They came to loosen their ties, pull off their heavy coats, and recline in overstuffed chairs. They came
to prop their stockinged feet on ottomans and smoke the pipes and cigars their wives would allow them only in the most obscure corners of their own homes. Most of all, they came to hear the pretty girls
laugh at their jokes and make them feel young and handsome again.
The peaceful lull that had descended over the parlor this Friday night didn't concern Mrs. Rose or any
of her girls. They knew both the parlor and the bedrooms upstairs would fill to overflowing after the gentlemen of the theater crowd escorted their wives home for the night.
A haze of smoke hung over the room. A portly gentleman rested before the fire, reading the Times
while Mrs. Rose massaged his toes. A swarthy man reclined on the settee, nursing a cognac and
absently fondling the woman on his lap. A girl in a diaphanous robe sat alone at the piano, lazily picking out the notes of Beautiful Dreamer.
The front door flew open. A blast of icy wind and swirling snow rushed into the parlor.
"Shut the bloomin' door. It's bloody freezin' out there," yelled the girl at the piano.
When the door didn't close, they all looked up to find a bedraggled creature standing on the stoop, barefoot and shivering in a thin silk evening gown. She wore no cloak or cape. Snow frosted her
tangled hair.
"Good Lord, what happened to the poor child?" shouted the portly gentleman.
"Has she been attacked?" cried out the girl on the piano bench. To Mrs. Rose's girls, no crime was
more heinous than that of rape. Why would any man take from the unwilling what they so willingly provided?
"Somebody fetch a blanket," Mrs. Rose commanded.
The dark-eyed man on the settee extracted his elegant fingers from beneath his companion's skirt and pushed her off his lap. "Why, look what the cat dragged in!"
"What, darling?"
"Never mind. You just run along." He softened his command by giving the whore's rump a fond pinch.
He rose and started forward, pulling off his immaculate jacket, but before he could reach the trembling girl, another woman came down the stairs, twined around a skinny stripling whose face was flushed
with a sated glow.
As she unpeeled herself from her most recent customer, her round blue eyes widened. "Holy Christ, Em?" she breathed. "Is that you?"
"Oh, Tansy," came the answering wail as the pathetic creature flung herself across the room into the whore's arms.
The man melted back into the shadows. A sneer touched his lips as he watched the tender reunion. He shook a cigarette out of his gold case and lit it. He inhaled deeply, savoring the lazy furl of the smoke through his lungs. There was no need for careless haste to spoil his plans, he reminded himself. Dead
men had all the time they needed.
Chapter 27
I have always striven to search
for the best in any man. . .
Justin stood on the deserted street, staring up at the stone edifice of the school. Why did his weary
steps always lead him here? In the gray light of dawn the old building looked sad, its polished edges
dulled by bleak neglect. Some things remained the same since his last visit-the paint peeling from the shutters, the rust caking the wrought-iron balusters. But other things had changed. The downstairs windows had been boarded shut, giving the house an abandoned air. The darkened squares of the
upstairs windows surveyed him with drowsy indifference. Against his will his gaze flicked upward to the attic windows. They were all broken now, and as he watched, a pigeon hopped out and winged its way into the morning sky.
Justin climbed the stairs to the front door, his boots breaking the thin crust of snow. The snow had stopped near midnight, leaving London frosted in a brittle cloak swirled by icy gusts. Justin had long
ago gone too numb to feel its bite.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and pounded on the door. The sound reverberated with a hollow ring that only fueled his despair. Still, he didn't stop.
"Jesus bloody Christ!" came the bellow from the connecting house. "Quit your banging, ya fool. Can't
a God-fearin' man get a decent night's rest?"
Justin ignored it. He pounded until his raw knuckles began to bleed. His arms fell limp at his sides. He turned his collar up and started to turn away.
The door slowly creaked open. A gaunt face appeared in the darkened crack. A chill shot down Justin's spine. At first he thought it was Miss Winters beneath the dingy ruffles of the mobcap, but then he realized it was her young teacher, Doreen. The girl had aged twenty years since he had seen her last.
"Where is your mistress?" he asked hoarsely. "I must speak with her."
"She's gone. Gone like all the rest." Doreen's voice was as flat as a wraith's. She tried to close the door, but Justin jammed his foot in it. She stared up at his face, then her eyes came to life in a blaze of spirit. "Ye're the one, ain't ya? Ye're the golden-eyed devil wot drove 'em all away!"
Ignoring the protesting rasp of his throat, Justin deepened his voice, hoping he might break her with the sheer force of his will. "I must see your mistress. It's imperative. Where might I find her?"
"She's gone to an 'ome fer other broken-down old women. She didn't even fight 'em when they come to take 'er away. Ya took all the fight out of 'er with yer bloody rumors and insinuations. Ain't a decent family in London would 'ave trusted their brat to 'er care after ya poisoned their minds against 'er." Her pinched nose reddened. "Miss Amelia always took care 'o me, even to the end. Left me this fine 'ouse, she did."
Justin knew the house had seen the end of its finer days. It would be nothing but a crumbling albatross around its owner's neck. He raked a hand through his hair, torn between pity and frustration. "Perhaps you can help me. Have you seen Emily Scarborough?"
Doreen's face twisted. Justin was tempted to recoil from its pure malevolence. "Emily Scarborough!"
she spat out. "She's the one wot started all this. I always knew she'd be the death of us all. The only
place I 'opes to see the little bitch is burnin' in 'ell!"
She tried to slam the door in his face. Justin caught her shoulders and pulled her out, pinning her against the iron railing of the stoop. Her nightdress whipped in the wind. "You're the one who threw her off the boat, aren't you? Yes, I see you are. She told me all about it. So unless you want me to fetch the police and bring you up on charges of attempted murder, I suggest you answer my questions."
Doreen's freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pallor. Justin could smell the fetid odor of sleep
and fear on her breath. Exhaustion was making him reckless. He gave her a hard shake, eliciting a
sullen whimper.
"I ain't seen the wench. Not since the day we give 'er to you."
Even though he had expected it, the disappointment was grueling. His mind raced. Who in London