CHAPTER 23
Darkness had swallowed the last glimmer of twilight, bringing with it a chill wind. A wave slapped against the hull of the wherry, drawing a grunt from the waterman as his oars caught in one of the river’s swirling eddies.
The first part of the plan to ensure that Jasper Milton’s plans did not pass into the hands of the French radicals was now in motion.
Charlotte tightened her grip on the gunwale and ducked away from the spray, keeping her gaze on the opposite shore.
She and the Weasels had hired a boat to take them to Vauxhall Stairs, and from there they would make their way up to the riverside gate of the pleasure gardens while Wrexford and Sheffield arrived by carriage, as befitted gentlemen on the prowl for revelry.
The waterman had looked askance at their motley appearance, but the flash of silver in Charlotte’s hand had silenced any thought of refusing them passage. Money spoke louder than the cut of one’s clothes or the color of one’s skin.
The boys, she noted, were enjoying the trip over the choppy water, with Raven explaining in a low voice to Hawk and Peregrine how a steamboat overpowered such currents with the ease of a hot knife cutting through butter.
Charlotte feared that their upcoming mission wouldn’t prove quite so easy. But she pushed aside such brooding as the wherry bumped up against the landing stairs and they scrambled out onto the wet stones.
“This way,” she whispered, starting up the footpath to Vauxhall Walk.
She and the Weasels were tasked with arriving early at the rendezvous place deep within the wooded area of the gardens and keeping a lookout for the conspirators.
But first she had to contrive a way to get the boys inside the grounds . . .
“I’ve an idea.” Charlotte paused as they reached the top of the path and explained what she had in mind. “Stay close and be ready to move fast.”
A few moments later, she sauntered up to the attendant manning the side entrance to Vauxhall Gardens—an unadorned iron gate which catered to the working classes. After fumbling in her pocket, she purchased a ticket and waited for her change.
“Oiy, Ox Brain—I gave ye a bloody shilling!” she cried, after looking down at the coins he had dropped into her outstretched palm.
“Count ’em again, Piss Breath!” came the snarled reply. “I gave ye the right amount.”
She staggered, deliberately knocking into one of the cullies guarding the gate. He grunted and shoved her back a step, cursing at the foul smell emanating from her jacket.
“What is that stink?” he growled, only to spit out another curse as the Weasels and Peregrine seized the moment to dart through the tiny gap in the gate and race past him.
“Stop the little gutter rats!” he cried to his comrade, who was busy flirting with one of the doxies trying to get in for free.
Too late. The boys had already disappeared in the tangle of starlight and shadows.
Steadying her footing, Charlotte made a show of re-counting the coins in her palm. “Hmmph. Next time, keep a civil tongue in your head or ye’ll be sorry,” she said after a loud belch.
“Be off wid ye,” warned the ticket attendant with a disgusted snort, “or I’ll toss yer sorry arse into the river.”
She waggled a very rude sign with her fingers and scampered away as he roared in fury.
Nobody paid her any attention. Vauxhall Gardens was a world unto itself, a notorious pleasure garden spread over several acres that offered dining, concerts, and all manner of frivolous entertainments.
Within its walls, high and low society mingled without constraint, and under the cover of night the rules of Polite Society gave way to secret desires—an evening visit allowed both men and women to seize an interlude of naughty pleasures.
After cutting through a cluster of shrubs to reach the adjoining walkway, Charlotte stopped for a moment to get her bearings.
The infamous Dark Walk, a lanternless path leading through a maze of trees and thick shrubbery where no respectable lady would dare risk being spotted, was on her left.
Its stillness seemed to thrum with the crisscrossing currents of hidden passions.
She had once done a series of drawings on the stiff-rumped government ministers who were known to take illicit pleasures within the swath of overgrown foliage. The gossip it stirred in the drawing rooms of Mayfair had resulted in several changes within the Privy Council.
A sultry laugh drew Charlotte back to the moment as a demoiselle with rouged cheeks and dressed in a provocative gown approached a tipsy gentleman and whispered something in his ear.
They moved into the shadows . . . And then another figure, a man lounging against a lamp post, a pocket sketchbook in hand, caught her eye.
Charlotte recognized him as Thomas Rowlandson, one of London’s most famous gadfly satirical artists, whose work she much admired.
