Chapter Seven #2
Nonplussed by his placid expression, Annie continued, “Pretty like. She was wearing nothing fancy. Workwoman’s fare, same as the girls in the mills.
Broadcloth—dark. Easy to wash, doesn’t show coal dust or blood.
” She looked at a cauldron beside her, likely full of similar garments.
“But there was somethin’ ‘bout her that seemed fancy. Spoke like you when you were wee. Fancy like. But not so bad as some toffs. Rate she was a governess a’fore the writin’. Or some such.”
Benjamin was itching to ask more. He was almost certain it had been Charlotte.
“Blonde as all. Rare to see that colour on a grown woman. Funny face. Pretty—as I said. But strange, like.”
Charlotte.
“And she came here to interview you two years ago?” He masked the eagerness in his voice. He was getting somewhere.
“Aye, just abouts ’suppose. Yes, it was when Lauren was looking at those new machines.
I told her they were too expensive. Anyways, who needs a machine to wash when there are able bodies needin’ employment?
” Benjamin knew to interrupt her before she launched into more pontificating about the laundry industry.
“And you met with her once? Or more?”
“Oh, just the once. But you can ask some of the other girls. She spoke with them other times.”
“Other times?” Just how often did Charlotte Aston make a habit of venturing into the stews?
“Oh yes, I had been seein’ her around for probably a year already before she came askin’ for my story. Thought it was a bit strange though. Who in the world would want to hear my story? Let alone write about it?”
“A year?” Benjamin was stunned.
“Oh, aye. Thought she was some charity worker at first. The way she kept speakin’ with the ladybirds. Thought she was tryin’ to turn them to Christ or some such. But no. She just spoke to them. Heard their stories and wrote some down. Strange gel.”
Benjamin did not miss the look of respect on the woman’s weathered face.
Somehow, Charlotte had been venturing into the bowels of London alone to speak to the dredges of society, those everyone else in her circle ignored at best and despised at worst, and had taken down their stories to share with the world.
More than that, it seemed she had charmed them.
It had been a long time since someone had baffled him.
After years of seeing desperation draw out the worst in people, and then more years teasing out the worst that they tried to hide, Benjamin considered himself a practical witness to the truths of humanity.
He had not thought himself capable of surprise.
But here he was, standing in the stews of his youth where Charlotte Aston had made her mark.
∞∞∞
“I do not think you have thought this through, Ben.” Wells was pouring himself a glass of whisky from the sideboard in Benjamin’s office.
“Don’t call me that.”
“It is your name, Ben, and I will use it. As is my right, being one of the few people who put up with you.” Wells took a hearty swig of the amber liquid and sighed in an agitating display of unbothered aristocratic pleasure.
Benjamin grumbled at the stack of papers on his desk.
Since leaving the Dials, he had been in a foul mood.
He was clever enough to know that one source was never enough to get at every side of a secret and had spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing people who had been interviewed by Charlotte.
By the end, he was warring with a riot of confused emotions.
He now knew for certain that she had begun writing long before her father’s death.
Nearly two years before. So it had not been the financial necessity that had driven her to be so careless with her safety, though after his rounds today, he was certain none of the invisible sentries of Covent Garden would have let a single thing befall her.
The loyalty she elicited was as strong as that he had fought tooth and nail for his whole life—even more so for it having been given without asking.
He wondered if she even knew the power she now held.
The foolish woman. What if they had not taken to her?
What if, instead of being flattered and touched by her interest, the ruffians of the streets had taken offence at the high-born lady swooping in and nosing around their turf?
She would have been like a lamb to the slaughter.
But on top of all of this, he had discovered another thing about Charlotte Aston. A deeper, darker secret that someone had paid handsomely to keep hidden. It was the type of secret Benjamin Scarsdale specialised in. And for once, it was a secret he was not happy to hold.
With the disconcerting worries ricocheting inside his skull, he wanted nothing more than to polish off the bottle in Wells’ hand and take to the playing floor.
