Chapter 42
The Forge was quieter than usual. Smoke from the lamps curled towards the rafters, and the air smelled of wet wool and spilled ale. Men hunched over mugs and cards, voices low, as though the place were holding its breath.
Ron went before him, broad as a fortress gate, moving with the slow certainty of armour though he wore none. Conversations faltered. Cards were laid down. Any who stared too long were dwarfed by Ron’s presence until they thought better.
It had been three days since the attack. He had not hesitated when apprised of every detail—nor had he rested until this moment.
Thomas Bennet followed, setting his cane down steady on the boards. No hurry, no hesitation—each step was deliberate and measured. A man appeared, neat coat, eyes watchful.
“Your business, sir?”
Bennet studied him a moment. The man already knew. Country gentlemen did not step into a place like this for ale or cards. There was only one errand that brought them—speaking to the man on the mountaintop.
Bennet stared at him, Ron shifting on his feet behind him. “You know of my business. Mr Roark, if you please.”
The steward dipped his head, as if the reply had been expected before it was given, and led the way.
The snug was bare. A table, two chairs, and Roark behind it, back to the wall.
Pale eyes set hard. Arms crossed over his chest. As bennet neared, the scar at his temple pulsed from white to beige each time he drew in air.
“Major Bennet.”
“Mr Roark.” Bennet sat, cane across his knees. Ron filled the doorway and stilled.
“You come for something?”
“I come for a message to be carried.”
Roark’s mouth ticked. “Few men seek me for errands.”
“Fewer speak to Reeves,” Bennet said.
The name hung.
Roark’s mouth turned to a sneer. “You remember him as he was.”
“I remember him as he is. He gave his word in my house. He remained until my eldest was wed.”
“You think to summon the Hammer?”
“I think to reach Reeves.”
“Why?”
“My granddaughter was attacked. In a shop with women at fittings.”
“And you believe this will be of interest to me mate?”
“I am certain of it.”
Roark was still. “Many men earn respect, Major. You are one of them. But few inspire fear.”
Bennet inclined his head. “I have a son-in-law. He was a cavalry officer at Peterloo.”
Roark’s eyes narrowed, his voice low. “A slaughter, that day. Good folk cut down where they stood.”
“He tried to prevent it. Major Carstens Bennet”
Roark leant back. “That puts me in mind—aye, I recall a dark blue coat, braid white as frost, holding his men against the volunteer’s folly.” Roark rapped the table once. “Yours commanded the Hussars.”
Bennet was not surprised a man who ruled a large criminal gang remembered. “The very same.”
Roark gave a short breath. “A good man. He sought to right a wrong.”
“Indeed.”
“He has earned the respect of many. But fear?” He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“I agree. Reeves protected his wife—my Jane—before her betrothal. He knew her worth. He knows her husband’s as well.”
Roark tapped the table top. “But the child harmed was not hers.”
“No. She is my granddaughter by another of my children.”
Roark leant. “And I should fear him, you say?”
“Most would. Only those in Bedlam do not.”
Roark’s voice lowered. “Who, then, is this gothic legend?”
“Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.”
Roark stilled. He swallowed. “The Butcher of Badajoz?”
“The very same.”
Roark looked at the table, drummed his fingers a few times, then turned back to him.
“You collect interesting sons, Major.”
Bennet smiled. Darcy too, though he was not part of this negotiation. “I seem to have an affinity for it.”
Roark tapped the board again. “And now you ask me to carry a message.”
“I do.”
Roark stared at him for several moments. “Speak it.”
Bennet set both palms on his cane. “Tell him this: Kitty’s daughter is in danger. Now.”
He did not wait to see if the name would be enough; he no longer trusted clean chains of command.
Roark’s brow furrowed, as if disappointed in the brevity of it. “That is all?”
Bennet rose, leaning once on his cane before straightening to his full height. “It is enough.”
Ron stepped aside to clear the door. Bennet did not look back, hearing nothing but his cane upon the boards.
* * *
Fanny Murray’s
The door closed behind her with a click, sealing the murmur of the house beyond.
Catherine pressed her back to the panel, breathing slow and even, until her pulse matched the tick of the French clock on the mantel.
She had doubled back twice on the walk home, through market alleys and up Church Lane, certain no one followed.
Still, the skin along her cheek throbbed, raw beneath the makeshift veil she had kept pulled low.
She crossed the room and lit another lamp. Its glow revealed what she already knew: the damage was plain.
The tall mirror gave her no mercy. A red gash cut across her cheekbone, narrow but angry, and the skin about it swollen.
It was not ruinous, not like the burns she had seen on other girls, but it marred the symmetry she guarded.
Her hand went up; fingers traced the heat of it.
She hissed softly, both from pain and from rage.
