The Den of Iniquity Page 8

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’ She’d welcomed the idea of looking through her mother’s keepsakes but the prickly crawl of gooseflesh that dotted her skin added to the already uncomfortable tension thick within the dressing room. Too many emotions crowded in. ‘You should keep it yourself as a memory or sell it.’

  ‘Your mother would want you to have it.’ He spoke with insistence and closed the distance between them, his attention keen. Before she realized his intent, he raised the corner of her collar. The back of his hand brushed the delicate skin underneath her chin and she jerked in surprise though he held tight to the cloth while he worked to position the brooch.

  A curl of ill ease settled in her stomach. He must know the action improper and too personal, yet he secured the back of the pin while she stood utterly still, afraid to exhale.

  ‘That’s better. Exactly where it belongs.’ He canted his head with a slight nod. ‘I shall leave you to your task then.’

  He left the room and the click of the bedroom door echoed as she released a long-held breath. Had she imagined the discomfited apprehension? Moving to Nettlecombe only a month before her mother took ill left her little time to adjust and understand her stepfather’s personality. While everyone mourned in a private manner, she couldn’t help notice the earl’s gestures seemed wrongly placed and at odds with propriety, yet how could she criticize someone’s personal loss? Her companionship likely filled a sorrowful void in his life, his new-found happiness transformed by her mother’s sudden downturn in health and then death a short period later.

  She waited a moment more and then left as well, anxious to secure her bedchamber door and be alone with her thoughts. In a motion she now knew by heart, she reclaimed the brass key from her jewellery case and unlocked the keepsake box she kept hidden in her bureau drawer. A single foolscap letter lay inside, stark white against the black velvet lined interior. Her mother was not the secretive sort, nor did she make rash decisions, yet no matter how frequently Vivienne reread the message she felt at a loss to accept her mother’s sacrifice.

  Dearest Vivienne,

  My sudden decision to marriage Lord Huntley must surprise you and may require a bit of understanding as we leave behind our modest beginnings and make a new home in greater London. His lordship is a wealthy man in need of a favour and by return has offered us security and the benefit of his elevated status at a most important time for your future. His title will guarantee you entry to the most dignified functions with the hope you will find a kind and proper husband, a fellow peer, who will provide an amenable life for many years ahead.

  Whether these ideas alarm or delight you, please know we will confront each change together, as we have spent every year since your father’s death.

  I want only what is best for you. I love you.

  Mother.

  Vivienne stared at the words wishing she could hear them in her mother’s voice and ask questions, gain answers, to understand the agreement she’d made with Lord Huntley. What favour could she have possibly promised the earl? Everything seemed cryptic now that her mother had passed and aside from this solitary letter, she had only his explanation to depend upon.

  She remembered vividly the evening her mother had pressed the letter into her hands. The disease hadn’t progressed to a debilitating state yet and Vivienne believed her mother would recover. She’d accepted the letter and made the promise not to read it unless the worst ensued, assured it was a sentimental message, written in a moment of weakness. Never once did Vivienne anticipate her mother’s wasting decline, but much to her sorrow that circumstance proved true. Now she was left with little understanding and an unnatural dislike of Lord Huntley that offered no immediate resolution.

  Sinclair would have preferred to pursue Wilson’s information under the cover of night, but evening hours kept Pimms on felonious prowl or, if not, inebriated at the bottom of a bottle, thus out of his rooms and undetectable amidst the abandoned activity predictable of wharf-side life. Southwark overflowed with miscreants and criminals of both genders and every age. Locating Pimms’ room at the lodging house was a strong lead although the man proved accomplished in the necessities of survival. Sin lived for years by his own wits, not so far behind the wily knowledge of the man he sought now.

  His carriage left him at the top of Great Surrey Street and he hailed a hackney for the ride into Southwark, unwilling to compromise his objective by notice of his conveyance. Wharf-side living was a city within itself and as he approached the docks he surveyed the surroundings with perspicacious caution, the soot-darkened buildings and cramped grimy alleys a depiction of squalor.

