Chapter 3

F0ols

Meg’s stomach flip-flopped like a fish on the deck of a boat as the carriage pulled up at the club on Haymarket. She ran her hands down the bodice of her dress and, smoothing her skirts, noticed her work-worn hands and short, chipped nails. Would they give her away? Why hadn’t she thought to wear gloves? Ladies always wore gloves. Charlie put his hand on her leg. “You look perfect.” She tried to breathe in a measured rhythm.

Oscar, dressed as a footman, jumped over them. “Got all your stories straight?”

“Affirmative,” A tiny crack in Charlie’s voice betrayed his facade of confidence.

“Aye aye, captain. You pay the cabbie and I’ll see you inside.” Oscar disappeared into the crowd waiting to enter the club.

“Are you ready, madam?”

“As I shall ever be.” Meg inhaled and took Charlie’s hand.

The streets were cleaner here and the streetlamps burned brighter, twinkling the jewels in the hair of the ladies; all of them on the arms of well-dressed, well-bred gentlemen. Meg was worldly enough to know that these ladies were not their wives or even their mistresses. They were the courtesans of Haymarket. Some kept women, some available to the highest bidder, they lived on their looks and their wits—and if their jewels were anything to go by, they had a surplus of both.

She looked at Charlie in his evening suit. He had told her it had belonged to his father. How must he have felt, pulling the suit out of the bottom of a chest?—the scent of damp and dust. As they approached the doorman, Charlie pulled a card out of his coat, copied from an invitation Oscar had pocketed the week before.

“Good evening,” Charlie announced, handing the card to the doorman. He glanced at the name Charlie had forged with his best penmanship—a distant Beaumont cousin. He had told Meg that branch of his estranged family had estates in Yorkshire, and he hoped his cousin Clarence was not known in this particular London club.

“Good evening, Lord Beaumont.” The doorman nodded, handed back the card and ushered them inside.

Climbing the elegant mahogany staircase, laid in rich red carpet, she saw a vast candelabra burning in the upstairs foyer; the marble floor gilded by a hundred candles.

“May I take your coat, sir?” Charlie handed it to the footman and Meg could smell tobacco smoke and perfume.

“Madam?”

She handed over her borrowed fur-lined cloak, hoping he would not look too closely at the quality. “Much obliged.” The words echoed in her ears, calling her back to summer days spent with Katherine, playing games beneath the apple trees. Meg would take on the role of ‘lady’, and Katherine the ‘gentleman’, then they would fall into fits of giggles.

Charlie pushed open the mahogany door and a palatial room revealed itself. At the far end, steam fogged the large windows. In the centre of one wall, a fireplace roared, though it was August. Fine portraits of gentry and colourful landscapes in gilded frames adorned the richly papered walls. Throughout the room, men were playing cards or flirting with ladies on chaise longues. Other ladies huddled in corners, surveying the room and whispering to one another. Waiters carried trays bearing saucers of champagne and small crystal glasses of brandy. Smoke drifted through the room and Meg felt they were in a cloud.

“Whatever now?” Meg muttered to Charlie.

 “I suppose we have a drink.” He took two glasses of champagne from the waiter’s tray.

“On your account, sir?”

“I shall settle at the end of the evening.” He sounded more confident than Meg was sure he felt as he handed over his forged calling card.

“Very good, sir.”

“Recognise anyone?” she whispered into Charlie’s ear before taking a delicious sip of champagne. Like an apparition, Oscar materialised at her side.

“See the man with the black moustache, over by the fire? That’s Lord Dudley. Youngest, most notorious of the once-lofty Dudleys.” She turned her attention towards a remarkably attractive man in his mid-twenties with glossy black hair and a thick moustache. He was sipping red wine with gusto as he laughed with another man by the fireplace. They were both staring at two large-bosomed ladies, seated on a nearby lounge. The women stole glances at the men to ensure their attention. “Don’t let his looks fool you. I hear there ain’t no greater cad in all London. Squanders his inheritance on drink and other vice. It would not surprise me to see Papa Dudley storm in here this very evening and haul him back to their crumbling estate in the Midlands.” Meg giggled at the thought.

