Rogue in Red Velvet Page 10

  Mother Dawkins stood there. “She all right?”

  “Come and see for yourself.” He opened the door wider.

  The madam had removed the cloak, hat and gloves she’d worn for her journey, revealing her glorious gown for tonight. She specialized in finery to the edge of irony and tonight was no exception. Scarlet gown and yellow petticoat, both fabrics the finest silk, neither the right shade for the other. Her cap was a profusion of lace, the lappets touching her shoulders. She handled Connie gently, putting her hand over her forehead and then tucking her hair away from her face. “She’ll be fine. A day or two and she’ll be just like new. A big sleep and she’ll feel much better, more herself. After that, a good meal. Do you want her to stay here?”

  Her accent had turned more natural, less heavily accented and Alex wondered, not for the first time, where the lady’s origins lay. A respectable man’s daughter, perhaps, making the best of what she had, like many of the whores in the Garden. This one had risen high, ran her own establishment, which proudly proclaimed it owned the reputation of being the best whorehouse in London. He respected that ambition in a woman and he never made the mistake of underestimating the redoubtable Mother Dawkins. “If it’s convenient.”

  Dawkins gave a wry grin. “Hardly. You’re taking up a good bedroom here. I could rent this by the hour. But I’m only charging you two night’s rent. For the favor you’re doing me, I’d like to give it you but business is business.” Plus the extra incentive.

  Alex smiled, the first one since he couldn’t remember when, relief washing through him. He’d achieved the first part of his plan. Now to decide what to do next. “I know. I’m only too glad to pay. When she wakes I’ll send for her maid, then we’ll go.”

  Mrs. Dawkins nodded. “She needs somebody to sit with her. Best it’s someone she knows.”

  “Where’s the other girl I bought?”

  She shrugged. “I took her to Bow Street, since my doctor’s not available right now. Magistrate Fielding kept her and promised he’d look after her.” The doxy chuckled. “He was outraged when he saw who was at his door. You know how he feels about us harlots. Wants to reform the lot of us.”

  Most people knew the Fieldings’ opinion on the harlots who thronged the area where they held sway. Magistrates at Bow Street, just around the corner, they dealt with a lot of people from the trade.

  Alex shrugged off his heavy evening coat and laid it across the back of the only comfortable chair in the room, then helped Mrs. Dawkins sit, using his best courtly style. She loved what she called gentlemanly behavior and it wouldn’t do any harm to butter her up a bit.

  He took the hard, wooden chair. He didn’t much care which one he used. “I’d have paid good money to see you and Fielding go at each other.” Mother Dawkins lifted a penciled brow. “Not like that. The verbal exchange would be enough.”

  He didn’t like to think of anything else. The ample Mrs. Dawkins and the equally ample magistrate would make a formidable coupling. Perhaps it was just as well that they were on opposite sides of the legal fence. “So what did he say?”

  “He got the gist when ’e saw the girl in Gosset’s arms. She was out cold by then. I told him the truth. There was an auction going on and they were drugging the girls near to death. Appealed to his chivalry. Told him that I was laying information because I didn’t want no trouble on my side of the Square. A law-abiding bawdyhouse, we are. He laughed, damn his eyes. But he knows if he raids my establishment, he’ll find nothing he shouldn’t.”

  And wasn’t that the truth. Not that her house had been raided for a long time now. She paid her dues and the officers left her alone. But Fielding was as near incorruptible as a magistrate could be, so he was the right man to go to in this case.

  “So I said to ’im I want that woman out of that house. Sooner or later somebody’s going to die there. He asked me how I found out and I said you was passing my house with the skinny maid in your arms and I took charge. I told him your name, since you said you wanted me to.” She scratched her upper arm and grinned at him, perfect pearly whites gleaming in the low light of the two candles Alex had left burning in their ornate silver holders.

  Alex nodded. “I’ll confirm your story if he asks. Hopefully, he’ll think it was just the one girl I saved.”

  “What about the other gentlemen there?”

