Chapter 22
By the start of the Season, the money poured in.
Catherine stood in her suite, surrounded by velvet and hush. She crossed to the far corner and opened the thick iron door of the floor safe. The hinge groaned softly. From within, she drew a thick ledger wrapped in linen.
She sat at the writing table. Candlelight caught the gilt along its spine. She opened the book to a marked page and let her fingers drift down a neat column of entries.
Membership fees.
That was the word she preferred. More elegant than protection and less vulgar than extortion.
Each figure came from men and women in positions of consequence—all sourced by Silas Quinn. The funny little man never disappointed. He fed her secrets in whispers and scrawled notes—names tethered to ledgers of their own.
The sums remained small. Just enough to buy silence. Just enough to sting. None of her subscribers complained—only frowned when the due dates returned. She never asked for more.
Greed caused strife.
The river of coin must flow—steady, quiet, never dammed, never jettied.
A knock on the door.
“Mr Quinn, mistress.”
She rose.
The tiny man entered. He looked like a haberdasher fallen on hard times: ragged coat, dull shoes, hair untouched by brush or civility.
Catherine let her gaze travel over him and nodded her approval.
“You sent for me, madame?”
“It is my turn to bring information to you.”
He rubbed his hands together—slow, eager.
“It has been brought to my attention that Lord Hardwicke is heavily invested in a Spanish actress from Drury Lane. I should like you—”
Quinn rose at once and pressed his hands together.
“Pray, do not continue, madame. You wade into malevolent waters.”
She stilled. In six months of whispers, threats, and bribes, Quinn had never warned her. Not once. Her interest sharpened to a point.
“Tell me all.”
“The young lady in question is Miss Esmerelda Dayton,” Quinn began, his voice flat. “Frequently seen upon the arm of Lord Hardwicke—as you well know.”
Catherine inclined her head.
“What may come as a surprise,” he went on, “is that she is his companion by the express pleasure of Mr Roark.”
Catherine leant back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap.
“So,” she said, “Roark lends his amusements to the Quality.”
Quinn tilted his head. “It is no kindness, madame. It is a leash.”
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”
Quinn leant forward, elbows on his knees.
“Lord Hardwicke’s debts are not written in ledgers you or I could ever buy.
They are kept in Mr Roark’s head. Every indiscretion, every loss, every vice—Mr Roark knows them all.
Miss Dayton is the ribbon tied round it.
A reminder. A reward. A punishment, if need be. ”
“She is bait?”
“She is proof,” Quinn said. “Proof that a man of title and influence will smile for the crowd while dancing on Mr Roark’s string. When Hardwicke strays too far, she will be taken away. When he bends as he’s told, she will be returned.”
Catherine’s gaze drifted to the fire. “And if she were removed from the board entirely?”
Quinn’s mouth twitched. “Then Mr Roark would no longer be the most dangerous part of the equation.” He fidgeted, pulled at his collar, bit his thumbnail.
“What are you saying?”
“If something were to happen to Miss Dayton, the person responsible would meet Mr Reeves. Face-to-face.”
* * *
Catherine closed the ledger of membership fees and replaced it in the safe. Her personal journal lay beneath it—blue leather, mahogany-bound. Unrepentant.
When are we to settle our debts, Miss Walton?
She pulled it free, glanced at the names, then returned it to the safe and shut the door hard.
She crossed to the window, drew in the freezing January air, and sat.
I will require assistance. Who can I trust?
She decided to test Quinn’s loyalty. If he was on her side, she would use him to find the bodies the names belonged to.
The bell rope swayed once.
An hour later, Quinn entered—hat in hand, the brim wet with sleet.
“You sent for me, madame?”
“I have work for you,” she said, voice even. “Not the usual sort.”
He waited. No questions.
“You will be given a name. You will find it—not in the streets, not in the gambling hells. You will walk in places where no one expects you and return with what I ask. Do not speak of it. Not to anyone.”
She paused. “Not even to the man who sent you to me.”
Quinn tilted his head just slightly—acknowledging the weight in her last words—but said nothing.
“You will be paid well,” she went on. “You will also be watched.”
That earned the smallest flicker of a smile. “Fair, madame.”
She named a merchant she’d used for years—a harmless man with a taste for brothel girls and overdue accounts.
Quinn bowed and left without another word.
Catherine leant back, fingers steepled. She would see what he brought her.