Innocence and Impropriety

by Diane Gaston

  Her song filled the night air, and the one after that, and the one after that. She listened to her voice as she sang. The sound was richer, fuller, louder. It was the sound of joy.

  She would strive for this always, in each performance. For Flynn. It would be her own secret way to celebrate the love she had for him, her own way to hold on to him.

  She finished with a sad song, ‘The Turtle Dove Coos Round My Cot,’ a widow’s song. She would be like a widow, she thought, after this night, but for now she intended to live and love.

  The audience burst into applause with shouts of ‘Bravo!’ for her. She glanced at Flynn, who stood as still as a statue, as rapt as he’d been throughout. She blew him a kiss, then blew other kisses to cover what she had done.

  Finally, filled with happiness and anticipation, she turned and moved towards the balcony stairs.

  Mr Hook stopped her. ‘Much better, my dear.’

  She grinned and impulsively kissed him on the cheek before hurrying away, knowing she would soon be with Flynn.

  ‘There’s more fellows out there tonight,’ said the servant, Skewes. ‘And yer father is not here to deal with ‘’em.’

  She peeked through the curtain. ‘I will deal with them myself.’

  She opened the door and stepped out. The men were so surprised they gasped and fell back.

  ‘How kind of you all to come,’ she said. ‘I am engaged for the evening, but if you wish, I will accept your cards and flowers, but, please, no gifts.’

  The men came forward, but with such politeness and reserve, she wondered why she had ever been frightened of them. As she accepted cards and bouquets of flowers, she spied Flynn watching her at the fringe of the group. She felt giddy at seeing him, as if she could flutter above these men like a butterfly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to each of them.

  Some of the young ones—her age, she supposed—were more frightened of speaking to her than she could ever have been of them. She laughed as her arms were piled with flowers. Some slipping to the ground. The throng thinned, and Flynn stepped closer, picking up the fallen blossoms.

  Finally, they drifted away, and Rose turned to go back into the gazebo’s waiting room.

  ‘One moment, miss!’ a voice cried. A young fellow humbly dressed hurried up to her. He bowed. ‘A gift for you.’ He handed her a box, about the size of a glove box, only deeper. Its red ribbon had come loose, the ends dangling over the edge.

  ‘I do not accept gifts,’ Rose told him.

  The man looked stricken. ‘I’ve orders to give this to you and I dare not say I failed.’

  ‘Who gives you the orders?’ Flynn asked.

  The man glanced around anxiously. ‘He…he was hereabouts a minute ago. I don’t know his name and he paid very well, but he said I must give this to you.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Rose said, reaching for the box and placing it on top of her mountain of flowers. ‘You have done your job.’

  The man bowed again and hurried off.

  Flynn opened the gazebo door and followed her inside. ‘You needn’t have gone out there. I would have played your father’s part, you know.’

  She grinned impishly at him. ‘I do not wish you to be fatherly with me. Besides, it was not so terrifying as it once seemed. I do not know why I feared it so.’

  The orchestra was playing a very loud piece, the drum making the walls shake. Rose was eager to leave with Flynn. She walked over to a table and dropped the flowers and box on to its surface. She let the cards slide out of her hand, and reached for her cloak on a peg on the wall.

  When she swung the cloak around her shoulders, it knocked some of the flowers and the box to the floor. Flynn stooped down next to her to help pick them up. The box had fallen on its side, its top off. When Rose reached for it, a foul smell made her blink, and something wrapped in a scrap of thin muslin rolled out of the box. Rose picked it up and lifted a corner of the cloth.

  She screamed and flung it away.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Flynn was right there, holding her.

  She shook her head, unable to speak. Skewes bent down to look.

  ‘Eucch!’ he said, standing up again.

  ‘What is it?’ Flynn still held Rose.

  ‘It is a ring,’ said the servant. ‘With the finger still in it.’ He kicked it toward Flynn.

  It was not just any ring. It was the ring Tannerton gave to her, the one Letty had snatched away and placed upon her own finger.

  ‘It is Letty’s finger, I think,’ Rose managed.

