The Fairest of Them All (2 page)

Chapter Two

W
hat the bloody—­?” Whitridge started. The blazing anger in his eyes turned to confusion, then shock. They dropped to her chest as if wanting to confirm the surprise. His hands loosened their rough hold.

Charlene took full advantage.

She could not be caught. She doubled her fist and, fear giving her strength, punched him right in the gut with all she had.

Well, she'd aimed for the gut.

In truth, her blow had fallen lower, to a place most gentlewomen would not touch in public.

And his reaction was all she could have asked for.

He released his grip, doubling over. His breath came out in a grunt of pain.

Char was shocked. Who knew that men were that vulnerable in their private areas? This was a trick she would not forget.

She snatched up her hat from the ground and took off running, pulling her jacket up around her neck to hide her hair. Whitridge did not, or could not, follow, and she found herself looking back, hoping he wasn't mortally wounded.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall. For the briefest moment their gazes met. He was furious.

“I'm sorry. Sorry.”

Whitridge didn't appear in the mood for an apology, so she kept running. She burst out into the street and once again tried to walk, but ­discovered she now had new problems.

As she made her way to Mulberry Street, first one boy of age ten or so and then another fell into step beside her. A bit later, a third, older boy followed close behind.

These
were
street lads, angelic, albeit dirty-­faced, ruffians who roved London in a pack known as the Seven because of their number. They were far better pickpockets than she.

She hoped to ignore them, to keep walking until she reached the back garden gate of her home and safety.

They would not let her.

After a few minutes, the boy on her right, a lad they called Pinky, crossed in her path. Char had to stop.

“
What?
” she said, letting her exasperation show. It was better than allowing them to see her fear.

“Leo wants you,” Pinky said solemnly.

“Tell him I will talk to him later. We will make an appointment.” She tried to sound cheery.

“Leo wants you now,” the boy behind her said. He was Danny and had been her first ­contact at meeting Leo. He was as tall as she and far ­stronger. “The sooner you see him, the sooner you can be finished, my lady,” Danny said.

Of course they knew who she was. The Seven knew everything that happened in the area around Mulberry Street.

With a great show of impatience, she nodded. “Let us go then.” She was certain of what Leo wanted and knew she could not escape this ­interview.

She'd run afoul of the gang the first time she'd gone out to pick pockets. Apparently, the ­criminals of London had divided the city into ­territories. She was in the Seven's territory for petty crimes.

The Seven were children really. Leo was the oldest and he could not be more than sixteen, which didn't truly make him a boy, but the others were as young as eight. They all had one thing in common; life had made them hard.

The boys took her to another long, narrow alley that was much the same as the one she'd used to escape Whitridge. One had to walk sideways in order to pass through this one. The alley gave way to a large courtyard hemmed in by buildings. Wooden boxes, barrels, and crates were stacked together as if they formed small rooms against the far wall. As her party entered the courtyard, boys crawled out of their hiding places. Three pairs of eyes solemnly watched her approach the largest of the boxes. A cloth flap on one side was pushed out and Leo emerged.

He was rapier-­thin and wore what had once been a gentleman's green velvet evening jacket. Around his neck he'd knotted a black scarf, and he sported a
chapeau bras
on his head so that he reminded her of nothing less than a very young, slyly menacing Napoleon. He liked to carry a riding crop, which she had witnessed him use on the younger boys. He had his crop in his hand now.

His voice was always soft but she had a sense that he could harm her. To date, he had been careful with her, almost respectful, and she prayed her luck held.

“Lady Charlene,” he said, bowing with a ­courtier's mocking grace.

“What do you want, Leo?” she answered, taking this moment to push her hair up under her hat.

“Besides the money you owe me for working in the Seven's territory last month? It was a guinea, my lady. A fair price and you have not paid it yet. However, today you have cost me extra. You went over the boundary into someone else's territory this afternoon. They want tribute from me. They want four guineas.”

“Four guineas? For nothing?” she protested.

“They claim you were successful.”

“I wish I had been.” She wondered if lying was a sin if one lied to criminals. She needed the money in that purse. “I thought I had a fat pigeon but those flapping chickens the girl was carrying were in my way. I missed the purse.”

“Why did that man call you thief?”

“Because he thought I had nabbed it. I didn't. Once he realized his mistake he let me go. Pinky can tell you the truth of what I say if he saw me chased into the alley. I walked out as cool as you please.”

Leo studied her a moment. She couldn't tell if he believed her. She did know one thing; if he did place his hands on that purse, he would take it all. She would not give it up without a fight.

Suddenly he turned and walked back to his lair. “Very well. I want a fiver from you, my lady, along with what you already owe.”

She waited for him to demand she pay it by a certain date, but he didn't. Instead, at the “door” to his abode, he faced her and said, “You are going into debt quickly. That seems to be a family trait. Some of the gents were very familiar with your father.”

Whenever he spoke of “gents,” she knew he spoke of those on the next level up from him. He aspired to be one of their number.

“They were there when he was pulled from the Thames. Bad luck that.” There was no sympathy in his voice. “Be wise, my lady. Be very wise.” He let his words sink in and then said, “You are free to go.”

He did not have to repeat himself. Char backed up, keeping her eye on all seven of them. She tried to appear calm but inside, she was shaking.

Did Leo suggest that her father had owed money to the criminal element in London? That his death might not have been a suicide but a murder? That she, too, could meet such a fate?

She did not want to think on it. She ducked into the alley and once on the road, almost ran home to Mulberry Street. Now she didn't know if she was fortunate to still have the money purse.

When she reached her back gate, she looked around to be certain no one was watching before letting herself through. She ran across the damp ground to the door leading into the kitchen.

