1. June 17, 1822

1

JUNE 17, 1822

GOODRUM’S HOUSE OF PLEASURE

N o.9 Duke St., London

Margot paced the floor of Captain Eleanor Goodrum’s office, flailing her hands about, while she proposed one frantic idea after another on how they could save the young, unknown woman she’d snatched from under the noses of two tough Bow Street Runners the night before.

Her dark, curly hair frizzed out in clouds around her face from having constantly run her fingers through the carefully dressed coif Germaine had helped her assemble that morning.

Her latest idea - to send the young woman into hiding on a long voyage aboard one of Captain El’s ships - caused her friend and mentor to stand and walk around the front of her desk. She gently grasped Margot’s hands in her own and spoke soothingly.

“You don’t even know the identity of this young, drugged woman.” She drew Margot toward two comfortable chairs by the fire and urged her to sit in one before easing herself into the other. “That should be our first concern. Perhaps she’s an innocent who ran away to London and was pulled into P-W’s party against her will. For all we know, her family is searching for her.”

Captain El paused for a long moment before leaning forward and pressing a hand atop Margot’s silk-clad knee. “And then there’s the possibility she may belong to one of the lewd brothel-keepers in Seven Dials. And that would be a pot of broth even I couldn’t fix.”

They were silent for long moments, staring into the crackling flames, before Margot suddenly snapped her fingers. “Why not find the body of a young woman with long blonde hair somewhere in Seven Dials, or along the docks? And then one of your dock boys could slip her in east of London the next time the tide’s coming in, and…”

“Stop and think, Margot,” her friend interrupted. “There’s a better, more sane way to accomplish what needs to be done.”

When Margot gave her a questioning, wild-eyed look, she replied, “That young lord probably got the absinthe at the party, but someone else supplied him with the opium.”

“But we don’t know who that was.”

“There’s a specific gang at the dock that moves the lion’s share of opium into the city, and their leader owes me a favor.” The captain stood, signaling the meeting was over. “My guess is Winston-Bowles’s family will be just as happy to see the supplier in gaol as a missing cyprian.”

Germaine scratched softly on her door at Goodrum’s where Margot had returned with the mysterious young woman and her servant for the sake of their safety. She and Germaine had originally met at Goodrum’s after Captain El had rescued Margot from a street corner near Covent Garden. She couldn’t remember anymore what the hell she’d thought she’d do once she got to London after escaping from her wealthy family’s home in Surrey.

After her father had precipitously informed her she was to marry their sheep-farmer neighbor in a few weeks as soon as the banns were read at their small chapel on their sprawling farm, she’d stood mute in his study, imploring him with her eyes for an explanation. The sheep farmer, if her estimation was right, had to be at least in his sixties. Margot had been fourteen at the time.

Her father had answered her look with a tone to his words that suggested she was a dolt. He’d patiently explained the sheep farmer owned forty acres he’d wanted to add to his holdings for years, but the man would never sell. The last time he’d made an offer, the elderly farmer had made a counter offer: Margot in exchange for the land her father had long coveted. Her father hadn’t hesitated to agree to the deal. The thought that he might consult his fourteen-year-old daughter first had never occurred to him.

Margot had never considered marriage, or leaving home. Her mother had encouraged her affinity for reading, and she’d been given free rein of her father’s library at an early age. But then her mother had died in childbirth a year before the previous spring.

Her father had been courting a widow in the village, but Margot hadn’t given his plans a second thought, which accounted for her shock at learning she was to be married off like one of his prize cows. Their dairy was huge, and they sold milks and cheeses as far away as London.

She’d bribed one of the drovers who hauled their milk products to market, borrowed a work dress from her lady’s maid, and blithely set off for London, her legs dangling from the back of a cart full of sloshing crocks of milk.

She swore she could not to this day recall what the hell she’d thought she’d do to keep from starving once she reached London. Which was why Captain El had stopped her lumbering, gilded carriage that fateful night on a dark corner near Covent Garden.

