She hurried to the daybed, thankful that it was going to be over at last. He pushed her onto her back with great urgency. Unbuttoning his breeches, he made a hash of it because he’d kept his bloody gloves on. Pawing at her legs and her cunny.
‘Here, let me,’ she said, alarmed that he might touch it. Mrs Havilland had warned her not to take it out before he was ready – but once he was, she had to move swiftly, conceal it beneath the pillow. The rest can be done as he recovers from the act of love.
Raising herself a little, she reached round to the back of her thigh. It was tucked into her garter, and carefully, she slid it out.
‘Stop moving,’ he said, grabbing her hand.
It slipped from her fingers, and rolled off the bed, onto the floor. It didn’t break, but kept rolling with a glassy tinkle.
He sat up, alert. ‘What was that?’
‘Just a bottle of perfume,’ she said brightly. ‘Come, sir, don’t let it distract us.’
But he’d swung his legs off the daybed, supporting himself by the frame. Lucifer’s teeth, he was looking for it. Mrs Havilland was going to kill her.
She slid off the bed too, grabbing her robe. But the gentleman was between her and the door. And where would she go? Out here alone in these dark woods.
He bent and picked it up in his gloved hand. Then he removed his mask to take a better look. He had his back to her, and she saw he was nearly bald beneath the mask, black hair clinging to his scalp in clumps. He held it up to the light, and she heard his breathing quicken.
Then he turned his face towards her and she screamed.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHILD HADN’T LEFT his rooms since he’d returned home the night before. Normally, gin took him to a place where he could think only of the moment. A Peregrine Child who had no past. No sins. No dead wife and son. No memory, except the slow slide into nothing. But tonight the present was as bad as the past, and the gin wasn’t helping.
Mrs Corsham had called twice that day. Solomon Loredo had come too, doubtless wanting to know why Child hadn’t shown up for dinner. He’d ignored their knocks, their raised voices, just sitting there, drinking, until they went away. He couldn’t bear to think what Stone was doing with the information he’d given him. Couldn’t bear to think about Mrs Corsham and her boy.
He poured the dregs of the bottle into his glass and knocked it back. It was the last of his gin. He got unsteadily to his feet, looking around for his coat, finding it on the floor. Shrugging it on, he went to the door, nearly colliding on the darkened landing with a man coming up the stairs.
‘Mr Child?’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you.’
A gentleman’s voice, bluff, with a note of strain. Squinting in the gloom, Child took in a wig, a velvet coat, and a froth of cream lace.
‘Mr Sillerton?’ The Clapham merchant. Pineapples. Kitty’s husband.
‘My wife, Katherine, has run away, come to London, I think. I need to find her. You spoke to her, didn’t you? She went out, and when she came back, she seemed very troubled.’
‘I can’t help you.’ Child tried to push past him, but Sillerton grabbed hold of his coat.
‘An anonymous letter came this morning. It said that Katherine, my Katherine, was a prostitute named Kitty Carefree. That was the name of the woman you were looking for. Did you send it?’
‘No,’ Child said, not wanting this sin laid at his door with all the others. Except it probably was his fault. He’d told Stone about Kitty, and Stone must have sent the letter to flush Kitty out.
Sillerton’s face was pink and helpless. The happiness he thought he’d found, suddenly snatched away. His new world rocked on its foundations.
‘I confronted her and she admitted it,’ he said, turning his hat in his hands. ‘Words were exchanged – things I can never take back. Please, you have to help me. I must find her.’
Child hesitated, wanting only to run away in search of more drink. But pity stayed his hand. He edged back into his lodgings. ‘Come inside.’
They sat at his table amidst the empty gin bottles. In his agitation, Sillerton didn’t even seem to notice.
‘After our argument, Katherine went upstairs. I should have gone to talk to her, but I was angry. I felt betrayed. After a few hours, I felt calmer, and I went upstairs to find her. But she’d gone, leaving me this letter.’ He took a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. ‘She called it her confession. All the things she’d seen and done.’ He shook his head. ‘Masquerades, so many gentlemen, she even talked of murder. I don’t understand it. Katherine didn’t even like the entertainments of the town. She visited London only once in the months I knew her.’
