The Devil of Fleet Street (Rotten Scoundrels #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The alley was dank and cold, and reeked of the gutter. Few men came to Whitechapel looking for the truth, but Hugh Stanton had followed worse for a story.

The letter had been in his pocket for three days, a scathing reprimand from his fiercest critic. He should have tossed it into the grate. Instead, he’d read it beneath a guttering flame until he knew every line by heart.

You preach of integrity, sir, then publish lies.

Brave words from a woman too afraid to reveal herself. He’d endured harsher insults from men twice his age, yet hers had teeth.

And here he was, deep in the rookeries, chasing the identity of the only person in London who had managed to unsettle him.

He knew the perfume she used to scent the paper. The bold strokes of her pen. Both designed to burrow under his skin.

All he needed now was her name. Something other than Madam Meddler and the dozen others he’d invented.

Digby would lose a hand if he failed to bring it.

A sound further along the alley had Hugh reaching for the blade concealed in his greatcoat pocket. Not the scurrying of rats this time. The scuff of boots on the cobbles. The unsteady gait of a man in his cups.

Digby appeared, a baron’s wastrel stepson who’d stake his soul on the roll of the dice. With sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, and breath that could floor an ox, he had the look of a bawd’s lackey.

“You’re late.” Hugh had been standing in the same patch of filth for the best part of half an hour. “You’d better have something this time.”

Digby scratched at his collar as if he had fleas. “It’s easier to escape the Tower than learn Lord Howden’s secrets.”

Disappointment sank in his gut. Had he wasted time in this piss-soaked alley just to hear Digby whine?

“Then you’ll return the advance.” Doubtless he’d spent it at faro or on the company of loose women. Some men never learned.

Digby braced his hand on the wall to steady his balance. “Wait. I have a name. One that should be easy for a man like you to investigate.”

“If you’re lying, I’ll put you on the first ship to Calcutta.”

“No. I followed Howden to a house in Soho Square, owned by Thomas Colworth, Viscount Wrenfield’s youngest brother.”

Hugh straightened. “I know who Colworth is. What’s the connection?”

“The men attended Harrow together, then Oxford.”

“Go on.”

“Mrs Colworth has a sister who lives with them. A young woman of marriageable age who sometimes mingles in society. A bluestocking, I’m told.”

Hugh’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t grin. Bluestocking, eh? That matched the profile of a lady with too much time and too many opinions. He could almost smell the ink from her pen.

“Does this bluestocking have a name?” Other than those he’d invented for her. Miss Pious Pen was a particular favourite.

“Miss Vane.”

“Vane?” Hugh did grin then. He’d remember that name.

This was fast becoming a farce, and he’d been cast as the buffoon.

Oh, he could imagine her now, stiff as a poker and just as dull, dress buttoned to the throat, her perfume a weapon to test a man’s wits.

“And you think Howden has set his sights on the chit?”

“It’s said her sister insists she marry well.”

Hugh snorted. “Then she should avoid Howden like the plague.”

“The sister’s holding out for a title.”

Then Miss Vexing Vane had something to recommend her besides a bloodhound’s persistence. Enough, perhaps, to drag a baron like Howden out of bed before noon.

He handed Digby the pouch of sovereigns, muffling the clink of coins. Footpads had ears as sharp as bats. “Mention this to anyone, and I’ll see you’re barred from every gaming hell in town.”

Digby weighed the pouch in his palm as though it held the crown jewels. “Do you want me to follow Miss Vane? See if she visits Howden after dark.” He gave a sly wink. “He’s handsome enough to tempt her.”

Annoyance hit between the ribs. Miss Vane might be a busybody, but she was no fool. From the biting tone of her letters, she was immune to a man’s charm. Good. Because she’d hear the hard truth from him.

“I’ll deal with Miss Vane.”

His pulse rose a notch. He’d catch her unawares and watch her squirm. See if she was as bold in person as she was hiding behind a quill.

“Anything else I can do?” Digby meant he needed money.

“Find out everything you can about the Colworths. Why she lives with them. Why they consider Howden a good match.” Why the sister had Napoleon’s ambition.

Digby smiled like a man dealt an ace. “I’ll send word to The Sentinel when I’ve gathered information.”