“See that gentleman next to the beautiful blonde?” Oscar was now looking at a man with a thin black moustache and an almost permanent sneer. He was playing cards, ignoring the bored-looking woman next to him, who was peering around the room, hoping for distraction. Meg noticed her golden curls were pulled back with a jewelled clasp. When her eyes met Oscar’s she smiled, before averting them again. “That’s Lord Bradbury. His family once had large estates in Kent. From what I can tell they’re all but gone. He’s married to Lady Eleanor Blackwood. Never seen in public with her, though. Rumour has it she’s very ill.”

Charlie interrupted. “And the blonde?”

“Just know her as Juliet. She’s from the East like us, though you wouldn’t know it to speak to her here. Bradbury keeps her in an apartment in Mayfair. Wheels her out from time to time. I imagine she keeps him happy, if you know what I mean.” Meg pretended to look shocked. “Ain’t sure it would be worth the trouble, if you ask me. Bradbury’s quite the snake. Then she ain’t the innocent she appears neither.”

“What’s through there?” Meg gestured to double doors guarded by two footmen against the far wall, beyond the fireplace.

“That’s where the serious card games happen,” Oscar replied. “If you want to lose all your loot to a bleedin’ Duke, you go in there. Although, I’d wager you’d need a good reference and a hefty wallet.” He continued to give them what details he knew of people in the room before Juliet met his eyes again and nodded towards the front door. She then whispered something to Bradbury, who barely noticed her, and walked towards the entrance.

“Duty calls.” Oscar waited a few seconds, then followed her out the door.

“Time for us to get to work too,” Charlie took a deep breath and gestured to Bradbury’s table, “I might try to get into that card game. Will you be alright?”

Meg gulped the last of her champagne and nodded. “I shall be fine. Go.”

Once alone, she surveyed the room again. Dudley was still carousing by the fire with his male companion, black hair shining in the firelight. She took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “Let us see how much trouble you are, Lord Dudley.” Crossing the room with as much confidence as she could muster, she stationed herself in his line of sight. Feigning a yawn, she sipped her champagne until she could smell masculine cologne and red wine.

“Your beau has left you for the card table, I see.” His voice was deep and comforting.

“Alas.” She sighed with disinterest and glanced at the ladies on the nearby lounge. Their looks were sharp as blades and directed at her.

“If I had such a beauty, I would not leave her for the tables.”

“Is that so?” His eyes took her full measure.

“If I had such a beauty, I would never leave her room at all.”

Meg felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I suspect there is a woman waiting for you in such room, as we speak, sir.”

“Not one with hair like a Celtic sunset. And ‘when the sun sets, who doth not look for night?’.”

He was polished, she would grant him that. She looked at Charlie, ensconced in his card game, then turned back to Dudley, “I do not believe we’ve met, sir.”

“Lord John Dudley, madam. Although I’d wager you knew my name already.” Darker than Charlie’s, his eyes were almost black, and peered into the shadows she kept hidden from everyone. Returning his stare, she shrugged.

“I must claim ignorance to your identity, sir. I’ve not been to the Lansdowne before. Or any club. I’m afraid I’m a maiden to such things.” It was his turn to look flushed—or was that his proximity to the fire?

“Allow me to welcome you. What is your name, mademoiselle?”

She paused for half a breath. “Cassandra.”

“Miss Cassandra.” He rolled the name off his tongue as if tasting wine. “I would very much like to call on you sometime, if I may.”

“I am not sure I am available, sir.”

“I am quite sure I can make it worth your while.” He held out his card. It had a striking yellow family crest with a blue lion rampant and the name Lord John Dudley in fine lettering. He was making this too easy. Why?

