The Lady Hellion

by Joanna Shupe

  Quint searched his desk for a clean piece of paper. “Assign one of the other maids, or hire a new one. It matters not to me. Thank you, Taylor. That is all.”

  “Pardon me asking, but has your lordship ever given thought to acquiring a valet?”

  Pen paused over the ink pot, he said, “No. Why?” He did not want a valet. Hadn’t had one since he was twenty. They disapproved of his odd hours and his tendency to dress himself. They were worse than nursemaids, and Quint did not need to be cared for like a child. Like an imbecile. Oh, hell . . .

  “The maids, my lord, are responsible for many tasks in a household this size. The additional requirements of your lordship’s wardrobe—the mending, the polishing, the pressing—are quite outside the scope of what they normally do for a master of the house. It’s a valet’s job. I believe we would have more success in retaining maids if there were a valet about.”

  Quint’s face must have shown his horror, because Taylor quickly added, “We could keep him below stairs, my lord, if you’d rather. Your lordship need never see him. But he can tend to the clothing, relieving the maids.”

  It made sense, damn it. Quint never cared for convention, but perhaps it was unfair to ask the maids to do more than their share. “Fine. Find one, but keep him out of my sight.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Taylor retreated, leaving Quint alone to contemplate his exchange with Hudson.

  Just how was Hudson coming by the information? It had to be someone inside Quint’s house, someone observing and passing notes along to the Home Office.

  And then there was the intruder. While the layout of Beecham House was not complicated, the man had known precisely where to find the most expeditious escape. That suggested familiarity with the house. As well as someone who was aware that he and Sophie were otherwise engaged in the ballroom. So who was it?

  The Beecham household attracted a hodgepodge lot, mainly due to Quint’s reputation as a difficult employer, and the fact that he never bothered with references. Anyone on his staff may not be whom they claimed. No employment agency would work with him any longer, so anyone he hired came off the street. Not that it mattered; whatever an employment agency could tell him would be far less than Quint could observe himself.

  Taylor’s interview a few weeks back, for example. Fresh-faced lad, borrowed shoes, too thin, a fading, round burn mark on the inside of his right wrist. Too young to have ever served as a butler but desperate for any position he could find. Quint had hired him on the spot. Regardless, he knew nothing about the lad’s background.

  Glancing around the walls of his study, he frowned. This house was his last remaining solace, the only place to which he could retreat. He’d grown up here . . . buried his parents here . . . come into the title in this very room. It was the one place in the world he’d felt safe.

  Until now.

  Chapter Seven

  Quint stared at the basket on his stoop. A red woolen blanket covered the top, and there was a large paper pinned to the thick fabric that read: For his lordship. “Whom did you say delivered this, Taylor?”

  “It’s unclear, my lord. The person departed before Cook answered the knock.”

  Quint scratched his jaw, thinking. With the break-in a few nights prior, he supposed any number of things could spring out. “Better step back, Taylor,” he said.

  The butler moved away and Quint lifted the edge of the blanket. He saw . . . brown fur. And legs.

  He flipped the blanket off and found a sleeping dog. A puppy, to be precise. Light brown body with black fur surrounding its nose. A fat scarlet ribbon had been tied in a bow around its neck.

  “Why, it’s a little dog,” Cook said, she and Taylor now peering over Quint’s shoulder. “And ain’t she a cute one.”

  Quint grimaced. “Dogs are not cute. Dogs are messy, dirty, and exceedingly dumb. They demand attention and eat . . .” He drifted off as the creature began to stir, its legs twitching in awareness. It blinked a few times and rolled on its back to stretch.

  “A boy dog, I be thinkin’,” Cook laughed and then quickly sobered. “Beggin’ your pardon, your lordship.”

  “No need to apologize for drawing the obvious anatomical conclusion,” Quint said, rising. “The question is, what are we to do with it? We cannot keep it. Perhaps the boys in the stable—”

  Cook gasped. “But, my lord, that dog is for you. Someone wanted your lordship to have him.”

