“Are you prepared?” Gussie asked her.
“I’m not certain I’ll ever be prepared.” Helen paused. She had never witnessed the horrors of an East End house of ill fame firsthand, though she had heard ample stories from her fellow reformers. “But if I don’t witness it with my own eyes, how can I write about it?”
“Do you truly think your Mr. Storm will publish anything about the hells we are about to witness?”
Her Mr. Storm. It was rather a needling phrase, and not in an altogether bad sense either. But he wasn’t hers, and Helen knew that he never would be, no matter how the mere thought of him made some weak part of her stir with longing. Good heavens, she had known him for all of two days.
“No one has dared for fear of the obscenity laws, and I’m sure Mr. Storm will not be so inclined.” Helen knew all too well society’s penchant for turning their backs on scandal and vice. It was easier to look at a bandage than a bloody, gaping wound. Even so, she was hoping that Mr. Storm might be compelled to at least change his mind about the Beacon. Turning it into a business journal would deal a severe blow to their cause. “I cannot help but think that perhaps he will be willing to aid us in some way.”
After all, he had never read a single word printed in the paper he’d bought. He still thought she penned odes to her grandmother’s shoes. Surely any reasonable man, upon discovering the very important work of drawing public attention to the mistreatment of women and children, would do something to help. Oh, drat Mr. Bothwell for allowing his greed to get the best of him. They would never be in such desperate straits if he hadn’t secretly sold the Beacon.
Nor, reminded a tiny, unwanted voice, would she have met Mr. Storm. Rational Helen knew that Mr. Storm was a man whose sole motivation was growing his businesses and coffers and that he was as likely to help her as he was to fall to the ground and kiss the hem of her skirts. But foolish Helen recalled just how impossibly attractive he was, just how tall and strong, just how desire snapped through her at the mere thought of his forbidding mouth on hers. He had not kissed her in the library two nights ago. And she had very much wanted him to.
Oh dear.
She couldn’t afford to allow foolish Helen to make her decisions for her. She had not been foolish Helen in a very long time, and it wouldn’t do for foolish Helen to make a return now.
“I pray that he will help us as you hope,” Gussie said before flipping a veil down to conceal her face. “The fates of so many depend upon it.”
The gravity of the situation fell upon her like the weight of a cartload of bricks. She settled her veil into place as well. “Even if Mr. Storm does not lend his hand to our cause, we will not be waving the flag of surrender. We’ll find another way. Another newspaper if we must.”
But even as she said the words, Helen knew that finding another paper would not be an easy feat. Newspapers tended to stay far, far away from stories about country girls tricked into prostitution and sent to the Continent against their wills. Or young girls groomed to be prostitutes from birth and mothers willing to sell their young daughters to strangers for ten pounds. And while their cause was not entirely without means, they certainly didn’t have the funds to purchase a building and presses, or hire men capable of churning out papers on the scale the Beacon had, pockets to let though it had often been. Gussie’s House of Rest for women liberated from brothels was already bursting at the seams. They needed more homes. More supporters. More money. More everything. They had come too far to stop now at this bump in the road.
Gussie nodded. “We will do whatever we must to ensure that something is done to help these poor women and girls. They have been ignored for far too long. Steel yourself, my dear. We won’t be able to bring any of them back with us. It’s too dangerous at the moment.”
Helen and Gussie descended from their carriage into the teeming, noisy street. The brawniest footmen Helen could find flanked them, the better to ward off would-be pickpockets or worse. While she considered herself a true and dedicated reformer, she had never previously ventured through the East End. And she had to admit she hadn’t quite been prepared for it.
A cacophony of sounds assaulted her, from drunken men bellowing, to others hawking their wares, to barking dogs and crying children. The faces and clothes in the sea of people thronging the streets were dirty with the exception of the well-dressed gentlemen arriving and disembarking from their carriages to enter the brothels lining this part of town. They posed a striking contrast compared to the unfortunates forced to earn their bread so ignominiously.
A drunken man stumbled into her suddenly and nearly set her on her rump. Only the staying presence of her footmen kept her from falling and being enveloped by the clamor. Thankfully, in another few steps, they entered a side door of the establishment where a young woman as pretty as she was scantily clad welcomed them with a signal not to speak.
“Come quickly,” she whispered. “Madame Violette will return within the hour. Your servants must remain at the door. They would cause too much suspicion.”
Madame Violette was the prioress of the establishment. Cruel and depraved, she ruled her house of ill fame like a petty empress. Gussie had recently taken one of Madame Violette’s victims under her wing, and the poor girl had revealed an appalling tale of her mistreatment at the brothel and of how others she’d left behind dearly longed for escape as well. Many were being drugged with laudanum, held against their wills, some without food and water, in an effort to force them into the horrible task of satisfying the madam’s wealthy gentlemen callers.
Helen and Gussie hastened to follow their guide, remaining utterly silent, through the dim back corridors of the establishment. It was imperative that their presence remain a secret. If they were to help anyone, Madame Violette could never discover that her business had been infiltrated by reformers seeking to aid the girls forced to work for her.