Hugh seized his arm and hauled him close. The man was all bone beneath his fingers. “I deal in facts. Make me an object of ridicule, and you’ll pay for it in blood. Is that clear?”

He knew what a lie could cost a man. He’d spent years building something from the wreckage of one. And still it smouldered.

What was left of Digby’s bravado drained from his face. “Clear as a bell, Mr Stanton.”

“Now go, before I change my mind.”

Digby tucked the pouch into his coat pocket, scanned the grim depths of the alley, and hurried away. He’d have more chance of scaling St Paul’s than escaping Whitechapel with a full purse.

The cold followed Hugh out of the alley. He turned up his collar and walked, but his mind had already left Whitechapel, chasing a woman he’d never met. A bluestocking with a terrier’s tenacity and a name that suited her perfectly. Miss Vane. All pride and no surrender.

Now he needed to put a face to the name.

He quickened his pace towards Fleet Street.

The presses were running when Hugh stepped into The Sentinel. Good. Let them thunder. Every page bore his name. He’d built the place from nothing, and he’d not let one woman with scented paper and a talent for accusation bring it down.

Pullman rose from his cluttered desk in the front office, papers stacked for the morning newsboys.

“The watchman’s been in,” Pullman said in his tight Bristolian accent. “There was a robbery out on the heath. Lord Pemberton lost that ruby signet ring he’s so fond of. There’s space to run it in the late edition.”

The lord was always losing something.

“Send someone to speak to our porter at Boodle’s. Men like Pemberton don’t lose rings on the heath. They lose them at the tables. Either way, his father will see some poor devil hang for it.”

Better to run a late story than print lies. Let The Herald risk its integrity.

Pullman nodded. “We were two barrels short of ink on tonight’s delivery. I’ve told them we want it before noon or we’ll move our business to Cambers.”

“Good. Make sure they know we’ll not play second fiddle to our competitors.”

The days rarely ran smoothly, but he had one matter on his mind tonight. An answer to a simple question. Did his nemesis have fair or dark hair? He’d dreamt it was chestnut, though it might have been a nightmare.

He took the stairs two at a time, past the composing room, his men hunched over their type cases by candlelight. He didn’t stop until he reached his apartment on the top floor.

He paused at the door.

Something was wrong.

That’s when he caught it. Not the smell of linseed oil and damp paper but a woman’s perfume. One who had the gall of a heathen army.

He opened his coat and sniffed his pocket. The letter was nowhere near as potent as the smell on the landing.

The hair on his nape prickled. Either he was losing his mind, or—

“I know you’re here, Miss Vane. You may as well show yourself.”

His blood ran a degree warmer. He hoped he was right. Prayed he was wrong. This rivalry fed him like an opium addiction. One he’d be a fool to indulge.

“You know my name, Mr Stanton.”

Her voice was soft. The certainty beneath it, hard as steel.

Satisfaction settled in his chest, but he didn’t turn. Not yet. She had made him wait for weeks. Let her learn the value of patience.

“I’m no dimwit, Miss Vane.” She’d chosen the wrong opponent. One who’d built a career on never being bested. “How would it look if I failed to investigate my own story?”

“Forgive me if I lack faith in you, sir. Despite repeated attempts to address your failings, you have yet to print a retraction.”

He bit back a taunt. After tonight, she’d have no reason to write again. That thought stirred his temper. “And you’re a master of deception. You let me believe you possessed some intelligence, yet your judgement is sorely lacking.”

“Has it occurred to you that you might be wrong? That reporting false claims in your—”

“Enough.” He swung around, keen to set her straight. “Few have the courage to call me a liar, Miss—”

The woman who stepped out of the shadows stole his voice. He’d built an entire portrait of her in his mind, and she’d torn it to shreds in an instant. He’d been wrong about everything but the perfume.

She wore the clothes of a compositor’s apprentice—trousers, an ink-stained apron over her shirt, her hair hidden beneath a cap. Not all of it. One errant strand disproved another assumption. Blonde, not chestnut.

He’d find a naked Godiva less intriguing—and far easier to dismiss.

What the devil did she see in a man like Howden?

“I presume that disguise is how you gained entry.” His gaze moved from her cap to the delicate line of her jaw. Pullman needed spectacles. Or he’d been sipping from the flask in his desk drawer.

