London—Autumn 1818
The woman The Procurer had come in search of had once been a regular street performer in the piazza at Covent Garden. The Procurer had seen her in action several times, and had been impressed by her skills and ability to work the crowd, particularly admirable in one so young. Becky Wickes’s looks, no less than her sleight-of-hand tricks, had always drawn a large audience, for she was dramatically beautiful, with huge violet eyes, sharp cheekbones, a sensual mouth and a lush figure. When she passed the hat round she garnered a healthy collection of coins, though about a year ago, by The Procurer’s reckoning, she had abruptly disappeared from her usual pitch. It was clear now, from the very public scandal in which she was embroiled, and which the gutter press had naturally made the most of, what she had been doing in the interim.
The Procurer entered the infamous rookery of St Giles in the wake of her guide, a local urchin, son of one of her less salubrious contacts. Her target had not been at all easy to trace, but then people who so desperately needed to disappear rarely were. With very good reason in this case. Members of the royal family, even minor ones, had a long and powerful reach. It had been a very grave mistake on Miss Wickes’s part to be caught in the act of fleecing one such.
The Procurer sidestepped the foul sewer which ran down the middle of the narrow alleyway, executing another sidestep in order to avoid landing on the rotting carcase of a small mammal she did not care to identify. A gaggle of rough-looking men were drinking from pewter tankards outside one of the rookery’s many gin shops. She could feel their sharp, curious glances stabbing like knives in her back. Her black cloak was plain enough, but the quality of the wool would be sufficient to make her stand out. As would her looks. The Procurer was indifferent to her singular beauty, but she was not fool enough to deny its existence.
As her child guide led her ever deeper into the rookery, the alleyway narrowed. Hatches from the cellars had been flung open to allow the fetid air to escape the subterranean living areas. Even one woman rescued from this ocean of misery and deprivation was a victory, however small. As her guide pointed to the open door of a dark and gloomy close, The Procurer resisted the impulse to scatter her purse of loose change at the feet of the raggle-taggle band of followers her progress had attracted. When she was done here, and returned to safer streets, there would be ample time for dispensing such alms. To do so now might jeopardise not only her mission but her personal safety.
‘Stay here and do not move,’ she told the boy firmly. ‘You remember what you are to do if I do not return within the hour?’
Waiting only on his nod of affirmation, she ascended the worn steps to the third-floor landing, rapping sharply on the first door to the right. There was no answer. Accustomed to encountering both suspicion and fear during this critical first meeting, The Procurer knocked again, listening intently. Yes, there was someone on the other side of the door, she could not so much hear as sense the tension emanating from them. ‘Miss Wickes,’ she said quietly, her tone conciliatory, ‘I come alone, and as a friend.’
After a brief pause, the door opened a fraction. The woman who peered at her in the dim light bore little resemblance to the one The Procurer recalled from Covent Garden. Her formerly glossy mane of black hair was dull, piled in a tangled knot of curls on top of her head. Her violet eyes were darkly shadowed, the slant of her cheekbones so pronounced she looked almost gaunt. ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ Her panic was evident from the way her eyes darted over The Procurer’s shoulder.
‘I merely wish to speak to you, Miss Wickes.’ The Procurer stuck her foot against the jamb just in time to prevent the door being slammed in her face. ‘You need not be alarmed. I am not here to have you clapped in irons, but to put a proposition to you.’ Taking the woman completely by surprise, she pushed her way in. ‘Now, do you have the makings of a cup of tea? I would very much appreciate one.’
A startled peal of laughter greeted this remark. ‘Would you indeed?’ Hands on hips, Becky Wickes surveyed The Procurer through narrowed eyes. ‘What in the devil’s name is a woman like you doing in a place like this? Who are you?’
‘They call me The Procurer. Perhaps you have heard of me?’
Becky felt her jaw drop. ‘All of London has heard tell of you.’ She studied the intruder in her expensive wool cloak more carefully. ‘You aren’t how I pictured you. I thought you’d be much older. I certainly didn’t think you’d be a beauty.’
‘Then both our expectations have been confounded, Miss Wickes. Despite your own very striking beauty, you bear little resemblance to the woman I used to admire, performing in the Covent Garden piazza.’
‘That’s because I ain’t working the piazza no more,’ Becky said, deliberately lapsing into the harsh accent of her cockney roots. ‘What I’m wondering,’ she continued in her more cultured voice, ‘is what my appearance has to do with your appearance here?’
The Procurer, however, did not seem inclined to explain herself. Instead she nodded approvingly. ‘I knew, from watching you perform, that you were an accomplished actress. It is reassuring to know that you have also an excellent ear.’
‘You saw me on the stage? I’ve not trod the boards for nearly five years.’
‘I was referring to your performances in Covent Garden piazza. I confess, your strong local accent was something which did concern me. I am vastly relieved to discover it is not a problem.’
‘That is indeed a relief,’ Becky responded