Chapter 9

9

G ray clouds darkened the sky the following morning when Samantha set off. She had two goals to accomplish today: call on Melody and seek out Wycliffe.

The carriage arrived at Number 2 Berkeley Square, and Samantha alighted. Tilting her head back, she scanned the fa?ade of the tall stone building before her and took a deep breath before stepping forward.

Her call was answered by an aging and slightly hunched butler, who showed her into a parlor where every conceivable surface was covered in crystal and porcelain figurines. Good grief. She was glad she wasn't tasked with having to dust this room.

Her attention bounced around the space, unable to find a suitable spot on which to land. There were so many things, from the heavy green damask curtains, to a series of mismatched rugs on the floor, to vases brimming with bouquets of flowers and…

She sneezed, just as the parlor door opened and Melody entered.

"Bless you." Melody grinned. She stepped toward Samantha and gave her a quick embrace. "What a lovely surprise this is. I've already asked for a tea tray to be brought up."

"Thank you." Samantha swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I think it might be wise to open a window or two. It's horribly stuffy in here."

"I completely agree," Melody whispered. "But Lady Heathbrooke won't have it. She's worried she'll catch a chill."

"Can't you explain to her that fresh air can be brought in while she's not actually in the room?"

Melody gave her a this-is-a-pointless-topic-for-us-to-discuss sort of look and gestured toward the settee. "Shall we?"

Samantha sighed. It looked like she'd just have to suffer the cloying smell that hung in the air. "Of course."

A maid arrived with the tea as soon as they'd settled into their seats, with Samantha on the settee and Melody in an adjacent armchair. The tea things were distributed and the maid departed, leaving the two women alone.

"You look well," Samantha said, while Melody poured the tea. "I realize keeping an old woman company isn't what you envisioned for yourself, but I do hope you're happy."

"I'm comfortable," Melody told her, "and I suppose some measure of happiness can come from that."

"Harlowe believes you're doing important work." A lie. He hadn't commented on Melody's job at all.

Melody snorted. "I listen to gossip and then I relay it. Or I let information slip in a way that makes Lady Heathbrooke believe she's made a shocking discovery on her own – one that must be related to others at once."

"You find it too easy?"

"I find it too dull." Melody blew out a breath and sipped her tea while Samantha followed suit. "Tell me why you're here. Is it because you need my help with something?"

"Yes. I've received my own mission. As much as I'd like to, I cannot reveal the specifics, though it will require my presence within Society. If you're able to draw me in and include me when possible, I'd be ever so grateful."

"Harlowe's connections surpass my own. Any particular reason why he isn't helping?"

"It's best if it looks like I have my own friends, people I can be seen going for walks with, for example. That way, my presence at various events will appear more natural – less suspicious to my target."

"So there's a target." Melody smirked, but failed to conceal the dispirited look in her eyes. "Lucky you."

Samantha held her gaze. "It's not as exciting as it sounds."

"Liar." Melody actually grinned. Sobering, she paused for a second before saying, "I'll see what I can do. As companion to Lady Heathbrooke, I have limited influence, though I have managed to make a few friends."

"I'm glad to hear it." Samantha's gaze dropped to a side table covered in macramé. A matching pair of candlesticks stood on top, but it was the paper that had been left beside them that caught her attention. Most specifically the gossip column facing upward and the name that stood out.

Samantha scanned the words casting Evelyn Croft in a most unfavorable light, painting her as some kind of desperate wanton. She shook her head and picked up the paper, pulling it into her lap so she could more easily read it.

"This isn't true. I don't believe a word of it. I mean, I was there last night, at the Marsdale ball. Miss Croft and I spoke and she…" Anger on Miss Croft's behalf swept the length of Samantha's spine. "She didn't strike me as someone who'd engage in debauchery while pretending virginal innocence. It's preposterous to suggest it."

"And yet it's been published in print for all of London to read." Melody gave Samantha a sad look. "Her reputation will be ruined over this."

"But why? Who would choose to spread such lies about a perfectly wonderful person?"

Melody pursed her lips. "You're certain there's no truth to it?"

"Of course I can't be certain but instinct tells me this is completely false. I just can't imagine who'd be behind it."

"Perhaps a jealous debutante hoping to marry the same man Miss Croft is after?"

"And what? The paper would buy such a story without triple-checking the facts?"

"I honestly don't know, I… Samantha, please relax. That's Lady Heathbrooke's paper. It won't do for you to rumple it."

