by Erica Monroe
As if sensing the turn her thoughts had taken, the yellow bird outside her window opened its mouth and let out a loud shriek, his head tilted directly in Abigail's direction. Prying the pillow from her ears, she hurled it toward the window. “Curse you!”
The pillow hit the iron grate with a puff, but promptly fell to the ground. The bird remained.
She swung her legs forward, sliding off the bed and onto the cold floor. Wincing, Abigail picked one foot up off the ground, alternating in an awkward dance. The fire had burnt out in her chamber overnight. Chill seeped into her bones, almost welcome, for the room she shared with Bess was always frigid.
That flat was small and old, with broken windows and a leaky roof, but it was home. It was where she’d first learned to read and write. Where, as a young girl, she’d sneaked in books stolen from the markets, burying the texts underneath the floorboards so her father wouldn’t suspect what she’d done. Back when her father had still been sober for most of the day, and he’d actually cared what she and Bess did.
She wasn’t a particularly proficient thief, but those books had helped her through the roughest times. She’d stowed away every bit of knowledge in the hopes that someday she’d be able to better her social position. All those hours spent learning to mimic how civilized people spoke, when now her argot would be naught more than faux pleasured moans designed to make her clients thinking she was enjoying herself.
No one left the rookeries alive. Those who were born poor remained poor, while the wealthy profited from the underpaid factory workers.
She’d been a fool to think she had a chance at escaping this life.
Sighing, Abigail made her way toward the wardrobe. A knock on the door interrupted her, a hesitant tap-tap. Strickland’s knocking had been an insistent summons, as bold and demanding as he was. Who was this then?
“Good morning. Miss Voughteel?” A feminine voice called.
Abigail grimaced as Strickland’s housekeeper, Mrs. O’Neal, butchered her ordinary French Huguenot surname. Clearly, Mrs. O’Neal was not Spitalfields bred. It rankled her that Strickland couldn’t be bothered to hire from within the community he was supposed to serve.
Calling for Mrs. O’Neal to enter, Abigail went to the wardrobe. She hadn’t dared check it last night, thinking that if she did, the finery would disappear before her eyes. She had never worn anything so nice before.
But in the morning light, she refused to be conquered by such silly worries. She pulled open the doors. Five dresses hung in a silken kaleidoscope of vivid color from a wooden rod in the mahogany cabinet. She stroked the skirt of a green dress, pinching the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. She recognized this silk; had woven with it. Brocade, most likely made with the same type of loom that had scarred her, for the rose pattern expertly linked into the fabric with the precision only a jacquard offered.
A rose. Could you bring me a rose? Bess had asked.
When this tenure was over, she’d smuggle the dress back in her bags for Bess. Strickland had only mentioned that the dresses were hers for the time being. He hadn’t given them to her permanently. For all she knew, his sister expected them back.
“Tis nice, don’t you think?” Mrs. O’Neal set down the tea tray on the vanity table tucked into the far-left corner of the room. “Lady Elliot has exquisite fashion sense, for all her failings. I particularly like the pink one meself.”
“They’re lovely,” Abigail replied, stepping closer to examine them.
Upon further inspection, the maroon “dress” was actually a cloak of heavy wool trimmed with white fur. She stared at it longingly, reminding herself not to become attached. Just because Strickland had said he’d help her learn coquetry didn’t mean he’d let her take the dresses with her. She could feasibly filch one of them, but not all.
But oh, the dresses would be perfect for her plans. She could truly appear like quality in them. Perhaps selling herself wouldn’t feel so demoralizing if she at least looked like a Cyprian.
Besides the green brocade, there was the pink day dress Mrs. O’Neal had admired, a purple half-dress with a bow at the back, and a golden ball gown. Where did Strickland think she would wear that? Her stomach flipped at the idea of going to a party on his arm.
She took the steaming clay mug Mrs. O’Neal handed her, and then reviewed the remaining contents of the tea tray. A small plate of sweet rolls from last night’s dinner, the ones she’d loved so much. Three books. A jeweled comb for her hair.