‘If it makes any difference,’ Child said, ‘I think she genuinely loves you.’
Sillerton was silent a moment. ‘She said in her letter that her sins were too great. That it was why God had punished her, and taken her happiness. But she is wrong about God. He is merciful, I believe. And if he can forgive, then so can I. I regret my words to Katherine more than anything. These past months have been a blessing – we are trying for a baby. The loss of her – I cannot stand it. I don’t care what she was before. I only want her to come home.’
‘What makes you think she’s returned to London?’
‘She said in her letter that she’d gone to the great Gomorrah. She said it was where she deserved to be. It reads as if she isn’t in her right mind, and I am fearful of what she might do.’
Child was fearful too, but he didn’t share those concerns with Mr Sillerton. The Home Office were still looking for Kitty, and he didn’t like to think what they would do if they caught up with her. Which was probably what Stone was counting upon – why he’d chosen to send that letter.
‘Please, Mr Child, help me find her.’
He tried to find the words to tell Sillerton ‘no’. That he was done with this inquiry, that he could not risk the wrath of Stone. But they wouldn’t come. Not when he thought of that poor, frightened woman in the church.
Taking Humphrey Sillerton by the shoulder, murmuring words of assurance, he guided the unhappy merchant to the door. Then he returned to the table, where he primed his flintlock pistol, and headed out into the night to find Kitty Carefree.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
LIEUTENANT DODD-BELLINGHAM SAUNTERED towards Caro.
‘Do you know how I knew it was you?’ he said. ‘Remember those lists the newspapers compile? Complexion, grace, and so on? Well, we gentlemen have lists of our own. Breasts, legs, arse. You won the latter every time. One of the finest sights in London is Caroline Corsham’s arse. How did you like playing the whore? I think it suits you rather well.’
She was backing away, across the farmyard, but he kept coming, enjoying the fear on her face.
‘What are you going to do? Rape me, like you tried to rape Miss Willoughby?’
He laughed. ‘That girl enjoyed every second. You might too.’
‘And Pamela? Did she enjoy it? Not much, I think. Is that how she ended up down that well? Because she tried to say no?’
He cocked his head. ‘You silly girl. You think you know everything, don’t you? I’m minded to drop you down there too.’
She tried to read his expression, to work out if he was bluffing. His cold, blue gaze frightened her. His lip curled in amusement. She remembered what Jack Somerset had told his sister, how when the lieutenant had bayoneted those sleeping soldiers, he’d seemed to enjoy it.
‘I’ve been to see Somerset,’ she said. ‘Or rather, his sister. I know about Van Der Linden’s Mill, what you did to those Yankee soldiers with that supply train.’
He smiled. ‘Somerset was a bitter old drunk. His stories were designed to discredit me.’
‘But they were true – and Lucy knew it. Did Pamela know it too? Was that why you killed her?’
He ran his tongue along his lower lip. ‘Lucy couldn’t hurt me. The War Office exonerated me on all counts.’
‘But I can,’ she said. ‘Lucy would have strug
gled to get a letter to America, but Harry’s in Philadelphia now. If anything happens to me tonight, then Mr Child will write to him with Somerset’s story.’
‘Stone told me he fixed your Mr Child for good. And after those stories in The London Hermes, old Harry will think it a blessed relief to be rid of you.’
She backed into the farmhouse wall. Casting her eyes around for a weapon, she picked up the largest stone she could see.
He laughed again. ‘What are you going to do with that?’
She threw it as hard as she could, and it struck him in the face. He swore, clutching his jaw, and she ran. But he was on her in a moment, catching her by the waist. He grabbed her wrists in one hand, wiping the blood from his lip with the other. ‘You’ll pay for that.’
‘Cad,’ came a voice from the shadows, a rich Scottish burr. ‘Damnable bounder. Unhand the harlot, sir. This instant.’
The lieutenant turned, swinging her round, and she saw Cromby staggering towards them, still clutching his bottle. He’d removed his mask, and she saw he was younger than she had imagined. A long, irate face, with high cheekbones and protruding teeth.