Maybe he would be lucky, and some overstuffed toff would be causing a scene.
He was itching for a fight, and a fist to a reckless and titled fop’s face would be supremely satisfying.
What good was owning a gaming hell if he could not take advantage of such opportunities?
But alas, the reality of owning a gaming hell, or any number of profitable establishments, was staring him in the face.
Papers on top of papers, piles of correspondence, invoices, customs sheets, ledgers, and receipts were the truth of all business.
True success came from boring, tedious responsibility, and Benjamin was fully aware of the alternative.
“Don’t you have something else to do?” Benjamin demanded. “If I recall correctly, you are my business partner, not just a silent investor. Though I would not mind you silent.”
Wells laughed and sat in the chair opposite Benjamin’s desk, propping his feet up on the polished mahogany. “You shot the girl. Of course, you feel some responsibility for her welfare. But I do not know if this is the way to go about it.”
“Feet off my desk. I do not want to talk about Charlotte.” Benjamin regretted his slip immediately.
“Oh, Charlotte, is it?” Wells thumped his booted feet on the ground and leaned forward, snatching the paper Benjamin was reading from the desk.
“Wipe that shit-eating grin from your face before I wipe it off for you.”
“Your bark is worse than your bite, Scarsdale. I am not scared of you.” Wells held the paper aloft, teasingly waggling his eyebrows. “Come on, let's have it. What hold does this Charlotte have over you?”
“I told you; I do not wish to talk about her.” He snatched the letter back from his friend’s hand and picked up his quill again.
“Even so. I feel it is my responsibility to tell you that, whatever it is you are planning here, it is not the way to go about it.” When Benjamin did not respond, Wells continued.
“Trapping the princess in the tower will not win you a kiss, you moron. In fact, that makes you the ogre, or maybe the wicked witch.”
At that, Benjamin sighed and rubbed his forehead. “A bit early in the night to be spouting nonsense, don’t you think?”
Wells waved a hand. “If you fancy her, don’t.
” He frowned down at the scotch in his hand.
“Though you should hardly need my advice there. Women are trouble. Ladies are even more. I know you like to think of yourself as the Robin-Hood type, but she is not your problem. Return her to where she came from.” He gestured to the letter Benjamin had just folded into an envelope.
“You need to get out of this before you lose your bearings. It is deep water, my friend.”
Benjamin just scowled. “She is a lady. And she is recovering from a gunshot wound, you idiot. I do not fancy her; I am simply rectifying the problem she has caused.”
He tried to mask the defensiveness in his voice, surprised that the comment stung.
He knew he was no hero. He did not consider himself to be anything resembling Robin Hood.
And he hardly needed advice from the Duke of Wells.
They may have grown up on adjoining estates, but their lives had never been remotely the same.
“I do not see why that needs to be done from your townhouse. Send her home, wait until she recovers, and accept her effusive gratitude then. Ladyship aside, fancy her or not, a woman in your debt is a woman in your debt. Just do not go making foolish decisions.”
Wells winked and wiggled his brows at Benjamin over his glass, briefly looking like the boy he had spent his childhood with—before his mother moved him and his sister to London. The reminder blackened his mood even further.
“You can be a real ass sometimes, Wells. You know that?”
“Takes one to know one, lady shooter. Anyway, you would not care for me so much if I were not.”
Without responding, Benjamin stood and yanked the bell pull behind his desk. Within moments, a young footman was opening the door. “Yessir?” The boy’s accent was rough and thick, fresh from the depths of the Seven Dials.
He handed the boy a pack of letters. “Boyd, see that this gets delivered posthaste.”
The boy dipped a bow and closed the door behind him. “Yessir. Of course, sir.”
“She won’t thank you for it.” Wells's voice was a warning Benjamin knew to be valid, and as he walked back behind his desk, he plucked the whisky from his friend’s hand and downed the rest of the glass in one go.