  The servant picked up something else. ‘This looks like a reed.’

  Rose glanced at it and turned to bury her face into Flynn’s chest. ‘My father’s. For his oboe.’

  Flynn released her long enough to retrieve the finger and the oboe’s mouthpiece, wrap them in the cloth, and return them to the box.

  ‘He is out there, isn’t he, Flynn?’ she rasped.

  Flynn stood. ‘I fear so. I am taking you home immediately.’ He scooped up all the cards the men had given her and stuffed them into his coat pocket.

  ‘I’d as leave you keep me out of this!’ cried Skewes.

  ‘If you speak of it to no one,’ responded Flynn. ‘Can we depend upon it?’

  ‘Well…’ the man prevaricated ‘…times is fairly tough…’

  Flynn reached into another pocket and pulled out some coins. ‘Will that do?’

  The man snatched them from his hand and nodded, apparently satisfied.

  ‘We leave now, Rose.’ He picked up her cloak and put it around her.

  She did not argue, but clung closely to him as they hurried through the gardens, heading to where the carriage would be waiting.

  From the shelter of nearby trees, Lord Greythorne watched the door of the gazebo open again, the cloaked figure walking out on Tannerton’s secretary’s arm. Disappointing. The gift had been intended for Tannerton as well as for the chit. Greythorne had counted on shocking Tannerton with the return of his own gift in a most dramatic manner.

  Greythorne frowned, touching the mask that hid his identity. Once again Tannerton had spoiled his carefully made plans. Surreptitiously following the hurrying pair, Greythorne consoled himself. They rushed as if the devil himself were chasing them.

  He chuckled, enjoying himself in the role of the devil. If the lovely Rose thought his little gift frightening, she could anticipate so much more. He would show her fear. She would not escape like that strumpet friend of hers. She would experience the fullness of his wrath. The thought made him tremble with excitement.

  As he anticipated, they were leaving the gardens, to return to that gaming hell where she’d gone to live, he suspected. He disliked her selling her favours to other men, but he was reasonably certain that Tannerton had not yet bedded her. Not if his spies reported accurately.

  When they headed to where the carriages waited, Greythorne decided not to follow. The time was not yet right to escalate the tension. Let her live in fear of him for a while. The secretary would inform Tannerton, Tannerton would know who was the craftier. He’d know Greythorne would win.

  Tannerton surely did not think he would stay in Brighton with the Prince, did he? The Royal Duke was easily fooled. All Greythorne had to do was come down with a disease of the contagious sort, and the Duke wanted him nowhere near. Greythorne paid his footman to impersonate him, to stay in his rooms at Brighton, having meals sent up and his valet to attend him. Good that both men were as loyal as money could buy. They would be well compensated for this little charade.

  The only distasteful part had been dressing in his footman’s clothes and returning to London in a common post chaise. He knew better than to return to his town house, so he went to the other place, to where he was not known as Greythorne, but merely as Mr Black, a man with plenty of coin and a willingness to pay for whatever needed doing.

  He had easily discovered Miss O’Keefe’s whereabouts after the…departure…of her father and his odious woman. Greythorne smiled again at t
hat memory. Even he had not anticipated the heady exhilaration of wielding power over life and death. Even now he was hungry to experience the feeling again.

  He’d had a watch kept on Rose, had seen her perform at King’s Theatre, had been present at Vauxhall. He wanted the coveted Rose, the one men pined for as she sang into the cool Vauxhall nights. She had looked exceptionally desirable this night. He wanted her because the Marquess of Tannerton had dared to compete with him. He would show the marquess that Greythorne never lost.

  Except once. He’d lost the Diamond once, but he would not repine over that, a mere trifle compared to the delights now ahead of him.

  Greythorne turned back to the Grand Walk, filling himself with need again. He could prowl through the gardens looking for some willing girl who could be lured by a few coins, or he could stoke the fires within him, letting them build into white-hot fervour, striking when the time was perfect.

