Kitty, her sensitivity heightened by the horror of that bizarre day of bloodshed and murder, noticed straight away that Luke Peveral had a wary eye upon the unsettling stranger who sat alone at a table in a corner near the bar, one bony hand nursing a half-empty glass, his expressionless, cadaver’s face in shadow. When the two men’s eyes first met in the smoky, dimly lit atmosphere she was certain that she detected upon Luke’s face that faint flicker of surprise that denotes unexpected recognition; then in the blink of an eye it was gone, but she noticed that Luke turned his chair a little, to keep the gaunt stranger in his field of vision. He said nothing, however, and no one else seemed to know the man. For a week or so he was a regular visitor – spending little, eating nothing, sitting all night nursing a single drink, never speaking, his eyes coming back time and again to the table where Luke sat with Moses. He and Luke rarely exchanged glances and never a word, and yet more and more strongly as the days passed Kitty became convinced they knew each other. And always, it seemed to her, they faced each other, watching.
It was one day a couple of weeks after Luke’s reappearance at the Supper Rooms that Moses at last noticed his guarded gaze and sensed his distraction. He turned to follow the direction of Luke’s gaze and frowned. ‘That the cully Midge was talking about?’
Luke shook his head. ‘Midge?’
‘Sits all night, she reckons, dumb as a duck an’ don’t spend a tanner.’
‘Possibly.’
Something in his tone caught Moses’ astute ear. ‘You know him?’
Kitty, her first performance done, sipped her watered wine and listened. For a variety of odd and, even to herself, confusing reasons she had hardly spoken a word to Luke in the past couple of weeks. The strange camaraderie of those hours in the foul-smelling crypt had for her been brutally overlaid by the violence of the events that had followed. Her worst, and strongest, recollection of those nightmare hours were the staring eyes of the man that Luke had so apparently casually killed, and the awful, scarlet spread of his blood. That three other men had died since had drawn a curtain of horror between herself and the man with whom in such strange circumstances she had exchanged confidences and quoted Shelley, one she found impossible to draw aside. She found herself, often, watching his hands; narrow, dark, strong. Hands that had killed – how many times? He had tried to thank her for her part in his narrow escape. She had accepted his thanks so woodenly as almost to constitute an insult. He had not bothered with her again. He sat now, pensive, long steady fingers wrapped around the slender stem of his wine glass.
‘Well?’ Moses was puzzled.
Luke nodded. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I think I do. His name, if I’m not much mistaken, is Oliver Fogg. He is – or certainly was when last I came across him – a policeman of no great repute.’
‘A copper? Here?’ Moses’ outrage could not have been greater had he been St Peter facing Lucifer at the gates of heaven.
Luke, smiling a little at the fat man’s choler, nodded.
‘By Christ! Why didn’t you tell me? I’ll have him hanged, drawn and quartered, see if I don’t!’
Luke shrugged. ‘Why bother? Better the devil you see than the one you don’t. Perhaps he’s just taken a fancy to our Songbird’s singing?’ He raised an unnecessarily mocking brow in Kitty’s direction.
‘Do you think it’s you he’s after?’ Kitty asked, directly.
‘Maybe.’
Moses leaned forward, great stomach pressing against the table. ‘Don’t be so modest, my friend. Who else would he be after? We must do something about this.’
‘You could always cut his throat.’ Kitty, her eyes upon Luke, had spoken the words almost before thought. She herself heard – and too late regretted – the harshness of the tone.
Luke gave her a long, unfriendly look. ‘Lend me your tongue and I will,’ he said, gently.
Moses looked from one to the other impatiently. ‘Who needs to cut throats? I can arrange such things. If there’s one thing Moses Smith can do for a friend it’s preserve his privacy on his own patch from the pryings of the scum of the Metropolitan bloody Police Force! I’ve got’ – he winked a small eye – ‘contacts in high places. Very high places. Constable Fogg—’
‘Sergeant, I believe—’ Luke interpolated mildly.
‘Sergeant – Constable – Moses Smith pays good money to keep them all off his back and off the backs of his friends. This – Fogg – breaks the rules—’
‘One of his habits, as I remember,’ Luke said, thoughtfully.
‘He should mind someone doesn’t break his neck. I’ll get a message sent, sharp. You won’t be bothered again, Luke my boy. And – this Sergeant Fogg’ – Moses invested the words with enormous scorn – ‘will likely find himself with his eye in a sling and his flat feet back on the hard pavements of the South Bank—’
Luke shrugged again, smiling, his eyes flicking to the sinister face of the man who watched from the shadows. ‘If you think you can?’
Pleased, Moses leaned forward to slap his knee in friendship. ‘My pleasure, my boy, my pleasure. Trust Moses. Coppers? I own ’em. All of ’em. Have no fear – we’ll get that ugly face out of here in two shakes of a Manx cat’s tail.’
He was true to his word. Two evenings later the table in the corner was empty – and within another two Kitty had forgotten the man’s existence, for, to her astonishment, and despite the indefinable strain that lay between them, Luke kept his lightly given promise of reward for her help, and she stepped onto the stage to find herself performing before the shrewd and calculating eyes of Patrick Kenny, whose name was synonymous not just with one of London’s most successful and popular new music halls, but with many others that were fast establishing themselves all over Britain. Here was a man who could, with his influence and his flare for the recognition of talent, make or break a performer overnight.
He looked bored.
Forewarned, through Midge, by Luke, Kitty had taken especial care with her appearance – the black velvet dress had been steamed and pressed, a precious paste necklace borrowed from Pol at her throat, with matching earrings swinging beneath her precariously piled, upswept hair that was decked with softly waving white plumes. As she stood nervously awaiting her cue from the pianist she saw Luke lean to his guest and pour the magnificently moustachioed impresario a glass of champagne. She hoped fervently that it was not his first. The man did not look very impressed by his surroundings – and who could blame him? she wondered gloomily, fighting jangling nerves. What possible method of persuasion could Luke have used to get the man into this den of drunkards, thieves and whores? It was much later that she realized that other talents than her own had been nurtured in such surroundings, and if he did look out of place in his well-cut evening clothes, cane resting with his white gloves and black silk top hat on the table beside him, it was certainly not the first time Patrick Kenny had visited such an establishment and it would be unlikely to be the last. That did not, however, mean that he had to enjoy it. He accepted the brimming glass from Luke, tilted his head and fixed a gimlet eye upon Kitty.
