Eleven

The streets of Whitechapel were dirty and dark, and they stank of piss. The gas streetlamps that lined Mayfair were nowhere to be found. Open fires in alleyways and oil lamps took their place, which left the already foul air oily and cloying. Devonworth had lobbied for the streetlamps but hadn’t been particularly surprised to have been outvoted. Politicians were ever voting for their own interests over the people they were sworn to represent. The gains flowing out of the hidden opium dens and illicit whorehouses were enough to keep them complicit. Some deeds were better left done in the dark.

He disliked the place immensely and was only here for one reason. James Brody ran Whitechapel. Once, the territory had been divided among several gangs, but the past several years had seen the area consolidated through brute force and bloodshed. The smaller groups that still operated here on the fringes paid him for the privilege. This was the devil that Harry had been stupid enough to become indebted to.

Devonworth drew his collar up toward his ears and reached for the revolver secured at his hip. He didn’t draw it; he merely wanted the reassurance of its presence. The weight of the bills he carried in the inside pocket of his coat was why he was here. Harry’s debt would finally be repaid, and then Devonworth would spend the rest of his life making certain Brody was run out of London.

“The Scarlett Cock is just ahead. If he’s not there, word will find him that we’re looking for him.” Cavell spoke from his left side. He had insisted on coming, and Devonworth was glad to have his company. The man had been born and raised on these streets, so he would know them better than anyone else Devonworth could find.

Cavell had suggested Devonworth hire Dunn and Sanford, two men who worked security at Montague Club, and they followed behind, along with two of the men Devonworth usually called on when in need of security. As a sitting member of Lords, he could never be too careful. Any number of foul cretins would count their blessings to see him dead. Their group was six in all, a number that had felt robust at the start of this mission but seemed to shrink the farther they slunk into Whitechapel’s depths.

There was no denying they were conspicuous as they marched through the filth of the slum. The pavement ahead of them cleared as they approached. Several men slipped into alleys while the other pedestrians ducked into doorways, anticipating trouble. One woman they passed called out to her friend, “Look here, Dottie. West End lads coming your way.”

Up ahead, an old wooden sign with a faded red rooster jutted out over the narrow street. Another woman leaned in a doorway, the stairs behind her leading up to the first floor of the building that housed the pub. No doubt there were rooms there where the women conducted their business. The woman smiled at him, her face painted unnaturally white with bright red lips. “What’d’ya say, dovey? Want to tip yer prick in me honey?”

Devonworth would have moved past her, but she stepped into his path. “No. Thank you.”

She laughed, tossing her head back. “Oi, he’s a polite one, inni he, Mabel? A ’andsome one, too.”

Movement in the shadows behind her reminded him just how dangerous this mission could be. Sanford moved up to block the unknown threat, but Devonworth held up a hand to stay him when the figure came forward into the light. It was another prostitute. This one was younger, but her eyes were already creased with lines, hollows shadowed beneath them.

“Give Janie a go. She ain’t had a proper gentl’man yet.” The older woman thrust the younger one into his arms. She smelled overwhelmingly of cheap perfume and liquor.

Devonworth righted her and held up a coin. “We are looking for Brody.”

The smile dropped from her face and she shrank back. “You should go home.”

“Is he inside?”

All pretense of her flirtation stopped. “Don’t mess with him. Your face is too pretty.” She stepped back, not even bothering to take his coin.

The younger one looked from her friend to him and gave the barest of nods. He tossed the coin to her and she grabbed it, tucking it into some unseen pocket in her skirt.

Brody probably already knew they were here. One of his henchmen had likely spotted them the moment they had stepped over Commercial Street. You didn’t control a territory like this without sentries.

“Thank you,” he said as the women let the darkness swallow them.

