Amanda Quick - The River Knows

“Well, then,” she said, and then stopped.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her gently.

Her brows snapped together. “What question?”

“When did you develop your great passion for bringing the criminals of the Polite World to justice?”

“Oh. After I came to stay with Emma.” She looked out the window. “Before that I took it for granted that there was nothing that could be done about such people.”

“Did something happen to someone you care about?” he asked, probing carefully. “Something that inspired your desire to see justice rendered among those who move in Society?”

“It was nothing personal,” she said smoothly. “Merely my observations of the world.”

She was lying, he realized. Very interesting.

He smiled slightly. “One of these days I will have to introduce you to a friend of mine. He is a man who understands what it is to be driven by a passion for justice. The two of you will have much to talk about, I think.”

She glanced at him, frowning slightly. “Who is he?”

“His name is Fowler. He is a detective in Scotland Yard.”

An expression that could only have been horror flashed across her face. It was gone almost immediately, but not before it had made a forceful impression on him.

“You are personally acquainted with a policeman?” she asked tightly.

There was mystery upon mystery here. He folded his arms and lounged deeper into the corner of the carriage, his curiosity thoroughly aroused.

“Fowler was the man who investigated Fiona’s death,” he explained. “He also dealt with the suicide of Victoria Hastings. Like me, he was convinced that there was a connection to Elwin Hastings, but he could find no way to prove it.”

She was gripping her parasol so fiercely now, it was a wonder the handle did not snap. “Did this detective also investigate the third suicide that you mentioned? The one that took place that same month?”

“Joanna Barclay? Yes. He was obliged to look into it because he investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.”

“I see.”

She seemed to be having difficulty breathing.

“Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, abruptly concerned.

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” She hesitated. “I was not aware that you were associated with someone from Scotland Yard.”

“I do not advertise it to the world for obvious reasons. Fowler is equally cautious about keeping our connection quiet.”

“I see. You must admit that it is somewhat unusual for a gentleman of your rank to have a close acquaintance with a policeman.”

He shrugged. “Fowler and I share a mutual interest.”

“Proving that Hastings murdered Fiona?”

“Yes.”

“Can I assume that Mr. Fowler is the source of your information concerning Elwin Hastings?”

Anthony inclined his head. “He also supplied me with some background on Clement Corvus. Fowler has been most helpful.”

She gave him a brittle little smile. “How nice for you.”

A short time later Anthony escorted her to the front door of Number Twelve and bid her farewell.

“Send word to my address immediately if and when you hear from Miranda Fawcett,” he said as Mrs. Galt opened the door.

“I will,” she promised, desperately wanting to be rid of him.

He gave her a cool, assessing look and then stepped back. Nodding politely to Mrs. Galt, he went down the steps toward the waiting cab.

Louisa rushed into the hall, feeling as if a legion of demons were in pursuit. She practically hurled her bonnet and gloves to Mrs. Galt.

“Is Lady Ashton home?” she asked.

“Not yet, ma’am. She’s due back from her Garden Society meeting very soon, though.”

“I’ll be in the study.”

It was all she could do to walk, not run, down the hall. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. Clasping the knob behind her back with both hands, she sagged against the wooden panels.

She could not seem to catch her breath. It was as though she were wearing a steel corset. Her pulse was pounding. She wanted to flee, to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

She needed something for her nerves. Pushing herself away from the door, she crossed to the brandy table, yanked the stopper out of the decanter, and splashed a large amount of the contents into a glass. She swallowed too much the first time, sputtering wildly and choking a little. Gasping for air, she began to pace the room.

“Remain calm,” she said. “He cannot know who you are. There is no way he will ever learn the truth.”

Wonderful. Now she was talking to herself.

She took another swallow of brandy, a smaller sip this time, and went to the window. She looked out into the garden.

Inwardly she was reeling. Perfectly understandable, she assured herself. She had sustained one great shock followed by another. First there had been that devastating kiss. Then had come the equally devastating news that the man who had just thrilled her senses was personally acquainted with the detective who had investigated the murder of Lord Gavin.

She tried another sip of brandy. It was some time before her breathing returned to normal, but gradually the panic drained away.

It would be all right, she thought, setting the empty glass aside. She would have to be very careful, of course, but she was in no immediate danger of discovery. Clearly Anthony was consumed with his desire to avenge Fiona. As long as his attention was riveted entirely on achieving justice for the lady he had loved and lost he had no reason to become overly curious about the woman who was helping him in the project. Did he?

She tried to think logically. Unfortunately, the brandy rather muddled her brain. One thing was obvious, however. It would be best if there were no more kisses. It would be extremely foolish to become involved in an illicit affair with Anthony Stalbridge. No good could come of it. Illicit affairs always came to bad ends.

A sense of gloom replaced the nervy fear. She gripped the edge of the window, leaned her forehead against the glass panes, and closed her eyes. What would it be like to be loved the way Anthony had once loved his dear Fiona? She knew that she would never learn the answer to that question.

Daisy Spalding awoke to a sea of pain. The opium concoction she had taken last night had worn off, leaving her to the anguish of her bruised and battered body. She sat up cautiously on the narrow cot and took stock. She had survived another client, but only by the skin of her teeth. If one of the other customers had not heard the noise through the walls and come to investigate, she would have been dead this morning.

The client last night had been the most violent one yet. She had seen the madness in his eyes when he had tied the gag around her mouth and bound her hands behind her back. She had been terrified, but by then it was too late.

She had worked in the brothel for only a few weeks. She did not think she would last the month. After Andrew had died, the man to whom he had owed money told her that she could repay the debt by going to work in Phoenix House for a couple of months. She had considered the river for the first time then, but the creditor had persuaded her.

“Phoenix House is not like other brothels,” he assured her. “All of the women who work there come from respectable backgrounds, just like you. They earn excellent money because they occupy a station far above that of the average streetwalker. They are courtesans, not street whores. Gentlemen are willing to pay well for the company of refined ladies.”

But a whore is a whore, Daisy thought. She had been a fool to think the business would be different just because she had once been a lady.

Terrified of landing in the workhouse, she had accepted the offer. She did not discover until much later that when she went to work in Phoenix House, her husband’s creditor had received a handsome fee from the proprietor, Madam Phoenix.

Madam Phoenix had explained to her that she was not pretty enough for the regular customers. The only opening was for a woman who was willing to take on the rough trade. Some of the gentlemen liked getting a bit violent, she explained. It aroused them, but no serious damage was done.

Daisy got to her feet, cringing, and looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror over the washstand. Her eyes were black and blue. Her jaw was badly swollen. She was afraid to examine the rest of her body.

This time the damage was serious. Next time it might well prove fatal. If she was doomed to die at the age of twenty-two, she preferred to take her own life. Damned if she would give that privilege to a gentleman who would likely have a climax if she expired because of his brutality.

In spite of her bleak determination to seek the ultimate escape, however, her will to live prevailed. She had heard whispers of an establishment in Swanton Lane where women of the street could go for a hot meal. Some said that the woman who ran the place could sometimes help a girl find respectable work under another name.

What did she have to lose? Daisy thought. But she would have to be very careful. Madam Phoenix was cold and utterly ruthless. It was whispered that she was responsible for the mysterious disappearance of the former madam. And the hard-eyed man she entertained in her private quarters looked even more dangerous.

Daisy shuddered. If Madam Phoenix discovered that one of her prostitutes had fled to the Swanton Lane establishment, there was no telling what she might do. She would consider it a very bad example for the rest of the women of Phoenix House.