She swallowed. She had a nerve-induced lump in her throat that felt the size of a tennis ball.
The pianist played a slovenly introduction, striking two wrong notes in quick succession.
Trembling like a leaf in a gale she launched herself into the haunting and popular ballad that told the story of dead, sweet Alice and her Ben Bolt, back from the sea.
Patrick Kenny looked, if it were possible, even less impressed than he had before.
Half an hour later, shaking no less, she presented herself at the table. She knew she had not done well. Her nerves had shown, and had threaded her top notes with uncertainty. She had fidgeted upon the stage like a performing child—
The dapper Mr Kenny rose courteously and offered his hand. ‘Miss Daniels.’
She took it briefly, and in a flash of nervous hysteria wondered if she were expected to kiss it. ‘Mr Kenny.’ Despite the nerves she managed to settle herself fairly composedly in the chair opposite him, and smoothed her skirt. Then she lifted her eyes directly to his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, straightforwardly, ‘I didn’t sing well, I’m afraid.’
She saw a faint gleam of appreciation in the shrewd eyes. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he said, pleasantly. ‘But – you have a good, perhaps the word is unusual? – voice. I might argue that your performance lacked – somewhat – a little fire?’
‘I was very nervous.’
‘So I guessed.’
She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
‘Luke tells me that you have aspirations to’ – he waved a wry hand at their surroundings – ‘tread a wider stage?’
‘Yes.’
‘He tells me too that he thinks you capable of it. And I value his opinion.’
She shot a quick, surprised glance at Luke and then wished she hadn’t. He was regarding her dispassionately – disappointedly? – as he might, she thought with an irrational spurt of anger, an unsatisfactory insect impaled upon a pin.
‘However’ – Kenny paused upon the fateful word – ‘however I cannot of course take his word alone for it, and upon your performance tonight—’ He stopped, stroking his moustache doubtfully.
Her heart sank to her shabby boots. She had had one chance, and that provided by Luke Peveral. And she had made a mess of it. She kept her own eyes steadily upon Kenny’s flamboyantly whiskered face, swallowed chill and bitter disappointment – and in her determination not to show her distress missed altogether the import of the man’s next words.
‘—and we’ll see how you go from there. A little more experience – a little more panache – and who knows? Not that I’m promising anything, mind – you must understand that—’
‘I – beg your pardon?’
He stopped, surprised.
‘I didn’t – I didn’t quite catch what you said?’ She saw the gleam of Luke’s amused smile from the corner of her eye and glowed with embarrassment.
Patrick Kenny was politely and commendably patient. ‘My small establishment in North London. I said I’d try you there. For two weeks to start with. Seven and sixpence a week, and supper, starting next week.’ He turned courteously to Moses. ‘As long of course as that does not incommode Mr Smith?’
‘Mr Smith,’ Luke interrupted smoothly, ‘has already agreed that Kitty may be released to work elsewhere.’ Kitty was staring, dizzily. Luke leaned forward, poured more champagne for Kenny. ‘Seven and six, supper and a cab home,’ he said, reasonably.
Kenny arched an injured eyebrow. ‘Now, Luke—’
‘Come now’ – Luke spread those dark, well-shaped hands – ‘you can’t expect the girl to walk halfway across London?’
Kitty would have walked to and from the North Pole. She opened her mouth to say so.
Kenny made an exaggerated gesture of surrender. ‘Very well, very well. We’ll make it seven shillings, supper and a cab home. Well? Are you willing?’ He looked at Kitty.
‘Oh, yes! Yes, of course!’
He leaned back. ‘Well and good. That’s settled then. Luke – you can get a couple of bottles of this excellent champagne for me, if you would? Where you find such stuff is beyond me—'
Luke grinned. ‘It’s beyond the excise men as well.’ He glanced then at Kitty and she understood that a bargain had been struck, a debt paid.
‘Another bottle!’ Moses lifted a hand. Lottie appeared by his side. She was wearing a dress that Kitty had not seen before, and one she would have wagered her soul had never seen the grimy interior of Harry’s doubtful emporium. It was of vivid sapphire satin and fitted the girl like a second skin before flaring to a full, graceful skirt. Her shoulders were bare – in fact for all the concealment the dress offered, cut as it was to reveal her white, swelling breasts almost to the nipple, she might, Kitty thought a little sourly, have been naked to the waist – indeed the effect contrived to be somehow even more provocative than if she actually had been. She saw Moses’ eyes linger upon the expanse of smooth, blue-veined skin as his arm slipped about the girl’s supple waist, and her own skin crept as a fat little hand openly caressed the girl’s breast. ‘Another couple of bottles, my dear. And – bring a glass for yourself—’
‘Yes, Mr Smith.’ Lottie’s blue gaze was fixed upon the fat man’s face as if her hope of salvation might be found somewhere behind those hot, almost lashless eyes. Kitty glanced at Luke. He was watching the byplay through narrow eyes, his mouth straight and unsmiling. Lottie turned without so much as a glance in his direction. When she returned with the bottles and the glass she brought them to Moses, leaning across him so that her bared breasts pressed against him and the fall of her hair brushed his face. He did not look displeased with the experience. He dragged a chair to the table beside him, fondled her buttocks. ‘Sit here, Lot. Next to me.’
‘Yes, Mr Smith.’
Kitty, a little pensively, accepted her glass of champagne.
‘A toast,’ Luke said. ‘To the Songbird of Stepney. Our very own star of the music halls.’ Kitty suspected mockery beneath the sober words and threw him a dark glance of exasperation.
Patrick Kenny raised his glass, and to his credit his lack of conviction was not as obvious as it might have been.
Glasses were lifted. All eyes were turned to Kitty – all that is except Lottie’s. She, perched on the edge of her chair, was leaning against Moses as if without his support she might slip helplessly to the floor, and her doll-like gaze was for no one but him.
‘Pol? What’s Lottie up to with Moses?’ Kitty was stitching industriously at the green dress, adding a couple of swathes of glittering braid to the skirt and sleeves.