They had already discussed how best to proceed, so when they reached the pub, the two hired men waited outside the door to alert them if reinforcements came. Cavell’s men followed them inside. The pub was two rooms joined by the rectangular bar. The first room was filled with men at community tables as a few women circulated with ale and food, sausages by the smell of it. Someone played a bawdy song on a pianoforte in the far room where the crowd was more boisterous. Several heads swiveled toward them when they walked in. One of the men behind the bar turned immediately and hurried through a door that led to yet another room. When Devonworth and Cavell went to follow him, two men stepped into their path.

“Where you going?” one of them asked. He was dirty and rank, and his breath smelled like days-old beer.

“We’ve come to see Brody,” Devonworth answered.

The man grinned, revealing teeth so stained with tobacco they were nearly black in the meager lighting. “Who’s that?”

“Give off,” Cavell said, his old accent coming out. “Everyone knows ’im.”

“Remind me. Maybe I ain’t so smart.” The man’s infernal grin widened.

“Lookin’ that way,” Cavell agreed, which made the man scowl at the insult.

He reared up as if he intended to fight them, but then a whistle sounded from across the room. The barkeep had returned and waved them over. They went to move past the man, but he held his ground, evidently still insulted.

“Leave it, Jim,” the bartender barked.

Jim spat a wad of tobacco at their feet as he slowly moved to the side.

The four men walked to the door, and the barkeep turned to lead them down a narrow hall. They left Dunn stationed at the entrance to the hall in case any of the men from the pub decided to follow. After a couple of turns that led them downhill and convinced Devonworth they were under a street somewhere, they came to an arched door. It must have served as storage at one point in its history, but it was now an office of sorts where Brody conducted his business out of sight. It couldn’t be the only one. Brody would never allow them to find his hiding places.

Sanford stayed outside the door with the barkeep as Cavell and Devonworth went inside. Brody lounged behind a table with another man at his side. This one looked mean with a meaty bald head and slashes for eyes. Brody was a bit more polished. He wore a suit and his dark hair was slicked back as he smiled at them with a cigar clenched between his teeth. Piles of money were stacked on the table along with leather satchels Devonworth guessed were filled with opium.

“Welcome, milord . . . Cavell.” His enthusiasm dimmed as he took in his former colleague. Devonworth didn’t know the details of their history, but it didn’t seem good. “Streets are fairly deserted. Took you longer than I thought.” He spoke with the same accent as everyone else here, but it was a bit more polished, as if he wanted them to know he was better than the others.

Devonworth had assumed Brody’s men had been watching their progress, but it rankled to know he’d been right. “I’ve come to pay my brother’s debt.”

“I know.” Brody’s self-satisfied smirk was almost more than he could bear. “Hadley, fetch the ledger.”

His colleague reached beneath the table and extracted a worn, leather-bound volume and flipped it open on the table. It was filled with nearly illegible scrawls through pages and pages of ill-gotten gains. Devonworth was angry that he was here; he was even more ashamed that his money would be contributing to this evil. Men and women were lying in alleyways, their entire lives destroyed by the poison Brody fed them. Children were left to fend for themselves or join in the business as runners and thieves to support themselves. Any money that made its way into Whitechapel eventually was funneled into Brody’s operation. He wanted to rail at Harry all over again.

Brody made a show of turning to the right page and scrolling the columns.

“Ten thousand pounds,” Devonworth said to put an end to the display.

He took the cigar from his mouth and flicked it onto the floor. “Eleven.”

“It’s ten.” Devonworth spoke through gritted teeth.

Brody smirked. “It was ten, but now it’s eleven. Don’t fret, you can afford the interest now that you’ve wed your little heiress.”

The fact that Brody had heard of his marriage wasn’t a surprise. Everyone knew of the marriage because it was in all the newspapers and tabloids, along with the requisite biting commentary, but it disturbed him that Cora would be brought into Brody’s world even tangentially.

At his hesitation, Brody added, “Tell me, what’s it like to fuck an American heiress? There are so many around London now, but I regret I haven’t had the chance to—”

“Here.” Devonworth almost ripped the package out of his coat before tossing it on the table.