  He decided to scour the gardens. Maybe that pretty little red-haired harlot would be in the gardens again. He needed to settle a score with her, did he not? And if he could not find her, he would simply feed his fantasies of all he might do in a few days’ time, when his revenge on Tannerton would be complete.

  He laughed aloud, and people turned to stare at him. He stared back until they hurried away. When the devil sought revenge, there would be nothing Tannerton could do to stop him.

  Flynn reluctantly left Rose at Madame Bisou’s, in the care of the madame and her burly footmen. He did not trust anyone but himself with her care at such a time, but there was much to do to ensure her safety. He was only sorry the hour was too late to go directly to the magistrate.

  Not that the magistrate could do much until Greythorne’s whereabouts were established and more of a connection between the severed finger and the earl could be ascertained. He shuddered to think what treachery Greythorne had committed, but the fate of Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes was fairly clear. Rose had said so as well.

  Flynn had underestimated the danger from Greythorne, and his guilt over Rose’s father and Miss Dawes scraped him raw. He should have seen they needed more safeguarding.

  Flynn entered Tanner’s town house carrying the box containing the gruesome gift. Wiggins attended the door.

  ‘Has Lord Tannerton returned?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Not as yet, Mr Flynn,’ the footman replied.

  Flynn gave Wiggins his hat and gloves. ‘When he comes in, tell him to come to the library. I need him.’

  Wiggins nodded, following Flynn into the library, lighting the candles for him. Flynn set the box on the desk and thanked the footman, who left the room.

  Flynn poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the side table. His mind was busy, planning what they must do to find Greythorne and to keep Rose safe.

  After an hour, Tanner walked in. ‘Flynn? Wiggins said you wanted me.’

  ‘Rose—Miss O’Keefe received a gift tonight after her performance.’ Flynn did not know how to convey the horror to Tanner other than to show it. ‘The box is on your desk.’

  Tanner’s brows rose in curiosity. He walked over to the box and opened it, unfolding the muslin to see what was inside.

  He stared at it a long time. ‘This, I assume, is the ring you purchased for Miss O’Keefe?’

  ‘It is.’ Flynn poured Tanner some brandy and placed the glass on the desk for him. ‘We must surmise that the finger belonged to her father’s companion. The other object is the mouthpiece to an oboe, presumably Mr O’Keefe’s.’

  Tanner closed up the box. ‘Revolting. And loathsome.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed his hands with it, even though his fingers had not touched the objects. ‘Are we to assume Greythorne is behind this?’

  ‘Who else?’ Flynn responded.

  ‘Indeed.’ Tanner picked up the glass of brandy and backed away from the desk. ‘I had not imagined he was so dangerous.’ He crossed the room to the chairs, but did not sit. ‘Why did his Royal Highness not send word Greythorne was not in Brighton?’

  Flynn shrugged, knowing Tanner did not expect an answer. ‘The man obviously made good his threat to O’Keefe and Miss Dawes.’

  Tanner curled one hand into a fist. ‘I dislike underestimating an adversary.’

  ‘Madame Bisou’s footmen will be guarding Miss O’Keefe.’

  Tanner stopped. ‘Yes, very good. She is in danger, certainly. How does she fare?’

  Flynn thought of her frightened eyes and her stoical insistence she would be all right. ‘More frightened than she chooses to reveal.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘I will send Wiggins and Smythe to help guard her. We must show the magistrate this appalling gift.’

  ‘I agree. We can inform him of Greythorne’s threat.’ Flynn disliked the idea of identifying Rose. The newspapers thrived on stories such as this one. ‘I say we go to the magistrate with this evidence. We cannot keep Rose’s name out of it, so we say she has many admirers, Greythorne included.’ Flynn reached into his pocket and pulled out the cards Rose had been given. ‘I can make a list of these men and add Greythorne’s name to it.’

  Tanner rubbed his chin. ‘Perhaps it would be best to keep my name out of it, Flynn. God knows, having a marquess mixed up in this business will bring on the gossip-mongers.’ He frowned as he thought. ‘I have it. We tell the magistrate you are Miss O’Keefe’s admirer, not I. You have been seen with her more often than I, so that should be no difficulty.’

