Nero's Fiddle (8 page)

She paced in the familiar warmth of her study while she pondered what to do. She cast a quick glance to her new personal guard and tried not to let the knot of worry chew all the way through her stomach. “I have a few things I want to do in town. Starting off with an expedition to the St Giles Rookery.”

A frown carved deep lines in his brow. “I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Oh I’m going there, you either do your job and tag along or I go alone.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Jackson said you got into more scraps than a nosy kitten.”

“Nosy kitten?” She gave a snort. “Remind me to use him for sparring practice next time he’s in London.” Her plan for the next few days took form in her head. If she was going to reconcile herself to Nate’s actions she first had to understand why he became involved in the Rookery. She couldn’t imagine anything further from the Mayfair mansion and society events he frequented.

“After I drag you through St Giles, I have an even bigger challenge for you.”

He puffed out his mammoth chest. “I can handle anything you throw at me.”

She gave a sly smile. “I need to go see my modiste. I expect you to hold fabric swatches.” Jackson hated the dress maker’s studio, and she was certain he would rather face a charging rhinoceros than a bolt of silk. However, the threat of shopping didn’t elicit the expected reaction.

A smile cracked over Brick’s face and he clasped his hands together. “Oh, lovely, I’ve heard all about Madame Levett.” An animated brown look rested on her and an open expression transformed the man. “God, I’m sick of working the exoskeletons and being covered in grease all day long. What I wouldn’t give to have a nice chiffon in my hands instead of rough spun cotton.”

Cara blinked, unsure of what she just saw and heard. “Pardon?”

A frown settled on Brick’s face and his eyes resembled a puppy caught peeing on the good rug. “Did I say something wrong? Jackson said I could be myself with you, that you wouldn’t judge me for who I am on the inside.” A meaty finger tapped his chest.

Her mind whirred, making sure she understood the subtext before she burst into laughter. “Oh, Jackson, you are such a crème brûlée.” She linked arms with her bodyguard. “You are most certainly free to be yourself around me. I suspect we shall get on swimmingly.”

Cara decided on a direct approach for the issue keeping her awake at night, and walked down New Oxford Street, which cut the St Giles Rookery into halves. If you drew a medieval map of London, the Rookery would be a blank space with the narration
here be dragons
. Londoners considered it the birthplace of crime and vice, and skirted away from its overcrowded streets. The government sought to clean it up by laying a new major road through the middle, but the residents weren’t so easy to budge. Like water, they parted and flowed around the obstacle.

Why did Nate get himself involved here?
She pondered as she walked the visible face of London’s notorious underworld. The streets were busy with vendors and pedestrians despite the snow and cold. Faces pressed to dirty windows above her head and watched her progress. The buildings were worn with chipped facades and dirty brickwork. There were no turbines on the roofs here to power electric lights. Even the gas company stopped at the boundary and lanterns flickered in darkened interiors. The cries of infants drifted through cracked windows along with the laughter of older children. A hundred eyes bore into her as they walked the pavement.

Her mind catalogued all she saw, but none of it made sense. The area was poor but seemed no worse than any other poor neighbourhood. If anything, it seemed slightly better. The drains were clear and she hadn’t seen a single body lying in the street. She needed to talk to people, to understand their daily lives.

“You’re scaring people away,” she muttered to Brick at her side as another woman closed her front door after gawking at Cara.

He gave a snort of laughter. “I was born here, I’m not the problem.”

She stopped to look up at him. “What was it like?”

He gave a shrug and gestured for them to continue walking. He manoeuvred her down a side road, this one narrower and the overhanging buildings offered some protection from the weather. “You know what people in the Rookery are really good at?”

“What?” She heard it was drunkenness and licentiousness, which would Brick chose?

“Dying. That’s why I got out.” His gaze swung back and forth, checking out the environment. Occasionally his attention would be caught by someone and he gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment.

Up ahead, she spied a small group of children playing in the shelter of a wide porch. Sitting on the ground, they took turns tossing knuckle bones into the air and catching them. The children had dirt-smeared faces, but wore smiles that revealed gappy teeth. Their clothing was worn and second-hand but the holes were darned or patched. They all wore heavy socks and boots to keep the cold from nibbling at their toes.

An idea tumbled into her mind and she approached the group. “Can I play too?” she asked, crouching down to their level.

Suspicious looks swung her way. One child scowled, another snatched the knuckle bones as though they thought she would steal them.

“Why?” the scowling child asked.

Cara shrugged and sat on the cold wood of the porch. “I only had one friend growing up and her idea of playing knuckle bones was to stare at one under a microscope.”

“What’s a microscope?” one child lisped between missing front teeth. She was also missing an arm and rested a stump on one knee as she leaned toward Cara, unconcerned by the stranger in their midst.