Brody chuckled and gave a nod of command to his underling. The man ripped open the paper it had been carefully wrapped in and began to count it. Devonworth had been expecting something like this to happen. Brody was not an honorable criminal. He’d have no compunction about changing the terms. Devonworth pulled out another wad of bills and tossed them on top. The thought of Cora in Brody’s clutches made him feel cold and hot at the same time. She might be the wife he didn’t want, but she didn’t deserve to be brought to the attention of scum like Brody.

The bald man gave him a cutting look before picking up the wad and adding it to the total. “Eleven thousand.”

Brody nodded. “Thank you for your patronage, milord.”

Devonworth’s entire body vibrated with his anger and the suppressed need to take his frustration out on the man before him. “Stay away from my wife and stay away from my brother.”

“I don’t make those sorts of promises. Besides, your brother came to me. No one forced him to play a game he couldn’t win. Keep the child away from games he doesn’t understand.”

Devonworth took an inadvertent step forward. Cavell put a hand out to keep him in check. “If you come near my brother again, I’ll make certain you suffer for it, Brody.”

Brody shook his head, but he no longer tried to hold that he was amused by the situation. “Take him out of here, Cavell, before something unfortunate happens.”

“Let’s go, Dev. Nothing more can be done tonight,” Cavell said, his palm pressing into Devonworth’s stomach.

Devonworth knew he was right, but irrational anger was driving him now, leaving him rooted in place. It wasn’t until Cavell stepped between him and Brody that he was able to turn and walk out the door. They had to leave. He could fight Brody, but even if he won, they wouldn’t get out of the warren alive.

The group came back together as they made their way out of the pub until they were six strong again. He had no idea if Brody had anything unpleasant planned for them, but it was best to get out of the area as quickly as possible. However, as soon as they passed the first alley, a man rushed at them out of the shadows. Devonworth jumped back, and Jim came into the light, his tobacco-stained teeth gritted as he lurched at him, undoubtedly still angry from the earlier encounter. It was the outlet his anger needed. Balling up his fist, he hit the man squarely in the jaw and knocked him to the ground. He stayed there, gripping his jaw and moaning, no doubt hindered by the drinks he had consumed in the pub.

A woman screeched and came running up to them. Cavell braced for her attack, but she only bent to check on the fallen man. “You’ve killed him.” She looked up at Devonworth and he realized she was the young woman from the doorway.

“He’s not dead. Bruised but alive.”

She rose, her brow furrowed as she looked down at the man, uncertain how to proceed. It was only when she braced a hand against the swell of her stomach that he realized she was with child. He didn’t know if Jim was her man or her pimp, or perhaps those meant one and the same here. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a card. She flinched when he pulled it out as if she thought it could be a knife.

He paused to allow her a moment to see in the dim light that he wasn’t attacking her. “Take this.” She reached out hesitantly, and he closed the distance and pressed the card into her hand. “You can find help there.”

She frowned as she examined the small rectangular card, and he suspected she couldn’t read.

“There’s a map on the back to the London Home for Young Women,” he said. She turned it over to reveal a sketch with streets labeled along with well-known landmarks and a big star marking the destination. “They help unmarried women in need of aid.”

“I ain’t unmarried.” She glanced back down to Jim, whose groans had turned into snores.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “They’ll help you.”

Her lips tightened belligerently, but she didn’t toss the card down as she might have. Instead, she tucked it into her skirts where the coin had disappeared earlier.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Cavell urged.

By now some of the deeper shadows had begun to get restless. Devonworth didn’t know if they were Jim’s compatriots or Brody’s men, and he didn’t want to find out. The six of them hurried down the streets, and he didn’t draw a restful breath until he was climbing the steps to his home. Edgecomb met him at the door and took his coat, gloves, and hat.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“Evening, Edgecomb.”

“Would your lordship care for supper?”

“No, thank you. I ate earlier.” He’d taken a meal with Cavell at Montague Club before they had set out. “How is her ladyship?”

