by KJ Charles
Pen squeezed her hand, hard. “Erasmus made her say it. You know that. She did what she was told. She wasn’t strong.”
“But she came looking for us.” Greta’s fingers were tight on his. “She wants to see us.”
“Uh,” Mark said. “Pen, Miss Taillefer…”
Pen looked up, and read his face; the clutch of Greta’s fingers said she’d done the same. “She’s dead. Isn’t she?”
“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “Back in spring.”
Pen shut his eyes, breathed hard. There was a long silence.
Erasmus Potter, who ruled their lives with an iron rod, had wanted Pen crushed into an obedient man and fourteen-year-old Greta as his bride, and their mother had told them to obey. Trust the Shepherd, she’d insisted. Put your faith in the man of God. She’d insisted that if the twins continued their course of defiance they would be dead to her, and something in her eyes had been dreadful.
They’d run together, and never looked back. They couldn’t trust their own mother not to betray them, so they hadn’t written, except once. One note to tell her they were alive and well and would always love her, giving away nothing more than a London postmark, because they were sure nobody would find them in the big city.
She’d come looking, and now she was dead. And Pen, who’d never had a father and had given up wishing for his mother a long time ago, was an orphan, and an earl.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said, and dropped his head between his knees.
Mark was over in a second, hand on Pen’s shoulder. “Come on, mate. Deep breath. I’m sorry to spring all this on you. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner but—”
“We see your problem.” Greta’s voice had the dry, hard note that told Pen she was trying not to cry. She’d save that for when they were alone. “It’s hardly an easy story, or a likely one.”
“We’ve got proof,” Mark said. “The page from the register that shows your parents’ marriage; the letter from your birth. It needs stitching together, but the more you can tell me, the easier it’ll be.”
“Why you?” Greta demanded. “What was your involvement? You said you were paid to find us; who by?”
“Bloke called Nathaniel Roy. He’s a friend of Lazarus—that’s the fellow your mother hired to find you. He wanted me to find out what was going on, what people were being killed over.” He shrugged. “Looks like it was you.”
“That’s not my fault,” Pen said, throat hoarse.
“No, it’s not. Still happened.”
“Has this man been arrested?” Greta asked. “The murderer?”
“Nope. I’ve been speaking with the police. I found Erasmus’s body.” Mark made a face. “Not pretty.”
“I don’t understand why anyone would kill Erasmus,” Pen said. “Or I do, but not why a stranger would.”
“My guess is, because when it comes to claiming your title, Erasmus was your best friend,” Mark said. “The Potters knew you and your mother. They could tell a court, ‘That’s Pen and Greta Godfrey, for a fact.’ That’s why Lazarus was attacked, for what he knew about you.”
“To keep our birth a secret?”
“Maybe. But the cat’s out of the bag. Edmund’s dead and his bigamy revealed, and there’s a fair few people now who know his true wife had a son. The question isn’t any longer if Edmund’s secret can be kept; now it’s all about who inherits the earldom. I’ve been wondering if the Fogman’s trying to control that.”
“The Fogman?”
“The man we reckon killed the vicar and Erasmus. He worked for Edmund; it’s possible he has information we don’t know about. Holds some cards, wants to get hold of the rest, and will sell the proof to the highest bidder.”
“To the Taillefer family,” Greta said. “Is that what you’re implying?”
“Ugh. I’m not making any accusations, but it’s fair to say they’re a bit upset at the idea there might be a new heir. You’ve got an uncle who thought that Edmund’s death and his son’s disinheritance made him the earl, and cousins who moved up in line for a fortune. I’m not saying they’d resort to foul play, but they’re not going to rush to take your word for it either.”
“You mean, this is going to be disputed?” Greta said. “Like the Tichborne business?”
Pen stared at her, appalled. The Tichborne case had been going on forever, first the civil suit to prove if a claimant from Australia was indeed the long-lost Sir Roger Tichborne, now a criminal case in which the claimant was accused of perjury. It dominated the newspapers, with photographs and comment and endless muckraking over the pasts not only of the supposed heir, but of witnesses and even the lawyers.