‘Missy,’ he said sternly, ‘you led me a merry dance in those woods.’ He glanced at the lieutenant. ‘I saw her first.’
‘This is a private matter, Abercrombie,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Keep your nose out.’
‘The devil I will. First claimed, first served. Stone’s rules.’
Abercrombie seized hold of Caro’s arm, trying to pull her away from the lieutenant, who jerked her back. ‘Get out of here, before I do something I might regret.’
Abercrombie was nearly as tall as the lieutenant, softer, but broader. He took another step towards them, and swung his bottle with force at the lieutenant’s head. The lieutenant released Caro, swinging up an arm to defend himself, but he wasn’t fast enough. The glass shattered on his skull, blood spilling from a nasty gash. Bellowing, he swung a fist, connecting with Abercrombie’s jaw. The Scotchman staggered back, but came at the lieutenant again.
Caro was already several yards away. Pausing by the well, she reached into it and pulled out the sodden, stinking bundle of cloth. Glancing back, she saw that the lieutenant had taken off his coat, and was wrapping it around his arm. Abercrombie came at him again, jabbing with the end of the broken bottle. He feinted, and the lieutenant caught the strike on his coat-wrapped arm. Then he smashed the same elbow into Abercrombie’s face. The pair went down in the mud, grappling.
Caro ran on, across the grass, heading north, away from the wood. In the distance were more trees, and she headed for their cover. Ducking beneath branches, stumbling over roots, she did not stop until she reached the stone wall that bordered Muswell Rise. She ran along it for a short time, until she came to a tree that she thought she could climb.
Wedging the putrid bundle under her arm, she clambered to the height of the wall, and swung her legs over it. Sliding down on the other side, she landed awkwardly, dropping her bundle. Retrieving it, her heart pounding, she looked up and down the road for assistance. All was quiet and still, save for a dog barking somewhere on the estate.
She needed to get off the road. Running as fast as she could, she came to a stile, and climbed over it. She found herself in a newly ploughed field, bordered by a high hedgerow shielding it from the road. Striding across the field, she wormed her way through more hedgerows and climbed more fences. Eventually, she spotted a little cluster of lights in the distance. Hornsey, where her hackney coachman was waiting.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHILD WENT FIRST to Kitty’s former lodgings in Soho and received the sharp end of the African footman’s tongue. ‘I told you. She left months ago. What are you, simple?’
Next he tried the Whores’ Club, where he found the meeting room deserted save for two harlots playing piquet. Both denied having seen Kitty, and he didn’t think they were lying.
So Child headed into Covent Garden, asking in every tavern and coffeehouse. The proprietors rolled their eyes, not caring about his urgency.
‘Everyone wants Kitty tonight,’ one serving maid told him.
‘Who else wants her?’
‘A pair of gentlemen. Don’t know their names.’
‘Official sorts? Brown wigs? Don’t smile much?’
She nodded. ‘You know them, then?’
Child knew them.
At a little after two in the morning, at a hazard-house near Charing Cross, he questioned a party of gentlemen playing able-whackets – hitting one another over the knuckles with knotted handkerchiefs to enormous hilarity. ‘Kitty Carefree?’ one of them said. ‘I thought it was her I saw. She’s back on the town, then?’
Child stared at him. ‘You’ve seen her? Tonight?’
‘I wasn’t sure if it was her or not. That red hair though.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll have to look her up.’
Child resisted the urge to shake him. ‘Where? It’s important.’
‘St James’s,’ the man said. ‘A couple of hours ago now. She passed me on the other side of Charles Street.’
Child took a hackney carriage across town, jumping out at Piccadilly. He scoured the streets of St James’s, stopping everyone he passed to ask if they’d seen a beautiful redhead. He even knocked on the door of one of the palatial brothels in St James’s Square, but the liveried footmen refused to answer his questions. With his wild eyes and dishevelled appearance, they probably took him for an angry father. His fears heightening, Child headed into the park.