  Flynn could not argue that fact, though it was closer to the truth than he dared to admit.

  Tanner went on, ‘I will go to the Bow Street Runners and engage them to find Greythorne. They will have the skills to prove Greythorne is behind this dastardly plot.’ Tanner gained energy with each step of his plan. ‘Explain to Miss O’Keefe that I will not be much in her company for a few days.’

  Flynn would have more time alone with her? He dared not think about that. ‘What of her new residence? In three days’ time, she is expected to move in.’

  Tanner shrugged. ‘Let her move in, if she wishes it. I see no reason to deny her that comfort. Besides, I can visit her in her own lodgings more discreetly than at Madame Bisou’s. Might be easier to guard her there, as well.’

  He can visit her. Flynn knew what that meant. He poured himself another brandy.

  Tanner watched him drink it. ‘I endangered her,’ he said in solemn tones. ‘And got her father and his woman friend killed.’ He shook his head. ‘Ghastly.’

  The next morning, as early as he deemed practical, Flynn made his way to the magistrate. At the same time, Tanner headed for Bow Street.

  The magistrate listened to Flynn’s story, peered at the dismembered finger, and began to shuffle papers on his desk.

  ‘Ah.’ He held one paper to his nose, peering at it through his spectacles. ‘This is the one.’ He handed it to Flynn.

  It was a report of the bodies of a man and a woman found in an alley two days ago. One finger was missing on the woman’s hand. Evidence of torture was gruesomely detailed.

  ‘They’ve not been buried yet.’ The magistrate restacked his papers and folded his hands on the desk. ‘We thought to wait a few days to see if someone would claim them, and here you are. Would you be so good as to take a look?’

  Flynn had no choice but to agree. He followed the magistrate’s man to the cellar of a building nearby.

  ‘They were stripped naked, they were,’ the man said conversationally. ‘Most are, you know. Especially anywhere near a rookery. I’d say these two were meant to be discovered, just left in an alley, easy enough to see.’

  The bodies lay on a large wooden table and were wrapped in roughly woven cloth stained with God-knew-what. The man waved to Flynn to lift the cloth. Holding his breath from the overpowering stench, Flynn lifted one, then the other.

  They were, indeed, Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes. Or what death had done to them. He glanced to the man and nodded, and they quickly vacated the room.

  Flynn returned to the magistrate and f
inished the business, such as it was. When the magistrate learned Rose lived at Madame Bisou’s and sang at Vauxhall, he gave Flynn a knowing look and accepted the list of men Flynn had compiled from Rose’s Vauxhall admirers.

  ‘You say the Earl of Greythorne threatened to kill these two if the father did not sell the girl to him?’

  It was bluntly stated, but accurate. ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Seems a great deal of fuss over one fancy piece.’ His gaze was frankly sceptical. ‘They told this to you, eh?’

  Flynn flinched when the magistrate called Rose a fancy piece. ‘That is the gist of it, sir.’

  ‘Bring the girl to me,’ he told Flynn. ‘I must question her.’

  Flynn agreed to do so.

  Before he left, Flynn made arrangements for proper shrouds for the bodies, wooden coffins and a Christian burial. They would be buried that very day, the magistrate’s man assured him.

  With the scent of death still lingering in his nostrils, Flynn made his way to Madame Bisou’s.

  Rose received him alone in a small parlour. When the door closed, Rose came into his arms, not in passion like the night before, but in need of comfort, which he was glad to provide.

  ‘How do you fare, Rose?’ he asked when they finally broke apart. He held her hands and searched her face.

  ‘I did not sleep well.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘But, I suppose that should be expected. Katy was a dear and stayed with me all night.’

  He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I am glad you were not alone.’

  They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, before she turned away. ‘There is tea. Shall I pour for you?’

  ‘If you like,’ he said.

  ‘I remember how you take it.’ She sat in the nearby chair, putting in the cream and sugar.

  He sat near her, waiting for her to finish pouring.

  ‘I have news,’ he said in a tight voice.

  She nodded and met his eyes.