She hesitated. Everleigh’s needed a spectacular sale. His storeroom, the contents of it, could well be that miracle. “This factory girl. You’re certain she’s fit to care for her sister?”
“Not a doubt,” he said. “Rents a room from me. I talked with my agent just now. Clean and neat, always something cooking on the stove, never a late payment. The little one won’t fare so well in a workhouse, I promise you.”
But to lie before the authorities! Under a false name, no less.
“It would be a fine thing,” he said. “To keep a little girl with her family.” He gave her a cynical smile. “And the warehouse, I’ll tell you, is stacked to the rafters.”
She flushed. It felt very low of her to take that bait. But a businesswoman did not spurn such opportunities. “Would you allow me to put the contents to auction?”
“Oh, ho!” He clapped his hat on his head. “Always business with you.”
Her face got hotter. “You were the one who suggested—”
“Wasn’t an insult,” he said with a wink. “You’re my kind of woman. Ninety-ten split, you say?”
Now she must be red as a cherry. “Hardly! Sixty-forty is the typical arrangement.”
His eyes widened. “Highway robbery, that. I’ll take eighty-five percent, and no argument.”
“I’ll give you seventy-five,” she shot back. “Everleigh’s will bear all the expenses of restoration and transport, and assuming the collection merits it, we’ll pay for advertising, too.”
“Eighty,” he said, “and it all hinges on you telling a very pretty lie. Call yourself Susie Evans, say you’re the girls’ cousin.”
Lying to the government! But . . . for Everleigh’s. “You’re certain she would go to the workhouse otherwise?”
“Bastards will take her straight from her sister,” he said tersely. “Government can’t keep its hands to itself.”
“All right.” She turned to fetch her wrapper off the back of the wing chair.
“Leave off those pearls,” he said. “Susie Evans can’t afford ’em.”
* * *
Catherine clutched her cloak closer to her as O’Shea led her through the tangled streets. An icy wind had shoved the clouds clear out of the sky, and the sunlight fell with sharp clarity over the rutted lane, sparkling off stands of stagnant water in the gutters. “Rotten pipes,” O’Shea muttered as they passed a great cloud of stink. “Fix one, the next one breaks. I should put your brother on it, maybe. These water companies won’t lift a finger without some swell prodding them.”
Catherine covered her nose with her muff, though the men and women sitting on stoops, waiting for children scrambling home from school, seemed indifferent to the stench. O’Shea knew all of them, answering each greeting by name as he passed. As they turned a corner, they encountered a great knot of students celebrating the end of the school day. A line of squabbling boys congregated outside a sweetshop, and two girls slammed a ball against a brick wall with a ferocity that struck Catherine as nearly warlike.
The crowd by the sweetshop fell silent as they spotted O’Shea, then crowed in delight when he dug into his pocket and produced a handful of coins. “Share with the girls,” he ordered as the tallest boy snatched up the money. “Molly, Meg!” he yelled to the girls with the ball. “Come over and get your cakes.”
At the end of the lane stood a shabby, low building with an arched gateway, letters picked out in rusting relief: The Ragged Mission. A line of men and women stood outside in silence, their bowed heads and exhausted faces a stark contrast to the children’s energy. “Notice B Meetings,” O’Shea said with disgust. “Always a joy for the parents of the parish. Summon them during work hours, for who needs to earn a wage?”
Catherine tried not to stare as they passed through the crowd. Some of these women looked nearly waxen with exhaustion, and it seemed that half the line was wracked by deep, hoarse coughs that made her long, with a mix of guilt and revulsion, for soap and water with which to scrub herself clean. “Is consumption a common problem?”
His brief, sidelong glance made her feel foolish for having asked. “One of them,” he said.
They passed through a dim vestibule into a room covered in pastoral murals. The atmosphere was close and warm, for the crowd was considerable, not a spare seat at any of the five long tables that faced the top of the room. At the head table, placed perpendicular to the others, sat four well-dressed gentlemen and a lady, whose smart brown walking suit made Catherine regret the lack of her pearls, after all.
