Chapter Nineteen
They woke to be told that a visitor awaited them downstairs. A maid brought the news, knocking on the door then putting her head around it to ask—blushing and stammering—whether Mrs. Blackmore knew where Lord Kemble might be.
Apparently, their nighttime liaisons were not as secret as they hoped.
With their daughters living under the same roof, they were being particularly careful that their nocturnal activities did not become a matter of gossip.
With that in mind, Allan stayed hidden under the sheets, while Melody left the bed.
Since she had been wearing nothing, Allan would have liked to watch.
“You have a card?” Melody asked.
“Yes, Ma’am. Here, Ma’am.”
“Madam Hera,” Melody read aloud. “Please show her to the small parlor and tell her that we shall be down shortly. Would you be able to provide her with the beverage and refreshments of her choice while she waits? I do know where Lord Kemble might be, and shall pass on the message. Please send up a maid with warm water to my room and Lord Kemble’s. ”
Allan raced back to his room as soon as the maid left, and washed and dressed in record time.
The maid with her washing water must have helped Melody with her buttons, for she was ready at her door when he emerged from his chamber.
They had been quick, but it was still thirty minutes before they arrived in the parlor to find Madam Hera sipping tea.
“Coffee for us both,” Allan said to the maid, while Melody said to their guest, “Madam Hera, good morning. Thank you for coming to call. How may we help you?”
“By putting a stop to that fiend Teign,” Madam Hera said, her face grim. “Lord Kemble, Mrs. Blackmore, I have now spoken to all my former colleagues from my days with Ramping Billy, and I have news to share. In private.”
“I shall pour the coffee, Maudie,” Melody said to the maid. “Please shut the door on your way out.”
As soon as the girl was gone, Madam Hera told them her news. For years, the prostitutes of London had known that someone was buying the personal and exclusive services of a dozen or so of London’s top whores each year.
Back before Madame Hera transferred her focus to the ladies’ club, she, like the others in the profession, had believed those selected by the unknown buyer were the lucky ones, chosen to spend a year being pampered and richly paid, then able to retire on their newly earned wealth.
“By the time I retired from the brothel business,” Madam Hera told them, “Some of us were beginning to have our doubts. Usually, when a girl does well, they come back at least once or twice to show off their clothing and their jewelry to the other girls, and to boast about how good their protector is to them.”
She sighed, and took another sip of her tea. “Or, they waste their money, or the protector doesn’t keep his promises, and they come looking for their old place back. In all the years this buyer took girls, I never heard of one coming back.” She drained her cup.
“Let me pour you another,” Melody said. Madam Hera passed her the cup and continued her tale. “When two of my girls were invited during that last year, I begged them not to accept. But they believed the promises of the buyer’s agent, poor girls.” She accepted the freshly poured cup of tea.
“Thank you, dear. I spent yesterday visiting different houses where I know the madam or the senior girls. I wanted to know if it was still happening, and if anyone had discovered who was behind it. Sure enough, my former colleagues have been watching, listening, and comparing notes.”
After another deep breath was exhaled in a sigh, she said, “The buyer is only a middle-man, but he delivers the girls to a person who is an agent for a man named Farnham.”
Allan must have reacted, for she nodded and commented, “I thought you would know the name.”
“Teign’s steward,” Allan said.
“Indeed. Kemble, I don’t know what has happened to those girls, but I am very afraid they are dead.
Or most of them. There are rumors that a few discards are sold cheap to the worst hell holes in London or in other cities.
The buyer purchased a new crop of girls a few weeks ago, but as to where they were taken, we do not know. ”
Allan exchanged a glance with Melody. They knew the location to which the girls were taken, and Madam Hera’s information explained where they came from.
“Madam Hera,” he said, “we think we know where Teign is holding those survivors. What you’ve told us might be the final nail in the villain’s coffin. Would you be willing to write and sign a statement for the magistrates?”
He half expected her to refuse. Women who had pursued a career such as hers tried to avoid the notice of magistrates, except for those who came to them as customers, and who were therefore guaranteed to turn a blind eye to their illegal activities.
Madam Hera firmed her lips and nodded. “I owe it to those girls,” she said. “What should I write?”