“Well, my lord. Mr. Brendon dined with her briefly before he left for the evening,” the butler said.

A twinge of guilt gnawed at him. He had been so busy this past week meeting with his solicitors and accountants to get his debts and investments settled and arranging for the refurbishments at Timberscombe Park that he had hardly seen her. She must think him the worst husband, but it couldn’t be helped. Bidding Edgecomb good night, he hurried up the stairs but stopped at the top when he very nearly collided with Cora outside his study, which was the first door at the top of the stairs.

She stood in her rose dressing gown with her hair in a braid over one shoulder. His exclamation of surprise gave way to silence as he studied her in a more natural state than he had ever seen her. She wasn’t bound up and was no doubt naked beneath the nightclothes. She appeared softer and more vulnerable this way. The lavender scent she always seemed to carry with her washed over him. She was fresh and clean and so pretty and soft he wanted to pull her into his arms. She was an unexpected balm against the ugliness of the night he’d just had. It shocked him how very much he wanted to hold her against him.

“My lord,” she said, belatedly raising a hand to where the sides of her dressing gown came together at her neck.

“My apologies. I didn’t think you would still be awake.”

A light blush lit her face, a slow raspberry stain that mottled her cheeks. “I wasn’t sleepy.”

He glanced to the open door of his study, suddenly very certain that she had been inside. What would she be doing in there?

“Did you enjoy your evening?” she asked, her gaze taking in his rumpled appearance.

Something had ripped when he had punched the man outside the pub. Devonworth suspected it had been his sleeve, and his lapel had refused to lay flat since. He hadn’t even thought to smooth his hair. He realized the young prostitute’s cloying perfume still lingered on him the exact moment Cora’s nostrils flared and her eyes widened. She thought he had been with a woman. He should set her at ease, but then she might wonder what he had been doing. Somehow it was easier to let her think that than to admit the truth. His shame at having to deal with Brody was too great to share with her. What would it matter to her if he had a mistress anyway? They were not intimate.

Not by his choice, he realized. He had agreed to her stipulation without giving any thought to what it would mean, but standing here with her in a state of undress, he felt real regret. It would be no hardship to bed her. Indeed, his entire body resonated at her presence.

“Well enough,” he offered, not bothering to explain further.

After a moment, she nodded and said, “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” She walked down the corridor to her chamber and didn’t even look back as she let herself inside. The light from the sconce she passed under highlighted the shape of her body beneath her nightclothes, and he found himself watching the outline of her hips until she disappeared from view.

He took one step toward his room before turning to his study. He lit the lamp at his desk and surveyed the room. Nothing had been disturbed. It all appeared as he had left it. Perhaps she’d been curious about the books on his shelves. None of them appeared to be gone, however. He leaned down to turn off the light when he noticed a single ball of paper in the bin. Retrieving it, he smoothed it out on his desk and looked over the notes she had written in an attractive and orderly hand.

She had read his speech pleading for the passage of the Public Health Bill. He wasn’t to deliver it until later in the summer before the break. No one had read it yet, not even Beckham. The knowledge immediately made him bristle, but he slid into his chair and read over the notations again, taking hold of his speech to reread the areas she mentioned. Her critique was thoughtful, and she made several valid points when she suggested he bring in firsthand accounts from villagers. Not only that, her writing flowed well and was conversational rather than scathing or cold. She was right. Personal stories would go a long way toward making the statistics mean something.

He laughed to himself at her verve and filed the crumpled paper in his desk drawer. Perhaps he’d ask her to share more of her opinions. Ever since that demonstration outside Parliament in February when Camille’s suffrage group had been assaulted at their protest by criminals funded by her late husband’s successor, the groups in Parliament had begun to pull ranks. Several backed Hereford, even though there was nearly indisputable evidence of his involvement, while several supported Devonworth. He was afraid the mess would sway voting on the health bill. God knows he needed all the help he could find to get the bill passed.