Pol was attempting to clean a pair of tarnished silver slippers, purchased from Harry for an exorbitant three shillings. ‘It’s called playin’ both ends against the middle, if I’m not much mistaken. ‘’Ere – I’m not sure I can get this all off—’
‘Don’t worry. They’ll be fine – they’re looking much better already. You mean – Moses and Luke—?’
‘Seems like it, don’t it?’
‘But – why? I mean—’ Kitty bent to her work, frowning in ferocious concentration. ‘I thought it was Luke she was after?’
‘Don’t fool yerself. It is. Ask me, it always will be. But that Jack the lad ain’t about to be tied down, is ’e? She’s tried one way. Now she’s tryin’ another.’ The brassy head lifted. ‘Seems she thinks ’e’s got ’is eye on someone else,’ she added, quietly.
That brought Kitty’s head up quickly. At the look in Pol’s eye she flushed deeply. ‘Oh, don’t be silly! I don’t even like Luke Peveral. And he doesn’t like me. I was forced into a position where I had to help him. He was forced into a position where he owed me a favour. That’s it. That’s all.’
‘It is?’ Pol’s voice was openly caustic.
‘It is.’ The words were brusquely firm and declared that the discussion was at an end. She went back to her sewing.
Pol watched her for a quiet moment longer, her kindly face serious. Then she held the slippers up to the light, examining them. ‘Well, I’m bloody glad to ’ear it, girl. Bad enough to ’ave Lot moonin’ over that good-fer-nothin’ bastard, without you startin’.’ Her eyes flicked back to Kitty’s face, straight and sober. ‘Watch ’im, Kit. ’E’s nothin’ but trouble, an’ always will be. An’ Lot makes a pretty bad enemy—’
Kitty stood up, shook out the dress, held it to her, inspecting her reflection critically in a broken slither of fly-specked mirror that was propped upon a shelf. ‘Lot can have him,’ she said firmly. ‘And welcome to both of them. You can tell her that from me.’ She turned, the skirt of the dress flaring about her legs. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry, Pol. I’m going to sing. I’m going to sing on the stage of the New Cambridge Music Hall. I’m going to convince Mr Patrick Kenny that I’m the best thing that’s come his way in many a long year. I’m going to get out of this rat-hole, Pol, and I’m never coming back!’
Pol was watching her affectionately, half-smiling. ‘Yer know? I almost believe yer.’
Kitty turned back to the mirror, holding the dress. ‘Believe me,’ she said, flatly.
To Kitty’s delight Pol – to whom, in Pol’s own words, Midge ‘owed a few favours’ – got the evening off to be with her on her first night at the Queen’s Music Hall in Enfield, North London, an establishment that had grown, as had many such, from a public house famous for its ‘Saturday night sing-songs’ to be a fully fledged theatre, albeit still with a bar.
‘Thought yer might like someone to ’old yer ’and an’ cheer yer on a bit,’ Pol said, obviously gratified at Kitty’s pleasure, ‘an’ I can give yer an ’and ter get ready, if yer’d like?’
‘I’d love it.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re sure Lottie won’t mind?’
‘If she does, that’s ’er problem.’
‘I’m sorry. I just don’t want to cause trouble between you.’
‘You don’t. She does,’ Pol said, succinctly. ‘She don’t own me, no more than you do. I go me own way.’
Kitty grinned. ‘I’ve noticed.’
‘So – ’ow yer feelin’ about it all?’
‘Terrified.’
Pol laughed. ‘What yer goin’ ter sing?’
‘I thought – the flower girl’s song’ – Kitty hummed the first few notes of the popular tune Won’t You Buy My Pretty Flowers – ‘then The Soldier’s Tear – that always goes down well, God knows why, and then – providing they haven’t booed me off the stage by then – I thought something from The Bohemian Girl.’
‘Sounds good.’
Kitty took a quick, suddenly nervous breath. ‘Oh, Pol! Supposing I can’t do it! Supposing—’
‘S’posin’ nothin’,’ the other girl interrupted firmly, ‘You’ll knock ’em dead. You’ll see. Now’ – she stood up – ‘get yerself a good night’s sleep. I’ll see yer termorrer.’ At the door she stopped. ‘You all squared with Moses? It ain’t like ’im ter lose ’is star turn without kickin’.’
Kitty grimaced. ‘He’s kicking.’
Pol raised questioning brows.
‘He’s docking me half my wages.’
‘Bloody ’ell,’ Pol said, sombrely, ‘’ow d’yer ever break free?’
‘If I ever find out, I’ll let you know.’ Kitty’s face was grim. ‘And that’s a promise.’
She suffered the next day the worst bout of nerves that she had ever envisaged, let alone endured. The first sight of the theatre – two or three times the size of the Supper Rooms, with a balcony and boxes that glittered with gilt and sparkled with tall mirrors, a large stage that projected into the audience who sat at small, candlelit tables, and an orchestra pit that looked to her to be the size of another stage in itself, all but frightened the life from her. It was all an awful mistake. She couldn’t – she couldn’t! – do it. She’d never sung with an orchestra – she didn’t know how – no one would hear her – she’d forget her words—
The afternoon rehearsal was a scrappy, mediocre affair, neither a true disaster nor any great success. The orchestra leader was a pompous little man with thin, greased hair and pockmarked skin. He was not, he made it clear from the start, about to be ordered about by any chit of a female from Stepney.
‘Please – I wondered – just there – wouldn’t it be better with just the piano—?’
‘Nonsense, Miss Daniels. Allow me to know my business. The whole orchestra, if you please.’
‘Well, if you think so?’
‘Seems ter me yer’d better start standin’ up fer yerself,’ Pol said, gently. ‘You’re doin’ the singin’ after all.’