He was also one of her chief rivals for the public’s attention, though thank heaven he did not have a clue as to what A. J. Quill looked like.
Still, she ducked her head and kept moving.
The glare felt as bright as the sun—it was said that over one thousand glass lanterns glimmered like points of fire in the night.
After another bend, Charlotte turned away from the glittering lights and cacophony of the main pavilions on her right, where an orchestra of wind instruments was playing “La Réjouissance” from Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks while the aristocratic revelers who could afford the luxury dined in the fancy food pavilion on arrack punch and thinly shaved ham.
The path she chose narrowed, and the sounds around her softened to furtive rustling. Here and there, a moan of ecstasy stirred the leaves. Quickening her steps, she made her way deeper into the velvety darkness.
At the hoot of an owl, Charlotte slipped into the bushes and crouched down beside Hawk.
“We circled around the workshop,” he reported. “There is a front and a rear entrance, both locked, and it was completely dark inside.”
The plan they had made earlier in the day called for her and the Weasels to arrive early so that the boys could keep watch for Wayland and the Frenchmen. Wrexford and Sheffield would travel on their own and meet up with her to await word on when they could move in to confront the conspirators.
“We did see a flutter of movement in the trees behind the place,” added Hawk. “But when we went to investigate, there was nothing there.”
“People come here on the prowl for adventure,” mused Charlotte. “A frisson of excitement, whether good or bad, relieves the tedium of their everyday life.”
As A. J. Quill, she had good reason to know that the vast majority of London’s working class lived an existence of quiet desperation. It was why she wielded her pen. To make the world a better place for those who could not fight for themselves —
She made herself shake off the distracting thought. Tonight was about catching a cold-blooded killer and ensuring that the former emperor of France did not profit from the crime. Heaven only knew what misery he would inflict on rich and poor alike if he were able to return to his throne.
“Go back and keep watch with the others. Wrex and Sheffield will arrive shortly, and we’ll wait here.” She paused for a moment. “And remember, as soon as you alert us that both the Frenchmen and Wayland have arrived, the three of you are to head straight home.”
* * *
Wrexford and Sheffield paused after purchasing their entrance tickets and passing through the ornate main entrance of Vauxhall Gardens.
“Drunkenness, debauchery, and deceptions,” observed Sheffield as he regarded the revelries taking place beneath the flickering lanterns of the main walkway. “Highborn or lowborn, men—and women—find it hard to resist their primal lusts.”
“People like to be shocked by things they wouldn’t dare think about at home,” said the earl. “Danger is like a drug. It stimulates the senses, consigning reason to perdition.”
Laughter erupted nearby as a well-dressed gentleman fell into a fountain while trying to dance a jig along its stone edge.
“But the ecstasy is short-lived.”
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” quipped Sheffield, repeating the famous line from Dante’s Divine Comedy.
“The poet was right—life often plays out as a farce.” After another look around, Wrexford turned for one of the side paths. “We need to go this way.”
They were both dressed in dark clothing, with soft felt hats pulled low.
Heads down, they cut around the crowd, keeping their pace slow so as not to draw attention.
Drunken laughter, ribald teasing, shrieks of delight—the air was thick with merriment.
But the weight of his pocket pistol brushing against his thigh as he moved reminded Wrexford that their reason for being here was not for pleasure.
“Is all arranged with Griffin and his men?” asked Sheffield, once the way led into a secluded glade of trees.
“It took some convincing,” replied the earl. “Along with the promise of several prodigious dinners.”
Sheffield chuckled. “He’s far worse than I ever was about taking advantage of your largesse.”
“It’s a small price to pay for working with a fellow who is both trustworthy and extremely skilled at what he does,” replied the earl.
“He wasn’t happy with the fact that we have naught but circumstantial evidence to support our claim of having found Jasper Milton’s killer.
” A shrug. “Which is why he agreed to my proposal of us apprehending Wayland and the French radicals and then handing them over to him. That allows him to take custody of the men in order to investigate my claim that I overheard what sounded like suspicious conspiring. He and his men are waiting at the side gate by Tyre Street.”
“You haven’t yet failed to make him smell like roses to his superiors,” commented Sheffield. “You didn’t mention Milton’s stolen papers?”