Page 138 of The Marriage Method

So, this was the link between Lord Amstead and the brothel. The madam was his valet’s sister. A conscienceless woman with lofty aspirations, happy to commit all manner of crimes if the payout was large enough.

“It’s just like I said,” Nell rasped. “You’re rubbish to him. So are all women. You know it to be true. Only think of what he did to his sister.”

Innes sneered at Nell. “How does a schoolteacher know anything about it?”

Nell tugged at Mrs. Pritchard’s arm, forcing her to loosen her grip a fraction. She drew a quavering breath. “Schoolteachers are experts on human nature. We see the best and the worst of it every day in our students.”

“Children,” Innes scoffed.

Miles crept closer. “What is Amstead if not a child?” he asked. “Think on his crimes. He’s a selfish man who cares nothing for other people. My wife is right. You’re disposable to him.”

“What do you know of his crimes?” Mrs. Pritchard demanded. “How could you know anything?”

“Of course I know,” Miles said. “Did you not think I’d make it my business to find out after you sent me Cowgill’s tongue?”

Mrs. Pritchard gasped. “You’re the editor at that paper of his?”

“I am,” Miles said. “Cowgill was my reporter. I have all the evidence he gathered at my disposal. Whatever happens here, it’s going to press.”

Innes confronted his sister, his face mottled with outrage. “You sent that man’s tongue to the bleeding newspaper?”

“As a warning,” Mrs. Pritchard said.

“You bloody stupid b—”

“Do you see?” Nell whispered to the madam. “How easily they abuse and dismiss you? You have but one chance left to ensure they get what’s coming to them.”

“What chance?” Mrs. Pritchard asked.

“Tell us your story,” Nell said. “The whole truth before they can silence you. My husband will see it’s printed. It’s the only way to bring down Amstead.”

Mrs. Pritchard fell quiet. She was breathing heavily.

“Don’t do it, Lily,” Innes said. “Don’t dare even think on it. If you do, I’ll not be responsible—”

“Amstead poisoned his father,” Mrs. Pritchard blurted out. “Tripled his tonic one night. Gave him so much morphia he dropped off his twig, and the sister knew it. She was going to see a solicitor about it in London. Amstead knew when and where. He’d intercepted her letter.”

Nell met Miles’s gaze. She had never felt more validated in her decision to use samplers for the Academy’s secret communications.

“God help you, Lily,” Innes said. “You’re a dead woman.”

Mrs. Pritchard kept on, the words pouring out of her in a vile stream. “Innes came to me. Said there was five thousand pounds in it if I could dispose of the girl. I met her on the platform. I offered her some tea. Silas helped me get her back to the brothel. He wanted to keep her. Thought she could be turned into a good little earner. But I was that set on honoring the agreement with Amstead. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘It’s the Thames for her.’ And that’s where we put her.”

Nell shuddered. She had known it was a possibility. That didn’t stop her heart from breaking for Jane Fawn-Purvis. The poor, well-meaning girl. A sheltered young lady setting out on her own, in a righteous cause, only to have met these base, bloodthirsty villains.

“And Cowgill?” Miles asked, taking another silent step forward.

“He was sniffing around asking questions,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “First in Hertfordshire, then in Lost Hope Yard. He came to the brothel. Said he was a reporter at the London Courant. ‘I’ve a story due to my editor,’ he says. ‘About Lord Amstead’s sister and her connection to this place.’ Didn’t have any choice, did I?”

“You drugged him, too,” Miles said. “But you didn’t kill him. Not outright.”

“We couldn’t be sure what he knew,” Mrs. Pritchard said. “We might have let him go eventually, had that girl of yours not set him free. He made a run for it, the stupid sod, and tripped on the parlor carpet.”

“You stabbed him there,” Nell said. It was why the carpet had been missing when she and Miles had visited the brothel. It had doubtless been covered in blood.

Mrs. Pritchard poked her razor into Nell’s throat in reply. “Well, he was struggling, wasn’t he?”

Nell gulped. She had no cane with which to defend herself. No parasol. And her hairpins were out of reach. The only weapon she had was her own ingenuity.