Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Holding their Breath
The following evening, we waited in the back room of The Black Horse for Nicky to arrive with word of where the barge would be moored.
Finch had managed to gather a dozen associates, every one of them committed to the cause we were about to undertake—the rescue of those young women, no matter the cost or the methods required.
But it wasn’t us alone.
Rosalynd had understood, better than Nicky and me, that what was seen and recorded in the press carried a different weight than what would be merely claimed by us.
So, at her suggestion, we’d recruited two additional men.
One was a reporter from The Pall Mall Gazette.
The other was an illustrator whose work appeared in The Illustrated London News.
They would observe, keep clear of the action, and record what they witnessed.
It hadn’t been difficult to convince them.
I’d told them a private celebration would be held on the river, likening it—deliberately—to the revels of the Floralia.
They had no trouble deciphering the implication, as such gatherings were understood to be licentious and immoral.
They were particularly eager to expose the rot beneath respectable society.
I did not, however, alert Scotland Yard.
They had failed to investigate the missing women after their disappearances had been reported. I had come to suspect that the decision had not been born of indifference alone, but of influence. Someone high enough and powerful enough had ensured the matter went no further.
Had I gone to the Commissioner with word of the Floralia, I had little doubt what would follow.
The Yard would arrive noisily and far too late to discover no celebration underway and no young women on the premises.
There would be nothing to see, nothing to seize, and nothing that could not be quietly denied.
The organizers would have been alerted to the raid.
So, we waited, impatiently, for Nicky to deliver the information about the meeting place.
The evening was cool, but not enough to warrant a fire. The hearth in the private room we had hired lay cold. The ale, however, flowed freely. The Thames would be colder, and those present clearly believed it prudent to fortify themselves with something that might warm the blood.
Everyone, that is, except Rosalynd.
She had dressed in what she termed appropriate attire.
The blood red gown she wore was cut low, revealing far more of her than I found acceptable, though for the moment she had concealed it beneath a cape.
It would only be upon her arrival at the Floralia that she intended to arrange matters so she could, as she put it, ‘flash her wares.’
I was not amused, even if she was right. A demure gown would have served no purpose at all.
I drew her aside to the far corner of the room, where the noise of the others fell away enough to grant us a semblance of privacy.
“You have your pistol with you?” I asked.
She nodded. “I do.”
“Loaded?”
“Of course.” A quick grin flashed across her face. “Not much use otherwise, Steele.”
“How many bullets?” I demanded.
“Three. The first as a warning. The next two—” She paused. “—to strike true.”
The urge to shake her was nearly overwhelming. “Do not warn,” I said, keeping my voice low and hard. “Shoot to kill. Do you hear me?”
“I do.”
In the next instant, there was a knock, and Nicky stepped into the room.
The troubled expression on his face told me things had not gone according to plan. “Something went wrong,” I said before he could speak.
“You might say that,” Nicky replied. “Fairleigh has taken opium. He’s in no state to attend the Floralia—or to go anywhere at all. He’s breathing, but barely conscious.”
“So we don’t know where the barge is waiting.”
“Actually, we do.” Nicky reached inside his coat. “The invitation was lying on the hall table. He’d opened the envelope before he indulged. While his manservant’s back was turned, I helped myself to it.”
“Where’s the meeting point?” I asked.
“The river stairs below Vauxhall. Guests must arrive by ten o’clock.”
“Will both barges be waiting there?” Rosalynd asked. I had explained to Nicky there would be a barge for the women separate from the men’s.
“Supposedly,” Nicky said. “But I can’t swear to it.”
Rosalynd turned back to me. “I’ll have to take the chance, Steele. One of us needs to be at the Floralia.”
“Actually,” Nicky said, “I plan to attend as well.”
I addressed him sharply. “How?”
“I’m the same height as Fairleigh. Near enough in build. With the invitation, no one will question my presence.”
“You’ll need a costume,” I said. “And a mask.”
“I have both at my quarters.” He checked the time. “We have two hours. I’ll go home, change, and proceed to the meeting place on my own. It will draw less attention that way.”
I studied him for a long moment, weighing the risk. This was not something Nicky had planned for. He would have to reach his rooms, improvise a disguise, and be at Vauxhall in less than two hours—or his scheme would unravel before it properly began. The timing would be tight. But it could be done.
“Go,” I said.
Nicky did not wait for more.
Once he had gone, the room settled into an uneasy stillness. Finch’s associates spoke in low voices, but the scrape of chairs and the clink of tankards sounded louder than they ought.
I ordered a cold supper to be sent in—bread, cheese, and meat enough to sustain us. There was no sense in taking to the river too early. The night air would be colder there, the damp more penetrating, and waiting aboard a barge would serve only to sap strength and patience alike.
Rosalynd remained beside me, her cape drawn close, her expression composed. Outwardly, at least. I knew her too well to mistake that calm for ease.
Time moved in measured increments. A glance at the clock.
A few murmured instructions to Finch and his associates.
Another glance, another adjustment. If Nicky met with delay—if traffic slowed him, if his preparations took longer than expected—there would be little we could do but proceed without him and trust to luck.
By a quarter past nine, I judged we could wait no longer. Whether Nicky had succeeded or not, the Floralia barges would soon be gathering at the stairs. I gave the word to make ready. We would leave the warmth of The Black Horse behind and take our chances on the river.
After that, events would no longer wait upon us.
We left the public house in small groups to draw less attention.
The barge lay within walking distance, and Finch and his men knew the precise point where it would be.
Just as arranged, it rested in shadow—low, dark, and unremarkable.
By the time Rosalynd and I arrived, the others were already there.
All that remained was to cast off.