Page 78 of One Night with a Rake

“You mean Sadie O’Toole?”

“How do you know that name?”

“I wasn’t taking tea with the madam at the House of Pleasures for the sake of her crumpets, you know.” Georgette sighed at her reflection. Her coiffure was beyond help. She could only hope she didn’t encounter anyone she knew as they made their way back to St. James’s Park. “Madam Bouchard spoke of her. She wasn’t the type to suffer a slight, she said. Perhaps we should pay Mrs. O’Toole a visit.”

“I would if I knew where to find her.”

“I know,” Georgette said, delighted to bring some new bit of intelligence Nathaniel had not gleaned. “According to Madam Bouchard, she’s set up shop in Whitechapel.”

His brows shot up. “Very well. As soon as I take you home, I’ll—”

Georgette had studied her father’s maps of London often enough to know Whitechapel was in the East End of the city. “Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we simply went there from here? You’ll be backtracking quite a bit to take me to the West End and then—”

“Georgette, you must understand. You think you’ve seen the worst of London because you braved Lackaday Lane. Let me assure you, you haven’t. If Covent Garden is the armpit of London, then Whitechapel is its hairy unwiped backside.”

“That’s rather indelicate.”

“But it’s also rather accurate,” he said with a frown. “I would spare you.”

“You should know by now, Nate, I would not spare myself. Where has my bonnet got off to? Oh, there it is.” She picked up what had been a cunning little confection of lace and velvet. Now the brim was hopelessly bent. “Well, it’ll never be quite the same again, will it?”

“I’ve a feeling I never will either.” He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “What am I to do with you, woman?”

“Love me,” she suggested as she tied a jaunty bow beneath her chin. “You know I have to go with you. If there is a chance I can help someone, I do not fear to go where they are. Not as long as you are with me.”

He dropped a kiss on her neck, then crossed the room to the highboy. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pistol which he stashed in his jacket pocket.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promised as he came back to her side. “You’ll have to drive me away.”

He tugged her close and kissed her with thoroughness for several minutes. When he finally released her mouth and pulled back, his eyes were hooded.

“But you know, I’ve heard it said that love is like a garden. It needs tending and light and fresh air to thrive. It can’t stay hidden forever,” he said. “Love that keeps to the shadows isn’t love.”

“You’re right. Too much shade is a receipt for fungus.” She laughed, but he didn’t join her in it. “Come then, my toadstool prince. Let us see if there is any sunshine in Whitechapel.”

Twenty-nine

Georgette had thought herself prepared for Whitechapel.

She was not.

Lackaday Lane was dreary, but it seemed the sun had never shown here in Whitechapel. It would have had to fight its way into the twisting streets where the houses sagged against each other like drunkards, their facades tired and crumbling.

A brawl broke out before one of the taverns they passed, and a crowd gathered to shout encouragement to the combatants and lay wagers on the outcome. Even when one of the men lay battered on the cobbles, the other fellow continued to kick him with the viciousness of a mad horse and no one moved to interfere.

A woman huddled in the doorway of a shuttered-up storefront, tipping back a flask and wiping her mouth on her raggedy sleeve. She seemed to have no plans beyond her next drink. As their hackney moved along at a foot pace in the clogged streets, Georgette wondered at the hundreds of people wandering aimlessly.

“Haven’t they homes to go to?”

“No,” Nathaniel said. “Most of them live in common lodging. By night they’ll share a room with six or seven strangers, but by law, they must vacate it during the day. Thank God the last of winter is leaving us. Whitechapel on a gray January day is a special sort of hell.”

She glanced at him sharply. “How do you happen to know so much about it?”

“When I first returned from France, I didn’t want to tar my family with my disgrace,” he began.

“As I recall, you were not discharged from service with any sort of discommendation.”

“No, but only because the victory at Waterloo overshadowed the defeat of Maubeuge enough for some well-placed lords, my father among them, to hush it up.” He continued to stare at the foot traffic, but Georgette had the distinct impression he was seeing something else entirely. “Even so, I couldn’t go home. A little leaven makes the whole loaf rise. The whiff of scandal for one member is enough to taint an entire family. So I made Whitechapel my home. It was all I deserved.”