Chapter Seven
Hanibal Cordell, known to his family and friends as Han, could not make up his mind what to do.
There were many reasons for staying well away from the crescent where Terrence St. John had died, not least of which being an unwillingness to get involved and, most of all, the possibility of being seen entering the house by someone who would carry tales to his beloved.
On the other hand, Solomon Grey had made an impression on him, and the man had been right.
If Han had any intention of following his own ambitions, he needed to be involved with life in all its beauty and ugliness.
And he needed badly to know the truth. He wouldn’t be safe, and neither would Bella, until he did know.
In the end, he left his father’s house in Brook Street without a word to anyone about where he was going—much as poor St. John had done on the night he died.
He tipped his hat somewhat rakishly over his face to hide his features and walked around to the crescent without passing the house of his betrothed.
Stupidly, his heart thudded in what felt very like fear.
He had not been in such a place since his student days, when his older friends had taken him to some squalid house, which they had thought great fun.
He supposed it had been at the time, but afterward, he had felt grubby and never inclined to repeat the experience.
The infamous Constance Silver’s establishment looked nothing like that.
If it differed from its neighbors on the outside, it was only that it was so very well maintained.
A man appeared to be patrolling the area below the front steps, occasionally emerging onto the payment to walk a few yards in either direction before descending again.
He tipped his hat to Han as they passed at the front steps of the building.
Han could walk straight past and go on to Grosvenor Square and spend the evening with his betrothed. It would be safest, and it was certainly the course his father would urge him to pursue.
He turned up the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at once by a large young man in livery.
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” Han said with unwonted awkwardness. He was too wary to offer his card. “I am looking for Mr. Grey.”
“Please come in.”
The hall was as tastefully decorated as his mother’s, as was the pleasant reception room another liveried servant showed him into. The room was empty of occupants, although he could hear the chatter of voices and the tinkling of glasses drifting down from the floor above.
While Han waited, he heard the arrival of other men, but though he tensed, none of them entered the same room. They seemed to be directed, or shown, upstairs.
At last the door opened again, and Han whirled around in some panic.
Solomon Grey stood there in immaculate evening dress. Although his skin was too dark for conventionally received handsomeness, he was undoubtedly a good-looking man. Yet it was not looks that drew the attention. It was presence. One could not ignore him.
Not that Han wished to, though suddenly he felt all the disadvantage of a youth at his first formal ball where he knew no one. Grey at least looked surprised.
“Mr. Cordell.” The man moved like a panther, all dark grace and danger, and yet he offered his hand like a gracious host. “Did you wish to speak privately, or would you like to join the party upstairs?”
Han shook his hand. “I’m not sure. Both, probably. You said I would learn about some social realities here.”
“Then why don’t you come upstairs first? The music is about to begin.”
Startled all over again, Han merely inclined his head and followed Grey.
A footman waited in the hall. Another stood at the top of the stairs, directing people toward a large drawing room, from where the pleasant voices and tinkling glass came from.
The occasional laugh rang out, bluff and male or gently feminine.
It could have been any drawing room in Mayfair, except that the gentlemen—one or two of whom he was alarmed to recognize—outnumbered the ladies. And, as one drew closer, the ladies’ accents betrayed a lesser origin.
Then a woman detached herself from a vivacious group and came toward them, smiling.
Han was stunned all over again. He had never seen anyone so dazzlingly beautiful.
Her red-gold hair was a shining halo, her skin translucent, stretched tightly over a fine-boned face.
Her lips in particular fascinated him—long and lush, with an extra little curve at each corner.
He knew who she was, of course, even before Grey spoke. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Cordell. Sir, my wife.”
It should have been ridiculous, that a man with claims to be a gentleman—or at least a respected merchant—should be so proud to have a courtesan for a wife, however beautiful.
Yet when she gave Han her hand and welcomed him in a warm, cultured voice as though, just for the instant, he was the most important man in the room to her… he actually felt proud.