“I crept in while your man was busy with the delivery.” She kept her hands clasped behind her back like a governess watching an unruly pupil. “I could hardly walk down Fleet Street wearing a bonnet. Not alone at this hour.”

“Does your sister think you’re in bed?”

Something flickered in her eyes. Surprise, he thought. Perhaps a grudging respect. “She takes laudanum to help her sleep. My brother-in-law wouldn’t dare enter my room, and the servants are exhausted. My nephew is nine months old and cutting teeth.”

“A simple yes would suffice.”

He didn’t need an account of domestic civility.

“You’re a man of facts, Mr Stanton. It’s only right that I give a full account. I wouldn’t want you to invent parts to suit the narrative.”

He muttered a curse. Good thing she wasn’t his apprentice. She’d have a boot to her arse for that.

“Yes, heaven forbid I describe you as genteel.”

“Based on my clothes, that’s a reasonable assumption. Unlike your claims about Hartham Colliery, which seem remarkably short on evidence.”

He inhaled sharply. “You trade insults like a pirate does rum.”

She smiled. Damn her. “Thank you, sir.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, I think it was.”

He ground his teeth. Now she had him questioning his own sanity. “What’s wrong with your hands? Afraid they’ll spoil the disguise?” Perhaps her fingers were disfigured, ink-stained and ugly from hours spent gripping the quill.

She stepped closer, his lungs feeling suddenly tight. “Might we continue this conversation in your apartment? I have something I want to show you. And it’s cold on the landing in just shirtsleeves.”

He couldn’t have her in his home.

He’d not sleep knowing she’d been there.

“Did Howden send you? Is that the price for a title?” He could be just as cutting when the need arose. “If we were betrothed, you wouldn’t be wandering the streets at night, calling on an unmarried man.”

“You left me no choice.” She glanced at the oak door, then at his shoulders, as if weighing her options. “I merely wish to discuss the article that threatens to ruin Lord Howden’s good name.”

Good name? Perhaps he should send for a physician. Then again, the Bedlam cart might serve better.

“So you are secretly betrothed to Howden?”

She didn’t shudder despite the vehemence in his voice. “No. But if he made me an offer, I might be inclined to accept. I have every reason to believe he will.”

His estimation of her plummeted.

She must love Howden. Else, why go to all the trouble?

“You’d take his name knowing what his father did?” His temper rose, injustice a pyre he was determined to keep alight. “Men died at that colliery. Some were crippled, others maimed, all left with no means to feed their families.”

She had the grace to glance at her feet. “Accidents happen, Mr Stanton. But his partner, Sir Robert Bellingham, failed to take the appropriate measures. I’m not disputing your point, only the man responsible, and the conclusion you’ve drawn.”

He reached into his pocket for the door key. “Go home, Miss Vane. I’ll have my coachman leave you on the corner of Soho Square. I’ll not be blamed for your unruly behaviour.”

“You don’t wish to see my evidence?”

He paused, the key midway in the lock.

Her persistence was as irritating as her perfume.

He daren’t inhale. He’d have Pullman leave a barrel of ink on the landing and knock out the bung. “I’ve examined every witness statement. Perhaps you should visit Bellingham’s widow. She’ll tell you what Howden’s treachery did to her daughter’s prospects.”

Her sigh echoed his own frustration.

“You won’t print a retraction? State your error?”

“No. You’ve had a wasted journey. Good night, Miss Vane.” He pushed the door open and didn’t look back. “When you have Pullman summon my carriage, tell him I wish to speak to him about the lapse in security.”

Someone would feel the sharp whip of his tongue tonight.

He paused, the silence stretching long enough for him to hear the click of metal, to know his sweet-smelling nemesis was not done with him yet.

“Be careful,” he said, turning slowly to face the barrel of a duelling pistol. “You do not want me for an enemy, Miss Vane. I’ve tolerated your meddling because it amused me. There’s nothing amusing about a woman in a gaol cell.”

“There is nothing amusing about injustice, Mr Stanton.”

“If it’s the truth you’re after, you’ll find it in The Sentinel.”

“I’m not here for the truth. I seek your protection.”

Protection? Of all the things he’d expected her to say, that hadn’t made the list. He was the last man a sensible woman would choose. But then, he suspected Miss Vane was a little unhinged.