“No, sir.”
“If you see him, send word. I’ll take the decanter with me and keep it safe.” He wouldn’t let the only evidence he had out of his possession.
Not bothering about disguising his identity any longer, he reached inside his coat for his case and gave the landlord one of his cards. “Don’t tell anyone about my visit. If I can use the element of surprise, I have a better chance of trapping him and of finding the lady. That is, make no mistake, my first priority. Contact me if you hear anything, no matter how trivial.”
The landlord nodded. “I will indeed, my lord. I don’t want that kind of reputation around this house. I’ve already tried to scare away the women who meet country girls off the stage. You know the ones. They just go further up the street but at least I’m trying to stop them. That’s more than the landlord at the White Hart does.” He shoved a finger under the edge of his wig and scratched his skull.
Alex resisted the impulse to step back. Who knew what lurked under that wig? “Besides, the magistrates are making things difficult for the doxies. Probably about time.”
Alex marked the information in his mind. He might find allies there, if he needed them. He would take anything from anyone right now if he found Connie alive and unharmed at the end of it.
Leaving the inn, Alex hailed a passing chair, ruthlessly shouldering another man aside to reach it first and ignoring the yells and curses that followed them.
Jasper Dankworth lived in a lodging house in Red Lion Square. Not the most fashionable address but handy for the main centers of interest for the fashionable world. Alex raced up the steps and a Superior Being opened the door.
“Is Mr. Dankworth available?”
The servant had lifted his chin so high he was forced to stare down his nose at Alex, even though Alex had a few inches on him. “No, sir. I believe you may find him at White’s club.”
Alex smiled grimly. White’s was very selective about who they allowed in, so if he’d been dunning Dankworth, he’d just been sent to the rightabout.
He reached into his purse and jingled it, hoping this man belonged to the house rather than to the man. “When do you expect him back?”
“I really couldn’t say, sir.”
Alex withdrew a guinea and regarded it soulfully. “Do you know where he spends his evenings?”
The man’s rheumy gaze wandered to the bright gold. “At balls and various establishments, sir.”
“Tonight?” He would track him down wherever he was. He had no time to spare for niceties. He withdrew two more coins. A damned fortune to this fellow but well worth the investment.
“I believe he is attending an establishment in Covent Garden, sir.”
Sadly, the man couldn’t say which one but that narrowed Alex’s quarry down nicely. Adding another coin to pay for the man’s silence, Alex handed over the goods and went home to regroup.
He barely waited for the footman to open the door, ran straight through and barreled up the stairs. “Wentworth!”
His valet, good man, came immediately to his call.
“I need something fancy. I’m off to White’s. And be snappy, please. No, I don’t care what it is, just choose something suitable.”
Alex handed over the decanter. “And see this is taken care of. Lock it away just as it is, dregs and all. It could be evidence.”
The valet stared at the cheap container then placed it on a side table within his sight, where it looked incongruous against the finely cut, sparkling crystal. “I will attend to you first sir, then the item.”
Wentworth arrayed Alex in dark green dull satin, with a cream waistcoat and Méchlin lace at his wrists. He added a sapphire stud to his neckcloth, his large gold and emerald signet ring to his finger, popped a watch and a snuffbox in his pockets, and changed his plain street sword for the fine jeweled steel one.
Alex intended to use it if he had to. He grabbed a cocked hat trimmed with gold braid. He would do.
White’s was full. Nothing daunted, Alex strode through the public rooms in search of his quarry. He even ventured into Hell, were several fellows hailed him and asked him to join them. Considering how well he could cheat, a skill he deployed as a party trick, they must be desperate. Although he’d never done it when there was money on the table. He’d do it now, if it meant he could discover Connie’s whereabouts. That was a measure of his desperation.
But he showed none of his agitation, none of the worry that was screwing his gut into a tiny knot. Instead, he strolled through the rooms, exchanging the time of day but not stopping, until he reached the inner sanctum.
There he was, in one of the leather-upholstered wing chairs scattered in an informal arrangement through the room. By each chair, stood a small table and the one by Dankworth’s sported a decanter of brandy. Alex generally preferred to leave his spirit drinking until later in the day but each to his own. Even if he’d rather shove the decanter, stopper and all, down the bastard’s throat. He had no proof, no absolute proof but every instinct in his body told him he was right and Dankworth was responsible for the abduction of Connie Rattigan.
Dankworth brightened and stood to greet him. But he wasn’t alone, so Alex couldn’t grab his neckcloth and strangle him with it. Instead he performed a languid bow and let his lids droop over his eyes, although he couldn’t respond to Dankworth’s “Good to see you, Ripley!” with a similar response.
He managed to force a smile. “You’re up early, Dankworth.”
“I am, indeed. Or rather, I haven’t been to bed yet. I cannot imagine what I did before I came to London.”
Dankworth waved to a nearby chair and a waiter brought it over to join the little cluster around Dankworth.
Alex greeted the other men, all gamblers and rousters, although of the highest rank, which meant they had money to burn, and took his seat.
