Chapter 11

 

 

 

Wearing her recently purchased dark green silk taffeta tea gown, Claudia stood, teacup and saucer in hand, in the crowded morning room at the Watford town house. A large table was set up at the front of the chamber, covered by a white lace tablecloth. Upon it, silver urns holding coffee and tea, and platters of delicate sandwiches with questionable fillings, along with small frosted cakes, slices of seed cake, a Victoria sponge cake, and various biscuits, fruit, and cheese.

Olivia came to her side and affectionately squeezed her arm. “I think this is going well. I had more show up than I originally thought. The ladies are curious about Watford’s choice of a wife. It is no doubt the reason for the high attendance.”

“Then let them get a good look. You are stunningly beautiful.” And Claudia meant it. Olivia particularly glowed today. 

“Oh, thank you. I am so pleased you came. And as soon as you can fit me in, I want you to come for afternoon luncheon, just the two of us.”

Claudia recalled Pan’s advice: make a good friend of Olivia. She had to start somewhere, allowing people near. In truth, she missed her mother still, the close companionship, someone to confide in and share life’s joys and disappointments. Logically speaking, how could one go through life without human interaction? For all her grand asseverations about keeping people at arms’ length, it wasn’t feasible. Claudia had been devastated by her mother’s death and believed that not being hurt in the future meant remaining remote. But that was the reaction of a grieving 16-year-old girl. A decade had passed. As she observed earlier, perhaps Olivia was an excellent place to start—slow increments.

Smiling, she patted Olivia’s hand. “I will, I promise.”

“If it weren’t considered unladylike, I would squeal with delight,” Olivia replied, beaming. “I had best return to the serving table. As hostess, I am to pour, supposedly. Mingle, Claudia. Talk to people.”

“I will try.”

A woman was heading their way. Claudia guessed her to be in her late twenties.  

“Here, I will make the introduction,” Olivia whispered. More loudly, she said, “Baroness Addington. May I introduce my dear friend, Miss Claudia Ellingford? Claudia, Lady Corrine, who is the daughter of Viscount Rothley.”

Claudia loathed these situations. Does one curtsey? Instead, Claudia inclined her head and gave a polite smile. “Lady Corrine. A pleasure to meet you.” There. That wasn’t so difficult.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellingford. The duchess tells me you are a private investigator.”

“And I will leave you ladies to chat. I must dash.” Olivia headed toward the table to resume her hostess duties. She gave Claudia a little wave before focusing on the women gathered around the tea buffet.

“It must be exciting work,” Lady Corrine enthused.

Was this baroness mocking her? Claudia studied her closely. Attractive, of course, with the prerequisite complexion of an English rose to befit a viscount’s daughter and baron’s wife. Her look was earnest, and because of it, Claudia would attempt polite conversation.

“I have only been on the job a few weeks, but so far, it is exciting. I am enjoying it immensely.”

“I have only been a baron’s wife a few months, but so far, it is not exciting, nor am I enjoying it.”

Claudia’s eyes widened. She didn’t expect that reply. What to say? “I am sorry to hear it, my lady.”

“It is my fault,” she sighed. “I agreed to the arrangement to benefit my family. If I were to call on you sometime soon, would you share a cup of tea with me? I need your advice, and I may need your services.” She took Claudia’s hand. “I truly admire you for living your life on your terms. Do you have a card?”

Good lord, Claudia couldn’t believe the baroness’s frankness. Pulling her hand away, Claudia reached into her reticule, fetched a card, and handed it to Lady Corrine, who quickly palmed it. “Leave word at Cleveland Street, and we will schedule an appointment.”

“I will. Thank you, Miss Ellingford.” The baroness gave her a sad smile and moved toward another group of ladies.

Perhaps Claudia should attend more of these soirées—a perfect way to drum up business. Were any of these society ladies happy? Well, a few, like the ones in her acquaintance. But they must be the exception to the rule.

As Claudia glanced about the room, her mind wandered to her conversation with Tensbridge yesterday. How mercenary of her to name a price for the bonus. And to not inform the Galway sisters? It did not sit well with Claudia. Her old instinct to grab any money she could to keep from starving remained deeply ingrained. To take advantage of the viscount’s concern for his younger brother also did not sit well. When had she become so avaricious and selfish? Living on the streets could do that to a person, but it was no excuse. Her mother had brought her up better than that.