“That’s Mrs. Hollister,” said O’Shea, drawing her up with a quick touch on her arm. “She’s the one you’ll address. Nice and polite, now. Apologetic, like. You didn’t know the little one was skipping school.”
She nodded, very uneasy. Perjuring herself before the law! “There’s a clerk,” she whispered. “Taking notes. It will enter the public record.”
“Mrs. Susie Evans won’t mind that,” he said. “Nor will they ask for proof of your name. Hollister plays the battle-ax, but she’s on our side.”
Our side? Was that the side of the perjurers?
Yet as they stood, waiting their turn, she began to regret her sour view. Each of the parents summoned before the panel offered a more piteous tale than the last. It took some concentration to understand their variety of accents—for these were country folks, or foreigners, or people who had come of age before public education had become compulsory. Now even the poorest children, through their schooling, learned the rudiments of grammar. But their parents spoke cants that had never been put into print.
“He lost his leg on the factory floor,” a woman was mumbling to the board. “Can’t walk, can’t earn, so’s I’ve got to do it. We’ve got two wee ones, and . . .” She touched the great swelling mound of her belly, indicating the obvious. “Well, I’ve got to earn whiles I can, don’t I? So Katie, she watches the little ’uns while I’m out.”
“That is all very interesting,” one of the gentlemen droned. “But it does not change the fact that you are legally obligated to send your child to school.”
“I can’t . . . What else’m I t’do?” The woman’s voice broke. “Three pennies a week for the school fees, and—”
“A trifling sum,” the gentleman drawled. “And as I understand it, Mr. O’Shea”—Catherine stiffened as a tide of gazes swept toward the man at her side—“will cover those fees, for those in Whitechapel who can’t pay them.”
O’Shea nodded to the board man, his face expressionless. But she could sense, in his tense posture, the ferocity of his dislike.
“Aye, Mr. O’Shea’s our own angel, I know it.” The woman swallowed noisily, then wiped her nose with the edge of her tartan shawl. “But it ain’t only fees. Children’s got to eat—”
“And once again,” the man cut in, “I will point out that Mr. O’Shea provides bread and milk to every student in the hour before school. Perhaps your daughter would not go hungry if you allowed her to attend, as the law requires.”
O’Shea spoke in a calm, carrying voice. “You’ll make me rethink that generosity if you mean to use it to shame her.”
“That was not Mr. Stewart’s intention,” said Mrs. Hollister, with a sharp look to the gentleman, who scowled and sat back. Catherine nervously studied her opponent. The woman’s silver-streaked hair, the deep creases at either side of her pursed lips, lent her a matronly air of authority. Sure enough, the room fell quiet as she leaned forward. “Mrs. Mackle, the law is very clear. We cannot excuse Mary from school in order to care for her siblings. But if you were to find her some respectable form of employment, we might grant her a half-time certificate.”
“How?” Mrs. Mackle asked softly. “Hard enough to find work for meself.”
Frowning, Mrs. Hollister glanced toward O’Shea. He nodded once. “Speak to Mr. O’Shea about it,” she said, and smiled slightly as the woman gasped and pivoted toward O’Shea, hands clasped at her throat as she curtseyed very deeply.
Good heavens. Cat
herine gave him a wondering look. He was the king of these parts—and apparently, his reign was more benevolent than rumor suggested.
An unpleasant embarrassment itched through her. She had cast certain accusations at his head that now seemed unfounded.
But he never defended himself. How was she to have known that he played Robin Hood?
“Once she finds employment, we will grant a half-time certificate,” Mrs. Hollister was saying. “But she will still need to attend regularly. Otherwise you will be summoned again, and we’ll have no choice but to send your case to the magistrate, who will impose a fine. Do you understand?”
The woman nodded.
“Very good,” Mrs. Hollister said crisply. “Next?” She glanced down the table, but the clerk with the appointment book appeared to have fallen asleep, chin cupped in hand as he lightly snored.
A titter moved through the crowd as his neighbor elbowed him awake. “Oh, yes, yes—begging your pardon,” he said with a sheepish look toward Mrs. Hollister. He consulted the book before him. “Mrs. Tulip Patrick.”
