B006O3T9DG EBOK (67 page)

Darcy’s unexpected visit had left her in a muddle of disappointment and regret. Hence, all that he told her of George Wickham was slow to come to mind. As she bethought his words, she recollected Darcy saying that he and Alistair were said to resemble each other. She puzzled over that statement, but only for a moment. Then she recalled Alistair saying much the same thing. She saw no true resemblance save for height. That hardly seemed proof of his identity. Alistair was a bit of a rogue, but a murderer? She thought not. He was a scoundrel, nothing more. She was far too worldly to be so easily fooled. Her thoughts, however, were arrested by her husband’s interminable whine.

“We do not have to bear another bloody Italian Opera, do we dear?” inquired her husband patting his hair.

“No, my dear,” she replied, “Tonight, Grimaldi.”

———

By the time they were fitted in finery and had gained their carriage, the pretence of a happy marriage was once again in place. By Juliette’s design, they were late arriving at the theatre. Their box was near the stage and every patron watched them as they found their seats. Used to such scrutiny, Juliette was quite at ease. Howgrave preened momentarily and then he introduced her to new acquaintances, Sir Louiemac and his wife, Majorca. Neither had any hint of breeding but they were not ill-mannered because of it. They had lately come into money, by way of the Smithfield Stockyards. Their fortune, however, had not the stench of whence it came. Indeed, their wealth had reached an apogee that allowed the aristocracy to overlook its taint. (Since the wars and the reversal of fortunes in all levels of society, the upper class was far more accepting of those who had ready money.)

Louiemac’s cuffs were more out of fashion than his wife. Majorca’s manners were gauche and her face was uninspiring. Juliette did not mind. When nothing else could cheer her, her mood could be improved by sitting with an unhandsome woman. Basking in the glow of unadulterated admiration of those around her, she was soothed. Indeed, she was lulled into self-congratulatory complacency until she happened to spy Alistair peering over the backs of the gentlemen hovering about her husband.

He winked.

She pretended not to see him, but gave an inward shudder. A rogue in disguise or not, the thought of his company had lost its appeal. The only tell-tale sign of her unease was a slight shifting in her seat towards Sir Louiemac. Once positioned, she did not move until the intermission. The production had been quite amusing. Most of the spectators laughed uproariously. Juliette covered the lower half of her face with her fan more than once, but she did not find it as droll as did the others.

When the men adjourned to attend their bladders, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Therefore, when she heard the rustle of silk, she turned to look upon what female dared invade her box. As she did, she was arrested by the sight of a most alarming personage. Indeed, the wench was so quaintly painted that Juliette momentarily believed her to be a juvenile member of the cast.

“How’dya do?” said Daisy Mulroney.

She offered her hand and her name. Juliette accepted neither.

Lady Louiemac was well-occupied by peering at other ladies’ gowns through her quizzing glasses. The strange creature before Juliette seemed to be speaking only to her. Desperately looking about for the men of her party, Juliette nodded curtly. Many strangers claimed her acquaintance—some of them even less acceptable than the one before her.

Not mincing words, Daisy said, “The tall feller—the one with the white hair—he’s with you?”

Juliette looked furiously about for someone of authority, hissing at Daisy, “You do not belong here. Leave, now.”

“Beg pardon, sister, but you ain’t no better’n any other strumpet in this town,” Daisy replied. “I should leave yer be, but I ain’t that kind of female.”

“Convent Garden hobby-horse, I’d say,” Juliette snapped back in an inflection that was far more Wapping than Mayfair.

At this, they both smiled. Daisy even laughed that the lady was that accomplished a mimic. More annoyed than angry, Juliette took a better look at the sassy girl. She saw immediately that she was not a girl, but a woman—five and twenty years if she was a day. She was dressed in the finest of gowns, but her ensemble was atrocious. Suddenly, recognition wafted over Juliette. This little woman harboured many political meetings. Her house was enormous, but furnished with disastrous discernment. Daisy Mulroney had come into money too late in life for it to improve her taste. Juliette’s countenance hastily regained its placidity, not giving a hint of repugnance. Before she could ask what she wanted, Daisy began to chatter away. What she had to say was flabbergasting.

“The white-haired feller is a ponce, a resurrectionist, and a murderer, but not in that order. He came with his silk nose-wipes into the Fortune of War every day. You do best to stay clear of him.”

There were any number of questions that Juliette wanted to ask this wanton sprite, foremost amongst those inquiries was why she was warning her against Alistair.

Before she could ask her that, the demoiselle urged, “Watch out fer ’em, I tell yer. He’s hard to kill. We shot ’em and he didn’t die.”

“You shot him?” Juliette repeated daintily.

“Yea, in the knackers,” Daisy said flippantly. “He has ones of stone—or did.”

Colour drained from Juliette’s lovely complexion. Daisy did not notice that, for she was on her way lest she be seen.

Her last remark was over her shoulder, “If yer don’t believe me, ask ol’ George if he’s still got teeth in his pockets.”

Chapter 89

Fortune Fails

Upon the carriage ride home from the opera, Juliette had to withstand the company of the stiff-rumped Majorca along with her pressing personal concerns.