Abigail barely resisted the urge to scoop the books up into her arms for further examination.
Mrs. O’Neal followed her gaze and immediately passed the books to her. “The master wanted me to bring you these.”
Abigail glanced at the spines. The first two were novels she hadn’t read, but the last one gave her pause. The Swift volume she’d wanted to inspect last night, before their conversation had taken that damnably salacious turn. She’d forgotten all about the book after their kiss, yet he’d remembered. That was peculiar, but she wouldn’t trouble over it. She set the books back down on the table and reached for the currant buns.
Mrs. O’Neal nodded approvingly. “You’ve got good taste, and I said as much to the master when he had me bring the tray up. You liked them last night, he told me.”
Abigail didn’t know what disconcerted her more: how the kiss had left her flushed and fluttered from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, or how Strickland had noticed what she liked.
She chewed the square spiral-shaped bun, the lemon and cinnamon flavors perfectly complimented by the yeasty dough. Concerns about Strickland would have to wait until she was finished eating. Bread this good deserved her full attention.
“They are quite wonderful,” she said. “The best I’ve ever had.”
Mrs. O’Neal’s face crinkled with delight. “Ah, yes, Miss, the very best. From the Bun-House near Sloane Square.”
She would’ve taken smaller bites if she’d known the bloody rolls came from there! As a child, Abigail had heard stories of the former royal family visiting the Chelsea Bun-House every Sunday. She’d never been brave enough to go to the bakery on Pimlico Street, fearing they’d immediately know she couldn’t afford their delicacies because of her ragged clothes. Now here she was, eating the famous Chelsea buns as though it was simply another day.
“That is impressive,” she murmured, savoring the bread.
“The master likes the best, when he can have it,” Mrs. O’Neal said.
She wasn’t the best. She needed to remember that. Whether or not he’d proven less atrocious than she’d originally anticipated, nothing between them had changed. He’d still bought her body and her time. When she saw him that afternoon, she’d tell him she was ready to become his pupil.
Mrs. O’Neal selected from the wardrobe the green dress, a fresh shift, stays, a new petticoat, and gray kid leather half-boots. “Well, come now, your bath shall be getting cold if we tarry longer. Finish your tea, Miss, and we’ll be on our merry way.”
Once she’d helped Abigail shrug into a wrapper, the housekeeper motioned for Abigail to follow her out the door.
“My bath?” Abigail queried, with a longing look at the remaining bun on the tray.
“Of course,” Mrs. O’Neal replied. “The master would like you clean.”
Abigail gulped, the roll now forgotten. Perhaps Strickland had reconsidered the few days of conversation first. Why else would he want to ensure that she was unsoiled? Did he intend for Mrs. O’Neal to check and see if she was still pure, too?
Mrs. O’Neal didn’t expand upon her thoughts. For a woman well in her fifties, the housekeeper had a spritely step. Down one corridor she went, and then another, until they’d reached the back portion of the townhouse. At the second room on the left she stopped, thrust open the door, and motioned for Abigail to step inside.
A monstrous porcelain tub with gold-encrusted claw feet sat in the middle of the small room, no bigger than Abigail’s bedroom in her flat. The shee
r bulk of the tub eclipsed any relief she might have felt about this townhouse finally having a normal sized room. The tub left little space on either side to move around the bathroom.
Mrs. O’Neal closed the door behind her, setting the bundle of clothes down on a stool. A stack of towels rested on the built-in shelf next to the stool. Stepping around Abigail, Mrs. O’Neal started to undo the back of her dress.
Abigail shoved the woman’s hands away, spinning around. But with how crowded the room was, she ended up half on top of Mrs. O’Neal.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Abigail demanded.
Mrs. O’Neal blinked at her, her mouth agape, as though Abigail should be in a madhouse instead of this elegant townhouse. “Your bath, Miss. The water has already been run. I’m to wash you.”
“I’m completely capable of washing myself.” She skirted Mrs. O’Neal’s attempt to reach for the back of her dress again. “If you want me to get in that damnable tub, you’ll leave.”
