‘It was,’ the woman admitted and Lucy let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. ‘It’s the extra rent you an’ me got to talk about.’
‘Extra rent?’ The words felt thick on her tongue.
The landlady wiped greasy hands on her apron. ‘Aye. Yeh can bring a trick up here, long as yer quiet. But usin’ the rooms fer business, that’s extra rent.’
* * *
James strode back along the Strand towards Whitehall. He was going to be late to supper if he didn’t hurry. He kept an eye open for trouble and a hand on the loaded pistol in his coat pocket.
The streets aren’t safe around here at night.
Nor during the day for that matter. Not for a woman alone. And yet she traversed them daily. Unbidden, the image of her in boys’ clothes, slender legs encased in breeches, came to him. The threadbare, poorly fitting clothes had hidden everything. Perhaps he’d only known because he’d recognised the sound of her violin. Then he’d looked properly, seen the delicate line of her jaw, watched the slender hands coaxing magic from the violin. No one else had spotted the graceful girl hiding in the shabby suit. Even in the tavern. Ill-lit and crowded, she must have passed unnoticed. But it bothered him.
She ought not to be performing in the street.
So is she supposed to starve in ladylike silence to suit your notions of respectability?
Her father is damn well supposed to look after her! Not leave her earning pennies playing the fiddle.
And there was the rub. Her father. The man who owed him a thousand pounds. Who’d set the mysterious Kilby’s enforcers after Nick and left Lucy to shift for herself. The man he’d sworn to ruin.
‘Good God! What brings you down this way, Cambourne?’
James stared at the gentleman descending from a hackney cab. ‘Montgomery.’ He acknowledged the viscount with a cool nod. ‘A business matter.’ He didn’t bother to ask what brought Montgomery this way. The man had an unsavoury reputation for preferring the brothels down here. Brothels that were fussy neither about the age nor willingness of their girls. Or, it was whispered, how the customers treated them.
‘Business? Down here?’ Montgomery looked amused and slightly disdainful. ‘My man of affairs deals with anything to do with the City.’
The cab driver coughed. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, milor’—’
Montgomery turned, scowling. ‘Yes, yes, my good man. Really, such a fuss over a paltry shilling or two.’
The jarvey said nothing, but James saw the anxiety underlying the scorn in his eyes.
‘The man has his living to earn, Montgomery.’
Montgomery sighed, produced the fare from his pocket and handed it over. ‘Really, Cambourne. Next you’ll be telling me that you pay your tailor when he duns you!’
‘Not exactly,’ James said. ‘He doesn’t dun me, because I pay when he bills me.’
Montgomery looked pained. ‘How very respectable. Well, I’m off to partake in the joys of the flesh. I’ve a nice, fresh game pullet reserved. Care to come along? I’m sure we can find something for you.’ The smirk suggested he knew what the response would be.
James didn’t bother to hide his distaste. ‘Thank you. No.’ He glanced at the jarvey, who was easing his horse away from the curb. ‘I’m going back to Mayfair. Do you want the fare?’
The horse stopped at once. ‘Glad of it, guv,’ said the jarvey.
‘Thank you. I won’t hold you up.’ He swung open the door and stepped into the cab.
Montgomery shuddered. ‘Really, Cambourne! You don’t thank a jarvey.’
James leaned on the open window. ‘Is that so? I find thanking people ensures better, more willing service. You might try it with your game pullet.’
Montgomery’s laughter was unpleasant. ‘Willing? I’m not courting an heiress, man. This one’s bought and paid for. Willing doesn’t—’
The rest was lost in the rattle of hooves and wheels as the cab set off. James sat back, frowning. Montgomery always left a nasty taste in his mouth.
A moment later the trap opened. ‘Beggin’ your pardon, guv. Old horse took off afore you’d finished your chat.’
‘An intelligent beast,’ said James drily. ‘Tell him to take me to Berkeley Street.’
‘Righto, guv.’
The trap shut and James leaned back on the squabs. Damn it. If he ruined Hensleigh completely, then Lucy would be on her own. He let out a breath. Perhaps he didn’t have to break Hensleigh, or Hammersley, or whatever his name was, entirely. He saw again Nick’s battered face and swore.
* * *
Lucy had no idea what trick meant in this context, but the phrase ‘place of business’ gave her the clue.
‘Lor— Look, Mrs Beattie, you’re mistaken.’ Instinct warned her against revealing too much about her visitor. ‘The gentleman is a friend of my father’s.’ That was a stretch, but it would do. ‘He was looking for him.’
Mrs Beattie gave a snort. ‘Listen, dearie, when you an’ your pa moved in I was all set to charge ’im for business, but he insisted you was his daughter, an’ he weren’t selling tricks.’ She sniffed. ‘Can’t say as I really believed ’im at the start, but I gave ’im the lower rate on trial as you might say. But I warned ’im.’
‘Warned him?’ Lucy scowled at the woman. ‘About what?’
Mrs Beattie crossed her arms over her ample bosom. ‘Warned ’im if I so much as smelled a suspicion of a trick up here, he’d be paying more.’
Speechless, Lucy stared at her and she went on. ‘Now, I dunno if he didn’ tell you, or if you just thought you could sneak yer fancy man past me, but—’
‘He is not my fancy man!’ Lucy’s face flamed.
The snort this time was of equine proportions. ‘Right. An’ I’m the Queen o’ France,’ Mrs Beattie said, with a fine disregard for the fact that the last French queen’s head had fallen under the guillotine some years previously. ‘It ain’t no never mind o’ mine, long as you pay up. Mind you...’ She looked around. ‘Flash gent like that, you play ’im right, you oughta get a nice little house to yerself.’
Outrage bubbled up. ‘Mrs Beattie! I am not—’ Not what? Not playing tricks? ‘Not selling myself!’
Mrs Beattie scowled. ‘Well, yer a fool, givin’ it to him for love. Anyone can see ’e’s well-breeched.’
‘He came to see if my father had returned!’ Lucy insisted.
‘That don’t take half an hour, nor it don’t need no coal,’ said the lady with unarguable logic. ‘Three shillings a week extra, missy.’
‘And does that include coal for business purposes?’ Lucy demanded.
The landlady scowled. ‘S’pose I could throw in some coal,’ she said grudgingly. ‘When you pays the extra.’
Lucy blinked. Clearly sarcasm was wasted on Mrs Beattie. Still, if she was going to be bilked for extra rent this week, she might as well get something out of it. Hopefully, once Mrs Beattie realised her mistake, and that Lord Cambourne was not continuing to call, the rent would drop back.
Mrs Beattie, evidently concluding that she’d completed her business, stumped to the door. Reaching it, she looked back. ‘Three shillings extra. Payable Friday.’ She went out, closing the door behind her with a triumphant bang.
Lucy