‘Oh, Pol, how can I? I’m a nobody! Next but one from the bottom of the bill! I’m supposed to do as I’m told and be grateful for it! Oh, Pol – perhaps I never should have tried. Oh, I could kill Luke Peveral for getting me into this!’ she added, with sudden and violent illogic. ‘It’s going to be awful! I know it is!’ She had been given a tiny corner of a squalidly untidy shared dressing room, her little patch no more than a rickety chair, a stained and chipped shelf and a mirror. She stared now into the damp-marked glass, oblivious of the cheerful bustle around her as a group of Italian acrobats, chattering at the tops of their voices, limbered up in the restricted space and helped each other with their make-up and their gay, spangled costumes. Beyond the reflection of her own white face she could see their kaleidoscopic movement, and beyond them another splash of bright colour in the peasant costumes of the dancing Bartlett sisters who wrangled between themselves, as they had been wrangling all afternoon, their sharp unpleasant voices scraping nerves already raw.
‘Don’t talk so bloody daft.’ Pol leaned towards her, readjusted a dark ringlet that had just been taken from its rag and showed every sign of wanting to revert to its natural, rain-straight habit. From the direction of the stage came a sudden burst of laughter and a roar of applause. ‘I’ll never ferget that first night at Smith’s – yer did it then, yer can do it again—’
Kitty tried to smile with frozen lips. God in heaven, if she were always to suffer this agony of apprehension before she stepped upon a stage, was it worth it? Why didn’t she give up now?
And do what? a small, drily practical voice that was all that was left of her composure asked sharply. What is there for you if you fail? Whoring? Thieving? Dying, diseased and destitute in a Whitechapel alleyway?
‘Corelli brothers. You’re on.’
‘I’m next,’ she said, around the lump in her throat. ‘I think I’d better go to the lavatory again.’
Ten minutes later she stood alone in the wings watching the handsome acrobats with their broad, muscled shoulders, their shining black hair, splendid moustaches and bright, gleaming smiles as they took the plaudits of the audience, bowing gracefully, princes of the moment. They ran lightly past her, laughing and chattering, their dark skins agleam with perspiration.
The applause died to an expectant, murmuring quiet.
From where she stood she could see a segment of the audience – lifted, smiling faces, candlelight glimmering in bright eyes. She stood straight and still, awaiting her introduction. The thundering of her heart quieted. Her trembling stopped. Excitement lifted. From one moment to another her raw nerves calmed, her confidence blossomed and there was nothing – nothing! – that she wanted so much as to step out onto the brightly lit stage with its crudely painted backdrop and cheap draped curtains.
‘—and so, Ladies and Gentlemen – for the very first time at the Queen’s Music Hall—’
She lifted her head, clasped her hands lightly before her.
‘—give you the Songbird of Stepney—’
She stepped into the light.
‘Miss – Kitty – Daniels!’
The applause was enthusiastic, but only politely so. She walked confidently onto the apron of the stage, smiled brilliantly at the Master of Ceremonies, then at the orchestra leader, and then, with a lift of pure happiness, at her audience. She felt their reaction, felt the warmth they offered in return for that smile. And as she stood calmly awaiting the first notes of the orchestra she knew with utter certainty that she had found the place in which she belonged, the way of life she wanted above all others. In that moment of brilliant clarity it seemed to her that here was her home, her natural environment; and all she had to do to claim it was to sing.
She gave the performance of her young lifetime. She sang with a joy and verve that infected her audience and had them banging the tables for more. She caught sight of Pol, in the wings, shouting and clapping with the rest, her face alight with generous happiness. It was over too soon, too desperately soon; she could have stood upon that stage and sung all night. She took a curtain call, and then another. The Master of Ceremonies beamed at her, made a small circle with thumb and forefinger to indicate his approval. On a crest of excitement she left the stage at last, knowing she had succeeded, knowing that the last of her doubts were gone, knowing above all that away from the repressive and violent atmosphere of Smith’s she had lost her fear of her audience.
‘Bleedin’ marvellous! Bloody, bleedin’ marvellous!’ Pol threw her arms about her and smacked a kiss on her cheek. ‘What did I tell yer? Blimey, girl, you did a job an’ an ’alf there! I’m proud of yer!’
Kitty allowed herself to be ushered to the empty dressing room, sat a little unsteadily upon the rickety chair. Her ears were still ringing with the echoes of applause. She looked at Pol. ‘Did I really go down as well as it seemed?’
Pol laughed. ‘Well, I told yer – it was bloody marvellous! No ’oldin’ yer now, eh?’
Kitty smiled. Her heartbeat was slowing, the pitch of her excitement dying. A man’s baritone, rich and strong, echoed from the stage. She envied the unknown singer. She wanted to be out there again, beneath the lights, and bathing in the rapt attention of the audience.
Half an hour later she took the stage again, with the rest of the company, for the finale. As one by one the performers stepped forward to take their bows she found to her horror that she was listening jealously to the volume accorded each artist. To her delight she received not only prolonged and appreciative applause, but a small nosegay of flowers presented with a gallant flourish by the smiling Master of Ceremonies. The curtain came down once, swept up, and down once more and it was over. The artists left the stage, talking amongst themselves. No one spoke to Kitty, though she was the recipient of one or two curious glances.
‘Miss Daniels—’
She turned to find the Master of Ceremonies bearing down on her. ‘Well done, Miss Daniels, wonderfully done!’
‘Thank you.’
She stood and spoke with him for a few minutes. In the hall beyond the curtain someone had started playing the piano and the audience was singing.
‘—the contract will certainly be extended. And perhaps, next week, when Ventro the ventriloquist leaves us we could give you another spot – an extra song or two—?’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’ She left him. The Corelli brothers swept by her, volatile tempers up, arguing volubly, seeming on the point of blows. Pol was nowhere to be seen. Kitty went into the dressing room to pack up her few belongings. The Bartlett sisters were sprawled upon every chair, half-naked, their discarded costumes strewn all over the room. One of them leaned to the gaslit mirror, wiping her painted face dispiritedly with a piece of dirty flannel. Upon a shelf stood an open, half-empty bottle of gin.
‘Wan’ a tot, ducks?’ A woman past the prime of youth, her doll-like face painted on over a skin crazed with wrinkles, her fiery hair darkly grey at the roots, waved a chipped mug a little uncertainly at Kitty. She was naked beneath a soiled robe that had fallen open as she moved and which she made no move to fasten.
Kitty, picking her way through the room, shook her head. ‘No. Thank you.’