Hoping he did not see her surprise, she took his card. “I will consider your proposal, sir.” She felt him watch her as she walked towards the entrance, and once through the door, she fell against it and tried to catch her breath.

A footman approached her. “Are you alright, madam?”

“Yes, of course. Thank you. I need to freshen up.”

“The ladies’ powder room is to the left, ma’am.”

~

Making her escape from Bradbury’s side, Juliet slipped Oscar a note in the foyer before going to powder her nose. She was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when a rosy-cheeked redhead came charging through the door. Seeing Juliet, she stopped. “Oh, hello.”

“Good evening,” Juliet examined the auburn-haired girl as she stuffed a card with an eye-catching crest of yellow down the front of her dress. Who had made her so flushed? “I’ve not seen you here before.” Juliet turned back to the mirror.

“No. First time.” Meg crossed behind Juliet to the basin, where she poured water from a jug and splashed some on her decolletage. Juliet handed her a towel.

“The first time is always the hardest.” Juliet raised a brow and their eyes met.

“So they say.”

“I saw you talking to the boy earlier. Oscar.” Panic crossed the girl’s face. “My dear,” Juliet dropped her refined accent and fell back to her cockney patter, “we all have a mask we put on out there. In here, we’re just two girls doing what we can to survive.”

“How did you know…” Meg paused, considering her next words carefully, “it was my first time?”

“Your dress. It’s a good fake, but it doesn’t quite fit you in the waist. If you were a kept woman, a tailor would have had that dress fitting snug as a bug.” Meg looked down at her waist, her face paling. “Do not fret. Them out there, they won’t see anything past your face and your chest. I know because it’s my job to know. Got to keep ahead of the game, you see. Only my face and my wits—and who knows how long either of those will last.”

Juliet looked at herself in the mirror again and began readjusting her bust. “So, who’s the lad—the handsome one with the curly brown hair. A new suitor, not yet paid for services rendered?”

“He’s really my beau.”

“Sure, darling, and they’re real emeralds you’ve got on your ears too.”

“Honestly, he’s a writer, for The Chronicle.” Meg leaned in and whispered, “We’re on an assignment.” She looked in earnest at Juliet, before bursting into laughter. “Gosh, I sound such a fool when I say it out loud.”

“No, it’s fascinating. And how do you know Oscar again?”

“He’s Charlie’s brother. Charlie, my beau, thought this might be the sort of place he could uncover a story.”

“Scandal, you mean.”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m impressed.” Juliet had underestimated this young girl, assumed she was a new girl trying her luck at the life of a courtesan. If she had fooled Juliet, who else could she fool?

“My name is Juliet. Pleasure to meet you—?”

“Meg.” They clasped hands.

“What did you tell him your name was?”

“Who?”

“The man whose card is pressed against your beating breast?”

“Oh… him. Cassandra.”

“Good name.”

“Thank you.”

“Tell you what, Miss Cassandra. You entertain me this evening while Bradbury plays his interminable card games and I will get you your story.”

“You have yourself a deal, Miss Juliet.”

~

The dealer tossed out two fresh hands. Charlie had kept his head above water, so far. He had played Baccarat before; a touring American had taught the crew at The Pavilion, presumably trying to swindle them out of a few bob. The yank hadn’t reckoned with Charlie’s brother, though. Oscar rarely lost anything. Not for the first time tonight, Charlie wished Oscar was sitting in his seat instead. He would have enjoyed the thrill of it all. Not Charlie. Good old dependable Charlie—that’s what Oscar called him, and Charlie was sure he meant it as an insult. He counted his kitty again, all his savings.

The rules of the game were simple enough. The dealer dealt two hands—one for the bank and one for the player—and the players bet on the hand they thought would get closest to nine. Charlie had placed a small bet on the banker’s hand. The cards were flipped. An ace and an eight. “It’s a natural!” he called. Charlie’s pot got larger.

“Who did you say you were again, boy?” a portly man sitting opposite him queried. He had a bushy grey moustache which joined equally dense mutton chops on his rosy cheeks.