Claudia would inform the sisters of the particulars. She would not take the bonus money from Tensbridge, after all. But she would encourage the sisters to speak with Tensbridge and urge him to wrap up the case as soon as possible. There was nothing more she could discover.

Speaking of the Galways, Claudia had arrived with Eleanora, Althea—in her first public outing since her leg operation—and Edwina Callen. Olivia was busy greeting guests, and she and another woman Claudia had just met, Baroness Wenlock, were pouring the tea. Two maids stood nearby to clear away any dishes and replenish the platters. Olivia had whispered to her that Chastity Colborne, the baroness, had a past similar to theirs, living and surviving on the streets. How astounding. It shows you do not know about a person at first glance. She would do well to remember it.

Althea sat in a plush chair, her cane at her side, with Eleanora seeing to her every need. Edwina Callen came to stand beside Claudia.

“They are devoted to each other,” Edwina whispered. “It makes me long for a sister. Do you have one?”

Claudia could see what Edwina meant. “No. No family at all.” Except for her miserable stranger, soon-to-be-ex-duke father, currently rotting in prison.

“Your gown is absolutely gorgeous. I love the embroidered lilies on the decorative collar and the large lily down the right side,” Edwina enthused.

Except for the tight, high neck, Claudia agreed. It reminded her of when she was a child and owned numerous pretty frocks. It was the last time she had worn anything so fine. “Your dress is lovely as well. The russet shade suits your coloring.”

Edwina flushed with pleasure. Yes, try as Claudia might to remain distant, Edwina and Olivia were not having it. Edwina, in particular, had made a concerted effort to engage in conversation, often waiting for Claudia to return from her undercover assignments in Notting Dale. Edwina would make her a hot tea, assist in removing Claudia’s disguise, and beg to hear all the details of Claudia’s night. Edwina had worn her down as she said she would. Claudia eventually welcomed the camaraderie. Who would have thought? She would welcome Olivia’s as well. But back to this afternoon’s tea gathering. One particular introduction had piqued Claudia’s interest. 

The Countess of Darrington. Shinwell’s mother. 

The older woman sat on the settee with another lady, the Duchess of Coldbridge, the Duke of Allenby’s mother.

Claudia gently laid her hand on Edwina’s arm. “I will return in a moment. Something regarding the case I am on.”

“Of course,” Edwina replied.

Claudia nonchalantly strode along the room’s perimeter, nodding and smiling to a few women as she moved closer to the countess and duchess, who were speaking intimately. She grasped a sandwich on her way by and nibbled on it. Lord, how horrible, some sort of fish pȃté with a thin slice of cucumber. Two things Claudia could claim: an acute sense of hearing and a sharp power of recall. And the excellent sense of smell. 

Well, three things, then. 

She stood with her back to the women, gazing out the window. She stood far enough away to not arouse suspicion but close enough to listen attentively.

“I do not know what to do, Christina,” the countess sighed. “Troy has become impossible.”

Troy Beckingham, Viscount Shinwell. The countess’s son. 

“I understand completely. Gerard is at a loss as to what to do about Rome. He will not listen to his father.”

Romeo ‘Rome’ Linton, second son of the Duke of Coldbridge. Allenby’s mother had recently married the duke. Yes, it was a good thing that she possessed an ordered mind, or she would need cards pinned on a board attached with colored strings to keep this all straight.

“At least Coldbridge takes an interest in his son. When I try to engage William, he merely waves my concerns away, claiming that Troy is acting in a typical manner for young bucks, as he calls them. ‘I was one once,’ he declared. He acts proud of Troy’s shameful behavior. I cannot abide gossip, and already there is talk.” The countess sighed. “If only Troy could be more like Paris, Romeo’s older brother and heir. Such a gentleman, such an air of maturity.”

“Yes, Paris is an ideal son—and stepson—and heir apparent, to be certain,” the duchess replied. “Have you tried talking to Troy?”

“Yes. My son dismissed me out of hand and said I would not understand the pressures he is under as the heir and that he needs an outlet. He also said I was not to mention it again.”

The duchess snorted. “That, my dear, is a rationalization if ever I heard one. You could have him followed. As you know, my son married the owner of an investigative agency.”

“Yes, I could, but to what end?”