The woman arched sardonic, please-yourself brows, poured herself a hefty drink and passed the bottle on. Another, younger girl walked across the room to proffer her own mug, her bare breasts swinging heavily as she moved. As she passed Kitty she flicked dismissively at the small bunch of flowers that she still held. ‘’Ad a better offer, ’ave we ducky?’ Neither the voice nor the gesture were particularly friendly.
Kitty shook her head.
The other girl laughed, unpleasantly knowing.
Before Kitty could respond the door opened and a spotty-faced boy put his head round the door. ‘Miss Daniels? Some cove ter see yer—’
‘What’s ’e like, Spotty? Look a good performer, does ’e? Could ’e manage two of us, d’yer think?’
‘’Ere, Spot, lad, come an’ ’ave a taste—’ One of the girls bared a large breast and manipulated the nipple with her fingers, making lascivious kissing sounds as she did so. The others roared with laughter as the lad’s fine, marked skin burned to his ears.
‘Never mind ’er, Spotty, take a look at mine—’
‘’E don’t like tits, do yer, Spot? ’E’s an arse man. I can spot ’em a mile off! ’Ere, Spot – what’d yer like ter do with this—?’
Kitty fled.
Spotty banged the door behind him. ‘Bleedin’ whores.’
‘You said—?’
‘Over there.’ He waved a hand and left her.
From the dressing room came a gust of drunken laughter. In the shadows a tall figure moved, stepped forward. ‘Congratulations.’
An infinitesimal silence. Then, ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Luke Peveral wore an impeccably cut black tail coat and trousers, black satin waistcoat, snow-white ruffled shirt. He carried a cane, top hat and gloves.
She eyed him dourly, determinedly unimpressed. ‘Are you looking for Cinderella?’
He grinned. ‘That altogether depends on what the time is. If it’s too close to midnight then any old ugly sister will do.’
She had to laugh. The excitement of the evening was still singing in her blood like wine. In an odd way Luke’s being here did not surprise her, nor did his changed appearance. Violence and death suddenly belonged to another world.
‘You got the flowers?’ he asked.
‘They were from you?’
A smile flickered. ‘You’ve got Johnnies queuing up already?’
She shook her head. Looked round.
‘I took the liberty,’ he said, ‘of treating the dragon Pol to a cab home.’
‘And she went? Didn’t you have to rope and tie her?’
‘I used a little persuasion.’
She looked a sharp question.
He lifted a shoulder. ‘I told her it was none of her damned business if you had arranged to come to dinner with me without consulting her,’ he said, imperturbably.
‘You – what?’
‘You heard. Shall we go?’
‘Supposing I say no?’
‘Then you’d be a fool. You’d also miss one of the best dinners London has to offer. It isn’t every day you’ll find yourself invited to Whistler’s, my girl.’
‘What’s Whistler’s?’
He shook his head, tutting mockingly. ‘Such ignorance! Such shocking ignorance! The only way you get to find out is to come. I’ll show you.’
Whistler’s was a restaurant. It was more than a restaurant – it was the night-time haunt of the rich and the famous and of those who liked to rub shoulders with riches and with fame. On seeing the discreetly elegant façade of the place, with its gleaming, gaslit windows, its brass polished to gold and its uniformed lackey waiting impassively to hand her from the hired hackney, Kitty shrank back, genuinely terrified. ‘I can’t go in there!’
‘Of course you can. Don’t be such a baby.’ Casually Luke gestured as the cab door opened and the poker-faced doorman held out a white-gloved hand. ‘After you.’
Silently she stepped onto the pavement. As he joined her and took her arm she hissed at him through clenched teeth, ‘Luke!’ He took no notice. With a bland smile and a hand firmly upon her elbow he steered her through the door and into the elegant and crowded interior.
At the top of a shallow flight of steps they were met by a splendid personage, smooth-haired, smooth-faced and dressed every bit as fastidiously and expensively as Luke himself. ‘Ah – M’sieu Peveral! So nice to see you again, M’sieu! Your table waits—’ Shrewd eyes flicked to Kitty, summed her up and found her wanting. ‘Ma’mselle.’ His bow was brief and chilly.
She nodded and, head high, followed Luke between the crowded tables, astonished at the number of people who lifted a hand or called a greeting to him. She was painfully aware of the scuffed velvet of her gown and of the cheap brilliance of her gaudy stage jewellery. But when they reached the table and Luke, turning to her with a warm smile, brushed aside the supercilious mannikin’s half-hearted attempt to settle her in her seat and solicitously saw himself to her comfort, her self-conscious unease vanished like a mist in sunshine. She was Kitty Daniels; the new Kitty Daniels. Today she had stood upon a stage and held a thousand people in the palm of her hand. She did not need diamonds. She glanced up at Luke and caught a look of amused appreciation in his eyes.
‘Something to drink, M’sieu?’
‘Of course. Champagne,’ Luke said.
‘Of course.’ The disapproving maitre d’ handed a large leather folder to Luke and managed to deposit one in Kitty’s hands with the air of a man knowingly casting pearls before swine.
She opened it. Sat frozen, with all her facile self-confidence oozing from her. She lifted panic-stricken eyes to Luke over the huge, elegantly decorated, floridly handwritten, indecipherable menu. With easy charm Luke reached across the table. ‘You’ve done quite enough hard work for today. I insist that you do no more. You’ll allow me?’
She let the menu slip from her fingers. ‘As long as you don’t intend to drink my champagne for me as well,’ she managed, half-heartedly, and was rewarded with a quick smile. As he spoke rapidly to the maitre d’, the old Kitty stood suddenly by her shoulder, scolding, aghast – what in heaven’s name was she doing in a place like this with a man she did not like – a thief, a killer and God knew what else besides—
She watched him pour the golden, frothing champagne into two tall glasses.
A man she did not like?
He too was watching the sparkling stream, face intent, hand steady.
A thief, and a killer.
Somewhere the mocking shade of Amos chuckled, and warned caution.
Too late.
She drank much too much champagne. The food was the most delicious she had ever tasted, the atmosphere heady, the high-strung excitement of the day had already wreaked havoc with her usual good sense, and the undoubted danger that lurked across the table, smiling and patient, added a zest to the evening that urged her to recklessness. The excitement of her small triumph at the music hall had not died – it bubbled through the occasion as did the bright sparkle of the champagne that she found herself drinking as if it were lemonade. And why not? she found herself asking – it sharpened her tongue and her wits, drowned the embarrassment of shoddy velvet and shoddier paste. Drowned too that tiresome warning voice to which she was tired of listening. With what more appropriate beverage could she celebrate the birth of the new Kitty Daniels?