  The dog twisted to his stomach and stood up. His ears flopped over, they were so large, and he put his oversize paws on the edge of the basket and tried to climb out. “Yes, but I do not know the first thing about domesticated animals. How to care for it, what to feed it.”

  “Why, it’s not hard, my lord. Once you get them trained properly, that is.”

  Quint dragged a hand down his face. Christ, the animal would urinate—and worse—all over his house.

  Taylor cleared his throat. “If I may say, my lord, I believe the dog would be a welcome addition to the household. The staff would appreciate the opportunity to care for it.”

  “Oh, yes,” Cook added in a rush. “I agree, my lord.”

  Now Quint looked an ogre if he tried to get rid of the thing. “Dogs need exercise. Who is going to take it for walks?”

  “I’ll have a footman do it.”

  “And I suppose,” Quint said to Cook, “you are going to tell me you shall feed the thing.”

  “Indeed, my lord. We’ve got more than enough scraps for him.”

  The puppy was still struggling to get out of the basket, though the wicker sides were higher than its head. Quint bent down and tilted the basket until the creature was able to tumble out. Tail wagging madly, the puppy bounded down the steps and began sniffing the earth.

  Quint knew who’d delivered the puppy. She could not keep from interfering, despite the harsh words he’d leveled at her. Why was she so determined to poke and prod him? The dueling practice, the fencing . . . and now a dog. He did not have time for an animal. Every bit of his concentration needed to be in research and experimentation, in finding a way to return to his previous self. The man before the accident.

  He still hadn’t decided what to do about her other identity, Sir Stephen. The whole thing would be amusing if it weren’t so incredibly reckless. Was there a purpose to her sojourns as a gentleman, or was she bored? And how had no one discovered her secret before now? Quint would recognize her no matter the costume, convincing or not.

  The dog dashed up the steps and rose to stand on its hind legs, oversized front paws resting on Quint’s boots. The creature looked absurdly happy—his big, round eyes sparkling and vacant—and Quint wondered what a creature so stupid as a canine had to be so bloody jolly about. It seemed to want something from him, but Quint had no idea what he was supposed to do.

  “He wants your lordship to pet him,” Cook said, gently. “Go on, then. Give him a scratch behind the ears, my lord.”

  Feeling ridiculous with both Cook and Taylor watching him, Quint reached to stroke the puppy’s head with one finger. Soft. He’d never touched a dog before. His mother hadn’t allowed pets. He had studied animals out in the country and ridden horses, of course, but he’d never petted a dog. The creature seemed to like what he was doing, though, if the tail wagging was any indication.

  Without warning, the puppy licked Quint’s palm. Quint snatched his hand back and straightened, then shook his head at his own ridiculousness. Licking was instinctual to animals in the Canidae family, both as a method of grooming and to show appeasement. Still, he wiped his hand on his trousers.

  “What breed of dog is it, do you think?” Cook asked.

  “A mastiff, I think,” Taylor answered. “And judging by the size of his paws already, a large one at some point in the future.”

  “How much do you know about dogs?” Quint asked his butler.

  Color rose on the young man’s cheeks. “I grew up in the country, my lord, and my family had animals of all kinds.”

  “Excel
lent. Consider the dog your responsibility, then.”

  The puppy scampered down into the yard once more, ears bobbing, and Quint wondered at this bizarre gift. A dog. What had she been thinking?

  “I am pleased to care for him,” Taylor said, “but the honor of bestowing a name should be your lordship’s.”

  “A name? By which to call it, you mean?” What did one name such a creature? Giving it an identity made him uncomfortable, as if he was treating an animal as a human being. And naming the dog would make it more difficult to rid himself of the thing.

  Of course, if he gave it away, there was every chance Sophie would merely gift him another one. He sighed. Probably less trouble to keep the cursed thing at this point. “Canis horribilis.”

  “My lord?”

  “His name. Canis horribilis.” Quint pointed to the puppy, now digging under a bush. “Fitting, I think.”