The woman stopped before a door and pulled a ring of keys from a pocket hidden in the pleating of her robe. “The girl within is new and she’s unwell. She’s been here less than a fortnight.”
The door opened to reveal a small, windowless room with one lamp upon a table, a bed, and a chamber pot. A young girl of no more than fifteen lay huddled on the bed, her face tear-stained. Helen’s heart wrenched inside her chest. She’d never seen another person look more helpless or alone.
“Go inside before someone sees you.” The woman gestured for them to enter. Her face was impassive, as emotionless as a floorboard. Helen wondered what could have happened to her for her to be so unaffected by the scene before them. “I’ll knock twice when the time has come for you to leave. If Madame returns earlier than expected, I’ll knock thrice.”
“Thank you,” Helen managed past the emotions clogging her throat. She had not forgotten what it had felt like, knowing someone was stronger and larger and capable of forcing her to do something she didn’t want.
She and Gussie entered the chamber, which was even smaller than Helen had originally supposed. There was scarcely enough room for the two of them to stand side by side.
“Who are you?” the girl asked, her accent revealing her as a country girl. It was common for country girls to be lured away to London with the promise of adventure or even marriage, only to be forced into working as prostitutes instead. With no funds and no hope of communicating to their families, the unfortunate girls had little choice but to obey the depraved whims of their captors. Society turned a blind eye to their plight.
Gussie sprang into action, flipping up her veil and going to the girl’s side. She was no stranger to this. She’d rescued a number of girls from different brothels all over the East End. “I’m Gussie, and this is Helen. We’ve come to help you.”
An awful, wracking cough shook the girl’s body. In the dim light offered by the pitiful excuse for a lamp, Helen thought she looked flushed with fever. Poor, dear heart, suffering as she must be. Helen patted the girl’s shoulder as gently as she would a babe. “Everything will be alright now. What is
your name, child?”
“Maeve,” she croaked. Another cough rent the air. “Please, I don’t want to be here.”
The girl was plainly very ill, in addition to being held against her will for nefarious purposes. And quite young. Helen looked to Gussie. “I don’t care how dangerous it is. We can’t leave her here like this.”
“You know the rules.” Gussie was firm. “We need time to formulate a plan for extracting her without causing any harm to those who are helping us.”
Helen knew there could often be a delicate balance between help and harm in their work. To a procuress, each girl was a valuable investment rather than a human being, capable of bringing her great returns. When a girl fled from her care, not only did she lose future monies the girl would bring but she also feared it would encourage others to leave as well, costing her even greater financial losses. If a procuress like Madame Violette discovered that any of her girls had assisted in another’s escape, there would be reprisals. Girls had been beaten, starved, and worse.
But Maeve tugged at Helen’s heartstrings in spite of what she knew, in spite of the potential dangers involved. She reminded Helen a great deal of her sweet, spitfire sister, Bo. If someone had done this to Bo, Helen would have battered down the door herself, armed with her father’s hunting rifle and prepared to wage war.
“Please, ma’am.” Maeve reached for her, her eyes pleading. “Take me from this place. He tricked me into coming here and sold me like a cow.”
“Dear God.” Helen took the girl’s hand and held it reassuringly. Her mind was firm. “Gussie, we must do something.”
The twin strain of worry and compassion marred Gussie’s face. She nodded. “We’ll act with haste. Don’t worry, child. I’ll send someone for you tonight. When he comes, you must go with him and be very quiet, do you understand? There are those here who are helping you at their peril and none must be the wiser for either your escape or their aid.”
“I understand.” Maeve squeezed Helen’s hand. “I’ll do whatever I must.”
Three discreet knocks sounded at the door. Helen met Gussie’s gaze. They needed to leave at once.
“I’m so sorry this has happened to you, my dear.” Helen brushed a sweat-dampened lock of blonde hair from the girl’s forehead. “Stay strong until I see you again.”
As Helen and Gussie hurriedly traced the path of murky corridors back to the outside world, a new wave of determination hit Helen. She would write what she had seen, what others had reported, without care to the delicate sensibilities of society. She’d lay bare the ugliness of the underbelly of London, the way innocents were destroyed at the hands of the lecherous and the greedy.
And she’d convince Mr. Storm to give their cause a chance. She couldn’t stand idly by knowing there were others like Maeve, betrayed by those they had trusted and left to suffer alone. She knew precisely what it had felt like to be helpless, and she’d do everything in her power to keep another girl from the same fate. She had some writing to do.
“I was beginning to think you a ghost, Levi,” Jesse joked with good-natured ease as they took up residence in his study.
Levi had once again missed dinner, returning to find that the ladies had retired for the evening and only his good friend was afoot. His mind was certain that avoiding Lady Helen and his inconvenient state of perpetual arousal in her presence had been for the best. He had far too many headaches to deal with at the moment. But he couldn’t deny the disappointment that had hit him when he’d realized he had missed seeing her for the second straight day.
“Business is a hell of a thing,” he told his friend.
Jesse gave him a wry grin. “Everything worthwhile in this world of ours is, it seems.” He took up a decanter. “Do I sense the need for a fortifying whiskey?”