Mulberry Street was a shabby but respectable neighborhood. The house had two floors other than the ground floor and a basement. There were three bedrooms, a front room, a dining room, and then the kitchen. The foyer was little more than a landing with steps leading upstairs. A second set of stairs behind a door ran up from the kitchen. The rooms on the ground floor all opened up to each other, and overall, it was a cozy place to call home.

Char didn't believe she'd ever been so happy to be here. She pulled the money purse from her pocket and practically stumbled over to the kitchen table, where she threw it down and, ­bracing her hands against the hard wood, allowed herself a moment of blessed relief. She'd done it. She'd kept her prize—­

Footsteps could be heard coming down the hall.

“Char?” her aunt Sarah called.

What was she doing here?
She had left for the theater hours ago and should not have returned until late evening. Char would never have left the house if she'd anticipated Sarah returning at this hour—­and she knew better than to let her aunt catch her wearing breeches.

Sarah may be an independent thinker, but Char would wager she would draw the line at her niece parading through London as a lad, or a pickpocket.

Forgetting the money purse on the table, Char ran to the kitchen door. She had just closed it behind her when she heard Sarah in the kitchen, calling her name.

As quickly and quietly as she could, Char climbed the stairs. Her bedroom was the first closed door to the right of them. She raced into her room and shut the door behind her.

She yanked off her jacket and drew up the shirt, kicking her shoes off at the same time, which was not effective at removing either. Blinded by ­material, she fell onto her bed. Jerking the shirt off, she tossed it toward the wall behind her bed, threw each shoe after it, and fumbled with the buttons of her breeches—­

A knock sounded on the door. “Char? Are you in your room?”

There was no time to completely undress. She also could not avoid Sarah. Her aunt was known for her persistence.

Breeches loose around her hips so that she had to hold them up, Char cracked open the door. She peered outside at her aunt.

Sarah Pettijohn was four-­and-­thirty and had flawless skin and deep red, red hair that she twisted into a heavy, thick chignon at the nape of her neck. She was quite simply the most ­wonderful, wisest person Char knew.

After Char's mother, Julie, had died, Sarah had swept into her life and saved her when no one in the world appeared to give a care for her twelve-­year-­old self. Sarah had proved her wrong.

It hadn't been easy for Sarah to take her on. Sarah was actually Julie's half sister, having been born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak. At one point, long before Char had memory, Julie had insisted Dearne let her take in her half sister. That was when Sarah herself was thirteen.

“One act of kindness always kindles another,” Sarah liked to say. “When I heard that you had been turned over to that disgusting man Davies for no other reason than that he was considered your only kin, I knew I had to do what I could to help you. He has a terrible reputation around London, especially for young girls.”

Char hadn't been certain what her aunt meant but she did know she did not feel comfortable around her uncle and decidedly did not like his wife. Her aunt May constantly complained about how much feeding Char cost no matter how little Char tried to eat to keep her happy.

Back then, Char had been afraid of everything. Losing both of her parents had been beyond painful and it had left her destitute. Sarah had encouraged her to be brave. “Your truth is what you believe of yourself,” she'd told Char until the words were engraved in her soul.

Under Sarah's tutelage, Char had blossomed. Her aunt believed that a woman should seek knowledge. She was fiercely passionate about all aspects of life, especially the theater. Her one goal was to see her plays under
her
name someday performed on the London stage, or anywhere else for that matter. “I know it will happen,” she would say to Char, “as long as I don't give up.”

Char admired her aunt so much, she had once tried writing plays as well, but she had lost interest. Writing was hard work and she didn't have anything to say.

Instead, she had contented herself with taking care of their house, well, until she'd discovered the adventure of pickpocketing—­and then ­something had opened up inside Char. She didn't know what she exactly wanted out of life except she knew she rather enjoyed living by her wits—­save for when her aunt was standing at the door and could, ­possibly, learn what mischief she'd been about.

For all that had happened in her own adventurous life, Sarah could be very moral. She would not approve of pickpocketing.

“Yes?” Char said, and rubbed her eyes as if she had been woken from sleep. Of course she had to let go of the breeches and they fell to the floor at her feet, but Sarah didn't notice.

She was focused on Char. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I've been calling you. In fact I knocked on your door not minutes ago.”

“Oh, that might be why I woke up. I was napping.”

“You never nap.”

“I did today. By the way, why are you here? Shouldn't you be at the theater?”

Sarah grabbed the change of subject. “I should but Lady Baldwin came to me with such good news, I told Colman I had to go home. I was only the understudy tonight and Melissa has already arrived so I knew I would not be needed. Well, he would
find
something for me to do—­you know how he is—­but he let me off tonight.”

Her aunt never missed a performance, even when all she had to do was stand backstage.

Curious now, Char asked, “What news did Lady Baldwin have?”

“Something that involves you.” Sarah's green eyes lit with excitement. “She's downstairs. I will let her tell you herself. However, this is your chance, Char.
At last
, you have an opportunity to take your place in Society where you belong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come downstairs and find out. I can't wait to see your expression when you learn what it is.” She started to turn away but then stopped. She held up her hand to show Char the money purse. “By the way, I found this on the kitchen table. Is it from Davies?”

Char could have cried.

The money was now in her aunt's hands. There would be no opportunity to remove five guineas. Sarah kept a strict accounting of expenses.

“Um, yes. A servant delivered it earlier.”

“I didn't see it on the table when I first came in this afternoon,” Sarah said, puzzled.

“Perhaps you missed it?” Char suggested.

Her aunt shrugged. “You might be right. I'm so excited about Lady Baldwin's news, I'm giddy. I could have looked right over it. Thank heavens it is here and it feels as if he is making up for what he hasn't sent.”

“Have you looked to see how much is in it?”