But that would not be the fate of the girls from St. Agnes. They were unwed mothers. Already marked. Already fallen in the eyes of society. Which meant they would be valued differently. Set aside not for purity, but for degradation. For other appetites altogether.
Unbidden, the memory of the girl we had seen the night before rose before me. The marks upon her back. Whip marks, laid on with care. Deliberate. Measured. The work of a man who did not seek desire, but pain. A man who required fleshalready judged unworthy of protection in order to indulge his sick perversion.
The air felt suddenly insufficient. I turned away and gripped the edge of my desk until the polished wood bit into my palms.
“Are you certain?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
“He was proud of it,” Nicky said. “Spoke of it as though it were a novelty. A rarity. Something that justified the very large fee he had to pay.”
The last of my doubt burned away, leaving only clarity and fury.
“That,” I said, my voice low and controlled, “is why you came to me.”
He let out a joyless laugh. “Who else would I go to? Who else could get to the bottom of this and stop this atrocity from taking place? Only you, Warwick. Only you.”
Every fragment of exhaustion vanished, replaced by a singular, lethal focus. I crossed to him and set my hand on his shoulder, pressing briefly. “You are right. I will stop it.”
He studied me closely. “You already know something.”
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the decision. Once spoken, it could not be withdrawn. “I do. Girls no older than seventeen are being taken from the streets of London,” I said. “Some of their bodies are being pulled from the Thames.” I drained the remaining brandy. “And no one in authority is doing a damned thing about it.”
Nicky’s expression hardened. “And this Floralia has something to do with it?”
“It belongs to the same world.”
He absorbed that in silence, his jaw tightening.
“Fairleigh does not understand the extent of it,” Nicky said at last. “He thinks it nothing but a lark.”
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. Dusk was already creeping in, the light thinning as though the day itself were retreating. Somewhere along the river, preparations for the Floralia were already underway.
I turned back to my desk, my thoughts shifting from outrage to geography and strategy.
“We need to know where they will sail from,” I said. “The precise point on the river. Without that, we are blind.”
Nicky did not hesitate. “That will come with the invitation. It arrives the afternoon of the Floralia and tells the guests exactly where to present themselves and at what hour.”
“Can you obtain it?” I asked.
“I believe so.” His jaw set. “I can call on him that afternoon, tell him I’m eager to hear more. He will not suspect anything. He enjoys boasting too much.”
I weighed the risk to my brother. The timing. The narrowness of the window. It would be tight, but it could be done.
“Do it,” I said. “I will wait for you in a nearby public house. Somewhere close to the river.”
“The Black Horse in Pimlico,” Nicky said at once. “It is far enough off the main thoroughfare to avoid notice, and close to Fairleigh’s residence and the Thames.”
“The moment you know the location, you come to the Black Horse,” I said. “I will be waiting.”
“Not alone?” Nicky asked, eyes wide. “You are quite capable, Warwick. But if we are to stop this, it will take more than one man.”
A short laugh escaped me. “No. Not alone. I will alert Finch and have him gather his associates. Quiet men. Capable ones, not afraid to shed a little blood if it comes to that.”
“We will not be able to follow them on horseback once they sail,” Nicky said.
“We won’t need to,” I replied. “We will secure a barge in advance. An unmarked one. Crewed by men who know how to keep their mouths shut. It will be waiting within reach of the Black Horse. Once we know the departure point, we will move toward it and remain out of sight.”
“That should work,” Nicky said after a moment.