Luke ordered more champagne.
Around them handsome men and elegant women conversed, flirted, laughed and argued. Kitty tried not to stare. The glittering gowns, the fire of gemstones dazzled her. Jewelled hair and jewelled bosoms, jewelled wrists and jewelled fingers – she glanced at Luke. With unerring instinct he leaned across the table, picked up the posy of flowers and held them to her cheek. ‘Better than diamonds,’ he said, and for once he was not smiling.
She saw a lovely, well-dressed woman at the table next to them glance across, her eyes wide and interested on Luke’s face.
Kitty tried not to wonder if Luke had ever brought Lottie here – Lottie who would stand out, a beauty in any company.
‘You sang the wrong songs tonight,’ he said, pleasantly and musingly.
She could not have been more surprised had he dashed cold water in her face. ‘I – beg your pardon?’
‘I said you’re singing the wrong songs. Your voice is too good – too strong – for those wishy-washy parlour songs. You need something of your own – something with a bit more character—’
Quick irritation flared, fuelled by champagne. ‘I see. My performance lacks character?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘It sounded like it.’
He did not give an inch. ‘If that’s what you want to hear.’
‘What do you mean?’
He shook his head. ‘Let’s change the subject.’
‘Not until you tell me what you mean.’
‘I think that had better wait till you’re in a more receptive mood. I don’t fancy being brained by a champagne bottle, thank you. Especially not when I’ve paid Gaston’s exorbitant prices for it. For the moment let’s leave it that you’re obviously the best thing that’s happened to that fleapit for years, and I shall be very surprised if friend Kenny doesn’t know it by tomorrow. I should shut your mouth, if I were you,’ he added mildly. ‘There’s a cab coming.’
‘You – you liked me?’
He sighed. ‘You prickly idiot! Of course I did! How could I not? Would we be here if I didn’t?’
‘That rather depends on what we’re here for,’ she snapped without thought, and regretted it the moment the words were out.
His expression was solemn, his eyes pure malicious mischief. ‘I don’t think I understand what you mean?’
She flushed. ‘Well – I mean—’ All at once she found herself questioning whether champagne were quite the wit-sharpener she had felt it to be.
‘You mean,’ he asked gently, ‘that my intentions might not be strictly honourable?’
She struggled with good manners. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You’re right. They aren’t. Not in the least.’ His eyes were wary.
An orchestra, hidden in a verdant jungle of palms and aspidistras, had started to play. She watched them for a long moment, as if they were the most totally absorbing sight in the world. Then she brought her dark eyes to meet his.
He nodded, regretfully. ‘I’m afraid so. I’m just the bastard you thought I was.’
For perhaps the first time in her life she was utterly dumbstruck.
He waited, politely, for the space of a few moments. ‘Aren’t you going to say something? Throw something? Walk out?’
She shook her head.
‘Well,’ he said lightly. ‘Am I supposed to know if that’s a good thing or a bad?’ His face was intent, the narrow black eyes disturbingly steady.
She hunched her shoulders a little, and looked down into the glass that she was holding as fiercely as if it were an anchor in a suddenly storm-blown world. Furious with herself, she tried to control the sudden lunatic hammering of her heart, the savage rise of excitement that, surely he must see, must sense thundering through her body.
The silence stretched on.
‘Kitty?’ His voice was soft. She recognized that persuasively caressing tone; Luke Peveral was an accomplished expert in a field in which Amos Isherwood had been a raw novice. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
In desperation she wished she had not drunk so much champagne. That there were not so much noise ringing about them. That she did not so much – so very much – want to be alone with him. To touch him. To have him love her. She shivered at the thought, confused, afraid and aching with need for him. ‘The other night—’ She found herself speaking the thought aloud, and stopped.
His face closed. ‘Yes?’
She lifted her eyes to his face. ‘You killed a man,’ she whispered, and the sound, all but lost in the noise about them, echoed in her head like a clap of thunder, accusing and unforgivable.
She saw the fractional hardening of his mouth. ‘If I hadn’t, he would have killed me.’ His voice was still, even and pleasant. He might have been discussing the food they had just eaten.
‘I – yes, I know—’
‘So. What would you have had me do?’
She sucked her lip, biting it hard, staring at him, wondering how in God’s name the conversation had taken this dangerous turn, unable in her confusion to sort the right words from those that tumbled in her brain and so, damningly, saying nothing.
He shook his head, laughed shortly and entirely mirthlessly. ‘If it’s dead heroes you’re after, Songbird, you’re in the wrong shop. So, that’s that. Serves me right, I daresay. Just one small thing. Has it occurred to you that it would have been more than me they killed? You think they’d have patted your pretty little head and sent you home?’
‘No.’
Luke lifted his hand and clicked his fingers sharply to a hovering waiter. ‘My bill, please.’
‘Luke—’ she said, miserably.
He turned a cold, waiting face.
‘Oh, God!’ she said, looking back down at her clasped hands, very close to tears, her face sombre, all the joy of the day leeched from it. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’
In the silence the chatter and the sound of music rose and fell like the tide of an invasive sea.
‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.
Numbly she followed him, clambered into the hackney beside him, held herself rigidly from him as the cab lurched forward. In silence they rode through the darkened streets, slipping in and out of the pools of light and dappled shadows thrown by the street lamps. She sat stiffly, hands clenched in her lap. The happiness and excitement that had so buoyed her had drained from her, leaving her empty and utterly miserable. As the cab rattled smartly around a corner Luke leaned with the movement and his arm brushed hers. She drew back, huddling into the corner. He sensed her recoil and himself shifted slightly, leaning away from her, staring out of the window.
In the secret darkness she watched his profile. In her blood and her bones and in the aching of her body she felt her need for him. The thought of his touch, of the strength of him, left her all but defenceless.
She shrank back further into her corner.
He sat, his head turned from her as in silence he watched the night streets of London pass. She glanced again at that dark, forceful profile, then looked quickly away.
