Chapter 39
Boodles was quiet, its usual murmur of wagers and gossip absent at the early hour. Beyond the door, the faint chime of St James’s struck eleven.
In a private room off the main hall, the fire in the grate threw a low glow across the panelled walls.
The door shut with a soft click behind Fletcher—Quinn to those in the Seven Dials—locking the world outside.
Hurst had chosen well: no footmen here, no chance ears—just four chairs drawn round a table where a decanter of brandy caught the light.
Fletcher entered with the ease of a man who had long mastered the art of blending into any environment.
The club was familiar to him, though the group of men he was about to meet were not.
Hurst had already arrived, his quiet authority gathering about him as he stood near the fireplace.
He gave a brief nod and turned to the others.
“Fletcher, I should like you to meet the Viscount Hopton, Colonel Fitzwilliam as you may have heard him styled, and his cousin, Mr Darcy.”
Viscount Hopton stood the more seasoned figure, his military reputation the stuff of legend. His posture was less rigid, more assured, the air of authority belonging to a man long accustomed to action. His dark eyes held little warmth.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, the taller man, carried himself with an air of quiet authority. His sharp features were set in a composed expression, the noble bearing in his posture as evident as his tailored coat and neatly tied cravat. His presence was notable but not commanding.
Fletcher assessed each. Darcy’s composure looked polished but inflexible, the sort of veneer that cracked under strain. Fitzwilliam’s ease suggested something harder beneath, the stillness of a man accustomed to command and unafraid of consequence.
Hurst had spoken his true name. These men stood within his inner circle.
Fletcher inclined his head slightly, a subtle gesture of respect towards their rank, though the pleasantries felt more like a formality. Fitzwilliam gave a sharp nod, a curt acknowledgment, while Darcy offered a stiff one in return.
Fletcher took a seat at Hurst’s request. He glanced at each of the men before focusing on the matter at hand. Hurst gestured to the table, where a decanter of brandy sat untouched.
Darcy’s voice broke the silence, his tone even but with a tinge of curiosity. “What exactly is your role at the Home Office, Mr Fletcher?”
Fletcher looked to Hurst, who nodded.
“I serve the Crown as a Warrant Man,” he replied coolly.
Darcy turned to Fitzwilliam, who added flatly, “Think of him as an armourer without a scarlet coat.”
Darcy’s lips tightened in distaste. “The Crown keeps such men on retainer?”
Fitzwilliam snorted. “A servant of errands, though with teeth well sharpened.” He turned to Fletcher, his smile sharp and unpleasant.
Hurst’s voice cut through the exchange, calm and authoritative. “Darcy, you are here as a courtesy.”
Darcy stiffened slightly. “Quite right. My apologies.”
Hurst shook his head slightly and turned back to Fletcher. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Please inform us of what you have uncovered.”
“How far back would you like me to begin?”
“As the viscount serves on the war council, you may go back to Peterloo,” replied Hurst.
Fletcher leant forward. “The trail begins at St Peter’s Field.”
“Surely not,” Darcy said, his surprise spoken openly.
“I am afraid it is true, sir. Your family’s involvement in this irregular progression of events began with your brother-in-law, Major Carstens Bennet.”
Darcy turned to Fitzwilliam. “Is that the cause of his and Jane’s near silence these many years?”
“It is,” confirmed Fitzwilliam. He commanded the hussars ordered to disperse the crowd.”
“Peacefully,” Fletcher added. “The Riot Act had barely been read. But a band of drunken yeomanry charged in first—hired blades, not soldiers. They struck before the law was heard.”
Darcy’s voice sharpened. “And my brother-in-law?”
“He waded into them with his fists,” Fletcher said. “Left their captains half-dead. When the ashes were counted, he was forced into silence—retirement under threat of prosecution should he ever speak.”
“Neither I nor Elizabeth knew any of this,” said Darcy.
“Necessity of discretion. He was my adjutant, if you recall,” offered Fitzwilliam. He gestured for Fletcher to continue.
Hurst said evenly, “From that day, dissent hardened. Most groups proved to be little more than talk. One found teeth—Cato Street. Fletcher put myself amongst them. He orchestrated the arrests. Nearly bloodless.”