The men chatted on like storekeepers in knuckle-dabs, but Juliette did not care to converse. She could do nothing but wonder where Alistair Thomas was at that moment and would he return to apply for more of her time. If he was guilty of the crimes of which he was accused, she contemplated how best to unmask him. Should she go to her husband, or to the authorities?

That, she supposed, was putting the cart before the horse. Above all else, she had to determine who he truly was. The wee strumpet at the theatre said Alistair was a procurer and grave-robber—and that he was a habitué of a disreputable house called the Fortune of War.

Abruptly, Juliette asked, “Pray do you know of an establishment called ‘The Fortune of War?’”

Majorca looked at her blankly, but both men bore gazes of such astonished abhorrence that Juliette was taken aback by their alarm. Fluttering her fan, she begged their pardon, saying, rightly, that the name was mentioned at the performance.

“Infamous place,” Howgrave said gruffly. Betokening the time-honoured expression of displeased spouses, he decreed, “We shall speak of this in private.”

She was satisfied to do so. Nonetheless, Sir Louiemac did not shrink from scandal.

“If your husband is too mannerly to speak of it, Lady Howgrave,” said he, “May I explain our surprise and disgust?”

She nodded.

“They say that the Fortune of War is one of the vilest places in town. It looks to be a common drinking house, but word has it that grave-robbers do their business there.” He turned to Howgrave, offering, “Grave-robbing has become quite a lucrative activity. It is something Parliament must address, Howgrave.”

Lady Louiemac became quite animated, inquiring as to why anyone might possibly want to dig up a corpse.

As Lord Louiemac was now rich, he only visited Smithfield on market day. (Lady Louiemac came not at all.) Although his fortune was made by tallow and hides, the filth and mire of the lanes oozed so deep, even he avoided it when he could. To endure the air, befouled by fresh-killed carcasses and their entrails, he covered his face with a handkerchief lest his lungs be stung by the acridity. Indeed, Louiemac was less sequestered from the baser doings in London than even the likes of Henry Howgrave.

Louiemac told them, “The anatomy classes are filled with surgeons in want of learning the skills necessary for their occupation. They are in constant need of fresh dead to dissect.”

“I think I shall be ill,” said Lady Louiemac.

The thought of such deeds was grisly to Juliette as well. However, unlike Lady Louiemac, she had withstood grander misfortune than stench of sewage. In Paris, she had the questionable pleasure of observing any number of heads being lopped off. (In her opinion, witnessing the death throes of headless bodies squirting blood trumped the mere thought of a day-old corpse quite handily.) The newspapers alluded to suspicious removals from cemeteries, but as the dearly departed were rarely disturbed once they were committed to their graves in the West End, few investigations were made.

Thinking of the yellow-haired pigmy, Juliette looked out the window at the wide, clean streets. As she pondered the woman’s nebulous aspect, she recalled only that her hair was gold and her name was Daisy. The portion of her discourse regarding grave-robbing had already been proven true. It had been her experience that if part of a story was genuine, the likelihood was greater that the rest was accurate as well. And, if a man would stoop to stealing corpse, he would not scruple against soliciting on behalf of harlots. It was only by fortune of her uncommon beauty that she had not fallen prey to one of London’s pimps. As it was, she answered only to herself—at least until she had taken the idiotic notion to marry.

That little doxy was literally dripping in pearls and emeralds, but was certainly not of station (not even a maid to a person of station). How she came so recently into money was quite a mystery, but from her coarse articulation, she was not a few years out of the rookeries bordering the Thames. No doubt, that was how she learnt of Alistair’s dreadful doings. She knew his name to be “George.” It remained unclear as to why she shot him—or said she did. Perchance, in his past occupations their paths crossed. If he was shot, he was fortunate to survive it. If the wars taught them nothing, it was that few lived long after being shot, and if they did it was not without severe scarring. Alistair bore no scars or wounds, just a limp.

Daisy, the wealthy wench, said that she had shot George in the groin. Alistair was one ball shy and sporting a limp. At that moment, she realised it all must be true. The moonless night obscured the expression of clarity and fear that overspread Juliette’s lovely countenance. Shortly thereafter, another, surer expression slipped from the corner of her eye. It was one both cunning and content.

Juliette’s mind had always been quite sharp. Once she was certain of the issues at hand, she moved with near vulpine stealth. Now fully informed, she no longer feared Alistair, be he pimp, body-snatcher, murderer, or George Wickham. Information is all. That was something that anyone who lived by their wits knew well. More importantly, such tidings were far more useful when they were owned by just one party.

George Wickham had no idea that he had been exposed.

Surely, he did not believe that he would remain undiscovered. Was he that arrogant, or that stupid? With men, she knew, oft-times it is a mixture of both. The question was, how could she use him to her own ends?

Chapter 90

Above All Else

Having discharged his obligations, as he saw it, to defend his countrymen from the auspices of a truly wicked (and possibly deranged) man, Darcy made ready for home. Just knowing that Wickham was alive, and given to the worst kind of criminality, meant Darcy would make fast to protect those dearest to him. Indeed, a pang in the pit of his stomach reminded him that the cur had been at large for these past years and could have easily made his way to Pemberley to do them harm.

That he had not, only meant one thing—he had not yet.