  Taylor’s mouth flattened, but he said, “An excellent choice by your lordship.”

  Quint grinned. “I am glad you approve, Taylor. Now he’s all yours.” He spun and started for the kitchens. He’d taken one step when something thumped against his ankle. The puppy waited at his heels. “Go with Taylor, Canis.” Tongue hanging from the side of its mouth, the dog sat on the ground and blinked at him. Quint pointed at the butler, scowled at the dog. “Go, Canis.”

  Nothing. The animal stared at Quint patiently.

  Quint dragged a hand through his hair. If he knew Sophie, she was nearby, someplace close, to observe his reaction. So he certainly hoped she was enjoying this. Stepping forward, he brushed by Taylor and returned to the threshold. “Do not expect my gratitude,” he shouted into the dying light.

  He swore he heard giggling before he disappeared into the house.

  The distinctive odor of the Thames filled the carriage and Sophie turned toward the window. In the daylight, the docks bustled with rough-hewn dockworkers and sailors unloading cargo as well as efficient-looking customs officials on patrol. At night, however, the area had an eerie stillness to it. The revenue officers barred people from the docks in order to protect cargo against theft, so the men moved inland to the brothels and bars.

  At last, the wheels slowed to a stop. Sophie threw open the door and climbed out. The driver jumped down and she experienced a moment of surprise at the man’s size. He hadn’t appeared so large up on the seat. She fished in her pocket for a few coins, handed them over, and started to leave. “I’ll be waitin’ for you over there, sir,” the driver said with a tip of his hat.

  She paused. While she appreciated the gesture, it struck her as odd that he assumed her errand a quick one. “No telling how long I might be.”

  “No worries, sir. I am happy to wait.”

  Hmm. This was the first driver she’d hired who had not departed the second he’d been paid. Nevertheless, it would be foolish to argue.

  Located at 259 Wapping Street, the Thames Police Office was an unassuming three-story structure on the riverbank. Having been established here some twenty-odd years earlier, the police surveyors were charged with seizing and detaining any offenders detected in the act of criminality in and directly around the Thames. While this may have started as a way to guard against piracy and thievery, the men’s responsibilities also included handling any bodies found in the river, the very reason Sophie was now here.

  She knocked on the door. After several minutes, a man arrived, unlocked it, and allowed her in. He was short and wore spectacles. She guessed him to be in his late thirties.

  “Good evening,” she told him, stepping inside on the rough wood floor. “I am Sir Stephen Radcliff. I should like to speak with someone regarding the unfortunate discovery day before yesterday.”

  He peered over his spectacles. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we have many unfortunate discoveries here. To which one are you referring?”

  “The girl. The one missing a hand.” She held up her right arm to demonstrate. “I fear she may be someone I know. I should like to see her, if possible.”

  “Surgeon’s got her downstairs,” he said as he strode toward a large desk against the wall, “but there’s not much in the way to recognize her by now. Have you ever seen a body pulled from the water, sir?”

  Sophie stood a bit taller. Or tried to, at least. “I have not, but I shall not be turned away. The girl may very well be my valet’s sister, and I mean to set the man’s mind at ease.” She slid a few coins across the surface of the desk.

  The clerk wasted no time in pocketing the silver. “Of course, sir. Follow me.”

  He came around the desk once more, a large ring of keys in his hand. There was a lamp on the corner, which he picked up as well. Sophie followed him to the door, which the clerk unlocked to reveal a set of steps. They descended, the soft light throwing shadows on the plain, dirty walls. Doors fitted with heavy locks stood on both sides of the corridor. They continued on to the far end, where the man used another key to open a thick, wooden door. “We keep it locked at night,” he explained and gestured for Sophie to enter.

  This room was brighter than she expected, with multiple lamps positioned around the large space. Instruments covered every surface, a macabre silver reflecting in the glow. There were three long tables, two of which were covered with cloths. A young, bearded man with blood on his clothing—the surgeon, she assumed—leaned against the empty third examination table, a lit cheroot in his fingers. There were dark smudges under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in a very long time.