A woman leaned against a lamp post, aged young face limned by the light, half-bared bosom gleaming. She watched the cab pass with an impassive face.
The horse’s hoofs clopped eerily upon an empty sweep of cobblestone.
After what seemed a very long time, Luke said, quietly, without turning, ‘I’d like you to accept that I’m sorry. That I would never have subjected you to this evening had I realized just how much you hate me.’ His voice was absolutely calm, devoid of any expression. ‘I’m afraid I must admit to a habit – a regrettable habit – of not seeing, not accepting, those things I don’t want to.’
‘I don’t hate you.’ Her voice was a breath, close to tears. ‘I don’t.’
He shrugged. ‘What I am then. It comes to the same thing.’
For perhaps the space of a dozen heartbeats she fought the terrible tangle of her emotions. Then, ‘Luke!’ she said, desperately, ‘I don’t hate you! You surely know that!’ Faint bitterness threaded the words. What was she doing?
He turned sharply to look at her. She saw the straight line of question drawn between the sardonic brows, saw the lean, hard lines of his gypsy’s face, the straight, sharply defined mouth. She looked away from him. He waited, tense and graceful in his corner; like a cat, she thought, waiting to pounce on the stupidly gullible mouse and swallow it whole.
‘You’re right,’ she said, clearly, staring straight ahead into the darkness, ‘I do hate what you are. But I don’t care. I – don’t – care—’
The tension held him still. He watched her narrowly.
She was sitting very straight now. She could not look at him. With an odd, defiantly prideful movement she lifted her head. ‘Would you – take me home with you?’
Still he said nothing. Still he watched her, frowning.
Her cheeks burned in the darkness. If revenge for humiliation was what he wanted he had it now. ‘It doesn’t matter. I thought perhaps—’
He reached a hand to her, cupped her chin and turned her face to him. The warm strength of his hand set her trembling. Tears rose. Angrily she tried to pull away. He held her strongly, hurting her, studying her face in the moving lamplight. She stilled. Watched him. She knew – had known in her heart since the first time she had laid eyes on him – that this was the most exciting man she had ever known, or was ever likely to. It was sheer perversity to deny it. And sheer stupidity to ignore the danger he represented; in that, if in nothing else, Pol was undoubtedly right. The fingers that had held her painfully relaxed. He moved his hand. His flat, hard palm caressed her cheek. There was a moment when she could have pulled back. She did not. She had made her first mistake with Amos in innocence and ignorance; so be it – she would make her second with her eyes wide open. Thief, killer, heartbreaker – she would not, could not now, let him go. She turned her face, pressed her lips gently to his open palm. For what seemed a very long time they sat so, the simple gesture an end and a beginning with no words spoken, the contact a point of fire and of promise between them. When he kissed her it was as she had known it would be – feared it would be – from the first time she had seen him. The touch of his mouth vanquished her; she was as much his as if they had already lain together and loved. He lifted his head. In the darkness she could not see his face.
‘You’re sure,’ he said, no real question in his voice.
She traced the lines of his face with her finger. ‘I’m sure.’
The porch of the derelict church was dark. Luke took her hand and guided her surely to the secret entrance in the alcove. There he paused to light a candle and they climbed together the narrow winding stairs. At the top he unlocked the little wooden door and stepped into the room ahead of her. Heart thumping, she followed. The candlelight flickered about the lovely, tranquil room. The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth. Moonlight filtered through the great, jewel-coloured window. Nothing of the carnage or the wreckage of violence that she remembered remained. She stood still for a moment, looking round, outfacing horror.
He watched her.
She took a slightly shaky breath.
Very carefully he put the candle upon a small table. Shadows leapt.
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No. Yes. Just a small one—’
She saw his smile. He splashed golden liquid from a heavy glass decanter into two glasses. ‘Come and sit near the fire.’
She took off her gloves, folded her shawl, perched on the edge of the armchair nearest the fire. Taking the glass from him she touched it to her lips. Caught her breath. Midge had poured this down her the day of the horror. Anne had choked upon it on another day of misery. She put the glass down abruptly.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t like brandy. I’m sorry.’
‘Would you prefer something else?’
‘No. Thank you.’
He put his own glass down and came to her, stood before her, his hands held to her. She took them. He pulled her to her feet, her body against his. She closed her eyes. His hands were in her hair. She felt the relief as the heavy coils, unpinned, fell about her face and shoulders. She lifted her face to him.
They came together in a sudden violence that was as much like the rage of birth or battle or sudden death as love. He took her, and she abandoned herself to him and to the fierce pleasure and exquisite pain that his body inflicted upon hers. He watched her, afterwards, by the light of the fire, leaning on one elbow, brushing the long, damp strands of hair from her face. His skin was slick with sweat. ‘I was rough. I think I hurt you. I’m sorry.’
She shook her head, smiling.
He leaned and kissed her, gently; her parted lips, her nipples, her belly.
‘You – weren’t disappointed?’ she asked.
He nipped her with sharp teeth. She jumped. ‘Terribly,’ he said. ‘Try a bit harder next time—’
They made love again, more tenderly and with less fierce urgency, watching each other, touching and whispering and gently pleasuring. Afterwards they lay sprawled upon the bed, arms and legs and hair entangled, the dying firelight gleaming upon sweat-smooth skin. She dozed, and awoke to find him leaning above her, watching her. As her eyes opened he kissed her, a long, tender, almost passionless kiss that drove the treacherous blade of love deeper into her heart than all their lovemaking had done. He tangled his hand in her hair, sprawled beside her.
She slept.
It was morning when she woke, a spring morning of sunshine that filtered through the stained glass of the great window and dappled the room with colour. She watched Luke as he slept, his bandit’s face closed and dark and sharply beautiful, black hair tousled upon the pillow, the skin of his body swarthy against the bleached sheets, a man who had loved her~;~ a man she knew not at all. Across his shoulders – something she had sensed with her fingers last night in the darkness – ran a brutal pattern of silvered, long-healed scars, the marks of a merciless beating and the explanation, perhaps, of his unexpected clemency to Matt. Once, she knew, such a sign of violence and pain would have revolted her.