They settled that Melody should ask her questions and take notes, and then write out a statement that the club owner could copy and sign.
Allan sent for more coffee and writing materials.
By the time the rest of the family were awake, Madam Hera had told Melody all she knew about the girls who had been taken and the buyer, and had gone on her way.
Halfway through the morning came the news that Thomasina’s house in Smithfield had been attacked in the night.
The attackers had not reckoned on the resilience of three French aunts who had not only survived the revolution, the Terror, the directorate, Napoleon’s years in power, and the return of the Bourbons, but had built a thriving wine export business out of the ashes of their former lives as aristocrats.
The aunts had gone into action while Cornelius was grappling with one of the intruders and Thomasina was taking their son to the attics, where a gap beneath the rafters connected the houses.
One had fetched a pistol, one a club, and the third had rung a large handbell that brought the rest of the neighbors out in their droves.
With six men in custody, the community had awaited the arrival of the constables, celebrating with wine from the cellar, and baguettes, cheese, and olives produced by other merchants who had come to the rescue.
Several hours passed in revelry before Cornelius realized he should let his brothers know what had happened.
When Allan immediately declared his intention of going to Thomasina’s place to make sure no one was harmed, Clara ordered him a carriage and Melody said she would go with him.
They found that both house and inhabitants were unharmed, though the same could not be said for the invaders.
Apparently, while four people had entered the house meaning to kidnap or murder the family, two had stacked kindling along an internal wall in the basement and splashed it with gin so it would catch quickly despite the cold damp conditions.
They had been piling furniture onto the stack to give fuel to the proposed fire when the neighbors discovered them.
The row of old terrace houses dated back nearly to the days that London was rebuilt after the Great Fire, and had been built in brick, but even so, had the fire caught, it might well have spread along the row.
Nothing and no one could have stopped the neighbors from expressing their anger on the bodies of the invaders. Two of them were still unconscious, and all six had bruises and broken bones from the beatings they had taken.
Under that treatment, those still conscious had spilled everything they knew. However, they had not been able to name the person who hired them. A man in a pub. A man who was muffled up against the cold and who wore a cap pulled down over his head. A man who kept to the shadows.
“The buyer paid half of the reward for the attack up front,” Cornelius said. “He was to pay the other half after the job was done. The constables went to the rendezvous, but the buyer must have heard about his hirelings’ failure, because he did not turn up.”
Satisfied that Cornelius, Thomasina, their son, and the three aunts were all safe and well, Allan and Melody returned to Mayfair to find they had missed another attempted kidnapping.
“Papa,” Lydia shouted in greeting, “we fooled the kidnappers!”
Kidnappers? Allan’s immediate reaction was to grab his child and begin checking her for injuries. “Are you hurt, Lydia?” He looked wildly around and fixed his gaze on his brother-in-law. “Phineas, what happened?”
“An attempted kidnapping,” Phineas said, baldly. “The two girls delayed the kidnappers while Benjie came to fetch us.” He ruffled Benjie’s hair. “They were all very brave.”
There was more to it than that, of course. The girls, who rightfully regarded themselves as the heroines of the hour, claimed the right to tell the story.
“Cook gave us some bread to feed the sparrows, Papa,” Lydia said.
“Aunt Harmony sent Uncle Hugo to guard us,” Harriet explained. Hugo, who was hovering on the outskirts of Allan’s family group, was one of the Moriarty men. The children had adopted their regular guards as honorary uncles and aunts.
“There was shouting in the mews, and Uncle Hugo went to see what was happening.”
“I am sorry, my lord. I should have left it to my colleagues and stayed with the little ones,” said Hugo. Allan nodded in acknowledgement, but most of his attention stayed with his daughter and Melody’s Harriet.
“A man appeared in the gateway to the kitchen courtyard,” said Lydia. “He said the cat had had kittens, and if we came with him, he would show us.”
Harriet was lifting herself onto her tiptoes and back down, clearly unable to contain her excitement. “We told him that Uncle Hugo said we must stay where he left us.”
Lydia nodded, and grinned at her friend. “We asked him to bring the kittens to us.”
