Page 47 of One Night with a Rake

“What?”

“Load my pistol. Someone chided me once for wandering into that neighborhood without one.” He stomped away. “Sounds like prudent advice now.”

Eighteen

Nathaniel commandeered Reuben Darling and another footman to accompany them to Lackaday Lane. Darling would form their rear guard, and the other fellow could help the driver protect the carriage while they were gone from it. Georgette had pleaded that she needed her maid to come as well, but Nate put his foot down about bringing Mercy.

One out-of-place female to protect was already one too many.

Unlike the well-lit St. James’s neighborhood where Georgette lived, there were no streetlamps in Covent Garden. Lackaday Lane would be black as Satan’s heart. As they rumbled through Piccadilly, Nate managed to snag a linkboy. The lad scrambled up to sit next to the driver, his pitch-daubed torch waiting to be lit when they reached their destination.

Georgette had been uncharacteristically quiet on the journey. Some women became chatty when they were upset or nervous, but she seemed to fold in on herself. It was a calm quiet, a restful quiet. A quiet that said, “I trust you to have the matter well in hand.”

Nathaniel was relieved. Even though he didn’t deserve it, he wanted her trust very much indeed.

When the carriage stopped at the mouth of the narrow lane, Georgette finally broke the silence. “I’m proud of you for doing this, Nate. Not many men would have.”

“Let’s see if I actually accomplish anything before you hang a medal on my chest.” He climbed from the carriage and handed her out.

The linkboy had already swung down from his perch and was fumbling with a sulfur match. The torch caught and flared with a yellowish light as the lad started down Lackaday Lane.

“Stay close,” Nate said softly.

He didn’t have to tell Georgette twice. She latched onto his left arm so his pistol hand would be free. She was less than successful at matching his stride since her narrow skirt restricted her gait. Still she trotted gamely beside him, skittering along taking two steps to his one as they entered the lane.

Reuben Darling followed close on their heels, carrying the only weapon he’d had at hand: a cricket bat.

Nate hoped they’d present a formidable enough front to discourage anyone with nefarious intent.

Footpads were out, slinking from one shadow to the next, but they didn’t approach Nate’s little party. Music and laughter spilled out of several open doors onto the lane, but only occasional narrow shafts of light. Beyond the flickering circle of yellowish light thrown by the linkboy’s torch, the way was a veritable abyss.

Murder could be easily done in the blackness of Lackaday Lane with no one the wiser.

When they reached the House of Sirens, they found all the windows dark. Nate tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He rapped smartly on the thick oak.

“Open up!”

A curtain in the window next to the door fluttered briefly and they heard a scraping sound. Finally, the portal opened wide enough for Mrs. Throckmorten to peer through the crack.

“Oh, Lord Nathaniel, it’s you. Thank you for coming. One moment, if you please.” The door closed again and they heard more scraping and scrabbling. Finally, it reopened.

“We had no lock, so we had to make do,” the matron said, waving them in past the oversized chifforobe that had been wedged against the door. Reuben Darling shoved it back into position once they were all in. Then Mrs. Throckmorten led the way through the dark house to the kitchen in the rear, which was lit by several tallow candles.

Vesta was laid out on the long table, her hands folded serenely over her breasts. The rest of the residents of the House of Sirens were gathered round, weeping or merely staring in shock.

Probably reckoning it could have just as easily been them stretched out on the table, Nate thought.

“We did the best we could for her till morning comes,” Mrs. Throckmorten said.

After this night’s simple wake, Vesta would be stitched into a sheet. Then with the dawn, she’d be loaded onto the wagon that picked up the poor who had the misfortune to die without benefit of the Church. Her body would be taken to the Potter’s Field outside the city and dumped into the unmarked mass grave reserved for the penniless.

“Where’s Mr. Bagley?” Nate demanded.

“We don’t know.” Mrs. Throckmorten smoothed her iron gray hair back. “He left this afternoon to go to the market for me, but he never returned.”

Nate’s fingers balled into fists. Bagley had admitted to having a gin habit in the past, but he’d assured Nate that he was sober now and swore to remain so. It was the only reason Nate agreed to hire him. If that hulk had taken the money meant to feed the girls at the House of Sirens and drank it away when he was supposed to be protecting them, Nate would take it out of his miserable hide.

Especially since one of the young women had died on Bagley’s watch.