Page 3 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 1

Late September 1898

London, England

Mary O’Toole took those ten days to consider the offer. With the encouragement of her friends, she began her new life using her real name, Claudia Ellingford. Claudia carefully folded and gently placed Mary in a drawer. While Claudia was grateful for the protection the Mary O’Toole persona afforded her, that part of her life was over.

Tonight, she lurked in a dark alley, following a baronet, Sir Tristan Nottingham. Her first assignment with The Galway Investigative Agency was a divorce case. Her partner for the night, Edwina Callen, awaited her in a hansom cab on the next street.

Claudia received a few weeks of training, but the practical application to learn investigative skills was imperative. Lady Catherine suspected her husband, Sir Tristan, of stepping out, and the lady in question had had enough of the man’s infidelities and wanted solid proof to present in court.

Sir Tristan was unquestionably seeking out the lower forms of vice in the East End if he was heading where Claudia imagined. Not that there were many dilapidated buildings left in this section of Bethnal Green, as a clearance was ongoing by the London County Council. But the underprivileged and criminals would find another locale to take over. The city of London had done evictions for decades—neighborhoods razed to make way for the above and below ground railway and supposed urban enhancement.

The East End was not alone in these types of slums, as pockets existed throughout the city, as Claudia came to discover when she and her mother found themselves in Notting Dale —or the West End Avernus as it had been referred to recently in the papers—or hell on earth as the locals called it. Many also recognized the area as The Potteries and Piggeries, where fifteen people shared a toilet and forty out of a hundred children did not live to see their second birthday.

Claudia shook away the horrid memories and concentrated on the task at hand.

Sir Tristan moved with a swift and decided purpose, his long cloak snapping in the wind. Sir Tristan traveled deeper into the rookery through twisting, dank alleys and secluded courtyards. Sounds of off-key piano music filled her hearing. The man was heading toward Kelly’s Paradise, which was anything but. The back alley venue offered an abundance of cheap gin, gambling, bawdy shows, and sex.

To blend in with the locals, Claudia wore a tattered dress with a patched shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders and fingerless lace gloves. And she had two knives on her, one in the holder attached to her garter and a smaller one in her boot.

The doors were propped open since it was a warm night. It allowed a semblance of fresh air to circulate. Not that the air was clean and crisp, far from it. Claudia stood in the doorway and peeked in. Customers packed the place, and a tobacco smoke haze hovered over the crowd. On stage, four scantily dressed women performed a lewd dance, eliciting hoots and applause from the general male audience. In one darkened corner, a man had a woman against the wall, rutting her, with a small group of men watching as if it were part of the show. Perhaps it was.

Claudia scanned the crowd and located Nottingham. By all accounts, he was good-looking if your preference ran toward smug, middle-aged elites. The baronet already had a pint of bitter in one hand and a plump woman in the other. He buried his face in the woman’s generous bosom, his mouth latching on to the barely-revealed nipple peeking out of her low-cut blouse. The woman laughed naughtily, whispering in his ear.

Someone grabbed Claudia’s shoulder and spun her about, pulling the shawl from around her head. The garment fluttered to the ground. Three men stood before her; their gazes were lascivious and threatening. She had expected this, as a woman alone was unsafe in this area.

“Here, sod off and all!” she yelled, using her Irish accent. “I belong to Grindhouse Pete, eh? So, you’d best shove off and leave me be, you bleedin’ muckshites!” Claudia had no idea if Grindhouse Pete was still in control of this part of the rookery, but the men’s hesitation meant the name still carried some weight.

“Pete won’t mind if we have a taste,” one man rumbled. “I’ve never had me a redhead afore. Wonder if she’s red—down there?” The other men chuckled salaciously.

“A taste?” She slowly raised the hem of her frayed plaid dress, giving the men a flash of leg. Claudia stealthily reached for her knife. “A taste of what, ducks?”

With the men now distracted, she grabbed the knife from her rawhide holder and swung around in an arc, making contact.

One of the men screamed, his hand covered his cheek. Blood oozed between his fingers. “The bitch cut me!”

Before Claudia could react or reply, someone dropped down from above. In a flash of dark leather, the tall man—she assumed it was a man considering the width of the shoulders and the muscular build—battered one of her attackers with what appeared to be a truncheon.

He then spun to face the other men, pulling a large dagger from his coat. “This is my territory,” the muffled voice dangerously hissed as he held the blade to one of the men’s throats. “Leave now if you want to live.”

The men needed no further inducement. They grabbed the beaten man, brought him to his feet, and hurried out of the alley. The tall man turned to face her as he tucked the knife away.

His territory?

Be damned if she would wait for this leather-clad rookery boss to lay his hands on her. Claudia lifted her leg and kicked him right in the bollocks. Or at least she hoped so, as ascertaining the target remained challenging in the dark. She must have made at least partial contact as the man descended on one knee, his breath expelling in wheezing gasps.

“I was trying to help you,” he bit out.

“I don’t need any assistance,” she replied, speaking in her own voice. “I had the matter under control. Who are you?”

The man grunted as he stood. “The Sentinel, at your service.”

What?

“You’re a vigilante? Really? Why?” Vigilantes were not unheard of in the seedier sections of London, and many people considered them a necessity, considering there were segments of the city that coppers refused to police. Someone had to protect the poor. But Claudia thought those urban tales came from a London of long ago. How interesting.

“And who are you?” he asked, disregarding her questions.