Page 43 of A Debt Inherited

Whatever else he had become that week, his accounts balanced.

Chapter 18

The Seven Dials, February 1811

The year had taught him many things, chiefly that the Seven Dials rewarded loyalty more than virtue.

Winter had passed, then another had settled over London, and the work had not stopped.

Kerr moved easily through places he would once have crossed the street to avoid—the back rooms of the Black Hart off St Martin’s Lane, the gin-lit parlours of Mrs Keating’s on Bow Street, the narrow counting-house behind Mr Rudd’s pawnshop where silver changed hands in silence.

He no longer hesitated at their doors.

At the Black Hart, the tables were green felt and hope; the air smelled of sweat and burnt tallow. Kerr stood at the edge of the play, watching a lieutenant lose half a year’s pay on a single throw. The keeper caught Kerr’s eye and inclined his head. No words passed. The house knew what was owed and when it would be collected.

The lieutenant did not yet know that Kerr would be the man sent to ask for it. Kerr looked away before the dice fell again.

From there, Kerr crossed to Bow Street, where the lamps threw honeyed light over the cobbles slick with frost. Mrs Keating’s house stood at the end of a narrow lane, its shutters painted blue, its girls laughing behind lace. She met him in the vestibule, tall and dark-haired, her accent broad Scots softened by years in London.

“Mr Kerr,” she said, drawing the name out like a toast. “Come to bring me trouble or take it away?”

“Neither, tonight.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “A pity. My girls think you a riddle they might solve, had they but a better light.”

“I should hate to waste their study,” he said, and handed her the folded paper.

She took it without looking, slipped it into her sleeve. “Tell your master I’ll see to it.”

Her eyes flicked over his coat. “Still wearing Gower Street black? You’ll never vanish in that.”

“That’s the point, madam.”

She laughed—a low, knowing sound. “You were born too polite for the Dials. I’ll wager it kills you slow.”

He smiled, and Mrs Keating looked at him a heartbeat longer than the jest required.

The men who passed him no longer looked twice. He had become part of the furniture of such rooms—reliable, discreet, and almost invisible.

They called him the gentleman from Gower Street. Each time he heard it, his pride suffered another knock.

* * *

Fanny Murray’s kept a light fit for noon. Wax burned clear in the mirrored sconces; the air held bergamot and wine. Kerr gave his hat to the footman and crossed the parlour with a note between two fingers. It was his first time in the famed bordello.

Sylvia Murray stood by the mantel as if the house had been built around her, a pale silk gown catching the fire. Her red-lipped smile moved first; the caramel eyes came after. She offered her hand as though to a drawing-room call.

“If it isn’t the gentleman from Gower Street paying a call. Welcome, Mr Kerr.”

He bowed over her hand, stepped back, and placed the folded paper upon her fan. She did not look down. The fan turned once in her wrist, neat as a sum.

“For me,” she said, “or for the house?”

“For the house.”

She shifted a step closer. The scent of her hair was sharp and clean, no sweetness wasted. “You keep good hours.”

“I try.”