Her benefactor had had her tiger open one of the doors before shaking her head sadly at the silly girl woman pretending to be a whore, with tears streaming down her face, and motioned for her to get in.

After a few years of entertaining Goodrum’s wealthy members, she’d found a protector and had left with Germaine to set up as a privileged courtesan.

The few months she’d spent on the streets before her momentous rescue had taught Margot all she needed to know about men. She didn’t like them. She didn’t like the way their wandering, pinching hands made her sore before they finally poked inside her without any preliminaries to at least get her juices flowing.

The only saving grace was that most of her customers spent within a minute or two and softened so quickly she could push them away and run back to the bare room with nothing but a bed and a chamber pot in the corner she shared with four other girls. They’d taught her the rules of surviving sex on the streets.

She’d also managed to make a bit of money on the side by selling her customers French letters to catch the disgusting discharge from their furtive couplings. They were apparently as terrified of the pox as she was. A thorough cleansing of her nether regions with vinegar after coupling was another survival trick her friends had taught her.

One night, she’d returned to the tiny room at the same time as one of the older girls with whom she’d shared the space. She’d shown Margot the kind of love she’d crave from then on. She’d touched her in places and in ways she could never have imagined would make what came later not only more pleasant, but an addictive form of pleasure.

When Gabrielle looked up at her apparent savior, she saw something in the other woman’s eyes she couldn’t comprehend.

“Are you feeling better now?” The woman leaned over her and brushed the back of her hand across Gabrielle’s brow. “You’re not as feverish as you were when we fled P-W’s party.”

Gabrielle thought she detected a flash of guilt when she stared into the strange woman’s eyes, but she couldn’t be sure. This woman had saved her life, but the only emotion she felt at the moment was an overwhelming urge to run away. Although she knew she had nowhere to go, unless she seriously considered the offer from the artist who wanted her to model for him exclusively. But that meant there was an off chance her interfering brother, or one of his East India Company friends, might someday see a likeness of her nude body hanging in an art gallery.

“Do you remember your name?”

Of course she remembered her name. The question was whether she wanted to share it with this strange woman who seemed a little too interested in things Gabriele wasn’t ready to reveal.

She envied the other woman’s courage in saying exactly what she meant. Gabrielle had spent a lifetime hiding her true feelings, and her gut was telling her this was not the time to start spilling confidences. Although the other woman’s kind, liquid brown eyes made her want to confess all.

“Anne…my name is Anne.”

A smile quirked at the other woman’s lips. “And I’m Margot Fauchette.”

“Why?” Gabrielle suddenly blurted out. “Why did you come to my rescue at the party?”

“Because nobody else did, and I couldn’t let the Runners have you thrown in Old Bailey.”

“Why?”

“Because you were a defenseless, beautiful young woman who was in no shape to protect herself, and I owe a great debt to my own benefactress for having rescued me from the streets of Covent Garden when I was only fourteen.” She paused and favored Gabrielle with a sad look. “It was my small way of re-paying her kindness.”

“Thank you.” Her own voice came out in a barely audible, embarrassing squeak.

Margot pressed ahead. “So are we to understand you are ‘just Anne,’ or is there a family surname we might attach?”

“Er, Smythe. Yes, my last name is Smythe. My family is in Clerkenwell.”

“And do you suppose they’re not concerned as to where you’ve been these past three days?”

“Um, probably not.”

“Because…?”

“They think I’ve gone to visit my aunt.”

“Who lives where?”

“In London.”

Germaine, Margot’s servant had re-entered the room and was hovering nearby. “You’re not expected back in Clerkenwell, Anne Smythe.”

“How are you so sure of that?” Gabrielle demanded in the most indignant tone she could muster.

“Because someone who turns up unconscious from too much opium at a party at P-W’s, dressed in nothing but transparent veils, has been gone considerably longer than three days from Clerkenwell.”

With that, Germaine deposited a service of tea and biscuits for two on the table in Margot’s room before turning and silently moving her rounded, motherly figure back through the door leading down to Goodrum’s kitchens.