Despite wanting nothing more than to tear the paper to shreds, Samantha relaxed her hold and set it aside. Perhaps she should keep her appointment for tea with Miss Croft. The younger woman would need a friend in the wake of this injustice. Hopefully her brother would have the good sense to march into the The Morning Post 's offices and demand a public apology.

Unhappy with the awareness of just how cruel Society could be, she downed the remainder of her tea and took her leave of Melody, who promised she'd be in touch soon.

Samantha returned to the carriage, climbed in, and proceeded onward to her next destination. The beautiful Mayfair architecture slid past the window, dimming and transforming as they travelled farther along Piccadilly and closer to where St. Giles began.

Fa?ades began showing signs of cracked paint, the fencing looked increasingly broken with occasional boards missing, and there were significant signs of rot in the wood trim around the windows and doors. It only got worse when they turned onto Dyott Street. The homes here were squatter, more crooked, and jammed together so tightly they looked like they clamored for air.

The light was dimmer here too, as if a large cloud had darkened this part of the city where washing lines hung between the buildings and stray dogs trotted about searching for scraps. This was where the forgotten resided – those the wealthy wished to ignore.

Samantha noted the scrawny woman slumped in a doorway, her tattered clothes covered in filth and her hair in complete disarray. It was impossible to tell if she was dead or alive.

Shuddering, Samantha patted her arms and thighs before checking her hair, just to be sure the weapons she carried were still secure. Her heart raced a bit faster. She wasn't afraid of what she'd find here. Whatever threat might present itself, she'd be prepared, but that didn't change the fact that she'd never actually killed a person.

She knew how, had trained repeatedly to do so, but if it came to it, would she be able to thrust a blade into a man without blinking?

Harlowe believed her capable.

The first time is always the hardest. Not because you can't handle it, but because you will always second guess yourself until you get past that initial death.

Her gaze fell on some boys who wore the expressions of men who'd returned from war. It wasn't fair that their childhoods were stolen. She wished their lives would be easier. Unfortunately, if they lived here, their lives were far more likely to get even harder as they grew older.

The carriage slowed and drew to a halt. This was as far as the coachman would take her. If she was to seek an audience with Wycliffe, it wouldn't do for her to arrive with the arrogant pomp and circumstance attributed to the upper class. Rather, she'd approach him on foot.

Samantha opened the door and stepped down, neatly avoiding a grimy puddle. She sent the coachman a nod, confident he would wait for her to return, and started walking. Keeping her stride quick and precise, she weaved her way through the narrow streets, moving deeper and deeper into the slums.

The smell, a stench of dead carcasses mixed with refuse, made Lady Heathbrooke's parlor seem like a fresh country meadow. A legless man sat on the ground, his torso propped against a wall while he gobbled down some piece of food. Two women dressed in revealing clothes sewn from vibrant fabrics and lace laughed at her as they approached from the opposite direction.

"Fall on hard times, did ya?" One of them, a plump red-head, crooned. She stepped into Samantha's path and dragged a finger along the length of her arm. "You're welcome to join us."

The other woman, a brunette with a sharp nose and drawn cheeks, chuckled before licking her lips. "A young thing as pretty as you will earn a good wage. We'll happily teach ya, in exchange for splittin' the profits."

"As lovely as that sounds, I've business to attend to." Samantha shook off the first woman's touch and hardened her gaze just enough to make her retreat. Then, smiling broadly, she said, "I'm seeking Mr. Wycliffe."

The women assessed her from head to toe and finally snorted.

"I hope ya know what ya doing," the brunette muttered before shoving past.

"Tell him Regina will give him a month for free in exchange for your gown," said the red-head as she, too, recommenced walking. Their laughter echoed against the slanted walls of the mismatched buildings that lined the alley.

Samantha took a deep breath and continued onward, stepping over a dead rat that floated belly up in a filthy gutter. Rounding a corner, she entered the street on which Wycliffe reputedly lived.

A small group of men had gathered up ahead, busily smoking and chatting. Samantha kept her chin down, her back straight, and her stride deliberate. Slowing her breath to keep her pulse even, she felt for the blades she'd concealed in the carefully sewn channels inside her spencer's long sleeves.

Their hard metal presence calmed her nerves as she drew ever nearer to where the men stood. Without missing a beat, she aimed for the red brick building with the black door, intent on finding Wycliffe without courting trouble.