  Long lines of ships, crowded barges and an occasional schooner spotted the extensive shoreline, cosied to the dock and moored for good keeping. Every cargo imaginable came through the area: coal, silk and iron, just to name a few. But despite the wealth found in the hold of each elegant clipper, the population at the edge of the Thames comprised wrongdoers of every variety.

  Depredation abounded despite the hour. Ragged mudlarks skittered to and fro near the piers, knocking coal from any untended barge to reclaim from the muddy waters later. The filthy children were neglected, indigent offspring of coal-whippers or prostitutes, who often served months at a time in the reformatory before being released and returned to the only life they knew.

  Lightermen carried off valuable cargo, sweeping boys helped themselves to bags of coffee, rice and sugar—unbeknownst to the busy ship crew—and sellers of small wares pilfered scraps of rope and wood to sell later for a few shillings, enough to purchase their next meal.

  On the corner ahead, a robust woman in a tattered frock sold fruit and bits of coal by the same hand in hope of warding off destitution. At her feet two toddlers played on a tarpaulin, inured to this inclement life. Sin nodded as he passed, pressing a crown into the woman’s palm and pushing forward into the thick crowd congested at the centre of wharf side. If it were in his power he would right all the wrongs, educate the children who grew illiterate and jaded by age ten, and protect the women who often had no choice for survival other than to sell their favours. This section of London offered a sad world unto itself.

  After his mother’s death, Sin made his way on the streets, yet nothing he’d endured and conquered equalled the squalor he witnessed here at wharf side. He’d matured and advanced to join with Cole and Luke, and build the most exclusive gaming hell in London. By contrast, these people had little hope for a better future.

  He gritted his teeth and narrowed his gaze at the building ahead, a single-floor structure with peeling paint and a few cracked windows. It was the lodging house where Wilson claimed Pimms kept a room. The building stood alone though a few store dealers lined the same side of the pavement, while across the street the Marine Society occupied the better half of the block. The Marine structure existed as the only ray of hope in the area, a place where young boys could become educated before boarding a ship with the intent of betterment through responsibility and back-breaking labour.

  He scrutinized the lodging house, measuring it with his eyes, taking note of the door, windows and adjacent alley. It took years to find Ludlow, but none of the struggle had mattered when he held the billiard cue across the man’s throat, the satisfaction of retribution overriding forgiveness to isolate Max’s primal rage.

  This situation was different. Getting to Pimms would be difficult. The streets were lined with people and congested hackney traffic. As if he summoned their arrival, three coaches advanced up the roadway in a cloud of dust to scatter anyone who lingered too close to the kerb. The conveyances pulled to a stop before the Marine Society, the drivers quick to jump down and extend the steps. One by one, lady after lady disembarked—their fine dress and expensive bonnets indicative of a charity call, the quality of their person otherwise not seen in this part of the city.

  One carriage had not emptied and he waited too in hope to advance across the street using the congestion of the do-gooders’ arrival to further
his purpose. Two women had already left the last coach. Did another remain inside? Sin watched as the driver at the door broke into a smile with unexpected conviviality before he extended his hand and assisted the last occupant of the contingent. A single boot was revealed, followed by a flurry of pale green skirts. Sin skimmed his gaze over the other ladies as they bustled to the kerb, then jerked his attention to the coach door, somehow knowing who he would see before she actualized.

  Vivienne.

  No wonder the driver donned a huge grin. She stood against the backdrop of the wharf, a rose among weeds. This sighting explained her appearance at the graveyard, likely involved in some kind of charity effort no doubt, though he despised the thought of her anywhere near the wharf’s edge. He stepped forward as if to object and then caught himself and stopped. One glance at Vivienne and how easily he lost focus of his objective. He watched the ladies enter the society and then, forcing the image away, moved across the roadway towards Pimms.