“Beaumont. Lord Clarence Beaumont.”

“Grandson of the Lady Elizabeth?”

Charlie cleared his throat. “I am, sir.” At least that much was true. Wishing he could wipe his hands on his trousers, he clinked his winnings.

“Come to London to get in the old duck’s good books, eh?” Bradbury stroked his thin moustache. “I hear she might drop off the perch any day now.”

“Or come to raise some hell?” countered the man with the mutton chops. “A boy your age must get bored out there on those country estates. Where have you blown in from?”

“Yorkshire, sir. Darnwood Hall.”

“Never heard of it.” Mutton Chops shrugged.

Bradbury counted his money. “De Vere here does not know much beyond Hampshire.”

“Nothing much to know. Damnably cold and far too many sheep.”

“I thought that was Wales.”

“Do not start me on Wales.” De Vere laughed, his whiskers quivering with each chuckle. “You know the principal problem with Wales, boy?”

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s full of Welshmen.” The older man bellowed with laughter and this time Bradbury joined in.

“Say, Bradbury, where has that delicious blonde treat of yours gone to? I find you a far less engaging companion when she is not by your side.”

“Looking at herself in the mirror, no doubt.”

“She is much prettier than you are. I imagine I would look at myself in the mirror all day if I looked as she does. If you ever grow tired of her, I’ll be happy to take her off your hands.”

“You could not handle her, De Vere. You would fall dead of a heart attack ere the evening was over.”

De Vere roared with laughter. “Old boy, I do believe you may be right there. But what a way to go.” They played another round. Charlie lost. “So, what do you do with her when you have your clandestine meetings with Roxburgh?” Bradbury glared at De Vere. “Do not worry yourself. The boy is fresh from the farm. He might as well have a hound at his feet. He will be too absorbed in a woman’s knickers by the end of the night to concern himself with the intrigues of two old codgers.”

“The Lady Roxburgh and I are friends, nothing more. You know I fret about my poor wife, so terribly ill. Lady Roxburgh is a comfort to me.”

“Right you are, old chum.” De Vere winked. Charlie glanced across the room to give the impression he wasn’t listening and noticed Juliet and Meg walk back into the drawing room together, arm in arm to an available lounge. They sat as one, like they had been bosom companions for years.

“Bets, gentlemen,” the dealer called.

~

Juliet looked about the room, wondering which of the many secrets she could, in all good conscience, divulge—certainly not Bradbury’s. Or her own, for that matter. But then Meg and her beau seemed to know about her Robbie. Secret affairs of courtesans were hardly news, unless they were with royalty. Whom could she drop in the proverbial midden? Her eyes fell upon a group of three gentlemen. Of course, she thought. Two ravens, one stone. “You see those three at the far table, shrinking into the shadows?”

“I do,” Meg replied.

“That is Sir Richard Morris, his associate Nigel Grimsby and their sometime companion Albert Somerville. Albie is a dear friend and a kindly fellow. His father was an engineer of some standing. Built half the bridges in Derbyshire or something equally industrious. His mother was the social climber, moved them to London to bustle her way into society. Quite a challenge for a middle-class Derbyshire family, as you can imagine. They married Albert off to a lass with a good name and a dwindling fortune. Cara? Mara? Some long-lost relative of the Somersets. So far down the family line, only a plague could give Albie any real status. Only problem is, Albie is not much into wives. Or women at all, for that matter. He’s a good lad, though. Keeps his unconventional appetites to himself. He has been nothing but a gentleman to me and anyone with whom I have ever seen him. I only bring him to your attention because I would like you to leave him out of this. It is the other two whose dark business I believe your beau, Charlie, should reveal.”

Albert did look like a good sort of lad. In his early twenties, he had thick strawberry-blonde hair, a ginger moustache and an angelic sort of face. She then turned her eyes to Morris. He had silver-white hair and his complexion was terribly pale, like he never saw the daylight. His associate, Grimsby, looked much rougher; a hard man who had been dressed up in a suit. Stocky, with dark copper, wiry hair, his face had an assortment of scars. The three men were playing dice while Morris smoked a pipe.

