I could almost hear Inspector Dodson’s voice in those words.
“Will you give me the names of the girls?” I asked.
She hesitated only a moment before reaching into her reticule and producing a folded sheet of cheap paper. A half-dozen names were written there in the same careful hand as her letter. Beside each was a small notation about their occupations and ages, together with their last places of residence.
“I can’t say they’re all dead,” she said, her voice trembling, “but I fear they’re not where they were meant to be. And the ones who end in the river—they won’t be the last.”
I smoothed the paper once more, committing the names to memory before folding it carefully and slipping it into the pocket of my gown. The weight of it pressed against me like a vow.“Thank you, Miss Larkin. You’ve done the right thing. I’ll make enquiries.”
Miss Larkin stood, relief and lingering fear mingling in her expression. “God bless you, my lady.”
When she had gone, the room seemed emptier than it had before her arrival—as if her words had carried away the very air. I remained seated, the list of names burning a hole in my pocket.
The most obvious course was to contact Scotland Yard to inquire about the missing women. Yet what hope was there? Too often, such cases were deemed too unimportant to command attention. Perhaps they might stir themselves if I pressed the matter. But what if the case fell to Inspector Dodson or some other inspector just like him? He had not troubled himself over Elsie Leonard, and she had been murdered. Why should he care more for Anna Price or the young women who had simply vanished?
I could almost hear his voice already, brisk and callous:Common girls throw themselves into the river or disappear more often than not. Poverty. A jilted lover. Who can say? We haven’t time to chase them all.
No. I needed someone who would listen. And, more importantly, someone who would act without broadcasting my involvement to the world—or to my family. My thoughts turned to Caleb Finch, Steele’s enquiry agent. I had met him during the investigation into Elsie’s murder. He’d struck me as a man of rough manners yet possessed of a sharp intellect. His first loyalty lay with Steele, but he had shown me a measure of respect.
A note would be the best way to approach him. Discreet and direct, yet brief enough to rouse his curiosity without committing anything to paper that might fall into the wrong hands. I would request an appointment in his office. Far better to go to him than to have him call here. The last thing Idesired was for anyone at Rosehaven House remarking upon his presence.
I pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me and dipped my pen.
Mr. Finch?—
I have need of your professional assistance in a matter of some delicacy. Might I call upon you at your office tomorrow at whatever hour may be convenient?
—Lady Rosalynd
Before I could second-guess myself, I sealed it and reached for the bell. Moments later, Honeycutt appeared.
“I must beg a favor of you, Honeycutt.” I handed him the sealed note. “This correspondence is for Caleb Finch in Hatton Garden. Entrust it only to a footman you consider absolutely reliable and see that it is delivered directly. I should prefer the matter remain discreet.”
His brows rose by the faintest degree, but he answered readily enough. “It shall be done, my lady,” he replied with quiet gravity. “You may trust in our discretion.”
When the door closed behind him, I sat very still. I didn’t wish Steele to learn of this. At least, not yet. We had come to an understanding that I would not fling myself into peril alone. But this was only the enquiry stage, no more dangerous than sending a note. I wanted to know how deep the waters ran before troubling him or discovering whether there was any need to trouble him at all.
More than likely, I was lying to myself. But then, such waters were never shallow.
As I set the seal back in its drawer, I drew the folded paper from my pocket and smoothed it open upon the desk. My eyes traced the list again—seamstress, 17; laundress, 15; housemaid, 16, and three others. Not one had yet seen eighteen summers.
I did not need to imagine what might have befallen them. In London, the fates of poor girls were too often the same—luredinto brothels, forced into houses of ill repute, or pressed into the so-called trade of white slavery. Their lives counted for so little in the eyes of the world. But they counted in mine, as well as Miss Larkin’s.
I folded the paper once more, stored it in my desk drawer, and turned the key in the lock. The act of securing the list lent me a measure of calm. If someone was preying on these young women, I would do my best to find them and seek justice for them.
Chapter
Four
Curtain and Whispers
Isat before the looking glass, hardly recognizing the woman gazing back. Tilly had arranged my copper curls with unusual care, coaxing each lock into soft, gleaming order. A few tendrils framed my face in a way that felt almost daring, as though the mirror had captured a version of myself I seldom allowed the world to see. Once the coils were pinned to her satisfaction, she secured them with a pair of polished jet combs.
The gown I had chosen for the theatre outing was of midnight-blue silk, its sheen catching the lamplight with every shift of the fabric. A modest scattering of jet beads traced the neckline, enough to draw the eye without daring Society’s censure. The sleeves were short, softened by lace cuffs, while the skirt fell in graceful folds that whispered elegance with every movement. A simple gold locket that had once belonged to my mother gleamed at my throat. Long ivory kid gloves and a reticule of midnight blue silk lay on my dressing table.
Tonight would be my first official public evening beside the Duke of Steele. That thought alone set a restless flutter throughmy stomach. I smoothed my palms over the skirt of my gown to steady myself.
Tilly, sensing my turmoil, gave me a quiet, encouraging smile. She had dressed me for countless dinners and gatherings, yet never for anything quite like this.
