our open carriage with a ride through Hyde Park.’

  ‘Brilliant. She remains indoors too often.’ Genuine concern marked his reply.

  ‘She may not wish to speak right now, but society does not need to know about her prolonged reticence. Let them see her on the bench beside me and assume life continues as always. Our mourning period spent in the country stifled any wayward speculation.’ She stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea. ‘Besides, I hold hope someone will ignite an interest and cause her to respond from necessity or curiosity, an impossible circumstance if she remains locked away here at home.’ Perhaps she’d spoken too forthright, her imagery coloured by inner conflict. Her brother’s brows climbed high before he answered.

  ‘What if someone aligns with the cabriolet and wishes to converse? How will you explain your sister’s lack of communication?’

  ‘A sore throat or megrim? A prolonged malaise? If I’m chattering and supplying an explanation of her silence, how dare anyone persist?’ She took another sip, seeking comfort and reassurance in the hot brew. ‘I believe in my heart the right instigation will cause her to speak again. If only I knew what it was. I dare say I would go mad trapped inside my head with nothing but the thrum of my pulse for company, but as we discussed with each and every doctor, the matter cannot be forced. Rosalind maintains fine health otherwise. She may find comfort in no longer using her voice, broken from Father’s death, but how I wish I knew what troubled her to such extreme she chooses to remain quiet.’

  ‘There is no understanding it. Every physician asserts Rosalind’s silence is a subconscious choice and she will return to rights again, but nonetheless, when I look into her sorrowful face, I question their medical integrity as nothing more than quacks. What sane person chooses to become mute? I wonder if they simply appease me, afeared to inform me of a grave diagnosis that might shade them in disfavour. Meanwhile, it is difficult to sit idle and wait for her to return to the vociferous young girl who added amusement to each day.’ He rifled through a stack of correspondence before he spoke again. ‘Do not mistake my silence on the subject as dismissal. I am at a loss and cannot invest the time I should.’ He continued after the sentimental admittance, reassembled into the stern brother she knew well. ‘It seems I’m forever seeking solutions. Parliament’s most recent bills are a travesty.’ He unfolded another letter as was routine during breakfast and pierced her with a meaningful glare. ‘Return to Stratton House if Rosalind appears uncomfortable in any respect. I know you have her best interest in mind but there are times…’

  ‘Of course. I would never inflict more harm.’ Her words faded on a mutter, daunted by her brother’s chastisement. How he divided his attention between multiple subjects, when one seemed more important, was beyond her comprehension.

  ‘I don’t mean to sound harsh. Obey my wishes and do not cause difficulty. I wouldn’t want your best intentions to go awry by way of enthusiasm.’ He splayed a hand and indicated the pile of papers on the tab
le. ‘Everywhere I look I find opposition. I’ll not have it in my household as well.’

  ‘I understand.’ But she didn’t. Not in truth. Everything had changed since Father’s death. She had lost not just her dear, kind father, but her sister, who chose a lonely silence and incommunicable coexistence. Meanwhile, her brother had assumed the title and since dedicated his time to the consuming demands of the House of Lords more than his own house. With their mother long ago buried, Rosalind was her closest confidante aside from her maid.

  ‘Is that all?’ Kent resumed his interest in the message left resting near his plate.

  ‘Perhaps after we return from the park, I’ll visit a new modiste outside Mayfair.’ She strove to inject a pleasant note.

  ‘Do you want for anything?’ He barely raised his eyes with the question.

  ‘No. Not at all, though I understand this shop creates the newest fashions and it bides well for Rosalind and I to present our best now that we’ve put away our mourning blacks.’ She took another sip of tea in an effort to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘Talk of fabric and frippery is best left to your maid.’ His steely gaze punctuated his dismissal. ‘Be sure to take Nan with you.’ Then, with split interest, he glanced to the letter in hand. ‘Another Poor Bill to contend? This proposed system will distort the free market.’

  She wrinkled her nose, eschewing concerns of Parliament’s business for another reason entirely. Explaining a stop in Charing Cross to her maid would require some inventive storytelling. When her mother died nine years ago, Nan had stepped in to raise her. The line between servant and friend blurred over time and while the woman was not old enough to serve as mother, there were often instances when the maid assumed the role. Still, Gemma had achieved her goal with a modicum of honesty so she would not waste the unexpected boon.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She rose from the chair with energised purpose. ‘Let me inform Rosalind so she may make ready for the park.’

  Mayhap it was the scent of honeysuckle and lavender that jarred loose the tender memory and freed the stifled yearning for kindness, but whatever the cause, Cole woke the next afternoon with a desire to visit Charing Cross. There his makeshift mother lived in a stark flat where, over several past years, she’d housed and protected numerous lost boys, sharing what little she had and wanting nothing in return. As when she’d raised him, the only rules to abide were a strict sense of purpose and honesty in every form, most especially in regard to crime. She kept the lads fed and clothed, taught them the barest education and left each with an indelible understanding of gratitude and kindness to do better by others. It wasn’t until many years later that he understood the sacrifices she made in order to pay rent and purchase necessities.

  Two decades ago Cole was one of these lads.

  Cole.

  He grinned. The remembrance of how he’d chosen his name still held the power to amuse. Shoved from a fancy carriage out onto the street as a tiny lad, his aristocratic father demanded he not return.

  ‘I have no need of a dirty bastard. Your mother should have known that before she left you on my doorstep. Now off with you and forget this day.’

  The stranger, his father, waved his arm as one might shoo away a stray dog. With a forceful push down the extended steps, Cole butted into the side of a merchant’s wagon and watched his father’s fancy carriage roll away, unable to forget the barren fear and utter dejection as he wept for his mother through the night. By morning his emotions had run dry. Determination and pride replaced his previous trepidation. He crawled from beneath the wagon where he’d hidden from rats and predators interested in fresh victims among the overcrowded squalor of St Giles, only to meet with further condemnation and disapproval.

