“Could we not invent more stories?” she asked wearily. Other journals did, especially when news was thin on the ground.
Her father’s cheeks mottled with red and his eyes narrowed. “I do not know what you consider to be the contract with our reader, but telling lies is not one of them!” He plunked his tea dish back in its saucer, shattering the china. The pieces of the saucer fell apart from the dish as if shunning it.
Her heart sank. They didn’t have a great deal of money to waste on replacing china, and that was one of the last sets they had. However, what he said—she couldn’t blame him for that. The Argus gained its reputation over the plethora of other journals because they always told the truth. They might exaggerate it a little, but a nugget of honesty always remained. Other hacks made up their stories if they could not gain them honestly.
“Yes, Papa,” she said meekly, but only because he was right. That nugget kept them honest, or as honest as they could afford to be.
“And you will go back,” he said.
She sighed. “Yes, Papa.”
It seemed she had no choice. Besides, the wages she was receiving were the best she’d had for some time, enabling them to live in relative comfort. For the money, and to keep her father happy, she would face the lion in his den. Again.
*
“Is she back?” Amidei murmured to his factotum. Standing in the hallway of the club, nodding to the visitors, he was satisfied that the mixed-sexes policy had deterred nobody but the highest sticklers, and they would never have entered the club in the first place.
“She’s been serving in the ladies’ room all day.”
“You made sure she had time to rest her ankle?” he asked sharply.
Lightfoot grinned. “Since when did you concern yourself with the servants’ welfare?”
Amidei rolled his eyes. “Since one of them was nearly killed on my property.” He kept the words very low, hardly putting any sound into them, so that he delivered them mind-to-mind more than vocally. He had no desire to have anyone overhear him. No word had reached the press of the incident. He knew the gossip, and for the most part loftily disregarded it, but there had been a lot of it recently.
“She’s fine. She has worked very hard today, but she’s been reluctant to leave the kitchen when she knows you are at home.”
Amidei touched the heavy skirts of his green coat. They stood out stiffly from his waist, the fashion even more exaggerated when he wore it. “I shall transform,” he said thoughtfully. And follow her, he added, mind-to-mind. It’s time we discovered what she is up to.
Lightfoot grinned and bowed. “Indeed, my lord.” I had expected you to ask her to visit your parlour.
To trap her in my web? Amidei added before he strolled away. Upstairs he gave no indication that the landing had been a perilous place the day before. It certainly was not now. The dark blue carpeting was firmly in place, preventing any similar incidents.
Upstairs in his room, he stripped off his magnificent coat, tossing it carelessly across a chair. After dropping his emerald pin into the tray lying on his dressing table, he unwound his carefully folded neck cloth, and tossed that aside too. He took care unbuttoning the heavily embroidered cream-coloured waistcoat. After all, it was a work of art, and Amidei appreciated art. This had a pattern of twining vines, with the occasional flower peeping coyly from the raised and padded stitches. It reminded him of the shy violet currently doing her best to avoid him. The girl fascinated him, and her reason for being here gave him the excuse to take a personal interest in her doings.
That all-enveloping cap on her head covered a multitude of sins. If he was fortunate, they were sins of the best possible kind. The kind it took two to commit.
No, he was wishing for the truth there. Joanna—if that was her name—was what common parlance would call a good girl. Every movement she made proclaimed that, every time she looked away. Her discomfort when he was attending to her ankle disarmed him. She touched a part of him he had not consulted for a long time, had almost forgotten existed. That part of him that yearned for something for himself. He had firmly put his personal concerns aside after the explosion thirty years ago. Perhaps it was time to think of his own needs once more.
He stripped off his breeches and toed off his shoes, leaving them for his valet to organise. The highly polished, faceted steel buckles on them were too flashy for his destination, as was their glossy, unscuffed brilliance.
Lastly, he plucked the elaborate wig from his head and dropped it on the dressing table. A puff of fine white powder went up. He gave a tight grin. He left the comte behind so easily, as he had left other personae, in other times. From a cavalier sporting lace-topped boots to a gruff Roundhead, to an officer of the Crown in the second Charles’ reign. And before, and after. Yet he remained essentially what he was.
A man harbouring the attributes of a god, so closely meshed now that he was not sure which was which. Nor did it matter, because the god was with him until he died.
On stockinged feet, he went into his dressing room and pulled out the bottom tray of the smallest clothes press. He wouldn’t bother with the coarse linen shirt. He didn’t need to go that far. But he pulled on the loose breeches and the unadorned waistcoat with the plain buttons. Then he tied the dingy neckcloth around his throat in a careless knot, disdaining any form of pin or careful arrangement.
He threw the brown coat around his shoulders and thrust his hands through the sleeves, grimacing when the fine lace at the end of his shirtsleeves emerged. He’d forgotten those. Finding the end of the running stitch holding the lace in place, it took him barely a minute to pull it through and discard the lace which, had he been foolish enough to leave it, would have given him away in an instant.
