scrunched up in distaste and his fine coat was crumpled with travel, dotted with Bristol Harbour’s rain, and smudged with the coal-smoke scents that dirtied the night. A man in his middling years, he shuffled cautiously past unkind faces and vulgar scenes, with a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, as though it would protect him from catching the ill repute that hung about the place as stubbornly as its grime.
“Roscoe,” he muttered to a barkeep. “Where?”
A rag was waved towards a corner occupied by three shapes. False female laughter could be heard, accompanied by a lower, amused tone. Lounging in between two women was a bruised and bloodied man. There was a cut above his eye and marks along his knuckles. Dark hair flopped across his forehead, mussed and damp, while yesterday’s five o’clock shadow had stolen away any sign that he was ever once a gentleman.
“Ladies, I’ve already told you,” said Isaac Roscoe, with an easy manner and a cocky smile, “I cannot afford your company tonight.”
“Don’t be cruel,” replied one, stocky and comely, her skin goose-pimpled from the chill and how little she wore. “You threw that fight. Got paid well for it an’ all. That’s what they’re all saying at the docks.”
“Then you better tell me who’s spreading those little lies, Mags,” he said into her ear, a deep purr that had the desired effect: lust and not a little fear. “That’d be bad for my business and for yours as well…” Isaac trailed off, his brown eyes snapping up when he found his conversation was no longer private. The merchant was hovering awkwardly nearby and stole away his easy mood. “We’ll finish this later, loves.”
Mags pressed her mouth to the cut on his lip, pulling a wince from him. “Be sure you do.”
The women were dismissed with a lingering smile that faded the instant they had gone.
The two men were left alone.
Isaac leaned across the table. “Do you have the money, Griswell?”
“You shall get it when I have what I want,” said the merchant, unwilling to sit down, lean on or touch any surface. “I want the happy couple broken up. I want that Osbourne girl put in her place.”
“She will be,” promised Roscoe, with a flash of teeth. “You know my reputation; I’ve never failed before.”
Money will buy you anything: flesh, sin and ruin. Isaac Roscoe knew his talents and others knew them, bought them – to use against others. He’d seduced his victims across the British Isles. He’d made a name for himself, yet not enough to limit his activities. It had made him a pretty penny and it would make him even more in the coming months.
“I have expenses,” Isaac continued. “I can hardly tempt a respectable woman while looking like a vagabond, can I?”
The logic was begrudgingly sound and Griswell threw a few slips of paper towards the younger man. “You’ll get the rest when my daughter is wed to that rich fool and not before.”
Isaac held a feral grin that bordered on dangerous. “That’s not what we agreed.”
“It isn’t, and yet you’ll still do as I command because you’re desperate,” sniffed the merchant. “If you won’t do it, Roscoe, I’ll find another who will.”
Pride almost won out. It compelled Isaac to refuse, to use his practised fists, to beat down the upper-class crow who gave him orders as though he were little better than the women whose warmth still remained in the cushions beside him.
“I want the girl ruined, I want the engagement called off, and I want my family tied with the Pembrokes. Those damn Osbournes don’t deserve to be connected to a family like the Pembrokes.” A hand was thrust towards Isaac, speckled and veined. “Do you understand me?”
Reluctantly, Isaac nodded, feeling Griswell’s cold rings bite into his palm. “Consider it done.”
The deal was made, a small sum was exchanged, and a woman was doomed to fall.
Ruth
Dresses made from Indian shawls, bright textiles, exotic dishes and flickering torches had turned Vauxhall Gardens into a far-off paradise. Summer had arrived and the evening was blissfully mild as it drew its night-time veil across London. The social season was coming to a close, with the wealthier classes hosting a few final balls and bashes, before vanishing to their country manors for cleaner air and better sport.
Against the vibrant backdrop, Ruth Osbourne was ill-placed. She was fresh from Miss Lamont’s Academy for Young Ladies and looked it: overwhelmed, unworldly and wide-eyed against the perfect, practised flirtations that the other women around her were well-versed in. Even Lottie, her dearest friend and fellow former pupil, managed to acclimatise herself far better at the grand party, which had been thrown by a rich earl with too much money, too little sense, and a thirst for fame.
“You miss the little ones, don’t you?” It was more an accusation than a question from Lottie. Ever since they’d gained their freedom, the bolder woman had been all too keen to forget she’d ever been sheltered from such an exciting social life. Ruth, on the other hand, kept looking back.
“There will be no one to look after them,” said Ruth quietly. “Miss Lamont isn’t kind.”
“That is an understatement.” Lottie snorted, quickly covering her mouth with her fingers. Well-bred ladies did not snort and she was determined that people would view her as one, even if her father had earned his money through trade. “They will have to look after themselves from now on.”
“Like you did?”
Lottie quietened then, expression softening. Back when they were younger, in the first days in the academy’s halls, Ruth had found Lottie hiding in a wardrobe, in pieces after a stern lecture from Miss Lamont. They were familiar to one another through their family acquaintances, but were far too different in temperament to strike up a natural friendship. At the academy, that had changed, for there was no one else. Lottie’s hands had held red, angry lines from the wooden rod their captor and instructor always carried with her. Young Ruth had not spoken and had simply scrunched herself up, in the empty corner opposite Lottie, their knees touching under their plain dresses, because she believed no one should be sad alone. They had been friends ever since.
“I never imagined it would be so wild,” said Lottie, as odd, trilling music met their ears.
It was like drowning. Ruth missed the academy’s halls, the little girls, the structure and routine. She missed knowing everything, being the one others turned to, an authority figure. Here, in London, she was a nobody and she knew nothing. The book smarts and collected air she held were no longer assets. Cleverness, she had been repeatedly told, was wasted in a woman. And worse still, she had never even spoken to a man – at least not one her age. Uncle Osbourne and their stuffy few friends and relatives did not count. But it was not as though any man would give her a second glance in her attire.
The cream summer dress Ruth wore was ill-fitting, layered with faded lace, and the gloves along her arms would not stay put. The lacklustre colour washed out her complexion and made her look like an old bag, not a young woman.