"Oi." A gruff voice stopped her. "Who the devil are you and where'd you think you're goin'?"

She clenched her jaw and squared her shoulders while raising her gaze, taking a split second to assess her surroundings. There were five men in total. One held a blade while another drank from a bottle that could be turned into a makeshift weapon.

The man who'd initially spoken stepped forward. He was large, stocky of build, and a good head taller than she, but his movements were sluggish. The rest of the men were slimmer. One had a pair of fierce eyes while the one holding the blade was marked by an angry gash on his cheek. The last two were barely more than boys, one with a scruffy mop of black hair, the other, who drank from the bottle, nearly as blonde as she.

"Are any of you Mr. Wycliffe?" she asked.

The stocky man scowled and took a step closer to where she'd halted, his cheroot dangling between his lips. "No."

She offered a venomous smile. "Then I'm none of your business."

He sneered at her while letting his gaze slide over her body. "I beg to differ."

It came as no surprise to Samantha when he tried to reach for her arm. She'd anticipated the move several seconds before, so sidestepping it proved easy. He growled in irritation as she swept past him, her attention already upon his fierce-eyed companion while keeping her senses attuned to the stocky man's movements.

"I've got her," Fierce-eyes said, leaping to block her path.

Samantha stepped forward to meet him, her fist closing around his lapels and pulling him to her in order to bring him off balance. Surprise showed on his face. He'd likely thought she'd attempt to run. Instead, she swept one leg behind him and shifted her weight, then followed him down to the ground.

They hit it hard, with a jarring thud that caused fierce-eyes to yelp and sputter.

"What the hell?" one of the other men shouted.

Aware that they, too, would soon be upon her, she wasted no time in snapping her opponent's wrists. An accompanying howl of pain spliced the air while glass shattered behind her.

One down, four to go.

Abandoning Fierce-eyes, Samantha leapt forward and barely managed to turn before the ugliest one of the bunch brought his blade down over the spot where her head had been seconds before. She grabbed his wrist to control the blade, then jammed her fingers into his throat as hard as she could before bringing her knee up to meet his groin.

His legs buckled, and he fell to the ground with a whimper.

"Pathetic," muttered the stocky man. He gestured toward the blonde boy who held the sharp remains of the bottle. "Take her down, will ya?"

Settling into a combative stance, Blondie eyed her with apprehension while shifting his gaze to his black-haired friend. They shared a nod of agreement, then approached her together – one moving left while the other moved right.

Samantha remained where she was, watching and waiting until they looked ready to pounce. Only then did she choose to remove her blades from her sleeves and slide them into the palms of her hands.

Blondie and Black-hair froze, their eyes filling with apprehension and fear as she swung her weapons. They'd seen what she was capable of without them. Did they really wish to stay and find out how deadly she'd be if she wished it?

As expected, the pair valued their lives and fled, clattering along the narrow street as though Satan himself were giving chase.

Allowing a smug smile of victory, Samantha returned her attention to the stocky man who'd started the altercation. He backed up a step, his brow sweating despite the loathing she saw in his eyes. He hated her, but he was also very afraid.

So she stepped forward, pressed the tip of one blade to his chest. "I want no more trouble. Understood?"

Rather than answer, he tossed the cheroot he'd been smoking and bent to help his companions stand. Both men cursed her fiercely, but Samantha ignored them. She had more pressing matters to consider, like her meeting with Wycliffe.

She returned her blades to her sleeves, then stepped up to the black door and gave it a few solid knocks. A boy roughly fourteen years old answered her call. He was only slightly shorter than she, his clothes as scruffy as one might expect from a St. Giles resident.

"I'm here to see Wycliffe," she said, her gaze already taking note of the shabby interior behind the boy. Dark and dismal, the walls were cracked and the plank flooring covered in dirt.

The boy raised his chin, pointing his nose in the air. "Got an appointment?"

Samantha almost laughed. As if the man she'd come to see were in need of a make-shift butler. "No. You may tell him Mr. Harlowe suggested I see him."

The boy gave her a dubious look but decided to grant her entry. "Wait here."

He left her in the grimy foyer where water stains marked the ceiling while black splotches tainted the walls. Damp and cold with a humid smell, it felt like the sort of place from which one would only emerge with a number of ailments.

Samantha stiffened her posture and kept her gaze on the door through which the boy had vanished. Voices engaged in hushed chatter filtered down from somewhere overhead while footsteps pitter-pattered about.