Exactly what Claudia had said to Tensbridge. After the information was gathered and presented to the client, it was up to the client to proceed. The agency’s role concluded. And to follow Shinwell about? Claudia did not wish to do it, no matter the monetary inducement. From what she had observed, the viscount was a complete arse.

“I have something to tell you,” the countess said, lowering her voice. Claudia stepped away. Sure enough, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the countess look around for anyone close by. Once the countess leaned in toward the duchess, Claudia returned to her previous spot by the window. “Years ago, I caught Troy with an older maid and a stable boy. They were having sex, the three of them. Troy was barely 15 years old, the stable boy not much older. The servants were dismissed immediately, but Troy received no punishment. William patted the boy on the back and said he was proud of him. The time for discipline has come and gone. I believe my son is beyond all hope.”

“Listen to me. You cannot say anything to anger your son,” the duchess said firmly. “He is the heir, and once your husband passes, Troy could act resentful, denying you comforts. Remember, he will hold the purse strings. Your future will be in his hands.”

“He will act that way, I know it,” the countess replied crossly. “Then, I wash my hands of him. Act politely enough when I must be in his presence, but otherwise, avoid him at all costs.”

“Etta!” the duchess exclaimed, clearly shocked.

“My niece, Celia, is married and lives near the Scotland border, so nothing keeps me here in London. You have no idea what I have had to endure. It has killed any regard I have for my son. He was a hellion from the moment he was born. Be glad Allenby is an honorable man, a worthy son. You are indeed fortunate. Treasure him. I will shed no more tears over mine. If Troy wishes to descend into debauched oblivion, so be it. He can sink. I will head to the country as soon as I can pack my trunks. And I may travel to Italy and places beyond when winter arrives.”

“What about your husband?” the duchess asked.

“He can sink as well, although I believe he reached lower depths long ago. We have not been getting along for ages. We hardly speak, let alone anything else. I have no idea what he gets up to, and I no longer care.”

Claudia headed toward Edwina. So, there will be no restraints on Shinwell, meaning he will sink and drag Linton and Bryan Wollstonecraft with him. The duchess will repeat this conversation to Coldbridge, and although Claudia never met the duke, she imagined he would not allow his son Rome to wallow much longer. She would relay this conversation to the Galways and to Tensbridge. It could likely convince him to close out the investigation and move forward.

Seeing Eleanora standing by the food table, Claudia hurried toward her. “May we speak alone?” she murmured.

Olivia must have heard, for she said, “Use the library. There is no one in there. Gideon is at his club with the rest of the members. Once out in the hallway, it is the third door on your right.”

Claudia and Eleanora found the room with no trouble. Once inside, Claudia closed the door behind her. She immediately told Eleanora everything, including the bonus money Tensbridge offered and the conversation she had just overheard.

“Well. Twenty pounds?” Eleanora stated with annoyance in her voice.

“I am sorry. When one lives on the streets, any opportunity to make extra coinage takes priority over everything, including common sense. It will not happen again,” Claudia declared sincerely. As she had observed earlier, this transition to a new life continued to be a bumpy ride.

“Very well. I accept your apology and appreciate your honesty. We allow bonuses from clients, of which the investigators receive twenty-five percent. The rest goes into the business. The amount you gave Tensbridge is not unheard of. The men paid a fifty-pound bonus on the Allenby case. But we wait until the client offers.”

“Oh, he offered. I just named the amount.”

Eleanora’s mouth quirked. “In the future, let the client name the amount. As for the rest, you are correct. There is not much more we can do regarding this particular matter. Do it for one more week. Meanwhile, I will discuss it with Allenby and have him speak to Tensbridge. By the time you meet with him this coming Friday, we should be able to finalize it. Other clients are waiting.”

Claudia exhaled, relieved. Closing out the case was prudent for the agency and herself. After this week’s meeting, she could dismiss Tensbridge from her thoughts and nip that attraction in the bud. “Speaking of other clients, I was approached by a possible customer. Baroness Addington. I would like to have a meeting with her.”

“Addington? Oh, that’s right. The old baron passed away recently. A distant cousin is now the baron. Did she say concerning what, exactly?”

“No, but judging by her conversation, I would say it concerns her husband.”

Eleanora shook her head. “Ah. It wouldn’t hurt to meet with her since you will be winding up this Tensbridge case. See it done and soon, and let me know what she wishes before we agree to anything.”

“You do not want to be there? I thought you or Miss Sybil met with all potential patrons.”