  “This gentleman wants to see the girl pulled out day before yesterday, the one missing a hand,” the first officer said.

  The surgeon tiredly lifted his cheroot and asked, “Do you mind? Might keep your eyes from watering if you’re not used to the other smell.”

  She nodded, grateful. The underlying scent was already quite strong—a rank, noxious odor of decaying flesh. He gestured to a long table where a sheet-covered lump rested. “Right here.” He walked over and flipped the cloth with a flick of his wrist to reveal a bloated, pale naked form with an incision down the center of her body. Sophie had to dig her nails into her palms to keep from reacting. She’d never seen a dead body, let alone one pulled from the water. The skin was gray and loose, torn in places, the stomach distended. Her hair had been cut short, a rough, haphazard effort. Pity constricted Sophie’s chest as she forced herself closer.

  “Couple of surveyors found her yesterday around noontime. Some boys were throwing rocks at something floating in the water near Horsleydown and the surveyors went to investigate. Pulled her out and brought her here.”

  Sophie swallowed hard. “Do you know what killed her?”

  He pointed to purple marks around her throat. “Strangled.”

  “And her hand was severed.”

  “Yes, very neatly, too.”

  She walked all around, studying the body from various angles. The smell grew stronger and she fought the urge to gag. She took a handkerchief from her coat and held it over her nose. “That mark there, on her leg. Is that a tattoo?”

  “Yes. It’s a small playing card, the queen of spades. Likely a mark from whatever house in which she worked. It’s not a common practice, but there are a few who do it.”

  So not Rose, who had been employed at The Pretty Kitty. Sophie experienced a small measure of relief until she realized this meant another girl had been murdered. This made a total of four found in the last six months—and that still left Rose unaccounted for. She thought of Natalia, the tavern worker that had disappeared a few months back. Could she have been another victim as well?

  “Anything else you can tell me about her, or any idea when she was killed?”

  He blew a long, thin stream of smoke from his lips. “Generally takes at least two days in the water until they float to the surface, depending on the temperatures. Dead before she went in the water. Appears as if she was raped as well.”

  Sophie closed her eyes briefly. A tragic end for anyone, prostitute or lady. “Thank you. I think that is all I n
eed. May I leave money for a proper burial?”

  That seemed to surprise him. “Leave it with the clerk, sir. I think she’d appreciate that.”

  The door closed behind the young man, and the officer, who’d eavesdropped the best he could, stroked his beard. Sir Stephen, he’d said. No good reason for a fresh-faced gent to visit the Thames police in the dead of night. Came to see the girl, the latest victim in what the papers were calling the River Murders. He’d asked too many questions, in the officer’s opinion. Seemed he wanted to know more than just the girl’s identity.

  Sir Stephen had asked the surgeon about the other victims as well. Why? His initial curiosity had been for the most recent girl—not all the others. So why had he lied?

  One person in particular paid the officer good money to keep an eye on things on Wapping Street. Secret, weekly reports of the investigations and activities in the office, which the officer wrote without fail and delivered to the requested address. It was the main reason he preferred working the desk at night. With the constant stream of surveyors, watermen, and constables in and out of the office during the day, it was nigh impossible to piss without someone watching over your shoulder.

  At night, however, the officer could do as he pleased. The surgeon might work late if a fresh body awaited, but he stayed on the lower floor. So there was no one to stop the officer as he picked up his pen and found a fresh sheet of parchment.

  Quint stood just inside the terrace doors and watched as Canis gamboled away into the dark gardens, the puppy’s big ears flopping wildly. Two days since Canis had joined his household and Quint had to admit the invasion hadn’t been as bad as he feared. The animal hardly ever left his side and Quint found it . . . strangely comforting.

  Not that he would admit it.

  Taylor had the right of it; the staff had instantly taken to the animal, eager to participate in frequent walks and feedings. But Canis always returned to Quint’s side. The beast had attached himself to Quint, and there wasn’t a damned thing to be done about it.