1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Something is Afoot

T he stunning new ball gown designed for Lady Margaret had her more than ecstatic. “You have outdone yourself, Miss Christopher.” Mattie Christopher had a talent for designing to emphasize Margaret’s assets without being vulgar or gauche. “I was unsure when you showed it to me, but now I have slipped it on – it's exquisite, truly.” This had to be the gown to turn Lord Henry Adams’ head at the upcoming ball on Saturday. “Helen, this gown should do it. Lord Addams is bound to ask me to dance. We have already been introduced to Lords Adams, Windham, and Herbert.” Margaret turned to give Helen a look. “And if Lord Addams asks you to dance before me, I will make you walk home.” Margaret quipped pretending to sneer. She loved Helen. But she would be put off if Lord Adams asked Helen to dance first.

“Why in the world would you be interested in Lord Addams when Lord Windham is much more handsome, more wealthy, and much more gregarious? Lord Addams is a dullard next to Lord Windham. You would never be happy with someone like him. Do you know how he makes his money?”

“It matters not one whit to me. He has enough wealth to satisfy Papa.”

“But Margaret, Lord Addams has struggled along, managing his family's construction company until his horsemen comrades, as they call themselves, provided him with business opportunities.”

Margaret paused her preening, turned to Helen with a curious look. “How is it you are privy to such information?” She had heard Henry lacked the brilliance among the four, but her mother had taught her not to reach too high. While she secretly lusted after Lord Windham, she had never told anyone. Windham had never given Margaret any attention. She had observed the ladies he had danced with and escorted about. When Margaret looked in the mirror, she hardly compared to the ladies who shared his company.

“I’m the last person any of the three would ask to dance.” In prior seasons, Lady Helen had not focused on her person. She always wore drab, moss green gowns with superfluous greenery all over the front of each and every sadly designed, green gown she wore. Recently, thanks to Miss Christopher, they had talked Helen into wearing more attractive gowns. And with her hair coiffed, she struck a rather attractive pose. “I’m ready to go. I want to stop at Hatchard’s, and find a book on earthworms.”

“Helen, you are so strange.” Margaret grimaced at the thought of worms, let alone reading an entire book about them.

“It seems that I have heard that from someone before . You !” Sniped Helen.

They left the modiste for the book store. “I’m hungry. I think we should go by Gunter’s first.” Helen being svelte, could eat all day long. Margaret’s envy plagued her. Helen could eat her weight on a daily basis. Margaret, on the other hand, from the time she had gone into puberty, had been lectured on the importance of maintaining her hourglass figure. ‘No gentleman is interested in a lady with girth.’ Her mother’s mantra.

“I must be home for Mother’s tea. She has close to twenty of her bosom bows over for some reason and requested I be there, which in Maxwell speak means, ‘you best be here’.”

“Are we going to stop by Gunter’s, then?”Helen began to salivate at the mere thought.

“Helen, did you not hear what I said? I must be home. There is not enough time for you to fill that cavity you call a stomach. If you wish to come in with me after Hatchard’s, there shall be more than enough for you to devour all you wish. It may hold you until you return home.” Essentially, Helen ate all day long and never gained not even a modicum of weight.

The coach came to a stop and the footman opened the cabin door. “Come Helen. I pray you shan’t wither before we get to my house. Hold on.” She gave Helen a pinch to tease as Helen attempted to ignore her.

“I’m going to scout the ‘Nature,’ and ‘Science’ sections. You will find me in one of those aisles.”

Margaret walked over to the front desk. She looked specifically for a female behind the counter. She reached in her reticule and pulled out a small, rather wrinkled piece of paper with a small list of books she hoped to buy. She stood back, tentative, and waited for a friendly-looking female to assist her. A sedate lady dressed in a day dress of light blue smiled at her, a signal indicating she could assist. Margaret approached the counter, slid the paper toward the lady. “I would like to purchase these books, if you carry them.” Margaret attempted to look dignified; not some giggling young girl.

“I’m not sure I can read these titles.” The librarian held the paper up and pointed out the titles to her. “This one is Moll Flanders?” She spoke up loud enough for the customers’ ears on either side of her and behind her.

“Huh, yes, ma’am.” Does the woman have to speak so loud?

“And this one is Fanny Hill?”

The woman is going out of her way to embarrass me . “Yes…ma’am.” Margaret craned her neck to lean in closer to the lady.

“ Tom Jones?”

Devid take it! “Yes.” At this point, Margaret had determined the sales lady lacked any attributes required of a lady at all.

“We only have the French edition of Les Bijoux Indiscrets. Do you want it?”