“Mr. Cordell is interested in your charitable work,” Grey added.
“Thank you for that,” Mrs. Grey said, raising one finger to summon a maid, who brought a tray full of glasses. Still dazed, Han took one. “I shall be happy to introduce you to our work if you can stay for an hour? Our musical recital is about to begin. Excuse me.”
Han could not take his eyes off her as she flitted through the crowd, exchanging a smiling word with patrons here and there as she went.
No one tried to paw her. No bawdy jokes followed her.
In fact, the whole room quietened as she met a young man holding a violin.
Han recognized him, too. He had seen him play in a concert… Carl Darrow.
He barely heard her brief words of introduction, spoken with what seemed to be her characteristic warmth. He felt as if he were quite out of his depth and in acute danger of drowning, and yet he didn’t mind in the slightest.
This was no condition in which to face adversaries.
Or even to discover if that was what they were.
With something very like desperation, he dragged his gaze away from her, trying to concentrate on the music, on the audience.
He recognized a bishop and an earl. Other people had squashed into the room—servants and women dressed in ordinary clothing, all listening to the music. One girl was positively entranced.
Grey must have seen his lingering gaze. “She is a budding musician,” he murmured.
Even more confusing, when the recital had ended, Mrs. Grey took the girl to meet Darrow before he could speak to any of her more important guests.
“Who were those other young women who have now vanished?” Han asked Grey, who was still with him. “Do they live and work here?”
“Yes, for now.”
“They were not dressed to please,” Han said delicately.
“They don’t do that kind of work. You have to think of this place as a co-operative.
Everyone contributes and everyone has their needs met as far as possible.
Edith, the musician you noticed, is studying music; another is learning bookkeeping.
One is about to become a clerk with a respectable company, and one is returning to her profession as a cook.
Another is learning the same trade. The maids who serve this evening will go into formal service, either domestically or in hotels and eating houses. ”
“From here?” Han stared. “Why?”
“Because Constance found them on the street. If you wish to describe it so, they all have one thing in common—they are what the world smugly calls fallen women. Constance helps raise them up again in whatever way they wish.”
“And if they wish to remain…?” He trailed off, reluctant to say the word for some reason.
“In the same profession?” Grey said coolly.
“Then they are safer doing so here, with food and shelter and medical care, where violent men cannot beat them or abuse them. These women’s stories are appalling.
They should make us ashamed, angry, determined to help.
And yet we turn our backs because they are fallen women.
Some even regard that as their Christian duty, while the men who used and abused them—in some cases even caused their fall in the first place—walk freely amongst us as respected members of the church and Society. ”
“That is a novel way of looking at things,” Han said slowly.
“It just requires a little thought. Who achieves more? The reformers who preach repentance for a heavenly reward? Or my wife, who provides them with food and shelter without judgment, and gives them a real chance to better themselves?” Grey gave a deprecating smile.
“But you need not listen to me rambling on. You may speak to whomever you wish.”
“Is that a euphemism?” Han asked, suddenly suspicious.
“No,” Mrs. Grey said, suddenly appearing beside him. “You have to pay for the euphemism.”
*
“Why has he come?” Constance asked Solomon in a private moment, while Cordell spoke to Carl Darrow, Sarah, and Hildie.
“Partly because he’s genuinely interested. I think he’s looking for a cause, lots of causes, to give him the courage to defy his father and go into politics. And partly…I think he wants to tell us something.”
“About St. John?”
“Hopefully.”
Before the guests had arrived, they had already heard about Janey’s inquiries among the St. John servants.
On the night their master had died, he had not used a horse or the carriage.
The servants all seemed to have been genuinely fond of him, although they were warier of his wife.
The son, Anthony, was a quiet, polite boy preparing for university in the autumn.
The daughter, Bella, was a little full of herself since her engagement.
Some of the servants were afraid Cordell would call the wedding off because of the scandal of their master’s death.