Mrs. O’Neal’s muttered something underneath her breath that sounded like “heathen child,” pushed a graying lock of hair back underneath her prim cap and squared her legs. She placed her hand on Abigail’s arm, fixing her to the spot. “I’m to help you undress, Miss, and that’s what I intend to do.”
Mrs. O’Neal’s ruddy forehead creased with a few wrinkles, but none of the crushing weariness Abigail had come to expect from a woman her age. Her hands were soft, though her grip was firm.
For a few seconds they stood there, facing off. The housekeeper’s mouth tapered into a scowl. She showed no signs of relenting.
They’d be there for the rest of the morning at this rate. She wouldn’t have time before dinner to read the Swift novel Strickland had set aside for her.
Abigail would have to undress. Mrs. O’Neal would see her scars, whether she liked it or not.
“Very well,” Abigail sighed, turning around again.
Mrs. O’Neal made quick work of her dress. Abigail had not slept in her petticoat or stays. She stood in her shift, bare feet upon the tiled floor. When the housekeeper went to remove her gloves, Abigail flinched.
“Well, we can’t be having those in the suds,” Mrs. O’Neal scolded her lightly. “The silk’s already worn. Bit of water would ruin it completely.”
Abigail clenched her jaw. Mrs. O’Neal tutted. All right then, if the woman was going to insist…
The housekeeper worked the gloves down Abigail’s arms, drawing in a terrified breath when she reached Abigail’s left hand. Flinging Abigail’s hand away from her, she backed away.
“What ha—happened to you, child?” Mrs. O’Neal gasped, her eyes wide. She couldn’t look away from Abigail’s marred flesh. “Did a beast claw you? Your hand…”
Abigail yanked the gloves the rest of the way off and tossed them on the ground. “You are mistaken, madam. I am the beast, and you should have left well enough alone.”
“I—I’m sorry,” Mrs. O’Neal stammered.
The mere sight of Abigail had reduced the competent woman to a stuttering mess. What would Strickland have said last night, if she’d shown him her scars? Would he still have suggested he assist her?
And why did she have the sinking feeling her cares for his opinion ran deeper than what he could do for her?
“I require no assistance,” Abigail stated. “And I don’t enjoy your stares. So kindly take your rude gaping elsewhere, won’t you?”
Mrs. O’Neal’s jaw dropped several centimeters lower, her eyes rounding further.
“Now,” Abigail hissed, pointing with her blistered finger.
Off Mrs. O’Neal went, the door slamming behind her. The smack of her shoes upon the wooden planked floor carried as she ran down the hallway.
“Great, Abbie, you’ve reduced the poor woman to running for her life,” she muttered, sliding her shift over her head. She would have to grow thicker skin.
Stepping to the bath, she dipped a finger into the water. “Owh!” The water was scalding. Whatever washing she managed at home was done in a half-bath. She’d perch in the wide bucket as Bess poured the cold water over her head.
And the smell of this water—of lavender and vanilla, so fragrant that for a second she thought she’d been transported to a garden. Wouldn’t it be lovely to smell as though she’d used the finest of French perfumes? To pretend that for once she was an earl’s daughter clothed in the finest brocade?
She ought to use this time to plot her next move, not dream of things she could never have. Letting Michael teach her would be rational. It’d help her accomplish everything she should want.
Then why did the thought of becoming a courtesan make her stomach seize with dread? She needed to accept her fate. No matter how she felt, this was the best alternative. Her future might be bleak, but Bess’s was still bright. Abigail would endure anything to make sure that possibility remained.
She surveyed the bath. Mrs. O’Neal wouldn’t be daunted forever. If Abigail wanted any peace, she’d better bathe now. She clambered into the water, slipping and sliding against the soapy rim. Water sloshed from the tub, cascading onto the floor. She thought immediately of her new dress, but it was undamaged, placed as far away from the tub as possible.
Heat encircled her, at first sweltering, but as her body adjusted, she leaned back against the rim of the tub. Submerged in bubbles, she was a bloody princess, and this was her claw-footed throne. She ran the sponge against her skin, watching the layers of dirt dissolve into the water.