The suite had been prepared for her: a fire banked to coals, a tray of wine and figs left waiting, a basin of clean water on the sideboard. All in order. She stripped off her gloves, tossed them aside, and sat before the mirror.
The wound demanded strategy.
She opened a lacquered case and set out her paints: powder, pearl paste, a little jar of ochre.
A brush of badger hair, soft as breath. She leant forward, studying every line of her face.
The bruise darkened as she watched, blooming violet under the cut.
She dipped the brush, applied a thin coat of powder, blended it into her skin.
Too pale. She added paste, then another dusting of ochre until the shade matched.
The gash itself needed more. A dab of salve first to dull the redness, then a careful sweep of powder, patting it in with her fingertip. She pulled back, tilted her face side to side. Better. Not invisible, but softened into the impression of a shadow. A trick of candlelight would do the rest.
Still, the knowledge of it gnawed. Catherine prided herself on control: her hair bound just so, her gowns chosen with precision, her every gesture measured. To wear a wound upon her face was to concede that someone had struck true. That she could not endure.
She poured a glass of wine, drained half of it in a swallow, and set the glass upon her escritoire. The ledger waited there, blue leather cool to the touch. She opened it, letting the names speak back at her. Walton. Hatcher. King. Each one crossed through with a sharp hand.
Then the others, still raw and waiting: Darcy. Fitzwilliam. Lydia.
She touched her finger to the last name. The girl had not screamed; she had retaliated.
“What manner of creature is she?”
Catherine dipped her quill and wrote in the margin: resisted—instinctive, untrained.
The sound of a knock at the door made her pause. Too light for Jonas, too slow for one of the girls. She closed the ledger quickly, slid it beneath a stack of receipts, and called, “Enter.”
The door opened. Quinn stepped in. He bowed just enough, neither servant nor equal.
“Mrs Murray,” he said. “I wished to see if you required anything for your…injury.” His eyes flicked, too sharp, to the line across her cheek.
Catherine held her glass steady. “It is nothing. I require nothing.”
His hands folded behind his back. “There is talk in the streets already. Some say a girl was attacked at a shop. Others, that it was a robbery. Still others, that it was two women quarrelling. Curious how many versions appear in so short a span.”
She turned back to her mirror, dipping the brush again, applying another layer of powder. “Markets thrive on tales.”
“Yes,” Quinn said softly. “Though tales often begin with truth.”
She stilled her hand. “And what truth do you imagine?”
He stepped nearer, eyes trained on her reflection rather than her face. “That the mark you conceal is fresh. It sits where no quarrel with a drunken girl could have placed it.”
Catherine placed the brush down with deliberate care. “You are impertinent.”
He bowed his head. “Forgive me. It is a failing of mine to listen too closely and remember too well. I mean no insult.”
“You overstepped.”
“Perhaps.” He straightened, hands still clasped. “If you were near such an event, prudence would counsel caution. There are men who will not forgive a hand raised against their blood.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Safety is what I decide. Not what others grant.”
He inclined his head. “As you say. Yet I thought it wise you should know the talk spreads fast. Too fast, perhaps.”
Catherine rose, went to the window. The city beyond was dark but restless, voices and carriage wheels echoing from the street below. She turned back. “What else have you heard?”
“The Forge is quiet this night,” he said. “Too quiet. Men drink with care. No laughter. No quarrels.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know it well, do you?”
“Only what is said aloud.” His smile was thin. “And I have ears.”
“You listen too much,” she said, coming closer, her voice low. “And one day, you will hear something that shortens your life.”
He met her gaze evenly. “Better to hear and live in the truth than to walk deaf into danger.”
Silence stretched. She let it hang until he shifted his weight, only slightly, as if the floorboards pressed differently beneath him. Then she smiled, slow, deliberate. “Keep your truths to yourself, Quinn. I have no use for them.”
“As you wish.” He bowed again, just short of mockery, and stepped back to the door.
She watched him go, the latch clicking behind him. The room fell still once more.
Catherine returned to the mirror. The powder had dulled to a pale mask, concealing most of the wound. She leant close, tracing the edge of it with her finger.
Quinn had seen through it.
She lifted the quill, hesitated over the young lady’s name, then set it aside unused.
Snapped the book shut.
She stripped off her bloodstained gown, pulled on one of velvet, deep plum that set off her dark hair.
She wound her hair high, fixed pins with steady fingers, and applied another coat of powder, heavier this time, then a touch of carmine to her lips.
The face in the mirror was hers again—composed, commanding.
The mistress of the house, not the hunted woman.
She drew on rings, set pearls at her ears, and stood a moment in the lamplight. The cut burned beneath the paint, but no one would see it now. Not the girls, not the clients, not the men who came to pay.
The voices downstairs rose, the house stirring to its nightly trade. She took up her fan, flicked it open, and swept from her chamber—the queen restored.