Now for the wig. No, he had no need. His hair had grown long enough for him to tie it back. It was pale enough to pass for a wig. That would save some time. Finding a black grosgrain ribbon, he fastened it back, not too careful with the bow, crumpling the ends of the ribbon in his fists to crease them and make it appear old. And the shoes? Ah yes, here they were, scuffed, repaired and nailed, the plain brass buckles scratched and worn. It had taken him a long time to locate those, and even longer to persuade Lightfoot to leave them be. Amidei smiled, recalling the fight he’d had with him to leave these items alone. He had won, but his Lightfoot had made his point, and Amidei had, as a reward, kept the offending articles out of the sight of his fastidious body servant.
The shoes fit well, though, the leather soft and yielding. He had an unadorned hat, the edges blunted with age and the black dye faded to a soft charcoal. With little regard for fashion, he jammed it on his head, and took a look in the mirror. And there he was, a city man, not of the wealthiest, but certainly far from indigent. One of the many who passed through London’s streets unnoticed, busy about their own concerns.
You may send her home now, he told Lightfoot. Tell her you have seen her limping, and you would rather she did not advertise her injury to the customers. Assure her she will receive full wages for the day. If she demurs, imply it’s a small reward for not bruting her injury abroad.
I will have her out the door in minutes, Lightfoot assured him.
And he did. The factotum sent Amidei word when his quarry was ready to leave the house. Amidei slipped out of his room, heading for the private stairs at the end of the wide corridor. They were once a servants’ access route, but once he bought the club he’d had the stairs sealed off, on the pretext that they were not safe. After unlocking the door, he slipped through and secured it behind him, relieved nobody saw him.
After all the years he’d lived and learned, Amidei knew how to deflect attention from himself. He could, even in his most flamboyant clothes, enter a room and have people notice him only when he was ready for them to do so. Not that he would rely on it now. Some people were immune, and the effort always drained power. He would prefer to employ a simple disguise and a don’t look at me shield.
Ah, there she was, a small figur
e, shoulders hunched, scurrying down the broad pavements. Emulating Joanna’s stance, Amidei followed, shoving his hands in his pockets and adopting the attitude of a very busy man with no time to waste.
Autumn was dwindling into winter, and the light beginning its slow descent into twilight, and then nightfall.
When she rounded a corner, Amidei nearly lost her. Joanna Spencer was adept at threading her way through crowds of people, making herself smaller even than she was, in order to pass without offending them or drawing notice to herself. She rarely let up her pace. Amidei seriously considered stepping into the road, but too many carriages were rolling past them to make that choice possible, and in any case, the road was redolent with horse-droppings, despite the best efforts of the crossing sweepers.
The rapidity of transitions in the city never failed to surprise Amidei. From gracious palaces and grand houses to smaller establishments seemed a matter of turning a few corners. Striding up the busy thoroughfare of the Strand, Amidei wondered how much farther they had to go. Not that the distance bothered him, but why did she not get a cab? Or a chair, even? The dome of St. Paul’s loomed ahead, its great classical design incongruous in the jumble of alleys and streets. The large coaching inns on Ludgate Hill were busy, as always, chairmen, hackneys and private vehicles jostling for space, the area before the inns open to allow the coaches to hurtle under the arches leading to the inn yards.
Behind St. Paul’s was one of the worst rookeries in the city, a place authorities dared not go, the streets piled high with filth because night-soil men avoided it too. The occasional starved pig snuffled in the gutter, sometimes shoved aside by a skinny child rooting for the same food. To walk into the warrens, unprepared and unknown, was to court instant death. They’d slit a woman’s throat for twopence in Seven Dials and St. Giles.
Joanna should not be going anywhere near these areas alone. Anxiety twisted its way through his gut. What was she thinking to wander through these streets alone?
They must have travelled for two and a half miles before twilight settled in earnest and Amidei gave up any idea of a proper dinner. He’d pick something up at the club on his return. Joanna had not paused, not once. She had quickened her pace, if anything. She strode with an almost mannish gait, and had Amidei not taken note of her drab costume and old straw hat, distinguishing her in his mind from the other people thronging the streets, he might have lost her long ago.
He had looked up her address at the club and recognised it as false. He had come to know this city well over the years, and he was sure that the address she gave the club, close to the corner of Hyde Park, near Tyburn, did not exist.
He was right. She was not going there, had passed any turnings that might take her in that direction long ago. They skirted Smithfield Market, the meat market with its cluster of general shops selling secondhand clothes and pawned or stolen items. Some were still open, but even Amidei would think twice before entering the grubby, stinking premises.
She plunged into the streets, not looking to her right or her left, as if she had taken this path many times before. Did she come all this way, there and back, every day? The distance had to be three miles or more. While that was nothing to a god in his prime, a young woman should never have to travel so far. He should send a carriage for her or—he laughed, a soft huff of air. She would not appreciate that kind of attention, even if he could render it.
Did all his servants come this far, the ones who worked at the club by day? Most lived in, but Amidei employed a lot of people, and for some preferred to use their own lodgings.