“I usually do, but I am seeing to my sister’s recovery. And Sybil has enough to keep her busy. I would say you are more than capable of conducting an interview. Just be pleasant and accommodating.”

Claudia smiled. “I will try my best.”

One thing at a time, however. Claudia had Tensbridge’s case to wrap up first. As she observed, it was best to move on and place any sparking interest in Tensbridge behind her. It was not wise on any level. Rubbing against and intimately touching a masked vigilante was one thing. He was anonymous, and she would probably never see him again. But a tall, handsome viscount with beautiful eyes and impressive shoulders, seemingly honorable and compassionate? ‘

No. Claudia could not allow it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Claudia wore so much putty and grease paint that her face itched. There were dozens of pins holding the black wig in place. The hairpiece was braided, and she tucked it under the collar of her shabby dress. She kept to the shadows of the alley adjacent to the recently opened Avondale Park.

Wollstonecraft, his flatmates, and Tolwood were heading into the park, the former site of ‘The Ocean,’ the infamous pig slurry pond. The fact there was a park, complete with wildflowers, shrubberies, and benches, was hard to comprehend, but it meant that Tensbridge’s information was correct. The council would initiate a clearance sooner rather than later. The common was located on the outer reaches of Notting Dale, closer to Kensington and Chelsea than the heart of the slum. Because of this, a uniformed copper patrolled nearby.

Since the men were loud and handing a bottle back and forth, the copper approached them and sent them from the property. Shinwell and the others did an about-face and stumbled toward an area called The Avernus (the gateway to hell, as one paper had recently called this section of The Piggeries). They had left their flat in this intoxicated condition, which meant they would be easy targets for Danaher’s men if they were inclined to rob them. Danaher often permitted young men of means to arrive at their destination. It meant they would return and spend even more money on vices, which meant more currency in Danaher’s pocket; at least, that had been his technique ten years ago.

Claudia kept to the shadows, well out of sight of anyone watching. There was a good deal of fog tonight, and overcast and cool. She should have worn something warmer. 

The men ambled along William Street. They had never been in this section before. Claudia searched her memory. Was there a brothel nearby or other place of entertainment? So much had changed since she lived here. They were heading toward Pottery “Cut-throat” Lane. Not very prudent.

They rounded a corner and disappeared. Claudia halted. Could they know they were being followed? She had been so careful. Besides, the young men were clearly in their cups. Intent on puzzling this out, Claudia was not aware of someone stealthy approaching from her left. Before she could fully comprehend that the hairs on her neck were at full attention, the person grabbed her arm and whirled her around.

It was Danaher, and he had gripped the same arm as before, making her wince from the pain. She already had bruises from the night before last. Claudia kept her head down in case he saw any resemblance to her previous disguise or the girl she had been a decade ago. This street area lay in darkness due to the lack of lighted street lamps.

“Another strange bitch lurkin’ about. Who the feck are you?” he snapped.

Claudia would not relive the scene of a few nights ago, so she gave a roundhouse blow that landed on his chin, sending Jedi down on one knee. About to reach for her knife, two men emerged from the darkened alley and seized her arms.

Danaher slowly stood, rubbing his chin. “Hit me, will you? Ugly sow.” He punched her in the middle, knocking the breath out of her. Claudia doubled over from the impact. “Hold her upright. I’ll teach her a lesson she won’t soon forget.”

But before Jedi Danaher could lay a further hand on her, someone dropped down from above and entered the fray. Still wheezing, Claudia slowly lifted her head. Although her vision was blurry, she could make out that The Sentinel had come to her rescue. He battered the men with his truncheon, moving with a predatory swiftness. 

The two men released her and started to fight back, their fists flying toward the vigilante. It took all of Claudia’s strength to remain upright. Her insides churned from the impact of the blow, and she felt nauseous and dizzy, fighting the bile crawling up her throat.

“You,” Jedi growled, his full attention on The Sentinel. “My men told me of your interfering. Bloody bastard. This is my territory.”

In the muted moonlight, she saw a flash of a blade. “Knife!” Claudia cried. 

It alerted The Sentinel enough that he turned sideways. Although he missed a full-on deep thrust, it sliced through the layers of leather on his left side, and the vigilante grunted. How deep the cut was hard to tell. The Sentinel caught Danaher across the face with his truncheon, knocking Jedi to the cobbles before the ruffian could attack again.