The park-walkers were out in force. Scrawny, lice-ridden creatures, wearing tattered dresses that looked like they’d come from the Rag Fair, they surrounded him as he walked, whispering ribald compliments, anything he wanted for a shilling.
Child repeated his description of Kitty, reaching into his pocket for some coins.
One girl nodded, her eyes on his silver. ‘She was selling herself down here, stealing our customers. Poll scratched her eyes – told her to sod off back to Soho.’
‘When was this?’ Child asked the girl she’d identified as Poll.
Poll shrugged, examining her grimy nails. ‘A quarter-hour maybe. She headed that way.’
Towards Westminster. Child handed over the coins and headed on.
He made his way through the misty back alleys between the government offices, emerging onto Whitehall. He stopped to question a tired-looking clerk heading home. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw her. A real beauty. She was walking towards the bridge.’ He peered at Child doubtfully, as if about to break bad news. ‘She was with another gentleman.’
Child ran on, his heart hammering, wishing for the vigour of his youth. Up ahead were the Houses of Parliament, silver spires rising in the moonlight. He turned into Bridge Street, the fog thickening as he neared the river. Oil lamps lined the bridge’s parapet, disappearing into the fog, like a path to an unearthly realm. Child followed it, stopping as he came to each of the bridge’s alcoves. Little boys fished in them by day, and the ladies of pleasure fished from them by night. Coming across a couple kissing, he pulled the woman by the shoulder, so he could see her face.
‘Hey,’ the man said, indignant. His breeches were unbuttoned, one hand under the woman’s skirts. She wasn’t Kitty.
Glimpsing another couple up ahead, he ran on. The woman was pulling away from the man, the pair struggling. Beyond them, Child made out the lamps of a carriage.
‘Kitty,’ he called, his voice carrying over the roar of the river below.
The man turned and, with his free hand, drew a pistol. In the flash as he fired, Child glimpsed Kitty’s startled face. He felt a rush of air by his ear as the bullet whistled past him. He drew his own pistol, but the man pulled Kitty in front of him.
The carriage door opened, and another man climbed out. Certain they were the pair who’d given him the beating at the vineyard, Child fired, and heard a crack of splintering wood. The man ducked back inside.
Kitty had pulled away from her assailant again, but Child’s pistol needed reloading
. Gambling that his opponent was also out of bullets, Child ran full pelt towards him. A woman somewhere behind him screamed ‘Murder!’. Perhaps reading the intent in Child’s blazing eyes, the man released Kitty and ran to the carriage.
His rage driving him on, Child gave chase, catching Kitty’s assailant just as he reached the carriage door. The man was pulled inside by his friend, but Child grabbed hold of his leg. The carriage moved off, and the man kicked out with his other foot, catching Child in the face. He fell, tumbling onto the cobbles. The carriage door slammed closed, and he watched it drive away.
Retrieving his wig, breathing heavily, Child got to his feet. The woman behind him screamed again and he looked around for Kitty. Hurrying back to the place where he’d last seen her, he stopped in dismay.
Kitty had climbed over the bridge’s parapet, and stood gazing down at the roiling waters thirty feet below.
‘Please,’ Child said. ‘Don’t do this. It was Mr Sillerton who sent me. He wants you to come home.’
‘That man just now, he said I didn’t deserve to live. That I was a great sinner. And so I am – my final sin, it is too great.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Kitty. You are a good person.’ He was inches from her now, poised to grab her, haul her back. ‘Mr Sillerton loves you. He doesn’t care about your sins.’
‘Tell him I’m sorry,’ she said, and then stepped out into space.
Child moved faster than he’d ever moved in his life, grabbing Kitty by the wrist as she fell, her weight slamming him against the parapet. Below the river churned, the currents fierce and treacherous. Child struggled to hold on, his arm wrenching at the socket. Spray from the river soaked his face. He was half over the parapet himself, afraid her weight might pull him over, but someone on the bridge grabbed his legs.
‘I need you to hold on,’ he told Kitty. ‘Reach up and grab me with your other hand.’ He shouted to the people gathering behind him. ‘For Christ’s sake, pull.’
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