  “I know their names. I’ll deal with them.” How, he didn’t yet know, but a plan was slowly forming in his mind.

  He got rid of Mother Dawkins’s thorn in her side, or rather, thorn next door. That was his bargain. She would give Connie sanctuary if he helped her get rid of Cratchitt and her unsavory practices. And her competition.

  But for now, all his concentration was on Connie.

  “Fielding kept the girl but he got one of his maids to put her to bed and watch her. After getting a man in to bear witness about her condition. I told him I don’t hold with abducting respectable girls for the trade. He said he thought we were all evil but he’d fight one battle at a time. There’s going to be a hell of a row next door. This room’s at the front of the house. You can watch it from the window. Do you think the auction’ll go on much longer?”

  “I doubt it. But there’ll be fun and games after. Enough for the authorities to find.”

  She made a sound of disgust. “I can’t understand ’ow she got a house like that. I mean, the rougher trade’s on the other side of the square and by the piazza, in the smaller places and the shacks. These establishments cost a fortune. I only employ the best here and I’m barely holding on. But the gentlemen who come to these houses want a bit of class. Not just a roll in the ’ay.”

  Alex loved listening to her. To the customers she was the madam who arranged the fun and games, who ruled her kingdom with an iron rod. But her girls were never anything but lively and the doctor visited every week to ensure they were clean. “When does your doctor come?”

  “The pox man?” She waved a beringed hand, the multi-colored jewels glittering in the candlelight. “You shouldn’t need ’im. Your young woman’ll come round on her own.”

  “You know I’ll go after the man who had this done to her, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Just keep the trouble away from my house.”

  “Oh I mean to,” he said grimly. “It won’t happen here. I owe him, and it won’t be easy and it won’t be fast. And he won’t do this to anyone else, ever again.”

  “Good to know,” she said. “I’ll try to find out who sponsored Cratchitt. Of course, she could have had a nest egg saved up but she didn’t come from anywhere I know.” She shrugged. “Which more or less rules out London. Could be a country madam come to try her hand in the city. In any case, the extra money your mark gave her wouldn’t have come amiss. He might have paid for tonight’s fun and games. Though I’d like to know what he’s going to those lengths for.” She yawned hugely but didn’t cover her mouth.

  “Connie was inconvenient to his plans but he didn’t want to kill her. That could catch up with him one day. So he tried to disgrace her. He’d made sure enough members of society were there tonight for the word to get around.”

  Jasper Dankworth didn’t have the money to pay for a venture like this. Barely enough to take advantage of it. Alex had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who was funding this venture. He needed to speak to his cousin. Julius knew much more than Alex did about the Dankworth factory.

  “So he’s won the first round,” the madam said.

  His determination firmed. Jasper Dankworth wouldn’t win any more. “And thanks to your help, I’ve won the second. If Fielding can get Mrs. Cratchitt to lay evidence against him, I might even help her.”

  Mrs. Dawkins gave a harsh laugh. “Don’t bank on it. She’ll be in Bridewell before the week’s out.”

  “Not if Fielding gets her.”

  Connie stirred and moaned.

  Immediately Alex tended to her, soothing her with soft murmurs of, “I’m here, you’re in safe hands now,” and she settled
down again. Once he was sure she was fine, he returned to his conversation with the madam. “Fielding doesn’t believe in sending doxies to Bridewell. A whore’s academy, he calls it.”

  She gave a grim smile. “He might have a point.”

  A commotion erupted outside the window. Covent Garden was never quiet but this cacophony overtopped the usual sounds of revelry. Alex got to his feet and went to the window. And smiled.

  Several burly men were hammering on the door of the house next door. If Alex stood to one side of the window, he could see them very clearly. The sound of their pounding echoed off the buildings ringing the piazza, attracting the attention of the roués and whores lounging around. Their raucous cries added to the row.

  If it were he, Alex would have people around the back of the house. Since Mother Dawkins had a vested interest in seeing the house taken down, she’d willingly provide access if they needed it.