“I read and speak French.” She began to think she should have helped Helen find her darn worm books so they could go home.

“We do have the French and English editions, Margot la Ravaudeuse, or Margot the Stocking Damer. Which do you prefer?”

“Either one. The one you can get to easiest.” She hoped to learn more about bedchamber activities of the sexual kind. Muriel told her “it” was ‘really good’ but refused to give Margaret the details. She hoped these books would provide answers. She had asked her mother for information which created a flustered response, ‘It’s a bad thing you don’t do until you marry.’ It completely contradicted what Muriel said. She wanted more information without the complete humiliation she was suffering in her attempt to purchase the books.

The sales lady disappeared for what seemed like forever whilst Margaret switched her weight from hip to hip in exasperation. At long last, she returned, with a stack of books about her height.

“Other than Memoirs of a Woman, I have all the books you requested, plus I brought another one I thought you might appreciate; Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Would you like to purchase this one as well?” She looked at Margaret with the most bland face.

“Yes, I shall take them all.” The woman added up the cost, Margaret reached inside her reticule, paid for the books, and started to look for Helen. Of course, she would have lived in the science section. “Did you find your book on…worms?” Ugh.

“No, but I did find a book I want on fungus.” Helen waved the book at Margaret, treating it as some sort of trophy.

“Go pay for the book so we can leave and get to the house before Mother sends the troops after us.”

“Are you sure she won’t be upset with my being there?”

“No, no. I’m sure she is of the mind the more in the room, the more successful the event. Besides, you are like family.”

“It looks like you bought out Hatchard’s. What books did you buy?” Helen stared at the store bag overflowing with books

“I bought research books.” Margaret gave a bit of a swagger with a sly look.

That piqued Helen’s curiosity. “What kind of research?”

“Sex!” She whispered – with emphasis. “I’m going to do research on sex.” Margaret strutted out of the store.

“Oh, gracious. When you find out how it works, will you tell me?” The two were most na?ve. “I’m happy to know there will be plenty of food. I’m starving.”

The Temple of Venus

Three of the four horsemen finished a few drinks with dinner at Brooks’. “It is nice to have a chance to frequent Brooks’, occasionally without having to beat Martin at cards in order to come here instead of White’s.” Henry held out his glass as a kind of ‘here-here.’

“It will be some time before we have to play cards with him. I’m sure Lady Muriel will keep him preoccupied. Hell, they are still on their honeymoon. When they return, he will have to deal with all the things ladies want to do once they take possession of their husband’s properties. We may have to dig him out of his townhouse once he returns.” Fredrick Windham, 9 th Marquis of Shropshire, chuckled over Lord Martin Claymont, his best friend since they were both in leading strings. Martin finally leg-shackled, after swearing he would never wed.

John stood, with his glass in the air. “To the four horsemen!” Henry and Fred followed suit. “To the horsemen!” They shot down their drinks and slammed their glasses to the table.

“Since we are all standing, what say we adjourn and seek more enjoyable activities?” Henry waggled his brows. “Are we all in for a drink and perhaps a little more at Venus?”

Of course, Fred could always be counted in for a round or two of cards, a few drinks, and a round of entertainment with his favorite bar wench, one of the doxies at the Temple of Venus. The brothel of choice among the aristocracy and wealthy Cits. It had all the luxuries afforded the high-ranking nobles. John Herbert, the 8 th Earl of Powis could care less about female entertainment, but he enjoyed Fred and Henry’s company. He would likely sit with some of the other cronies while Henry and Fred had their preferences taken care of; at least satisfying needs here had to be safer than a twopenny bunter or harlot. Venus ran a clean, fashionable, brothel with ladies to address any man’s taste.

Fred had another reason for agreeing to go to Venus. He had yet to see Lord Stephen Blackwood since Martin and Muriel’s wedding. Blackwood’s dearest friend, Lord James Aubyn, was discovered to be so obsessed with the Dowager Lady McDonnell, Muriel’s mother, that he had murdered three people in a feeble attempt to win her. Blackwood felt guilty, never having a single clue as to Aubyn’s ploy, but he mourned having lost his best friend. Aubyn committed suicide rather than face the gallows. Fred wanted to see how his friend, Blackwood, fared.

As they walked into the cardroom of the establishment, there Lord Blackwood, sat at his same table sans one, James Aubyn. Lord Michael Duff, a widower and sometime drinking partner, sat with a quick smile and a wave of his hand to flag them over to the table. “Have a seat, young gentlemen. It has been a while since I have seen all of you together. You are still missing one. I am so sorry I missed his wedding. Blackwood said it was lovely.” Duff swung out his arms as a gesture of welcome.