“No,” he said, ducking his head again. “I can’t.” His lungs felt as though they’d deflated, as though there wasn’t enough air. “I won’t go through that.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” Mark said. “We’ve got plenty of evidence that Emmeline Godfrey married Edmund Taillefer and had a son named Repentance. All we need to do is prove that’s you.”
“I don’t want to prove it.”
“Mate,” Mark said patiently. “You’re an earl.”
Pen lifted his head. “Were you there last night? How the hell do you think I can be an earl?”
“The same way as other people?”
“But I’m not like other people! Greta knows everything,” Pen added irritably. “In case you’re wondering if you can speak freely in front of her.”
Mark tipped his head to Greta. “Fine, but I’m saying the same thing. Your father was a bigamist, and he’d have got away with it with a fraction more luck or sense. You think you’d be the only man in the House of Lords with a secret?”
“I’m not a man,” Pen said through his teeth. “That’s the point.”
“No. Sorry. But whatever, you won’t be the only one in the House of Lords with a taste for men.”
“Like Lord Arthur Clinton?” Pen said, and saw Mark’s face freeze.
If the Tichborne business was bad, Lord Arthur’s case had been the stuff of Pen’s nightmares. He had pored over the newspaper reports, sickened and afraid. A set of friends including Lord Arthur had been arrested for conspiracy to commit unnatural offences because two of them, Ernest Boulton and Frederick Park, had outraged public morality by dressing and naming themselves as women. Boulton and Park—Fanny and Stella, their names were—had been acquitted, but not before being subjected to painful and shaming medical examinations, having the state of their backsides discussed in open court, their homes raided, their every tiny foible and habit put up for examination in front of a pruriently fascinated nation. Pen had woken up sweating in the night a couple of times, after dreaming of himself at the mercy of some brute of a medical examiner probing with metal or fingers, or standing in the dock being ordered to display his soul to the world and seeing his life parodied on the front pages and in music-hall songs. The mention of the case still made him feel sick; he couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be if the accused were an earl.
Lord Arthur Clinton had died before his trial. His family said it was scarlet fever, but everyone agreed that it had been suicide to escape public humiliation. Pen didn’t blame him.
“I don’t want this,” he blurted out. “I don’t need it. Even if it comes with lots of money. We’ve never needed lots of money before, have we?”
“We’ve never tried,” Greta pointed out. “Mr. Braglewicz, are you sure about all this? Because if there’s a lot of money and lawyers in it, I think Pen’s right to be worried. I don’t want to go to war against a powerful family. We couldn’t afford to.”
“You won’t be alone in this,” Mark said. “Nathaniel’s no fool, and he’s a lawyer as well as a journalist.”
“And we’ve never met him. Why would he help us?” Greta asked.
“He believes in justice.” Mark shrugged. “Good man, Nat. That, and he wants to get Lazarus out of trouble, which means getting this sorted out. We’ll help. You are the earl, and we’ll make da
mn sure you’ll be the earl.”
Pen’s mouth was dry. This felt like a nightmare. “I don’t want to! Can you not understand? Suppose I stand up in court and have people bring up my past, and talk about me and what I wear—” His voice cracked. “And even if we won, even if I became an earl, what then? How would I live with everyone knowing and pointing and laughing? I don’t know how to be a nobleman, I don’t know how you’d talk to people or what you’d do. I don’t want the money, I don’t want the title, I don’t want any of it!”
“Right. Right.” Mark scrubbed at his hair with the heel of his hand. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”
“Can’t we pretend you didn’t find me? Or, can I not resign any claim? Surely I can just say I’m not the right man.”
“Or, could they pay us off?” Greta asked. “Well, I’m sorry,” she added at Pen’s look. “But we both know we can’t fly forever. If there’s some money in it, I’ll take it. It sounds like our father owed our mother that.”