“That’s us,” Nick said softly as a slim, dark girl, no older than sixteen, rose and pushed through the crowd to the spot in front of the head table. She looked clean and neat, her plaid dress without a rip or stain, if slightly too large for her waifish figure.
“Mrs. Patrick.” Mrs. Hollister adjusted her spectacles, peering over them doubtfully. “You hardly look old enough to be married, much less stand as your sister’s guardian.”
“I’ve been looking after her for years, now.” The girl sounded mutinous. “I do a fine job of it. She wants for nothing.”
“Very admirable,” Mrs. Hollister said evenly. “I am afraid, however, that Mary has not been in school this last month.”
“That’s not for want of me sending her!”
“Miss . . . Mrs. Patrick.” The woman’s voice grew gentle. “Have you some proof of your age and marital state? For if there is no adult in the household, custody of the child—”
O’Shea gave Catherine a sharp nudge. She stepped up to the girl and cleared her throat. God help me. “I live with them. Their . . . cousin.”
For all that the girl looked decent, she showed no hesitation as she glanced over to Catherine and added stridently, “That’s right. This one looks after us. And she’s ever so old.”
Catherine lifted her brows. “Nearly ancient, in fact.”
Mrs. Hollister dimpled. “And you are, ma’am?”
Goodness, what was the name? “Susie Evans,” she said. “Mrs. Susie Evans.”
“Mm.” Mrs. Hollister’s sharp gaze flicked toward O’Shea, who stood behind them. “Well, Mrs. Evans. You serve as these girls’ guardian?”
“Yes.” God help her, she was as much a criminal now as O’Shea, lying to an officer of the law.
Mrs. Hollister gave her a long, speaking look. “Well, Mrs. Evans, then it is your responsibility to ensure that young Mary attends school. Do you understand that?”
“She does,” Tulip Patrick said heatedly. “And Mary won’t miss another day.”
“Very good, then. Mrs. Evans, you heard my remarks to the last petitioner, I hope. You are aware of the penalties, if Mary continues to play truant?”
Catherine nodded.
“Very good. I hope we do not see each other again, then.” Mrs. Hollister turned again to the clerk. “Next?”
Tulip Patrick grabbed her arm and tugged her through the crowd, O’Shea at their heels. Once they were safely back on the street, she said, “God’s a mercy! I can’t thank you enough, ma’am. Fit to be sick, I was, with them threatening to take Mary.” She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes flashing. “What right have they got, I’d like to know, to separate a girl from her sister?”
“All the rights,” O’Shea said flatly. “You bear that in mind, girl. And explain to your sister, too.”
“Oh, I mean to. Brattish dolt!” Tulip lifted her fist. “I’ll leave her ears ringing tonight. You’ll not hear of any more trouble on her account. Thank you, sir! Ma’am.” She flashed another smile at Catherine, then turned on her heel and dashed away.
“How old is she?” Catherine asked softly. “Sixteen?”
“If that.” O’Shea offered his elbow, and they started back down the road. “Father died last year. She’s all her sister’s got.”
As they retraced their steps, she felt keenly aware of the nods and respectful bows that followed their passage. It raised the itching feeling again, a sense that she had judged him unjustly.
“You support that school,” she blurted at last. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why would you have wanted to know?”
“Because . . .” She had married him thinking him the lowest species of criminal. “It seems a good thing to know. You’re not entirely . . .”
He gave her a bland smile. “The devil?”
She pulled free of him. “You can’t blame me for thinking so! You make no effort to advertise your charity. Why, the journalists are always—”
“Those who need to know, know,” he said. “I’ve got no interest in proving myself to pompous bigots.”
He probably counted her among that group. “But it’s no wonder if they make assumptions,” she said helplessly. “You break the law, publicly, every day. Your gambling palace—”
“Is just the start of it,” he said. “I’ve done far worse in my time. It all looks nice and pretty now, but I clawed my way up—and who’s to say that a bit of bread and milk make up for it? Rest easy, then; you can keep thinking me the devil, if it helps you to sleep at night. It would sure be fairer than calling me a saint.”