The three pulled up chairs and sat down. “Martin would bribe us for our company with a bottle of scotch. I expect one of you to follow in his tradition.” Blackwood let out a breathy chuckle as he slammed his hands down on the table. A frequent occurrence.

“Since I import the stuff, I suppose I can procure a bottle for tonight. I believe I sell it to this establishment. Where is the bar wench?” John stood and scanned the area for the bar wench.

“That is often a problem with this particular bar wench. It seems she has a particular talent which is in high demand. Although, I must say, her time spent per customer is much less than her charge.” Blackwood snickered. “You can agree, am I correct Lord Fredrick?”

“Yes, I must confess. Yet for the short duration, it is exquisite and most satisfying.” Fred winked at his cohorts. “Blackwood, as often as you are in here, I find it difficult to believe you refrain from the ladies’ various specialties. Are you sneaking over from your study to enjoy a personal lunch from one of your favorite doxies?” Rarely does a person get one up on Blackwood, so Fred took advantage of the opportunity.

“Oh, no, no. I have no time to waste on underlings. I have an agreeable widow. She welcomes me when I go calling for dinner, drinks, and bedroom antics.” Blackwood cackled as he slammed his hands down on the table again. “Now, where is the scotch? I’m rather parched. All this talking nonsense.”

“I shall volunteer to find the wench. I may be a bit longer than usual. I must say, she is rather thorough at tuning my bagpipes.” Fred gave a silly grin as he went in search of the exceptionally good doxy – well-skilled regarding Lord Fredrick’s preferences.

Fred could never remember the wench’s name. Not being particularly interested in making friends. She did a good job and he paid her well. He walked up to the wench serving drinks behind the bar. “Where is the lady ( for lack of a better word ) who waits on our table?” He pointed in the direction of Lord Blackwood.

“She should have been over there by now. She is probably in the back with one of her customers. I’m busy at the bar but when it slows down, I will go and look for her.”

“That shan’t be necessary. I will go search if you can give me her name.” Fred did not want to waste too much time.

“It is Glenda. Go down the hall and to your – “

Fred interrupted. “I know where it is. Thank you.” He had been in her room many a time for no more than ten to fifteen minutes. She had an excellent talent. She had the door closed, so he did the polite thing and knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Perhaps she has left already, damn it. T he door was slightly ajar. He pushed the door open and entered. The room was dark, with only a dimming candle on the far side of the bed. The bed looked in a state of disarray until his eyes focused. “Glenda?” He stepped closer. He touched her. “Glenda?” He took in a breath.

Her hand barely reached for him. He bent down. As his eyes adjusted, he could see she had stab wounds with blood covering her chest, and hands, with some on her face. “Glenda, who did this to you?”

She could barely speak. “My…dau – ghter.” She reached for her neck. She had a necklace with a pendant. “My…dau – ghter. Find…protect…her.”

“Glenda, I need to get someone to help. You are severely wounded.”

“No– please. Take…this…please.” Tears flowed down her tortured face and blood dripped from her arm. “No…time. Find…her. Plea – “

Her eyes were open. Her hand dropped lifeless from his. One last tear trickled down her stilled face. He looked down at her body; all distorted. Her clothing torn and in dishabille. “Glenda. Glenda.” He checked the artery at her neck and found no pulse. When he walked out of her room, he looked down the hall. He had blood all over his hand and coat. One of the girls came out of her room and eyed Fred. As the girl brought her hand to her mouth, Fred feared she would scream. “Go find Miss Pitts, now,” he ordered. The girl ran down the hall. Fred went back into the room, quickly removed Glenda’s necklace, and tucked it in his fob pocket. He glanced around the room for signs of anything that might provide a clue as to her attacker.

He knew well enough not to move Glenda. He opened a drawer next to the bed, found a taper, placed it on the nightstand, then lit the wick which provided more light. He tried not to look too closely at the murdered wench. He had a pang of…unsure what to call it; guilt, remorse, regret? His thoughts were muddled. Right now, he needed to have the bawd, Martha Pitts, get to the room with haste to give her what information he could, go back to the table, have a drink, and go home. As he leaned his back against the far wall of the room, Martha entered.

Martha was a short, unattractive woman in her forties. Shaped like a pear, a short squatty body, with thin, mousey brown hair, and light brown eyes. Her lack of appeal, barely compensated for her lack of congeniality, attitude, and behavior. She ran a well-respected and popular bordello. Some of the most prominent men in the aristocracy and parliament were frequent customers. She could ill afford scandal. As she walked into the room, she literally froze, to see Glenda’s body contorted with glassy eyes. It had to be a horrendous shock. “What the hell happened? Glenda!” She hesitantly touched her. “God, she is dead?” She stumbled over to the overstuffed chair on the other side of the door and lowered herself as she stared at Glenda’s body. Her hand went to cover her mouth. Fred could see her trembling hands. “Did you do this, Lord Windham?” Martha looked over at Fredrick. Her voice shook.