“Hang it, you know I don’t like to imbibe.” But the thought of a nice, luxurious whiskey to balm his ragged mind was terribly appealing just the same. “The other night left me with the devil of a headache, and after the last few days, there’s no sign of it stopping.”
In business as in life, he’d learned long ago that everything seemed to happen all at once and when one least expected it. It was as if fortune’s wheel spun with an innate sense of how to strike the most crippling blow.
“Do tell,” Jesse drawled. Apparently, life in England hadn’t taken the Southerner out of him one bit. He poured a whiskey for Levi and handed it to him.
Utter chaos had descended upon North Atlantic Electric. In addition to the fire and resulting damage in his personal office, his Belgravia home wasn’t any closer to completion or any more immune to missteps and errors. And everything else, well, it had gone straight to hell just the same.
Levi took a sip of whiskey, enjoying the burn, then sighed. “Edison is suing us in America for patent infringement. I’ve just had it from my lawyers. I have no worries that our light bulb design infringes in any manner upon his, but this is meant to tie up much-needed resources and time, neither of which I can currently afford to lose.”
“The devil.” Jesse whistled. “It sounds to me like you’ve got his back up. It must mean he doesn’t appreciate the competition.”
Levi was more than aware that Edison sought to monopolize their fast-changing industry. At stake was not only his reputation but a vast amount of money. Like Levi and his investors, Edison was aware that electricity was not a fad but here to stay. Eventually, the entire world would need it, not just the wealthy and the factories and governments who were currently beginning the transition. The companies who could provide it would have the potential for immeasurable wealth.
“While part of me finds his concern gratifying, the other part of me, the part with the pockets to let, wholeheartedly does not.” Levi took another swallow of spirits.
Jesse grinned at that. “I’d hardly consider you pockets to let.”
That was the trouble. He wasn’t, but he was.
“The lawsuit isn’t the only wormy apple in the proverbial bushel.” Jesse was not just his friend, but also one of a number of investors in North Atlantic Electric. He would not mislead his friend in the difficulties they now faced. “Materials are not being manufactured quickly or efficiently enough back in our New York City facilities for us to be as competitive as we need to be. I’ve put in some legwork here and abroad to develop manufacturing, but we’re rather stymied by our cash flow at the moment, and that leaves us at a disadvantage.”
Levi couldn’t help but fear his company was being left behind like a passenger who’d arrived too late and stood, valise in hand, watching the train pull from the station. One thing was becoming steadily apparent. He had poured a great deal of his own capital into North Atlantic Electric’s ventures both in the States and abroad. But it wasn’t enough. To accomplish what truly needed to be done, he needed more funds, and more funds than he was currently able to provide solely from his own coffers. He preferred to invest his wealth in real estate and other businesses rather than watching it molder away in a bank vault, leaving him without the liquid assets for an instant influx of capital the size he now required.
It was going to come down to groveling for more from his investors.
Jesse’s countenance turned serious. While theirs was an old camaraderie, neither was he a fool. “What do you propose?”
“More money,” he said baldly. “And a lot of it. Electricity is an angry, demanding mistress. But without risk, there is no reward. Fortunately, I know where to find the capital I require. There’s wealth, and then there’s VanHorn wealth.”
“I begin to understand.” Jesse sipped his whiskey. “Do you think VanHorn will provide the funding you need?”
“I do, and no pun intended.” He was practically selling himself to secure it anyway, what with his engagement to the man’s daughter. “With our impending familial connections and the promise of a ripe turnaround on his investment, I believe he’ll see the wisdom of such a move. We’ll be a damn sight better off than we are now. Seeing this through to th
e end is going to require patience, vision, hard work, and money. But it’ll be worth it.”
Jesse raised his glass to him, shaking his head. “I must say, old friend, that no one else could do what you’ve done thus far. If there is anyone who can light up this dark world of ours, it’s you.”
Levi raised his glass right back. “Thank you for your friendship. It means a hell of a lot to me. As for the flattery—”
“There can be no flattery in truth,” Jesse interrupted, his tone brooking no opposition. “I admire you, Levi. You’ve overcome a great deal to get to where you are.”
He had, but he didn’t like to speak or think of it. The past was something he didn’t wish to dwell on. It was a closed door to him in every way that it could be. “We both have. War is hell on earth.”
His friend met his gaze, his expression grave. “You know as well as I that I’m not merely talking about the war.”
It was very late, after midnight, but Helen didn’t give a fidget for that.
She hadn’t seen Mr. Storm in two straight days. According to belowstairs gossip wrangled from her lady’s maid, he had arrived very late, gone straight to his chamber, and emerged before dawn to return to his offices each day. It had occurred to her that he might have been intentionally avoiding her. Perhaps he’d thought better of his offer all while she’d been working hard to pen an article that would convince him of the importance of her cause.
And work hard on the article, she had. She’d spent all her waking hours crafting her notes into a coherent piece that represented the plight of the women and girls she’d met both at the brothel she’d visited and at the overcrowded House of Rest that Gussie had formed. Thankfully, word had arrived from Gussie that Maeve had been spirited from Madame Violette’s house of ill fame as promised, giving Helen at least a small measure of relief to know the poor girl was safe at last.
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