She frowned at the broken road ahead of them. If only it were contempt she felt for him—and if only she slept easily! The opposite was the case, but to let him see it would be mortifying—and profoundly dangerous. If he knew that what kept her awake in the darkness was the thought of his touch . . . the hot things he’d told her . . . the prospect of another card game . . . he might press his advantage.
And she no longer knew herself well enough to trust her own will.
She darted a glance at him. Their marriage was a business matter. Curiosity was as pointless as desire—but just as pernicious. How had he clawed his way up? He wore that emerald for love, he said. Whose love had he known, and whose did he hope for?
The thought made her go red. That was none of her business, surely.
But this was her husband. Secret or no, they were married for five years.
“Watch out, there.” He put out a hand to help her over a pothole, his grip casual and familiar on her elbow. Her heart skipped a beat.
Did he ever think of the future? Did he despair of the bargain he’d been forced to make, to keep those buildings? Surely he must think her a cold, unfeeling woman. The Ice Queen, men called her. He had better reason than most to do so.
“Miss Patrick’s situation,” she said haltingly. “I wouldn’t have—that is, if you had explained it in full, I would have done it for nothing.”
“Lied for her?” He cocked a wry brow. “To an officer of the law?”
She bit her lip. “Yes. I think so.”
“And missed the chance to get into that storeroom?”
His plain skepticism made her laugh. “Well, no,” she admitted sheepishly. “Not when you’d already made the offer. On the chance you’ve got a collection worth auctioning? I would have been remiss to turn it down.”
“Especially when the profit could prove so rich.” He tipped his head. “Forty percent of the profit. Is that truly your usual bargain?”
She fought her smile, and lost. “Heavens. You actually believed that?”
His eyes widened. Then he threw back his head and laughed, a rich ringing shout that drew the notice of the entire block. “Kitty,” he said, grinning, “for all your fine airs, I’d say you’ve got a bit of devil in you, too.”
CHAPTER TEN
This is foul work.” Catherine’s voice came from deep within the caverno
us gloom. Outside, a cold rain was falling, turning the streets to mud. The small line of windows shed a swampy light over jumbled piles of bric-a-brac, furniture jammed together like ill-fitting jigsaw pieces, piles of books threatening to topple.
Nick maneuvered carefully down the makeshift aisle, following the mineral glow of Catherine’s naphtha lamp. She’d been working in the storeroom for five days, a punishing schedule that saw her leaving Diamonds before dawn. Johnson went with her, kept guard at the door. But today, he’d tracked down Nick at Neddie’s to complain. “A man occasionally needs to piss,” he’d grumbled. “But when I tries it in the corner, she knows somehow. Barks from the far side of the room, Don’t be a savage!”
Nick found her crouched low to the ground, her skirts hiked carelessly over her knees. Now, here was a sight: she wore lace stockings to work as well. Perhaps he’d been wrong to give Johnson the oversight. He would gladly stand in himself.
She was scowling at a chest of drawers, pulling at the wooden knobs with fretful fingers. As the floorboards creaked beneath his heel, she snapped, “Do you see this? Some butcher used glasspaper to scrape off the patina! And this French vice!”
“French vice?” That sounded promising.
She turned, one hand to her chest. “Oh! I thought you were Mr. Johnson. Yes, French polish—though I suppose it’s more properly an English vice, since I can’t recall any Frenchman fool enough to use it.” She wiped a stray lock of hair from her eyes, smearing dust across her cheek. She looked rumpled, sweaty, thoroughly begrimed. Nick had seen beggars in the rain who kept cleaner.
He grinned. A woman willing to get dirty for her work. He’d never have guessed it. “You need to eat,” he said. “Johnson says you skipped luncheon.”
“There was no time for it.” As she started to rise, a wince crimped her mouth. He took her elbow to help her up. The feel of her arm startled him. She had proper little biceps. No doubt she’d earned them through labor—Johnson said she was stubborn at shifting furniture on her own, fearful that he might break something.
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