“Dear God, Martha – hell no. I could never do anything like this. Good heavens! I liked her. I saw her on a regular basis. I happened to be looking for her. I knew the location of her room – I knocked several times, walked in and found this…this… her.”

“How did you get blood on your hand and tailcoat?” She eyed him, not necessarily with an accusatory look, but perhaps with curiosity.

“She grabbed my hand and told me to find her daughter and protect her. I asked her who did this to her, but she asked for me to please protect her daughter. Hell, how am I supposed to find her daughter? I have no idea what Glenda’s last name is or where she lives. Do you know anything about who would want to do this to her?”

Fred looked around the room. Glenda always locked her door when she had a customer. Unlocked meant she was open to see customers. Other than the bed, the room had a rather pristine appearance. Fred noted the irony. “Is there a back door to the club?”

“Yes, it is where the staff come in and out.” She put her head in her hands. “It is often unlocked.”

“I would doubt at this moment, anyone in the club would be the murderer. This was too savage; they would have blood all over them. Off the top of my head, I would think the person could not have been a customer. They came in through the back. He must have known her room, which is most curious.” Fred’s mind swarmed with possibilities. He glanced over at Glenda again and ran his clean hand down his face. “You had better have someone seek the Bow Street runners.”

“I must keep this quiet. Do you realize what this would do to my business?” She dropped her head back into her hands. “I suppose you are right. I do need to have someone fetch help at Bow Street. I can ask them to come in through the back entrance. Thank God, none of the girls screamed.”

“I would think, with the amount of wounds, she had to have…fought.” He turned to face the wall. He took a few breaths to keep from casting up his accounts, turned around, then resumed his position. “One of the other girls might have heard something.”

Martha stood. “I had better send someone as soon as possible. Will you stay until they come? They will likely have questions for you.”

“Martha, I’m going back to my table with Lords Blackwood, Duff, Addams, and Herbert; have a drink, maybe two, then go home. If anyone from Bow Street wishes to speak with me, send them to my townhouse, No. 16 St. James Street. I will be there.” He pushed off the wall, and followed Martha out of the room. “Where can I go to wash my hands? I’m sure you would prefer I not walk through the establishment with a bloody hand and topcoat.”

“Yes, yes. I apologize. My mind is in a thousand pieces. Two doors down from Glenda’s room, on the right.” She started to walk in the opposite direction. “Lord Windham?”

He turned to look at her. “I’m so sorry about all this. I will keep you informed.” Martha started for her office.

“Thank you. Could you ask the girls if they know anything about her daughter? Where she is? I think I would like to go see her. I feel obligated.”

She turned to face Fredrick again. “I knew little about her. Perhaps one of the other girls may know something.”

Fred washed his hands and did the best he could to remove the blood off his topcoat. He thought of the plight of these women. How did end up here? Had they been discarded? Without the luxury of an education, there was little else a woman could do to earn a living, albeit a potentially dangerous one.

He walked back to the table where his comrades were seated, enjoying the conversation.

“Where the hell have you been? Did you go for a second round? If she’s that good, I think I will give her a try.” Duff had the table entertained, being jovial as he gave Fred a pat on the back. John looked at Fred’s demeanor and gave Henry a knowing look. Something must be amiss.

“Sit down and have a drink. A bottle finally made it to the table.” Blackwood poured Fred a brimful glass of scotch. He drank it down in one gulp.

“Fred, did something happen back there?” John saw his trepidation. “Something amiss?”

What could Fred say? “I’m unsure.” Fred had no idea what those words meant; they came out unexpectedly. He slid the glass back to Blackwood. “Another like the first and then I am away.” Blackwood slid the filled glass back to Fred. Once again, he gulped it down. Fred acted uncommonly taciturn. “Gentlemen, we rode together.” Fred stood and as he pulled down his waistcoat, John noticed Fred’s cuff looked wet. As John began to quickly scrutinize Fred’s person, he made note of a rather large dark spot on his topcoat.

John stood. “Yes, we need to go as well, Henry. We have a thing early on the morrow, remember?”

“Ah…oh…yes, yes. I near forgot.” Henry shot down the last of his scotch as he rose. “Lord Blackwood, Lord Duff, thank you for the company,” Henry said with a proficient bow.