The Sentinel turned to the other two men, battering them until they were unconscious. The vigilante laid his hand against his wound. Blood oozed between his gloved fingers. Shaking her head, trying to gain strength and clear the fuzziness from her mind, Claudia rushed to the vigilante’s side. Taking her shawl, she bunched it up and held it to his gaping wound.

That few moments allowed Jedi Danaher to scramble to his feet. He grabbed her hair, and Claudia cried out with pain as the wig came away, along with hairpins and clusters of red hair. Jedi tossed the wig aside and spun her about.

“What the feck is this? Who are you? I only know one person with hair that shade. And she be dead. Unless—Claudia?”

Claudia pulled up her skirt. She would kill this man right here and now. He more than deserved it. All his evil deeds of the past? And no doubt the ones in his future. She would be saving others’ lives if she ended his. But before she could grab her blade, The Sentinel bashed Jedi on the head, knocking him insensible. Danaher lay still. Was he unconscious? Claudia kicked him with her boot, and he didn’t respond. It appeared so.

“No murder, not tonight. No time,” the vigilante gasped. “Is the blood dripping on the cobbles?”

She glanced down. “No.”

“Good. This way.” He slipped his truncheon into his belt.

Claudia could hear distant shouts and loud clamor. They had to escape. However, it would only take seconds for a quick slice across the carotid artery. There was no time to debate the matter, for she sensed The Sentinel would disagree. And cold-blooded murder on a defenseless, unconscious man? It would not sit well with her, even if Danaher were the man in question.

Instead, she slipped the vigilante’s arm about her shoulder, and they hurried off as quickly as possible. “Wouldn’t it be easier to escape through the park? Toward Kensington?” Claudia pointed.

“There are not many exits out of Notting Dale; we will be caught. The smart move is to vanish right under his nose.” 

The Sentinel was correct once again. Danaher’s men would locate them before they managed to leave Notting Dale. Moving swiftly through a maze of back lanes, they reached the rear courtyard of an abandoned house. The windows, which ones remained, were boarded up.

“In through those loose boards,” he rasped, pointing to an entrance. “Check again to ensure I am not leaving a trail of blood. They will trace us if I am.”

Under the subdued light of the moon, Claudia inspected the uneven ground. Then, up to his still-covered injury. “No blood.” However, the shawl was soaked through.

Once inside, he motioned toward the large fireplace. “Use the iron bar. Open the trapdoor, there.” He pointed to the floor of the hearth. The Sentinel’s hand trembled. He was losing too much blood. Claudia did as he instructed. “Hide the bar in that pile of rubble,” he muttered.

“Wait, there are no rats down there, I hope. I cannot stand them.” That was an understatement. You don’t live on the streets and not have to deal with rats. How many nights had Claudia slept in dubious dosshouses, lying awake all night because of the rustling and squeaking of rats in the darkness? She shuddered at the thought.

“No rats,” he replied. “At least, none the last time I was here. Hurry. Let us get below.” 

Claudia assisted him down the narrow stone steps into complete darkness. He silently pulled the door shut using a piece of rope attached to the underside of the door. “Won’t they see footprints above?” she whispered, holding him upright.

“No. I ensure there is little dust or dirt on the wood floors.” He pulled away from her, and Claudia could hear him fumbling about. She listened to the strike of a match, and then muted lighting filled the area. The Sentinel had lit a small oil lamp.

“Won’t they see the light through the floorboards?” she asked quietly.

“As best as I can make out, there are three layers of subfloor between the wooden slats and this cellar. Decades past, this was used as a storage area, probably for stolen goods. Quick, help me to the pallet. We have to halt the bleeding. In the trunk, there are medical supplies. And water. I hope you can stitch, miss.”

Claudia opened the trunk and rummaged around, locating what she needed. “Yes, I can stitch wounds. Let us hope the cut is not too deep. Here, drink some water.” Claudia kneeled next to The Sentinel. He pulled up his mask until it rested under his nose.

Leaning in with the glass bottle, Claudia studied the lower part of his face. It was familiar, with a sturdy jawline and a fine, sensual mouth where the lower lip was plumper than the upper. It may be one she made a study of. Why she thought that, Claudia had no idea. 

Then she saw it. A mole—right above the man’s upper lip. 

It cannot be. 

It cannot be him.

“Tensbridge?”