"Come on," said the boy when he returned. "Wycliffe will see you."

Samantha expelled a deep breath and followed the boy through a hallway so crooked she feared the ceiling might cave in and bury her alive. It opened up into a larger room where the floors had been covered in mismatched rugs and the grubby windows hung with faded red curtains. Smoke from a fireplace to the right of the doorway clouded the air, and had no doubt lent to the gray shade adorning the walls.

Furniture was sparse, consisting of no more than two red velvet armchairs with a low table between, and a cabinet leaning against one wall.

A man, roughly thirty years of age in Samantha's estimation, stood in the middle of the room, watching her with interest as she arrived. His dark hair was longer than what was deemed fashionable, curling loosely around his shoulders. Equally unfashionable was his beard which, if removed, would likely allow him to change his appearance completely.

"Mr. Wycliffe?" Despite the hard gleam in his eyes, she took a step forward while holding his gaze. Unlike the men she'd met outside in the street – the sort who tried to seem tougher than what they actually were – this man reeked of ruthless danger.

It made her wonder at Harlowe's association with him.

Wycliffe tilted his head, allowing the edge of his mouth to draw upward into a slick smile that caused shivers to dart down her spine. With that expression, he might as well have said, welcome to my lair and your upcoming disembowelment.

Instead, he swept his hand toward one of the armchairs. "Charlie tells me Harlowe sent you and that you came without escort."

"I'm capable of protecting myself," Samantha told him. Though possibly not from lice, she decided while sending the proffered armchair a wary glance. She sat nonetheless.

Annoyingly, Wycliffe chose to remain standing while studying her with a gaze hard as flint. "I trust the tear on your skirt is evidence of that?"

Samantha hadn't realized the lace trim had ripped. She nudged it with her finger and noted that there was a stain on her skirts as well, from kneeling on the ground when she'd snapped Fierce-eyes's wrists. Bother.

"There was a bit of an altercation outside," she murmured, returning her attention to Wycliffe.

He held her gaze for a few more seconds before eventually snorting and, much to Samantha's relief, taking a seat in the other available chair.

"Tell me why you've come."

"I need a reliable messenger. Someone who can also keep a watchful eye on the occupant of a particular address without getting noticed."

Wycliffe glanced at the boy who had shown Samantha in. "Charlie, fetch Isak for me."

Charlie dipped his head and vanished. The tread of feet on the hallway stairs followed. Wycliffe kept his attention firmly upon her but held his tongue. Once again, she wondered how he and Harlowe knew each other and why all she had to do was mention her guardian's name in order to have her request met.

The sound of rapid footsteps approaching made her straighten her spine. She tore her gaze from Wycliffe and glanced at the door as Charlie returned, followed by a much younger boy who looked no more than ten years of age.

"He's fast on his feet and small enough to disappear into the background," Wycliffe informed Samantha when she sent him a questioning look. Addressing Isak he said, "You're to work for this lady as long as she needs. Do as she says and you'll be rewarded."

An expectant silence followed, all eyes on Samantha. She gave a quick nod. "Five shillings per day. An extra pound at the end of the job, provided I'm happy with your performance."

"Make that two pounds and you have yourself a deal," Wycliffe told her.

"Very well. Two pounds it is, but only if you complete every task to my full satisfaction." She stepped toward Isak, who gazed up at her with much too grave an expression for someone so young. "Fail, and you'll get nothing. Betray me in any way, and I'll see to it that you're sent to a workhouse. Understood?"

If he could manage this task without any Runners standing in his way, he'd have proven his worth.

Isak gave a swift nod. "Yes, miss."

"You'll start right away then by delivering this to Mr. Kendrick at the Bow Street Magistrate's Court." She retrieved a missive from her skirt pocket and handed it to Isak. "Meet me at The Fox's Burrow tavern tomorrow at three o'clock sharp. If Kendrick has a response for me you can hand it over then."

"But what if it's urgent?" Isak asked.

"It won't be that urgent," Samantha assured him. She turned to Wycliffe. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm in your debt."

"I'm counting on it," he murmured with a wry twist to his lips.

Samantha didn't doubt it for a second. Loath as she was to turn her back on the man, she forced herself to do so as she departed. There were more important matters for her to attend to right now than worrying over the sort of person who had no qualms about using children to his advantage.

It was vital she find a room to let – a place from which she could run her operation without leaving a trail directly to Clearview House.