“Nearly?” Darcy pressed.
“One man escaped,” Fletcher offered. “Lord Hardwicke. He hid behind his rank and a mistress named Dayton. Dangerous company. In pursuing him, I uncovered a second plot: another ambush on the ministers, Parliament itself. That too was smothered.”
Fitzwilliam exhaled through his nose. “You are telescoping years of rot into a single sitting, Mr Fletcher.”
Darcy exhaled, weary. “And yet here we sit.”
Hurst inclined his head. “Because the greater danger was not Hardwicke. It was Roark.”
He let the name settle. Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed. Darcy looked blank.
“A creature of the Dials,” Hurst continued. “Controls half its trade in flesh. Never leaves the boundaries he marked himself. The stupid die quickly. The loyal thrive.”
“Why is he yet suffered to walk free?” Darcy asked, sharp.
“Because we allow it,” Hurst replied. “Better the devil you know.”
Fletcher nodded once. “I entered his circle as a broker of information. Made myself of use. Saw the scale of his dominion. But it was not Roark that held my attention.”
He paused. Fitzwilliam tilted his head, a glint in his dark eyes. “Go on.”
“A woman,” Fletcher said simply. “In the midst of seizing one of his houses. Not some guttersnipe. Educated, poised. The cadence of gentry in her speech. A past she has buried well.”
Fitzwilliam raised a brow. “And what is she now?”
Fletcher met his gaze. “A murderess—skilled, deliberate, and not yet at her end.”
* * *
The door closed. Two knocks signalled the footmen were in place. Hurst lifted his brandy, sniffed, and sipped. A quiet sigh escaped him before he turned slightly, just enough for Fletcher to catch the warning in his eye.
Not another word of your own hand. Let me carry it.
“Gentlemen,” he began, voice level as though opening a lecture hall, “what we face is not a common criminal, nor even a Cato conspirator. It is a woman with a memory for blood.”
Silence stretched. Darcy sat rigid. Fitzwilliam leant back, restless. Fletcher kept his gaze low.
Hurst continued, dispassionately. “Her first strike was a man named Matthew Walton. A frequenter of these houses, she killed him with an iron poker to the head. The Dials made his body disappear.”
Darcy frowned. Fitzwilliam shrugged.
“Exactly,” Hurst said, nodding once. “Exactly so. He left a wife a widow for a second time. No children between them.”
He sipped again before resuming. “Next was a procurer named Maud Hatcher. A single knife-thrust where neck meets shoulder. It was called a street robbery.”
“Varied attacks. A poker is blunt force,” Fitzwilliam observed. “That strike is surgical. Refining her craft?”
“Indeed. Then Tom King of Whitechapel—an alley fighter and whore-master. Brutal man. Stabbed repeatedly, the final blow driven into the hollow where neck and shoulder meet.”
Darcy’s lip thinned. “The world is none the poorer.”
“It would be so,” Hurst allowed, “had there not been witnesses. Two innocents—a woman and her child. Names unknown to you, no doubt, but they were there. Likely one of King’s families.
Darcy looked to Fitzwilliam, perplexed. “I know none of these people.”
“Nor I,” said the colonel, his eyes narrowing. “But you do not list them idly. What ties them together?”
Hurst leant forward. “A ledger. Leather-bound. She keeps her accounts there, written in her own hand. Each debt to be settled. Each name struck out when it is paid—in blood.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed. “And what has this to do with us?”
Hurst let the words fall like a weight. “Because, gentlemen, both your names are inscribed within it.”
The air seemed to still.
Darcy stiffened, colour rising faintly at his throat, as though the room had suddenly learned his name. Fitzwilliam’s hand went to his glass but did not lift it; instead, his eyes moved—once—to Fletcher, measuring the weight of the man who carried the news.
“Mine?” Darcy’s voice was incredulous.
“And mine.” Fitzwilliam’s was dark, dangerous.
“Yes,” Hurst replied, unflinchingly. “This is no random bloodletting. The pattern is deliberate.”
He paused. “Her ledger records offences. And by a thread yet to be traced,” he said,
“You are among them.”