“He said they were too young to move.” Harriet shrugged. “He stayed in the shadow of the gateway, and kept looking around as if he was afraid of being seen.”
“The man hadn’t seen Benjie. He was on his way back inside.”
That was Lydia’s contribution, and Harriet added, “Benjie doesn’t like the cold.”
“So, I thought of the code words,” said Lydia.
The code words? Allan’s face must have indicated he didn’t understand, for Harriet explained. “Mama gave us a code to use if we were in danger. That way, if we had to send a message, such as if someone kidnapped us, we would just have to say purple pickled eggs, and she would know it was us.”
“She told Harriet and Benjie, and Harriet told me.” Lydia gave her friend a hug. “So, I said to Harriet, “I love kittens more than purple pickled eggs. Do you think Uncle Hugo would understand if we went with the nice man?”
“Benjie was so smart,” said Harriet, casting her cousin an approving smile. “He rushed off inside. I argued with Lydia about staying where we were told, and she argued back, and the man just watched.”
Lydia was bouncing now. “And then the guards came and caught the man and his friends, and Uncle Baldwin says it was because of us!” She hugged her friend.
Allan, his head teeming with all the ways things could have gone wrong, felt his legs grow weak with sheer relief, so he dropped onto his knees and held out his arms for his daughter.
Melody, he noticed, was doing the same with her daughter and nephew.
“I am so sorry, my lord,” said Hugo, again, hanging his head and adding, in an undertone, “Mrs. Moriarty is going to kill me.”
“Uncle Hugo told us to stay where the uncle who was at the window could see us,” said Lydia.
“So, we did. Do not blame Uncle Hugo, Papa.” The Moriarty men had posted one of their number at an upper window to watch for assaults on the house, such as the one that drove Phineas and Harmony from their home and last night’s one in Smithfield.
“Yes, and he punched the bad man very hard,” Harriet pointed out.
That was some consolation. If the children had been seduced by the promise of kittens, Moriarty’s men would have been on them before they could escape with their captives.
Somewhat soothed, Allan decided to leave Hugo to the mercies of his employer.
From the man’s expression, he did not expect to get off lightly.
“All’s well that ends well,” said Phineas.
“Yes,” said Melody, rather grimly. “But until we bring Teign down, it is not ended. Allan let us go and add this incident to our report for the group of lords that the Duke of Dellborough is coordinating.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and let it out.
Lifting her lashes again, she said, “It has been an interesting day.”
*
Late in the afternoon, they heard from Dellborough.
His coterie of lords had been busy. Ten of them had been racing around town, leaping to the duke’s command, visiting other influential peers.
“We have the numbers to insist on an inquiry,” Dellborough wrote, “even without evidence from tomorrow’s expedition.
As to that, I enclose a list of the four gentlemen I suggest for that little excursion.
All four are peers or the heirs to peers and will be useful witnesses.
All have military experience and will be useful in a fight. ”
A family connection of Kempbury’s, the Earl of Somerville, brought Dellborough’s message and was at the head of the list. He had been in the army during the wars with Napoleon, and seemed to think he would be in command this time, too.
“I know the cellars,” Allan pointed out. “I shall lead the way.” Besides, with the rest of the team being made up of three Moriarty guards, two of his brothers, himself and his lady, his seven outnumbered their four.
Somerville did not argue. “It is your family matter and is, or shall be, your townhouse,” he acknowledged.
A man of reason. And, after all, Allan’s battles had all been personal and familial. Somerville’s experience would be useful. “I shall lead the way,” Allan repeated, “but if it comes to a fight, I shall obey your commands.”
“Where shall we meet?” Somerville asked.
“We need to get into the lower tower, which means going in through the tunnels,” Allan said. “I suspect there’ll be a watch on the entrances. After all, the marquess’s men found their way into the tunnels, and only fools would not explore to find where they led.”
“They may be fools,” Baldwin commented. “But I would not suggest we count on it.”
“We can’t go in through the courtyard, and the riverbank will be busy in the daytime. We shall have to go in through the alley and overpower the guard before they have a chance to raise the alarm.”
“As to that,” said Mel, “I have an idea.”