Alex knew better than to wade in with his demands. It was hardly likely that the man would admit to the atrocities without compunction. The best he could hope for was some clue regarding her whereabouts. “Been around town since I saw you last, Dankworth? I saw you at Lady Roxborough’s last week, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Dankworth replied. “The lady was kind enough to invite my betrothed and myself.”
“Ah yes,” Alex took the hook Dankworth dangled in front of him. “I understood you were engaged to someone else? Mrs. Rattigan, the pretty widow?”
Dankworth shrugged. “The match was suggested by my uncle. But we decided we did not suit. I fell in love with Louisa the first time I saw her.”
“Do you plan a long engagement?”
Dankworth shrugged and picked up his glass. “We don’t see the need. We’re signing the contract soon.” Oh yes, the bastard knew. He would dispose of Connie’s claim on him swiftly and then grab his heiress before she could change her mind.
He’d see about that. While he didn’t want Louisa Stobart for himself, she didn’t deserve a cad like Dankworth. Nobody did.
As soon as he found Connie and had her safe, he’d write to the Downhollands, who would have a great deal to say about the proposed match. He prayed that Connie had a clause in the contract so she could void it. Of course, if Dankworth signed a second contract before the first was legally voided, that would do the trick. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the abduction, but needs must. If he needed to, he would. “Out with the old, on with the new?” he murmured languidly.
Dankworth sneered. “Something like that. It would have been a perfectly adequate match for me to marry Connie. But you must agree that she isn’t the most exciting of women.”
Alex kept his composure, but only years of practice enabled him to do so. “I found her interesting, attractive and a pleasure to talk to.” And beautiful, alluring beyond compare.
“You sound like a lover yourself. Well, she is a widow. Fair game, I’d say.”
A chorus of “Oh-ho’s” made the rounds.
Despite his reservations about the earliness of the day, Alex a
ccepted a brandy. He needed something. Fury roiled inside him and if he weren’t careful, he’d pick a fight and end up on the Heath in the morning with a smoking pistol in his hand and a price on his head. Dankworth wasn’t worth it. Alex had more important things to do.
“Ripley likes high flyers,” Denbigh informed Dankworth in a sotto voce so loud anyone standing on the other side of the room could hear it.
“One at a time and exclusive,” Alex admitted, “Even though they want to rule the roost. And although they are admittedly the most charming and the most civilized of whores.”
Dankworth snorted. “They’re all whores. What does it matter what they’re like outside the bedroom? All I ask is that they’re clean and they spread their legs when I tell them to. I don’t expect good conversation while they’re doing it. In fact I prefer their mouths full of something that impedes speech.”
If Dankworth had hurt Connie, he’d destroy him. And more. Jasper Dankworth would hang for his crimes. After Alex had killed him, of course.
There was no stopping Dankworth now. “Virgins are generally sweet and succulent and they can be tutored.”
“Plan to turn your future wife into a whore in the bedroom, do you?” That came from Fox, who didn’t sound amused.
“Not at all,” Dankworth responded. “Respectable women have to be approached differently. But eventually I prefer them on their knees. It just takes a little longer.” He took a deep draught from his glass and reached for the decanter. “Heard about the event tonight?”
A few people murmured a name Alex didn’t recognize, “Cratchitt.”
Dankworth brightened. “I’ve never been to a slave auction. I’m looking forward to it. There are some virgins for sale, I believe and the others are new to the market.”
“Few of them are real virgins.” Alex working hard not to show his interest. This was it. That was what the blackguard had done. If Connie appeared in public offering herself for sale, that would prove her lack of morals. “Where is this house?”
“Covent Garden.”
“The Garden itself?” Houses on the piazza and bordering the square were more expensive than the ones on the nearby streets, or the shacks by the market. Alex went to one house in that area for the gaming and he half hoped, half dreaded to hear it would be held there. “I haven’t heard of it. Is it Mother Dawkins’s?”
“Next door,” Fox said. “And Dawkins is furious about it. She says it brings down the tone of her side of the square.” The gathered crowd sniggered. “She’s worried the new woman will take her custom. She has that glorious Academy on Wednesday nights and her girls are always exquisite, but sometimes a man wants something a little—wilder.”
Alex didn’t, though he wasn’t about to mention that now. He had a healthy male appetite for a lovely woman but that was as far as it went. Dankworth was positively salivating and his blood ran cold.
Now he knew when and where Connie would show up. But he didn’t know how. Or where she was now. He had the rest of the day to make his plans but it wouldn’t be easy. Whatever it took, he’d do it. He needed to call on the magistrates in Bow Street and then to Mother Dawkins, who owed him a favor or two.
Chapter 8
Alex stood on the steps of the best whorehouse in London, taking in the arena of his upcoming battle. Covent Garden was in many ways the center of London, especially at eleven in the evening. The whole world ended up in Covent Garden sooner or later. This was later.
Standing on the corner of the Garden and King Street, Mother Dawkins’s establishment plied its trade. The flambeaux either side of the door illuminated the visage of one of the bullies she employed to keep order, scarred and weathered but dressed neatly in a parody of livery. Alex nodded to him and the bully returned the favor.
He was leaving the house, not entering it. He’d made a bargain with the madam, using all the advantages he had, preparation for what he hoped would happen next.