Cara tapped her chin as she thought how to explain the device. “It’s a piece of glass that makes something little look very big.”

The child frowned. “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

She gave a soft laugh, remembering Amy bent over her microscope while she disappeared out a window. “It wasn’t. I much preferred climbing trees since I could do that on my own.”

The child held out her hand to the scowler in the corner. The knuckle bones changed hands and then she slid them over to Cara. “You can play if you want.”

“What’s your name? Mine is Cara,” she asked as she picked up the yellowed bones.

“Rachel,” the little one said. With her stump, she pointed to the girl wearing the frown. “That’s Sarah and those two are Timmy and Jimmy. They’re twins.” She imbued the word twins with a sense of wonder, as though they were a world oddity.

Cara didn’t have to pretend to be bad at the game, she had lost the knack of how high to throw to scoop up the bones on the ground. They kept raining down around her and soon the children were giggling at her efforts.

“What happened to your arm, Rachel?” Cara picked up the bones and tested the weight in her palm. Around her the children fell silent. They exchanged glances between themselves. The unspoken question shot around the group, how much to tell the new person?

“Poppa did it,” she whispered.

Cara missed her throw with the bones and they scattered over the porch timbers. “Why?” she asked as she picked the pieces up.

The girl wet her lips. “We didn’t make enough begging. Brandt said we would get more if I was a cripple.”

Her heart crumpled for the life these children lead. She would have pulled Brandt’s heart out herself if he materialised in front of her.

“A pleasure to have your company in St Giles, Lady Lyons,” a soft Irish brogue addressed her.

Cara turned to find a man on the street watching her. He wore a heavy wool cloak and a scarf wound around his neck. His head was bare and revealed tousled black hair. Laughing brown eyes watched her.

“You know who I am?”

A wide smile crinkled the corners of his face. “Not too many pants-wearing, gun-toting women wander into the Rookery dragging little Patrick behind them.” He waved a hand in Brick’s general direction on the last part.

“I guess when you describe me like that it does narrow down the available options. But what do you mean little Patrick?” She laughed and glanced at Brick who frowned at the new comer.

The Irish gent gave a wink. “Ask the runt yourself.”

The curious child with the missing teeth elbowed her. “That’s Liam, he’s in charge around here.”

“Is he?” she whispered back.

“Liam O’Donnell, I guess you could call me the mayor of the Rookery.” He doffed an imaginary hat and executed a bow.

“You’re Nate’s man.”

“I’m my own man, but Lyons holds my loyalty. Would you care for the guided tour?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” She rose and dusted off her knees and bottom from where she had been sitting. She waved to the children and promised to visit tomorrow, before she joined Liam on the street.

He fell into step next to her and Brick followed behind. “As lovely as it is to have you grace our streets, might I enquire as to the purpose of your visit?”

She made a gut decision to tell the truth with the self-proclaimed mayor of the Rookery. “Curiosity.”

He laughed. “I have heard that about you.”

“Oh?” She frowned, who exactly was talking about her? Her mind considered chasing that rabbit, but gossip about her wasn’t the reason for visiting the poorest part of town, so she hauled her dog back to the original scent. “I want to know why Nate seized control here.”

He gave her a steady look, his head to one side as though assessing her, and then he made a noise in his throat. “You don’t think he was motivated by altruism and the desire to give us a better life?”

Cara laughed. “I love him and I have seen him do selfless things, but they also advance his own goals in some way.”

“Doesn’t matter if people make their living on their back on their feet, we all pay our tithe to the overlord, whether it’s Brandt or Lyons.”

“Then what’s the difference?” she asked.

“Ah.” He tapped the side of his nose. “The difference is what they do with it. Brandt lined his own pockets and squeezed us for more. Lyons cleaned out the drains, organised gangs of men to check every building had a roof that could keep out the weather and then he set up kitchens to provide one hot meal a day.”

Cara stood on the edge of understanding. On the surface his motives still seemed like the noble philanthropist helping the less fortunate. Scratch the surface and there would be a deeper reason that advanced the Lyons Empire.

“Look around, Lady Lyons, and what do you see?” Liam asked.

As they walked, she scanned the faces on the street and saw a predominance of men standing on the corners. The older ones talked and joked. The younger ones sparred with each other, their moves critiqued by their jeering friends. Young men with idle hands and no direction in their lives.

“Men.” She breathed the syllable as the purpose behind Nate’s altruism hit her. “Men loyal to the person who puts food in their stomachs and gives them something to do with their hands.” Nate had an army at his fingertips, should he ever need one.

Liam nodded. “Now you get it.” He escorted her to the edge of his territory and then shook hands with Brick. “It’s been a pleasure, Lady Lyons.” Another bow, and he headed back down the street, whistling.

1809, twelve years old.