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. Lottie had picked it out and it wasn’t ever worth the grief to argue, especially not when she relied on Lottie for so much. The dress would look stunning on the redhead, for she was taller, angular and sharper. On Ruth, her curves, attractive figure and her prettiness were concealed. Back at Miss Lamont’s, Lottie hadn’t given a fig what Ruth wore, though her expression had always darkened if Ruth was complimented for her attractive vulpine features and her long, chestnut hair.
“I feel ridiculous,” said Ruth quietly. “Everyone else is wearing all those bright clothes and I look like a ghoul in comparison. I thought you said they would all be dressed for a garden party, not a real ball.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.” Lottie clung to her elbow, eyes dancing, red tresses piled high and coiled in a turquoise turban that matched her dress. She looked exceptional, more so because her companion did not. “In no time, you will be married and running your own house in Russell Square.”
“I can hardly believe it,” confessed Ruth, truthfully. “I haven’t seen Albert since we were children and now I am to spend the rest of my life with him.”
“Do not make me jealous.”
“What if we are not suited to one another?”
“It doesn’t matter – he’s rich.” And they both knew that Ruth was not. “He’s clearly besotted. He wrote to you, did he not?”
“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “Once.”
It had been a short, bashful note about their combined futures in a clumsy script. The other girls at the academy had squealed and clucked upon finding the letter and told Ruth how wonderful it would be, how lucky she was, and what a fine lady she would make.
I miss them, she thought. And, selfishly, she missed who she was to them: a leader, an anchor. She had always taken charge, always known what to do, always been the one to save the day.
But now I need saving…