  The door opened from the inside and the men poured in, shouting.

  The powerful scent of lily-of-the-valley indicated his hostess had come to stand by his side, “I’m surprised you’re not downstairs supervising,” he said.

  “I’m here with you. You can vouch for that, right?”

  He might have known it wasn’t his scintillating company or concern for Connie that moved Dawkins to linger here. She wanted a witness to confirm she had nothing to do with this raid. Mother Cratchitt might have friends who would object to another of their kind peaching.

  Out of the front of the house streamed half-dressed doxies and clients but none that he’d seen in the large saloon on the first floor. They’d pay to leave by the back door, too influential to become involved in this. Or they’d stay where they were and leave when the fuss died down.

  The crowd jeered as the doxies left, formed a column to stop the officers taking the whores away but so far, they kept the proceedings in good heart. No trouble. The mob could change its mind in a flash, turn from good natured to vicious killers, rampaging through houses and streets.

  Alex addressed Mrs. Dawkins. “You have your bullies ready?”

  She waved a hand, vaguely indicating the door. “Oh yes. All but two downstairs and a few hired chair carriers to bulk them up. We’re well protected here.”

  He nodded. Safer than trying to leave this house with Connie in the middle of this rabble. If necessary they would barricade the door but he doubted anyone would get this far. “We have a good view from here. Do you know any of the girls?”

  Mrs. Dawkins peered closer. “Some. One or two single workers with their own lodgings. Probably looking for a bit more work where somebody else pays for the wine and the food. One or two new girls. I might look into them once they get out but they’ve got to be good to work here.”

  One of the house bullies from next door left carrying a woman. Her pale skin gleamed with sweat and she stirred weakly in the man’s arms. He held her closer and glanced, grim-faced at one of the officers who indicated a vehicle drawn up by the house.

  The crowd fell relatively silent, with individual catcalls and not yells. Several women were carried out and loaded into the waiting carriages. At least two women weren’t moving and lay limp in the arms of the men who carried them. They could be dead. Alex feared for them, then, struck by a new thought, he spun around. Connie had taken the same drugs.

  He turned to the figure in the bed and didn’t return to the scene outside until the covers moved when Connie breathed. “Are you sure she’ll be all right?” he asked Mrs. Dawkins.

  “Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t puked some of it up. They don’t know what they’re doin’. It’s criminal.”

  She didn’t realize the irony of her worlds. He didn’t feel up to arguing the point at the moment. He’d rather watch the activity in the square and keep an eye on Connie.

  With the house empty, even Cratchitt carried away and marched around the corner in the direction of Bow Street, the officers left. And didn’t bother to close the door behind them.

  The mob shrieked and surged in.

  Alex turned away, not interested in watching the windows smash and the valuables destroyed or stolen, or the scared customers flushed out from hiding. If it didn’t find what it wanted there, the rabble might turn on other houses. A few night watchmen’s kiosks would be destroyed tonight unless their owners fortified them.

  “They’re not in a bad case,” said the madam. “I’ve seen enough riots to sense the mood. They won’t go running tonight.” Once roused, a London mob could destroy houses, shops, each other, anything that got in its way.

  He had to accept her word because he was effectively locked in here, at least until the morning. He could only wait and hope that Mrs. Dawkins was right, both about the mob and about Connie. She slept now but she might never wake up.

  If that happened, he’d kill Dankworth and to hell with the consequences.

  Chapter 9

  Connie blinked and light pierced her eyes but it wasn’t as painful as the dagger someone was repeatedly stabbing through her head. She wished they’d stop doing it. Nausea roiled through her belly and she took a deep breath, then another.

  She heard a voice, so soft she couldn’t be sure it existed outside her head. “Connie?”

  Soft bedamned. The echoes revolved around her. She groaned. “Not so loud.”

  A chuckle. It was him. Either that or her imagination had taken wings. Cautiously, she turned her head, glad to find a soft pillow supporting it.