Truly, this was sinful, to be surrounded by such decadence.
She ducked her head under the water. Her straw-blonde curls flew out around her, encircling in her in a web of gold. Holding her breath, she remained below the surface, enveloped by the quiet. Here, filth gone from her pink, scarred flesh, she was safe. Unable to be found by Clowes, for no one would think to look in this massive tub for the girl who’d escaped death.
Wouldn’t it make more sense to stay down here? To let all her worries and cares drift away in the cleansing water? She was no use to anyone now, a withered husk of the woman she’d once been.
Her head throbbed. Her lungs fought for purchase. She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Without her command, her mouth opened, and water flooded her throat. As she was close to blacking out, she remembered Bess, remembered the whispered You’re a fighter.
Bursting up from the water, she coughed and coughed until her body contracted in spasm. She sucked in one deep breath after another, her lungs grasping at the air.
Bess needed her. No matter how bad her life was, that fact didn’t change. Abigail was the last remaining family Bess could count on, and she had a duty to protect her little sister. And so, she’d remain in this godforsaken town.
She was the girl who lived.
Michael reclined with his feet propped up on his desk and his hands folded behind his head. Untidy piles of paper littered the top of the desk. Once, the stacks had been a color-coordinated, tabbed, organized file on the Larkers. Thaddeus Knight had always been meticulous. Michael employed a more haphazard style: he shoved all the paperwork back into the file in whatever order it happened to be in his hand. When next he’d pull it out, the randomness of the contents would jar his memory. He’d see things in a different order.
Right now, he needed the lucidity that came from looking at a case from an entirely new angle. Frank Clowes was one man in a town of hundreds upon thousands. One attractive, twenty-year-old man with a history of taking out his aggressions on the weak and defenseless. Who lured women into his sick web of agony and derision.
Though he had not been directly the one to murder Anna Moseley in the Larker case, Clowes had seduced the fourteen-year-old girl. Earned her trust. And when she was no longer useful, he’d stood by and laughed as Boz Larker beat and stabbed her to death.
When Michael had originally captured him, Clowes hadn’t just admitted to his involvement, he’d announced it. The pride in Clowes’s voice made Michael’s heart race, even now. M
erciless bastard.
Michael hadn’t been able to save Anna Moseley, and he hadn’t been able to save the two girls before her. Hell, he hadn’t even cared about the damn case until Knight had been fired. Until he’d gone to the hospital and seen Abigail laid up. The memory had lingered long after he’d left. Her angelic face twisted in an anguished glower. The laudanum couldn’t completely dull the ache of her injuries.
Michael stared up at the ceiling, silently counting to twenty. That didn’t help either—he was no closer to locating Clowes. He’d dispatched foot patrollers to every place Clowes had frequented before his arrest, but no one had found him. If Clowes was going to hit up his old connections, he was certainly biding his time. The Met had known of his escape for three days.
Three days. Clowes could be all the way to bloody Shropshire by now.
He should have had more men watching Clowes. The strange hold Clowes had over people wasn’t quantifiable in one of his equations, so he hadn’t predicted the scenario properly. Knight would not have made this mistake.
Michael frowned at the documents. He pushed his chair back from the desk and stood, going to the liquor cart in the corner of his study. Selecting the decanter of gin, he sloshed some into a glass. At least those Clowes was most likely to target were shielded. He’d dispatched foot patrollers to watch both Frances and Abigail’s sister; Knight had taken Poppy and her daughter to one of the Gentleman Thief’s secret houses; Abigail was watched by his own patrollers.
“Inspector Strickland?” Mrs. O’Neal called, her gentle knock barely sounding in his cavernous study.
“Come in,” he called.
Mrs. O’Neal’s portly figure filled the doorway. A short, stout woman who’d always insisted on wearing a dour black uniform and black mobcap—despite him informing her she wasn’t attending a funeral and needn’t dress so—Mrs. O’Neal was the very epitome of primness.
And she scared the bloody dickens out of him, had since he was a tot. But he was her boss now, damn it. If he wanted her respect, he couldn’t show his fear.