she be family? God forbid. The other one had been gently born, a virgin, a mistake in other words, and Stephen wanted no past scandal rearing its ugly head. So he’d gone to look for himself. And the new girl was not at all what he’d expected. There was a physical similarity, yes. But this one was spirited. Defiant. His lip curled. My God, he’d have enjoyed breaking that spirit.
But if there was a connection, it could mean danger. And his questioning of the girl tonight had been wrecked by damned Alec, who even after Stephen had paid those footmen to give him a beating, had friends running to defend him from all corners of the building!
More than ever Stephen wanted his younger brother destroyed. Alec had been a torment to him since childhood—taking Stephen’s place in their father’s affections, parading himself in his army uniform all around town. Then last year Alec had fortuitously sealed his own fate and got himself disinherited.
But his brother could still be a threat. Best for now to do what he suggested and leave town for a while. Just in case Alec was tempted to do anything rash.
As he cursed his brother anew, Stephen’s eye fell on a cheap news sheet he had picked up earlier. The Scribbler, it was called. Idly, he flicked through it. And he froze.
Why Lady A. feels she has the right to so viciously punish a poor young maid for a minor accident—to inflict such suffering over a mere broken vase!—is, dear reader, beyond the average citizen’s comprehension …
Stephen’s blood boiled. He called Markin, who was dressed in black as usual, and thrust the news sheet at him. ‘Find out where this sordid scandal-sheet is published, will you? And check out the Temple of Beauty, for more about that fair-haired whore!’
There must be a way to find some weakness in his brother’s armour. And bring Alec to his damned knees—for good.
Rosalie got up purposefully the next morning. Last night she had been a scantily-clad Greek goddess, publicly on display. This morning—well, plump Biddy O’Brien, Helen’s cheerful housemaid, had put it best as she settled Katy in her chair and gave her warm milk and toast. ‘Oh, Miss Ros,’ Biddy cried, ‘you look ready to convert the heathen!’
And Helen added drily, ‘My dear. You appear not only dressed for church, but set to preach the sermon.’
Rosalie smiled and poured herself tea. ‘Hardly. Are any of your brothers at home this morning, Biddy?’
‘They are, Miss Rosalie. They’ve got a roofing job this afternoon, but they’ve got the morning free, so they’ll probably just lie around waiting for me to feed them, the great lummocks!’
Helen was looking puzzled. Rosalie quickly drew her aside and whispered, ‘You remember? This morning I’m going to investigate the place called Two Crows Castle.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Helen looked anxious. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it …’
‘Of course you should,’ soothed Rosalie. ‘You can see I’m dressed as a drab little widow …’ she pointed to the cheap ring she wore ‘… and I’m going to take Biddy’s brother Matt with me, just as you suggested. I’ll deliver your Scribblers to Bishopsgate, as well. Don’t look so worried, Helen. It’s broad daylight, and with big Matt O’Brien at my side no one will come near me!’
But Rosalie’s plans went awry almost immediately, because Matt and his older brother had been called at short notice to another job that morning, according to little Joe, the youngest of the family, who at only ten was not much use as a protector.
Rosalie hesitated for only a moment. Then, heaving up her canvas bag of news sheets, she walked down to Clerkenwell Green to hire a hackney cab.
At busy Bishopsgate, the driver softly grumbled as he lifted her heavy bag out of the cab for her. ‘You deliverin’ the Bible or some such round ‘ere, missy? Best make sure you’re well away before the alehouses get crowded at noon. And don’t say I didn’t warn yer!’
Rosalie took charge of her bagful of Scribblers. ‘Consider me warned,’ she said lightly.
A slight breeze lifted the concealing veil of her severe bonnet. The driver looked at her curiously, then his eyes fastened on the plain wedding band on her finger. ‘Why, yer only young. Quite a fetching little thing …’ She snatched her veil down again. ‘Well, well,’ he sighed. ‘You take care now, missy.’
Bishopsgate was busy. First she delivered the copies of The Scribbler to the news vendor, who took them eagerly. ‘These should go like hot cakes, miss!’ he said. ‘‘Specially if there’s a piece in by that fellow Ro Rowland—my gents are fond of them!’
Rosalie smiled. ‘I do believe there is.’ And, her bag now much lighter, she walked on towards Crispin Street.
Thank goodness Helen and Biddy didn’t know she’d ventured here, alone.
Immediately she found herself in a different world. The ancient buildings leaned in over the street, three, sometimes four storeys high; they were unkempt, with broken windows, and in the roughly paved lane dogs nosed amongst heaps of rubbish. Ragged children gathered by doorways, even their attempts at play half-hearted in this oppressive neighbourhood.
As she hesitated, an urchin came up boldly to stare at her and Rosalie asked the grubby child, ‘Can you tell me which house is Two Crows Castle?’
‘It’s the big ‘un, see.’ The child pointed. ‘Can’t miss it. All the soldiers live there.’
Rosalie swallowed and nodded. It was a huge old house set back from the road, with a bunch of men slouching outside, defying the freezing February drizzle that had just started to fall. It must once have been a grand mansion, but grand was no longer the word that applied to it. The broken crenellations resembled nothing more than gapped teeth; the stuccoed façade was cracked and stained. Clearly, as the district had sunk into poverty during the last fifty years, so had this place. And the man who charged the homeless ex-soldiers to live in such squalor was once an army officer. Shameful.
She became conscious of rough-looking people assessing her from open doors, of the smells of greasy cooking and ale from the various taverns. Her heart missed a beat. Time, most definitely, to go. She turned to head back to Bishopsgate, where the street would be busy with shoppers and the atmosphere less menacing. Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming up behind her. And a hand grabbed her arm.
‘Now, what may you be wantin’?’ a rough male voice demanded. ‘Some kind of charity lady, are yer?’
She spun round to see a small but fierce-looking individual in a tattered soldier’s uniform, his whole demeanour made even more sinister by the black eyepatch he wore. A big golden dog hovered close to him, growling softly. And soon there were more men looking her suspiciously up and down, men who’d been loitering outside the ominous building known as Two Crows Castle.
Despite her apprehension, she couldn’t help but gasp, ‘How many of you are there in that place?’
‘None of your damned business, pardon my French,’ Eyepatch said tersely. ‘I’ll let you off with a piece of advice—don’t go stickin’ yer ladylike little nose into other folks’ affairs. Now, be off with you!’ The dog barked in agreement.
In the circumstances, it seemed sensible to do precisely what he said,