  Alex sat on a chair next to the bed, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a branch of candles. Grey dawn filtering through the narrow window. She opened her mouth. “I dreamed about you.” She was mildly surprised that speech emerged.

  He placed a damp cloth on her forehead. Her headache receded a tiny bit under the blessed coolness. “I trust they weren’t too disturbing. I came as soon as I could.”

  “What happened to me?” Visions shot through her mind. Arriving at the inn, then flashes of memory, or dreams, she didn’t know which.

  “You were abducted from the Belle Sauvage.” He kept his voice low but emotion throbbed in the low tones.

  “I remember arriving at the inn then something happened.” She spoke slowly, drawing out her words, trying to dispel the sick, floating dizziness. “Then a woman told me to drink something, that it would do me good. She said I was ill. Then little bits of memory.” She waved a hand, glad she could still do so. “That’s not right. Dreams, visions, drinking again. Wine and something else, sweet and sickly. I was sick and somebody brought a fresh pot, then I was sick again. Someone undressed me and said they’d bring me fresh clothes. Then noise and people. And I thought I saw you, in red but I couldn’t have, could I?” Her voice tailed off.

  “Look over there.”

  A figured velvet coat in a rich red color was draped carelessly over a chair.

  “I couldn’t stop what they did to you. I’m sorry, Connie.”

  “What did they do?” It was real. Her dreams were real. What did that mean? Connie felt anchorless, plunged into a place she didn’t understand so that even as the clouds in her mind cleared she entered another world. “I came to London to see Jasper. He said we were to be married.”

  A pause, then, “I know.”

  She sat upright. The room spun around her once more. Putting her elbows on her upraised knees, she planted her hands either side of her head, holding it steady. “My maid came with me. Did they hurt her?”

  “I have her safe.”

  “Oh thank God!” A surge of relief filled her she felt a little better sitting up. Either that, or she’d left some of the headache behind. She dared to release her head, relieved when it stayed on her shoulders.

  The mattress depressed when he came to sit on the bed by her side. He put his arm around her shoulders. Shamelessly she leaned against him, his hard-packed body a place of strength in her shifting universe.

  He stacked pillows behind her and leaned her against them. “Can you drink something?”<
br />
  She shuddered. “That’s what they did. Kept making me drink.”

  He waited until she turned her head and met his gaze. “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course.” She said it before her mind processed the question but it was true.

  “Then drink this.” He held a glass to her lips and obediently, she swallowed. Lemon and honey barley water, a nursery drink. But thirst-quenching and so welcome. A tang of the sickly sweet drug they must have fed her remained on her tongue but the fresh taste helped to wash it away. She sipped then gulped. When she’d emptied the glass, she demanded more.

  He laughed softly. “Not yet. Let your body absorb it first.”

  She wanted to find her anchor again, reconnect with the flow of her life. “I arrived in London on Thursday. What day is it today?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Oh.” Exhausted, she leaned against his shoulder instead of the pillows and he didn’t move away. He only wore a shirt and waistcoat and she became aware of his body as she rarely did of any man’s, warm, and firm under her cheek. A refuge when she needed one.

  “They took you on Thursday and kept you drugged until last night. They gave you a mixture of substances. You weren’t the only woman they took.” Abruptly, he stopped.

  “Tell me everything.”

  He nodded. “You deserve to know. They took other girls as well. Madams and bullies sometimes meet unaccompanied women off the stages. The girls think they’re going to a respectable house to be maids but they’re introduced to houses of ill repute instead. Some take to it, some do not. Sometimes they’re drugged. It’s a regular occurrence but not for respectable women of some substance. Someone paid them to put you in the latest house.”

  “A…” She knew the word but she couldn’t say it.

  He could. “A brothel. Like this one.”

  With a stifled exclamation, she jerked away and then wished she hadn’t because her head throbbed anew.

  He drew her back against him. He smelled good, a faint trace of the citrus scent she remembered from their time at the Downholland’s, plus a stronger aroma of soap and pure, clean male.