“You want to be careful with that line, Miss Starling,” Mark said. “If you’re the rightful heirs, Pen has to be the earl. If you ain’t, you’d be demanding money under false pretences. See what I mean?”
“Yes, but…Pen, do you want to walk away from this? Honestly?”
Pen met his twin’s eyes and felt a cold, uncomfortable sensation in his gut.
Greta was the practical one. She thought about the future. She wanted to meet a decent man one day, to have children in wedlock, with a father there. She worried about scraping a living on the trapeze when they were greying, their hands less strong, their grips less sure. She and Pen had always promised they’d look after each other and she’d never once failed. She deserved a happy, secure home forever, and if she was an earl’s sister with money, instead of a nameless music-hall performer, she could have one.
“Do you want this?” he asked her, mouth dry.
“Not if you don’t,” Greta said, and the determination in her voice told Pen everything. She’d never let him think he’d let her down because of who he was. “Not if it’s going to hurt you. Nothing’s worth that. We were fine this morning, and we’ll be fine tomorrow. It’s probably a lot of rubbish anyway.”
“If it isn’t, though…,” Pen said wretchedly. “If we could be rich…”
“You two need to think about it,” Mark said. “And it’s not only you involved.”
“How do you mean?”
“Nathaniel and Lazarus are in hiding from the Fogman. Lazarus knows too much, and while there’s a secret to keep, his neck is on the block. Nathaniel reckons the only way to keep him safe is to make it public knowledge that you’re the earl. I was supposed to telegraph Nathaniel as soon as I tracked you down.”
“Did you?”
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first, and they’re safe where they are. But they can’t stay there forever. And I’m talking to Inspector Ellis about this whole mess. He’s got two murdered men to account for, and I’ve not told him what links them.” He nodded indicatively at Pen.
“Oh, you can’t drag Pen into a murder investigation,” Greta said swiftly. “We don’t know anything about that!”
“I’m not doing anything yet,” Mark said. “But there’s a dangerous man out there, and this isn’t just about you.”
“Yes, it is,” she retorted. “It is exactly just about us. There wasn’t anyone else when our father abandoned our mother, was there? Or when we spent fourteen rotten years growing up with the Potters? We’ve made our life for ourselves. We might choose to turn our lives upside down with all this, but we’re not obliged to, and certainly not for people we’ve never heard of, who we never asked to poke their noses in. It’s our choice—Pen’s choice, because he’s the one who’ll have to face all this. Nobody else’s.”
Mark exhaled. “You’re Lord Moreton, Pen. It’s not a choice, it’s your name. You’ve got a sodding big house and a pack of servants. A seat in the House of Lords if you want to sit in it. Enough money to buy all the privacy you want, and give Lady Greta here anything she wants, and pay people to make you look the part. You could have a life most people would kill for.”
“And then have to live it for twenty or thirty or fifty years. I don’t know. I don’t know if I can.”
“I don’t know if you can’t. You are who you are.”
“Yes,” Pen said wearily. “That’s the whole problem.”
“Can he buy privacy, Mr. Braglewicz?” Greta asked. “If you were rich enough—”
“Lord Arthur Clinton couldn’t,” Pen said. “And his father was a duke.”
“But he wasn’t discreet,” Greta countered. “If you were a lord, and you wanted to have a private life—”
Mark put his hand up. “You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t know what lords do. I reckon they manage, because if you think about how many aristos there are, there aren’t nearly enough scandals of the Boulton and Park kind for the numbers. Money makes everything easier.”
Pen shook his head. “But I couldn’t fly. Could I? I couldn’t be an earl and a Flying Starling.”
“No,” Mark said. “No, I’ll grant you that.”
Not to fly. Not to perform, not to wear the costumes onstage and backstage, unquestioned and free, not to have that perfect harmony of body and mind and appearance. Pen knew it would have to end one day; his body would once again betray him with age, and he couldn’t fly forever. But now?
“I’m only twenty-three,” he whispered.
“We need to talk about this,” Greta said firmly. “We’ll decide what we want to do.”
