Chapter 35
The shutters let in only a sliver of grey morning, thin as a blade.
Catherine Murray sat at her escritoire, the Times folded open, her notebook spread beside it.
The leather was worn smooth, corners softened by years, but the pages within were ruled with narrow, meticulous lines—like an accountant’s ledger waiting to be balanced.
She turned to the last leaf. Most of the names were slashed cleanly through. Settled.
Her finger traced down the column, pausing at each.
Matthew Walton. The man who bartered a daughter as if she were cattle, and in so doing lit the fuse of all that followed. Dead by her hand. That was triumph enough.
Maud Hatcher. A pox-ridden bawd who once bought and sold flesh like coin. Catherine had given her her due: a single stroke of the knife, a final sigh—and no more.
Tom King. The brute who had carried her down into the smoke and sold her up again. She could still hear his voice in her dreams. He had nearly beaten her to death before she turned the tide. He had fallen hard, choking on his own astonishment, her blade the last thing he saw.
And further down—the accident that was no accident: a woman and her child, caught between wagons when Catherine had marked another man for death.
Their names she had never known. She had written only: Innocent.
Witness. Paid. A single cross cut the line, but the ink was heavier there, as if it had needed more force to fall.
She turned the page. Only two names remained unmarked.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Richard Fitzwilliam.
The letters stared back, stark against the paper.
The Times rustled in her other hand. A column praised the Earl of Matlock’s family: the viscountess for her charities, the viscount for his service, the viscountess for her beauty. And their daughter, Lady Lydia Fitzwilliam, much admired for her accomplishments.
Catherine’s lips curved without warmth. Accomplishments. They had polished the girl until she gleamed, as though the world would never mar her.
She shut the paper, set it atop the notebook, and laid her palm over both.
Her voice, low, measured, more vow than whisper:
“As my father sacrificed a daughter because of the Fitzwilliams, so too shall they sacrifice a daughter—equal in recompense.”
She sat a moment longer, motionless, listening to London’s hum beyond the shutters. Then she reached for her pen, inked it deliberately, and drew a single line though the two unmarked names.
The nib caught for a fraction of a second, dragging the ink heavier than the others; she pressed on without adjusting her hand.
Beneath them, she wrote:
Lydia Fitzwilliam.
The girl had done nothing. Catherine did not require that she had.
* * *
She closed the ledger and set the pen aside. Enough waiting.
Her cloak hung by the door. She pulled it on, fastened the clasp. There were questions to be asked, coin to be counted, and perhaps one or two debts to call in early.
The street outside felt colder than she’d expected. Catherine bent her head down, cloak pulled close, feet quick over the slick cobbles. A thin mist clung to the air, blurring lamplight, turning every shape into a shadow.
Her destination was half a dozen streets over, tucked between a pawnbroker and a print shop that never closed. The windows glowed warm against the damp. Catherine stepped inside without knocking.
Madame Boucher was in her parlour, one slippered foot on the fender, glass of brandy in hand. She looked up and smiled with the precision of a woman who never gave the real thing away for free.
“Mrs Murray,” she said, drawing out the name. “You’ve been scarce.”
“I’ve been busy,” Catherine replied, undoing her cloak. The fire’s heat reached her fingers, and she let herself stand in it a moment. “And you look prosperous.”
“As much as the times allow.” Boucher tipped her glass towards the chairs. “Sit. Warm yourself.”
Catherine did. The chair was deep, the fabric worn smooth under her palms. A girl she didn’t know came in with a tray—tea for Catherine, more brandy for Boucher—and then was gone again, the door closing softly behind her.
Boucher sipped. “You’ve heard, of course?”
Catherine kept her eyes on the steam rising from her cup. “I hear many things.”
“This one’s worth hearing twice.” Boucher leant forward, voice lowering as if the fire itself might repeat her words. “Some man is gutting our competition. Tom King and Maud Hatcher.”
Catherine let the words settle. She reached for her tea again, though her mouth had gone dry. “The streets will talk about it for weeks.”
“They already are.” Boucher’s gaze sharpened. “Names are being guessed at.”
Whose name, she wanted to ask. She didn’t, as her friend already confirmed it was a man being sought. She was safe.
“Guesses are cheap,” she said.
“They can be costly too, in the wrong ears.” Boucher let the words hang, sipping again, her eyes bright in the firelight.
“A woman does well to shore up her position before such winds rise. Add strength to her house. Men, perhaps. The right kind. Your salon is busy. Better to keep it safe than watch it rot.”
Catherine smoothed her skirt, fingers steady against the worn fabric. “Perhaps,” she murmured.
“Not perhaps.” Boucher’s tone was crisp, the brandy warming her words. “Think on it. You’ve a knack for bringing the right girls. Now add men to the mix—men who owe you, men who stand between you and whispers. I would sleep better myself, knowing Mrs Murray had thought ahead.”
Catherine inclined her head, polite as glass. “Your concern honours me.”
“It is only the truth.” Boucher sat back, lashes lowering. “And I always speak it.”
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour. Catherine rose, gathering her cloak. “Thank you for the tea.”
Boucher raised her glass. “And thank you for the visit. Don’t leave it so long next time. Each time we meet, it is after such interesting… events have occurred. I cannot for the life of me wait too long for the next.”
Madame Boucher preferred strength that could be bargained with; Catherine noted the phrasing and stored it away, where she kept things that might later require payment.
She inclined her head again and slipped into the misted night.
* * *
Quinn watched Mrs Murray disappear round the corner. He followed seconds later; she was indeed heading towards her friend Madame Boucher. Her last two visits never exceeded an hour.
He had little time.
Up the back stairs, he stopped every three steps to listen. Dulcie may not have learned her lesson. He reached her suite door without incident.
The room smelt of ink and tallow, the fire reduced to a glow in the grate. He moved with patient care, eyes measuring every line, every surface. Catherine kept her quarters ordered; it made disorder easy to see.
The desk yielded quickly: papers squared, receipts folded, a scattering of coin in a dish. Beneath them, a slim volume bound in dark leather. He recognised it before he opened it.
The ledger.
He set it on the desk, drew the lamp nearer. His fingers turned the pages with delicate precision, as though the paper itself might cry out.
A list of names. Most were crossed clean through in a sharp, decisive hand.
Matthew Walton
Maud Hatcher
Tom King
Each line struck with ink heavy enough to cut. Beneath them were two less specific names.
King’s whore
Whore’s child
Quinn blinked. Had Catherine killed innocents? A woman, and Lord damn her, a child? What had she become?
Further down the page, two names known to him were struck with a single line. A change in her decision? A rational thought? Both men lived, he was sure of it.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Richard Fitzwilliam.
He was closing the cover when the page flipped, and he saw writing on the page’s back. He flattened the journal and felt the blood drain from his face and settle uncomfortably in his stomach.
Lady Lydia Fitzwilliam
This was what came of guarding doors and never asking whom they were meant to keep safe.
The fire hissed, a coal collapsing. Quinn replaced the ledger, aligning the edges precisely with the marks in the dust. He set the journal under the papers exactly as he had found it. Perfect—as much as he could, as much as he had done before.
A vibration through the floor.
Silent as a cat, he slipped out the door and into the back staircase shadows. Waiting.
A minute later Catherine appeared in the corridor, the mist still clinging to her cloak. She opened her door and stepped forward. Stopped. Stepped backwards.
Inclined her nose. Sniffed. Closed her eyes and inhaled. Deeply.
Quinn counted to seven before she moved. She entered her suite and the door closed behind her. He glided down the stairs, careful to maintain the quiet.
He understood that silence itself had become a choice—and that he would be made to answer for it.