He’d dressed carefully and gorgeously, in crimson figured velvet and gold. Nobody would miss his presence tonight. Even Mrs. Dawkins, who had seen men come through her doors in full court finery, too eager to go home and change after visiting St. James, remarked on it.
A large ruby glinted at his throat and another on his finger. In his pocket he had a richly enameled snuffbox and a small, loaded pistol, while the small sword at his side while decorative, was no mere ornament. He was dressed to kill, if necessary.
He strode past the flambeaux, down the steps and went next door, where a similar set-up waited for him. He glared at the footman, not at all intimidated by his beefy presence and the man opened the door. Alex entered.
Mrs. Dawkins’s house held flamboyant furnishings and bright décor but it was done with wit, as if someone knew they were doing too much, cramming too much fine furniture into a space. This house held no irony, and Alex didn’t feel like smiling at the green striped wallpaper, the cherries tumbling down the white stripes and the extravagant mahogany furniture. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling, winched too high because there wasn’t room for a full drop otherwise. The lady of the house came forward, hands outstretched.
Thin, bony hands. Alex bowed over one. Chicken skin covering the skeleton. He straightened and examined his hostess with experienced eyes. Good imitation Brussels lace but since lace was the most expensive part of an ensemble bar the jewelry, he’d forgive her that. A slight edge of crudity was evidenced in her clothes, although they appeared reasonable. Or maybe he would think that of anyone who ran a house like this. No, he shouldn’t blame her. She might be an innocent party in all this.
Who was he trying to fool? He certainly didn’t fool himself. She must know. Had she a crop of drugged virgins from the country? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened in the Garden; many men had depraved tastes the people here in these establishments were only too pleased to cater to.
“My lord, I’m delighted to see you here tonight.”
“Dankworth assured me of a good seat,” he murmured and she smiled broadly in response, almost cracking her heavy maquillage. “You know who I am?”
“Who but a lord could dress in such a refined fashion and with such excellent taste?” The woman spoke like a Londoner trying to talk like his people. Too refined, or refained, as she pronounced it, to be real. She enunciated every word carefully, every syllable precise and clipped. In other circumstances, he might have found it amusing but he was so far from being amused tonight that he thought he might never laugh again.
“Very perceptive, madam. Your name, Dankworth says, is Mrs. Cratchitt?”
“Just so, sir.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” The woman, who must have been in her fifties by the look of her, gave Alex a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes and a grin that made him shudder. He’d known good-looking fifty-year-olds, but Cratchitt wasn’t one of them.
Seeing a creature of Cratchitt’s age simper gave Alex shivers and not the good kind. “I’m not alone in this venture, my lord. I have powerful backers. I hope you will visit us often. We offer the discerning gentleman a measure of something he will not find elsewhere.”
People in these houses needed considerable outlay to set up in this way. So somebody or several people with money to spare had helped her. Alex filed the information away in case he needed it later.
“You have girls fresh to the trade upstairs, I heard?” He hadn’t, but it was a reasonable guess.
“Indeed we do, sir. They are eager to enter their new profession. I have girls fresh from the country.” And other parts of London, most likely. She leered. “Virgins, my lord. The auctioneer knows the value of his charges. We have rooms available to enjoy your purchases any way you wish, equipped with a variety of playthings.”
The house had previously been a notorious House of Correction, which had moved to larger premises on the other side of the square after public demand led to overcrowding. Mother Dawkins had complained when the screams grew too loud but they’d rubbed
along well enough for the most part. Perhaps they’d left some items behind.
He forced a smile. “It sounds charming. And how do we pay for our purchases?”
Her crimson-bedaubed mouth turned down at the corners. “We ask for a note of hand for the auction, my lord, or valuables. After that, you may use credit up to a certain value, to be redeemed at the end of the month.”
“At a good rate of interest, I presume?”
“Naturally, my lord.”
He waved his hand negligently. “It’s acceptable.”
The bully came forward to take him upstairs. Alex couldn’t hope to take these men on his own. He could try but he had a few other tactics to use first. And pockets full of guineas. He’d tried to get into the house earlier in the day in the hope of getting Connie out before the auction, if she was there at all, but it was barred tight and a maid had yelled out of a window for him to come back tonight. He had no choice but to play it Dankworth’s way.
Up to a point.
Alex’s heart sank when he entered the room, though he ensured no one would deduct anything from his demeanor. The great, the wealthy and the debauched filled the room, all three qualities often embodied in the same person. About thirty gentleman, at his best guess, none of them his close allies but all of them members of society. And two who had been at that benighted house party at Lady Downholland’s. Damn. That meant they’d recognize Connie, should she appear.
Not including Jasper Dankworth. Alex gave him a curt nod and moved on.
The bully showed him to a chair towards the rear of the room. Alex made great play of flicking his handkerchief over the upholstery and then settling the wide skirts of his dress coat before he sat. He leaned back, affecting every appearance of boredom and waited on events.
They began the proceedings with a hackneyed show of half-dressed house girls chained together, whipped by a slave driver. Their appearance would gratify the gentlemen present whose tastes swung that way.
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