The boy didn’t wait, darting back to the carriage. Kendra followed, keeping her expression neutral as the kid opened the door.
Kendra peered into the shadowy interior. “I hope this isn’t a social visit,” she said, mounting the steps and dropping into the seat opposite Bear. “Tell me you got something.”
The crime lord grinned. “I got news about the lightskirt. Isabella Russo.”
“I already know she had syphilis.”
“Aye, and it’s made her addlepated.” He tapped a thick finger against his temple. “She don’t have long for this world.”
“You’re saying . . . she’salive?”
“Didn’t know that, did ye?” He looked pleased. “Her sister’s been takin’ care of her in Soho.”
“What about the medical experiments to treat syphilis, and other missing women?”
“I told ye, I can’t be knowin’ what happens ter every trollop in London. As for the other, there’s always gossip and canny folks tryin’ ter make a profit by offering remedies ter the dying.”
“Speaking from experience?”
He let out a booming laugh. “I might have a finger or two in those games. But trollops don’t have the kind of blunt that gets me interested. Would be a waste of me time ter scheme them out their coins. Can’t imagine why anyone would.”
“It’s not about money.” At least not in the short term, she reflected. In the long term, though, if you found a cure to one of society’s deadly diseases? Well, that would come with money, prestige, and the kind of fame that is written into the history books.
Names that she would know centuries later.
Bear frowned. “If it ain’t about money, w’ots it about?”
“Becoming a god,” she said softly. She leaned back in her seat. “Can I ask one more favor?”
“W’ot?”
“Can you give me a ride to Soho?”
***
Soho was only a ten-minute drive from Bedford Square, but the neighborhoods were vastly different. At one time, Soho had been home to aristocrats and the affluent. Yet the influx of immigrants— French, Italian, German—had the nobility fleeing to other, more fashionable enclaves. Former mansions were now divvied up into apartments, businesses, and shops. Savvy landlords had developed neighborhoods with small houses and cottages for the new arrivals.
Kendra knocked on the door to one of those cottages, a pretty, white-washed stucco with blue-trimmed sash windows and planter boxes exploding with colorful flowers, located on a quiet, dirt lane off St. Peter’s Street. An attractive, dark-haired woman in her late thirties opened the door.
“Yes? May I help you?” Her voice was musical, with just a trace of an Italian accent.
“Mrs. Chirone? I’m Lady Sutcliffe.” It was, she decided, becoming easier to use the title. Especially if it got her what she wanted. “I’ve come to talk to your sister.”
Mrs. Chirone’s lips parted in surprise. “You know my sister?”
“No, but I need to see her.”
The woman frowned. “No, mi dispiace.It is quite impossible, my lady. My sister, she is . . . she’s indisposed.”
“I know she’s ill, Mrs. Chirone, but it’s important that I speak with her.”
“You don’t understand.” She let out a heavy sigh. “Isabella won’t be able to talk to you. She is very ill. She is . . . she’s dying, if must know.”
“I know, and I’m very sorry. I promise you that I’ll only be a moment. I won’t tire her.”
“I don’t know what she’ll be able to tell you, my lady. She is not always lucid. And”—her breath hitched—“she is no longer the beautiful girl she once was.”
“I understand. I’ll only take up a few moments of your time.”