“Sir Richard Morris owns a couple of factories in the East. He also runs a notorious workhouse. My Bradbury may be an intolerable schemer and have an acid tongue, but Morris unnerves me. As though his blood runs with ice.” Meg agreed that there was something unsettling about the man. “From what I hear,” Juliet continued, “Morris is not a man to get his hands dirty. That’s Grimsby’s job. If there’s something that needs doing, Grimsby’s the man.”

“They do seem like quite unsavoury characters, Juliet. I’m not sure that factories and workhouses are what we are seeking, though. Charlie has tried to write articles on the poor and his editor merely turns him away.”

“I do not intend for Charlie to write about their daytime activities, my dear.”

“Dicing and drinking?”

“That is how they warm up. Albert told me in confidence, obviously, that last week Morris invited him to a house he keeps in Stepney. He described it as catering to more tender tastes.” Confusion crossed Meg’s face. “Albert was not sure what they meant at first either. Then Grimsby made a joke about lamb being tastier than mutton.”

Meg’s eyes widened. “Why did Albert not report this?”

“For the very same reason you will not tell Bradbury about my Robbie. There is a fine balance when traversing a web of lies, my dear. If one slips, another falls with you.”

“If you reveal their secret, they reveal yours?” Juliet nodded. “Why did Albert tell you, then?”

“His apartment is below mine in Mayfair. Not the home he shares with his wife, of course. She lives on an estate near Buxton, as a gentleman’s wife should. Dear Albie, he has so few people he can trust. It means so much to him to have a confidante. I tell him my secrets and he tells me his.”

“Why would he fraternise with such men?”

“Albie encountered the pair in the kind of club where certain men go to meet one another. A secretive place one only hears about through whispers. Albie could hardly deny the rumours—and of course there are rumours—when he had been caught red-handed, so to speak.”

“He keeps his enemies close to hand?”

“Precisely. Clever girl. Now you see why you must keep Albert out of this. His name must not be mentioned. Your beau can follow Morris and Grimsby. Discover the full truth for himself. Then you get your story and Albie’s secret is safe.”

“Of course. I cannot thank you enough for this.”

“Perhaps someday I can recall the favour,” Juliet purred.

Meg took Juliet’s gloved hand. “You have my oath on that.”

A large clock on the wall struck midnight.

“You must excuse me, Miss Cassandra, I’m afraid I have another engagement.”

“Certainly.”

“If Bradbury asks, tell him I ate something that did not agree with me, I am in the ladies’ and shall be with him presently. He shan’t notice, I assure you. I hazard he will not surface for at least another hour. Delightful to meet you, my dear. I feel sure we shall meet again.”

“Good luck, Miss Juliet. Our sincerest gratitude to you.”

~

Juliet ducked beneath the low beam of the door to the Chequers Tavern. Thronging with men, they panted about the show they had seen that night in Covent Garden, or the rather more intimate show they would see later in a private room nearby. Women drifted between them, their faces rouged, their dresses worn. Some of them may have been courtesans once, Juliet thought with a mix of pity and disdain. How the wheel of fortune turned.

Robbie perched on a stool at the bar, out of place in his best clothes, neither ragged nor drunk. He looked so innocent, like the cherubs in that boring art Bradbury took her to see. Though he was a man grown, he still seemed a boy. As he saw her, a smile engulfed his face, like the sun emerging from a cloud—so natural, so unaffected. She almost ran for the door. How could he be so happy to see her? How could he have no doubts? She had told him who she was and yet he still believed in her. She crossed the crowded, smoky room, into his arms.

“My dear Juliet. It feels so very long since I have seen you.”

“Darling Robbie.” She let him take her in his arms and kiss her lips. “How I have missed you.”