  Chapter Nine

  Vivienne followed the line of ladies as they entered the education hall inside the Marine Society. An assemblage of young boys already sat in rows. She settled at the small wooden table and opened the time-worn primer left in the box underneath. She’d enjoyed watching her mother patiently encourage young lads to learn letters and gain confidence in their ability to blend those sounds into words. With natural progression their efforts succeeded, sentences turning into paragraphs and eventually full stories. She hoped she could accomplish the same, imitating her mother’s composure and fortitude while carrying on with her mother’s valuable devotion.

  Without pause, an unfamiliar boy approached her table and took a seat. His eyes were bright and his clothing better kept than the usual scallywags who frequented the institution, yet here he was, the uniformed shirt a declaration he’d trained to be of service on one of the many ships at the dock. Yet it wasn’t so much in his outward appearance as the way he held his posture and the clarity of his eyes that set him apart. Orphans and children of the street often possessed a round-shouldered stance, accompanied by fleeting attention drummed into them by their keepers and providers. Meeting someone’s eyes was often avoided, though this lad looked at her directly as if her equal.

  ‘Hello. I am Miss Beaumont and I’ll be your teacher this morning.’ She smiled hoping to dissipate any lingering hesitation the child might harbour, though he showed no outward hesitation.

  ‘I already know how to read.’ He cocked his head, his mouth lifted in a haughty half-smile far beyond his years. ‘My governess taught me while I was in the nursery.’

  She eyed him with displeasure, her brows furrowed low. It would make matters all the more difficult if the lad spun stories and refused to co-operate. How would her mother have handled a problem such as this? Mayhap she should call the little bugger’s bluff, although she wouldn’t wish for the handsome and cheeky urchin to cry.

  She assessed the lad quietly in wait. He looked like he’d never shed a tear in his life, his cocky expression unchanged. ‘Excellent. That makes my job much easier.’ She opened the primer to a random page and pushed it forward, prepared for the lad’s balk and recoil, but he didn’t flinch, not a single hair on his head, and then in a childlike tenor that both warmed and surprised, he read the page in clear English.

  ‘My book and heart shalt never part.’

  He smiled wide and revealed a dimple on his left cheek that would cause every female to swoon when he grew older.

  ‘Well done, although I don’t understand why you’re here, young man.’ She turned a few pages, unsure whether or not to test his ability further, then decided the keen look in the lad’s eye revealed everything she needed to know.

  ‘My name is Nathaniel.’ He inclined his head and viewed her with a cynical glance down his nose. ‘I’m not supposed to be here.’ He paused and let the words settle as if daring her to comment on his cultivated tone.

  What a mischievous scoundrel to boast about his disobedience and disregard for the rules. Had he left his chores and duties to someone else? Or worse, neglected them altogether?

  ‘But hiding in the education hall is better than the kitchen where the biscuits are blooming rubbish,’ he added in an undertone.

  Shocked by his language, she itched to reprimand but bit her tongue in time to stop the objection from escape. He likely sought to shock her and succeeded, although she would not reveal it. His unconventional upbringing and exposure to the daily occurrences at the docks in combination with the variety of men here at the Marine Society accounted for his colourful vocabulary. She smiled despite the realization. In many ways Nathaniel reminded her of Thomas, the street lad outside the Underworld. Close in age, they might have been good friends if life had taken a different path.

  ‘Would you like me to bring you something to eat?’ She would do so in a heartbeat no matter the other ladies would regard her errand foolish.

  ‘No, thank you, ma’am.’ He sounded contrite all of a sudden. ‘I’ll make do.’

  Perhaps he realized she would not be so easily appalled at his use of expletives. With a bow that looked more like a nod, he left, scurrying down the hall and out of sight while she watched after him, amused and puzzled by their unlikely encounter.

  Her purpose disserved, she focused on more meaningful work. She caught the eye of a lad waiting on a nearby bench, summoned him to the table, and set about teaching the letters on the page.