  ‘Git.’ The merchant of the wagon had arrived, his arm raised, a blackened shovel in his meaty fist. ‘Empty your pockets before you go. You won’t steal from Hewitt Coal and you won’t make a home beneath my wagon neither, you little thief.’

  Cole stared at the angry merchant a long minute before he turned and ran, his lungs near bursting from exertion. On that day, a new child was born. Cole Hewitt. He’d chosen the name to forever remind of his self-made promise to overcome his humble beginnings and dismiss all knowledge of the past. When he’d stopped his race against time and regret, he’d dropped to his knees in the dirt and fought tears, motionless and defeated. From that moment on he’d survived day to day, hungry and cold, until a worn pair of boots intersected his path where he’d hidden in the dank corner of an empty alley.

  His life would have become just another dreadful story if Maggie hadn’t scooped him up and offered him shelter. Eventually she taught him his worth and, with that new-found belief, he vowed to become a better person, achieve success and never look back. He would forget his past, wipe it clean from his memory and build a thriving future that had nothing to do with his parents’ rejection.

  He shook his head with pride, unwilling to forage through the despicable memory of his abandonment and the hardships of the years that followed. Today was not that day.

  Dressing with alacrity, he hailed a hackney for the ride to Charing Cross, able to keep the rest of his unpleasant past at bay. Then, after purchasing a bouquet of lilies from a flower cart, he knocked on the door, only to discover no one answered. Where might Maggie-girl be at such an early hour? He pressed his ear to the panel. Not a sound stirred within.

  He called her his makeshift mother, but she was no more than ten years older and, at thirty-seven, she’d made her life’s work to better the lives of the pallid faces lost to the streets. So many abandoned urchins benefited and, with his accumulated wealth from the Underworld, he’d provided most every advantage for her generosity to reach others.

  He eyed the modest house, its wooden porch swept clean of debris, the windows freshly washed. How often had he offered to purchase Maggie a fine townhouse in Mayfair, but she stubbornly refused to leave, dedicated to those less fortunate? Instead he set her up in fine rooms, at least the best this area possessed, and this too was his legacy, an opportunity to make his past a matter of selective remembrance. And in that way, poverty was a blessing. No one asked questions in Charing Cross. It was easier that way.

  Dismissing the familiar reminiscence, he retrieved the brass key from his trouser pocket and turned it in the lock. Inside, he lit the lantern on the hook near the door and placed the bouquet on the kitchen table for Maggie to discover when she returned. He hadn’t eaten and a full stomach would do well to start his day, but instead of nabbing a biscuit from the breadbox, he ventured to the bedroom where he stored a few personal articles in the top drawer of the armoire. He removed the jar of bootblack and adjusted the standing mirror upward so he could see his reflection. Then, with a nimble touch, he worked the black grease through his hair, darkening the golden strands to pitch in less than a heartbeat. He cleaned his hands on a cloth kept there and, with the scarcest vestiges of residue on his fingers, massaged a tinge of colour beneath his eyes, into the hollows of his cheeks, just enough to alter his complexion to ashy and tired, cautious not to appear sickly. He’d kept a day’s growth of whiskers for a scruffy, uncivilised affect. Last, he moistened the gum paste and attached an unkempt moustache, so bushy it appeared almost a beard. A useless pair of spectacles completed his transformation.

  Whistling a cheerful tune, he cleaned up his handiwork, replaced the items and donned a jacket he kept in the hall closet before he locked the door and made to leave. With his initial plans deterred, he would make use of the afternoon with another endeavour.

  He had only one foot off the stoop when an ordinary rented hack pulled to the curb in front of the address. No one ventured far into Charing Cross. Most especially by hackney.

  Some people walked.

  Most people ran.

  Charing Cross was a community of habitual crime. The poverty-stricken population saw no way to survive without repeatedly plundering victims and therefore stole from each other as much
as any fool who roamed without protection and wherewithal. While this particular area had elevated to a modicum of respectability in a broad sense, only a few blocks south a semi-derelict warren of dilapidated houses and open sewers rivalled the worst living conditions in all London.

  More than a little intrigued, he watched as a woman disembarked. This was no place for a refined lady. Her intricately stitched gown and wool pelisse tempted his smile to surface as much as the long scarf wrapped around her head, to shadow her face or add allure. One could never tell. She must be gentry, but hadn’t she any sense? Only a fool arrived in the middle of Seven Dials wearing anything that resembled quality. She would draw more attention than had she disembarked in the nude. That same smile broke free. His swindling days were long behind him, still he could spot an easy mark with surety. What could the lady be about?

  He had no time to consider it further as she aimed directly for the steps where he stood, her face narrowed with a look of determination, her petite figure rigid with purpose.

  ‘May I help you?’ She was a pretty piece of muslin, or at least held the potential to be. Right now her brows were lowered and mouth pinched tight into a grimace, while that unbecoming scarf covered most all other features.

  She raised a delicate gloved hand as if to release him from his offer. ‘No, thank you.’ Her voice was an even-tempered whisper. ‘I’ve come to visit a friend.’

  ‘Miss Devonshire, is it?’ He couldn’t imagine who would wish to speak to Maggie. Even the most well-intended charity folk didn’t venture into this area alone. Maggie was in the practice of helping lost children, those neglected by unprincipled parents who would otherwise be left to loiter and wander were someone like she not to intercept their terrible fate. And while charity had its place, forgotten orphans were not an aristocratic preoccupation by any means.