“You two do that. But bear in mind you’re not the only players in this game. Can I talk to you later, Pen?”
“About this?”
Mark met his eyes. “No. Not about this.”
“The Jack and Knave, tonight, then? I can be there at nine.”
“Make it here?” Mark suggested. “I’d like to talk.”
Chapter 5
“Are you sure you should see Mark any more?” Greta asked, once they were safely home.
Pen wasn’t. He wanted to. “This isn’t his fault. He’s caught in the middle of all this as much as we are.”
“Yes, but it’s not going to be simpler for either of you now, is it? What are we going to do?”
Pen took a deep breath. “Do you want this, Gret? Be honest. Really honest. I need to know.”
Greta stuck both hands in her thick hair. “Of course I want it. We live in a rathole, we’re one bad fall away from poverty all the time, and we’re being offered a fortune. If it was down to me I’d take it, and damn the newspapers and what anyone had to say about me. Even if it cost us flying, or ridicule, I’d pay the price. I’m sorry if that sounds greedy, but I don’t want to be a crippled old woman, hanging around doorways doing favours for sailors when I’m sixty.”
“Gret—”
“Oh, be honest, Pen,” she said harshly. “What else will I have to sell when we can’t fly? Needlework? If we do this for another ten years we could have a nice little nest egg, assuming the bank doesn’t fail, and I needn’t have worried, but what if you don’t catch me tomorrow? What if you’re hit by a hansom cab, or if I—” She mimed a round belly. “How long before our savings run out then? I’d like to feel safe. I’d like to feel that one accident wouldn’t mean disaster. I felt that until the minute we left the Potters, that there was always something terrible waiting to happen if we put a foot wrong, and I still feel it, and if we had money, maybe I might not feel it. I’m so tired of worrying.”
“I didn’t realise,” Pen said through stiff lips. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I think most people feel that way eventually, when they stop being young.” She gave him a weary smile, and looked in that moment as though she were ten years older than him. “You probably think about it more if you’re likely to be left with a baby. But Pen, listen. That’s what I’d do if it was down to me, but it’s not down to me. You’re the one who’ll face t
rouble, at least mockery, maybe even trial, and have to live a life you’d hate. No, not just hate. I know what it would do to you if you had to contort yourself into their stupid box labelled man, let alone earl. And that’s not fair and I won’t ask.” She put one hand over his, on the table. “I’d give almost anything to be rich, but I won’t give my brother.”
“I could give you this,” Pen whispered. “If I wasn’t—”
“But you are. You’re Pen Starling—that other name is ridiculous—and if you were different we wouldn’t be us. I’d rather have you and no money. Well, I’d rather have you and lots of money, but if that’s not possible, I’ll have you and we won’t think about the other. No repentance, no regret.”
Pen squeezed her hand. “Let me think about it? Maybe I could do it. I mean, robes, a nice coronet—maybe with sparkly bits—”
Greta spluttered. “You could wear them all the time. Down to the Gin Kitchen.”
“Excuse me, I’m Lord Moreton,” Pen said loftily. “I only attend the Port Kitchen.”
They cackled together, and ran with the joke, and Pen tried very hard to push the fear aside.
—
When Pen came out of the stage door that evening, after a performance in which he hadn’t quite managed to lose himself, Mark was waiting for him.
“I thought we were meeting at your rooms?”
“I came to see you,” Mark said. “The show. So I thought I’d wait. How are you?”
Pen set off down the street, Mark at his side. “Oh, you know. I met this man and he turned my entire life upside down, not in a terribly enjoyable way.”
“Right. I’m bloody sorry, Pen.”
“You offered me an earldom. As you said, most people would have been happy with that.”
“I wish you were.”
Their footsteps rang on the Holborn pavement. Pen’s extra inch of heel seemed to make twice as much noise as Mark’s flat, plain, elastic-sided boots.
“Did you talk to Miss Starling?” Mark asked eventually.
“Yes. She’d like to be rich.”