  Sinclair entered the Marine Society and exhaled a frustrated breath. The keeper at the lodging house was little help, a belligerent fellow with the sour stench of cheap whisky on his breath. Any miscreant could easily bypass the sot. Still the search for Pimms proved worthless, the man having already moved out. Somehow Pimms remained one step ahead. No doubt the man realized he was hunted and therefore never remained idle long. Either way, Pimms wouldn’t be purchasing transport any time soon. The docks were void of packets this evening and according to the dredge men Max had questioned, no ships were due for weeks.

  He inquired at a few taverns and eateries, walked the alleys adjacent to the lodging house and questioned street merchants and fishermen in hope of gaining information, but increased frustration was his only reward.

  Pimms was known best for thievery. A visit to the closest pawnbrokers and dolly shops seemed a logical choice, but instead of pursuing the thought, Sin found himself in the brick annex of the only respectable building in dockside Southwark: the Marine Society. Driven by curiosity, at least that’s what he told himself, he walked the long corridor to the main hall where voices and ambient conversation resounded in the high-ceilinged area.

  It took him less than a breath to find her.

  Vivienne chatted amiably with a young boy who listened with a dazed expression. It was a wonder if the lad learned anything, unable to see the words for the stars in his eyes. The boy hadn’t once glanced to the book in front of him, his focus solely on his teacher’s crystalline green gaze. Sin understood the effect. Vivienne’s raven tresses were pulled away from her face, pinned high in the back where the length tumbled around her shoulders. Yes, he understood the effect well. He rubbed his fingertips in restless displeasure, reminded of how he’d threaded her hair against his palms during their scorching kiss.

  Unready to be seen, he remained in the archway as she dismissed the boy with a smile and rose from the table to collect her reticule as if to leave. All around charitable women offered their time and remained at work. Why would Vivienne depart early? She advanced towards the front of the hall closer to where he stood concealed and paused to speak to an older woman, their conversation brief and cheerful. Then she aimed towards the door. As she swished past, he fell in step beside her, materializing from the shadows.

  ‘Good morning.’ He leaned close and caught a whiff of her unique floral perfume, appreciating her startle and the subsequent flicker of pleasure in her eyes. She recovered with admirable agility. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  ‘The l
adies of the foundation and I make a venerable effort. The boys need academic instruction in equal measure to the routines for ship life. I am honoured to carry on the good work of my mother.’ Such a no-nonsense tone, her strides as straight-laced as her answer. ‘Good day, Mr Sinclair.’

  He smiled, willing to allow the use of the formality as they remained in public, but his mind reeled with the persistent memory of their intimate kiss, his overanxious brain all too willing to supply a plethora of erotic suggestions on how she would taste were he to strip her bare and devour every inch of satiny skin, were he to drive into her tight heat and lose himself in forbidden pleasure.

  ‘Don’t look at me that way.’ She gave an adorable shake of her head, which conveyed amusement more than outrage. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ He opened the door to the street and gestured for her to continue. ‘May I escort you to your next errand?’ He had a long list of tasks to complete and couldn’t afford to waste the morning yet he asked anyway.

  ‘Whenever the foundation comes to Southwark I leave early and make an effort to visit a few of pedlars near the pier before I hail a hackney for home. There are several women with children at their feet who sell flowers in hope of collecting enough money for dinner.’ She turned her head, perhaps to see if he appreciated the sentiment. ‘A few shillings from my purse could make all the difference in their day.’

  So not only was she financially independent, but she possessed a giving heart. The worst possible recipe for walking alone wharf side and yet indeed she strode in that direction. And true to his suspicions, while she bustled towards the dock chin held high with purpose, he observed the sideways glances from the rougher element, pickpockets and swindlers, who’d mark her an easy target were he not by her side. An immediate lick of protectiveness ignited his temper. He stopped walking and touched her elbow so she would do the same.