Had she missed him? Not with a yearning passion. Then again, she had never felt that, for anyone. She had missed how he made her feel, perhaps that was enough. He talked for a while about his students, the joy he got from teaching, and as she listened, she could not stop staring at a fray in the collar of his jacket. Even his best coat was falling apart. How could he take care of her? He took her hand and kissed her palm, told her of a house that one day they could have; his parents’ cottage, in Hampshire. There were sheep, a pig, land enough to plant crops. Or he could teach in the schoolhouse, and they could have a dozen children.

She didn’t tell him that in all the time with Bradbury she had never fallen pregnant, that she doubted she ever could. Despite her misgivings, she liked the dream, the warmth of his hand, the idea that she could be a wife—that she could be loved.

Then she thought, He has not asked once about me. He does not know me at all. He loves the idea of me, as they all do. Yet I am a shadow. I bend to follow the sun. She knew she needed the warmth of it to survive, but she lamented that there was not a world where she could create her own sunlight.

~

“Is this all true, Finch?” Morley asked in astonishment. “These are grievous accusations.”

“I saw it with my own eyes, sir.”

“But how?”

“I cannot reveal my source, but they suggested I follow Morris and Grimsby to a house in Stepney. I watched the house for some time as gentlemen—if you could call them that, sir—came and went. I could not go knocking on the front door, but the house had a service lane, and I was able to jump the fence without trespassing on any other properties.”

“Good gracious, you jumped the fence?”

“I did, sir. The lower windows were all curtained and I could not see within. I had to climb a drainpipe to see in the top windows.” Charlie’s heart raced at the memory. Never in his life had he ever done anything so reckless.

“God’s oath! That is where you saw all of this?” Morley pointed two arthritic fingers at the article.

“Yes. There were boys, young boys. No older than fifteen, most much younger. I guessed they were from Morris’s factories and workhouse. Boys without family to vouch for them. To come looking for them. Oh, they’d been cleaned up. They looked like regular little gentlemen. They were not there of their own volition, though. There were bars on all the windows.”

“Shocking, Finch.”

“First thing this morning I went to the factories, asked around. There are boys who’ve gone missing. No one suspected that this was where they’d been taken. Poor boys go missing all the time; the workhouse, death, sold as apprentices to mills and factories.”

“If we run this story, Finch, you will be bringing down some important people.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If there is any chance you are wrong and this is untrue, it will be on your head.”

“I understand.”

“Very well,” Morley replied, his voice as final as the grave.

~

Coins tinkled into the ceramic jar, then Charlie slid the cork lid into place. The moon was high and the stars clear; a rare moment in smoky London. Since that night in Morley’s office, weeks had swept by like a tide and Charlie had barely come up to breathe. The Chronicle had to print three times on the day of publishing which Mr Morley had to concede was the most of any edition in years. When the police arrested Morris and Grimsby, the names of other men—politicians, business leaders, members of the aristocracy—were found in the ledgers of the house.

Charlie was relieved he had been ahead of the game, heading straight to Stepney after his meeting with Morley and giving a young policeman the tip-off in exchange for information on any further developments in the case—so The Chronicle printed all the names of the other implicated men first too. Over the next few days, Charlie had been a celebrity on Fleet Street; the boy who broke the biggest scandal of the year. Morley offered him regular assignments and promised that as long as Charlie kept writing, he would keep paying. With pleasure, Charlie handed in his resignation to Abbott & Sons and his money jar began to fill with savings. Morley published all the articles Charlie had already written for him—now he had made a name for himself, they were worth publishing. More money filled the jar. He employed Mrs Green to sit with their mother during the day. They only paid her a few pennies, for she was not a trained nurse, but their mother was no longer alone, and Tommy could go to school.

The stars twinkled and he clutched the jar against his chest. It occurred to him that princes looked up at this same canopy of stars. So too did paupers. He knew he had merely replaced one set of expectations with another. That they wrapped today’s fish in yesterday’s news. It was only so long before he was going to have to come up with another big story.