She watched him for a very long time. Watched the rise of his breath, the flicker of the thick lashes. Watched the long hands that rested, relaxed upon the fur coverlet. Hands that could thieve without conscience, kill without pity. Hands that had explored her body and roused her to a savagery that she blushed now to remember.
His eyes flicked open, and she saw instant, total awareness. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ She kissed him.
He lifted a hand to her face, touched her cheek gently, then, a hand in her hair, pulled her, less gently, down on top of him.
They could not, did not indeed, attempt to keep their new relationship from the world. Often Kitty would find Luke waiting for her in the cab that brought her home from the music hall. Sometimes they would go to her room, more frequently to his. Their lovemaking did not lose its fire; the meeting of their minds was a little more wary. Both of them were as aware of the things that held them inexorably apart as they were of those that drew them together. But for now the day was enough. Frequently they would go to Smith’s for supper, where sometimes Kitty would allow herself to be persuaded to sing. It was never suggested by either of them that more permanent living arrangements should be made. Indeed Kitty found herself positively shying away from the thought; as her popularity grew and her hopes bloomed brighter, she had other things to think of than the doubtful permanence of any relationship with a man like Luke Peveral. The sight of him, the touch of his hand, fired her as nothing had ever done before, and in her new wisdom, that for the moment was enough. Tomorrow must take care of itself.
The world on the whole was not enchanted by the arrangement. Pol was openly disgusted that Kitty – as Pol saw it – had fallen after all for the flawed charms that had been the downfall of so many others. Spider, who since she had risked her own skin to warn his beloved ‘Guv’nor’ had begun to show some small warmth towards her, cooled off considerably and regarded her with new suspicion; anyone, Kitty guessed, who might in any way prove a weakness in Luke would be anathema to Spider. Matt too was overtaken by a surprising and, to Kitty, positively comical attack of brotherly concern and questioned this relationship with a man whose way of life was, he pointed out, even more unorthodox than his own.
She was torn between laughter and exasperation. ‘You can talk! Matt Daniels, if you aren’t the greatest hypocrite under the sun! You go your way, you said, and I’ll go mine! Well, I’ve done it – and it’s none of your damned business!’
He had the grace to look faintly abashed. ‘Still, Kit – I mean, you know how I feel about the Guv’nor, it isn’t that – but—’
‘But nothing. I know what I’m doing,’ she said with no regard for the truth at all, ‘so let’s change the subject.’
Lottie’s reaction was predictable, yet in her own way the girl retained her dignity, which Kitty could not help but admire. There were, oddly, no tempers and no tantrums. She simply acted, so far as it was possible, as if neither Luke nor Kitty existed. Luke she could not entirely ignore, for whatever else he was to her he was still one of Moses’ best customers and as such entitled to service. Kitty she could, and did, which distressed Kitty not at all. After a while, against common sense, she even managed to convince herself that Lottie bore her no real grudge beyond the damage done to her pride, though sometimes she caught a look in the other girl’s eyes that belied that comfortable conclusion, a disturbing flash of bitterness that would gleam and be gone in a second. Yet to all outward appearances the girl had little to be bitter about, for if she had lost Luke’s precarious favours she looked to be in the process of gaining a protector of – in her world – even more prestige and power, albeit with less physical charm.
For her single-minded pursuit of Moses Smith was showing surprising signs of success. With Kitty away she was once more entrenched as the Song and Supper Rooms’ only female entertainer. The songs she sang so sweetly she now sang for Moses, the forget-me-not eyes turned to him as if he were the only man in the world. His every wish she would anticipate, his most salacious and public fondling she would accept with the docility of a beautiful doll. He had only to snap his fingers for her to be by his side. Whether the fat man was truly taken in by this sudden upsurge of apparent devotion Kitty doubted, but like most men he was willing to be flattered by the slavish attentions of a lovely woman, whatever her motive; and, she suspected, the fact that Lottie had for so long been Luke Peveral’s woman, far from detracting from her charms in Moses’ eyes, actually enhanced them.
And so, slowly, as the weeks passed and summer crept, sluggishly hot and sticky, into the yards and alleys of the East End, it became accepted that Lottie was Moses’ private property and Moses himself did nothing to discourage the idea. Kitty, however, was not the only one to be surprised when, in June, with rumours and fears of cholera creeping about the sweltering streets, Lottie left the room she shared with Pol and joined Moses in his spacious apartment over a warehouse in Wapping. The general feeling amongst the girls at the Rooms was that their Lottie had done bloody well for herself, and good luck to her. Only Pol was depressed.
‘Nothin’ good’ll come o’ this. You mark my words.’
‘How can she stand it, I wonder?’ Kitty did not voice the words, After Luke.
Pol shrugged. ‘Money in ’er pocket. Frills an’ furbelows. Three square meals a day. Somethin’ ter be said fer it, I s’pose.’
‘But – Moses! Of all people! He’s – he’s so cruel!’
Pol lifted a single brow, her gaze direct. ‘Aren’t they all?’
‘Not like that.’
‘Different ’orses run different courses, Kit. It’s easy fer you – you’ve got what Lottie wants.’ The words were spoken with neither rancour nor accusation but nevertheless Kitty found herself flushing. ‘Don’t blame the girl fer makin’ the best of what’s left.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
Pol patted her hand. ‘O’ course you didn’t. I know it. Lot doesn’t. Best thing fer you ter do is keep mum an’ stay out of ’er way. She pretty well ’ates you. She don’t want your pity nor yet your opinion on what she’s doin’. I ’ates ter say it, but if I was you I’d watch me back fer a good long time yet.’
Kitty laughed, a little uncertainly. ‘Oh, come on – that’s a bit steep – surely she can’t carry a grudge forever—?’
Not long after that conversation such reasoning was apparently confirmed as an obvious but nevertheless surprising reason for Lottie’s move revealed itself. She was pregnant and, amazingly, Moses was to allow her to keep the baby, even proudly claiming paternity. A man should have a son, he said, beaming at Luke, his eyes a shade malicious.
The thought of Moses Smith as a proud father turned Kitty’s stomach more than a little. But within days of the news her own life had again changed dramatically and she had little time to dwell either on Pol’s warning or on Lottie’s changed fortunes.