The streets became narrower, the tall houses reaching up to obscure the narrow strip of sky that stretched above them. Here, where the Great Fire had devastated the city a hundred years ago, most of the establishments were relatively new, but already they showed signs of degeneration. The stone was blackened by soot, the sills crumbling here and there, windows were broken, shutters flapped open. Other places, the prosperous ones, were neat establishments. They passed several coffeehouses and inns. Golden light streamed from the doors and unshuttered windows to splash passers by in puddles of brightness. Joanna took no notice, rapidly hurrying past, heading toward a destination that remained a mystery to Amidei.
Half way up Fore Street, toward Moorfields, she paused and glanced behind her. Amidei ducked, bending so his height was not so obvious, but she did not pay any particular attention to him. Instead, she pressed on the latch of a door and went inside.
Amidei crossed to the other side of the street, dodging the piles of horse shit. Presumably the vails for street sweepers were not so generous in this part of the city. He walked past the place before crossing back and returning up the street.
A small, shiny brass plaque at one side of the door she’d entered gave him the information he sought. “The Argus,” it proclaimed. “The Truth Will Be Told.” It looked new.
Shock arced through him. She was part of one of the muckraking journals that thronged London? How could that be? How had she slipped past his guard?
Perhaps she lodged upstairs from the journal. But no, when he dared to glance through the window, he saw her. She’d taken off her hat and was busy untying the strings of her unlovely cap, talking to an older man of broad build, almost bull-like in his stance.
A lover? Husband? He was old enough to be her father. She’d told him she had a sick father, but that man didn’t look sick.
His head still spinning, Amidei stepped away from the window before they saw him, and walked farther up the street, where he found a small coffeehouse still open for business.
He stepped inside. He needed to think, and also to discover more. Coffeehouses were the places to go to hear gossip. Business was conducted in them all day, so the customers would think nothing of a few enquiries directed at the right place.
“Good evening, sir.”
He glanced at the woman sitting at the desk just inside the entrance, and bestowed an absent smile on her. She blinked, her eyes widening before she returned the smile. Flattering attention probably got her better vails.
The place was about half full. Lights gleamed over well-worn and polished oak tables, the benches and wooden chairs set before them not uniform in style, but certainly in their age, shown by the softened edges and the depth of polish. The floors were bare, uneven and although swept clean, showing signs of age, the boards dented and shrunk, leaving sizeable gaps for the wind to whistle through.
Amidei took a seat at the long table in the centre of the room. The murmurs of conversation paused, so he touched his hat in greeting. He received a few nods in return.
Some men had notebooks in their hands, and made notes as they chatted. Business was typically done with a handshake, the formal contracts being drawn up later. Anyone who saw those notebooks would discover all they needed to know about their owners, the business they were conducting, and with whom. This was an area devoted to journals and publishing. They could be discussing stories and scandals, or selling the gossip they’d uncovered. Amidei shivered.
He lifted his finger and accepted a muddy cup of coffee from the waiter, but refused a long-stemmed pipe. He had never taken to tobacco, not even snuff. End of the day coffee, he discovered when he took his first sip, made the eyes boggle and the heart race.
He waited politely for a lull in the conversation. A large man, with a face that was so wrinkled that it could have been passed through a mangle by an inept laundry maid, glanced in his direction and let his attention linger.
Amidei took his chance. “Do any of you gentlemen know the proprietor of the journal the Argus?”
The man kept his stare fixed on him, while three of his colleagues did the same. “The offices are close by,” Amidei added helpfully.
One gentleman, a younger one, cleared his throat. “Might do,” he offered.
“I heard it had a poor reputation. Otherwise I might have gone in.”
Their faces hardened. “It’s one of the better papers,” the younger man said. He twi
tched his neckcloth, not changing its appearance at all. The knot was still too tight, and tilted to one side. Pulling at it all day would do that.
Amidei sensed defensiveness. “I see. I was wondering, that was all. I work in one of the clubs in St. James’.” Rapidly, he invented his story, deviating as little as possible from the truth. “I hear things.”
The older man’s expression relaxed. “Ah.” He glanced at the younger. Their blue eyes were the same size and shape; perhaps they were related.
“So it’s not the young lady?”
Amidei allowed himself to frown. “Is there a young lady involved?”
“The owner’s daughter,” the older man said shortly. “Miss Spencer.”
So she had not even used a false name. She might, just possibly, be working at the club because she needed the money, but he doubted it. Why in that case had she not mentioned the Argus to anyone? Lightfoot would have heard if she had. He missed nothing below stairs and precious little above it. And these men did not associate the mention of St. James with her, either. They’d have made the connection, if they knew.
“What does Miss Spencer do?”
The men exchanged another glance. “She helps him with the journal,” the younger man said gruffly. “So you have a story for her?”
He nodded. “At a price.” It was a common enough practice not to arouse suspicions. He’d even caught his own servants doing it, although they had not remained in his house for long after that.
“Care to share?”
Ever curious, the men of the city. Amidei quirked his brow. “It wouldn’t be worth much if I did that, would it?”
“They’ll listen,” the young man said, who knew far more about them than Amidei was comfortable with. What did this boy have to do with them? “But you have to prove what you say. They don’t print lies.”
Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 Page 4