But it wasn’t us alone.
Rosalynd had understood, better than Nicky and me, that what was seen and recorded in the press carried a different weight than what would be merely claimed by us. So, at her suggestion, we’d recruited two additional men. One was a reporter fromThe Pall Mall Gazette. The other was an illustrator whose work appeared inThe Illustrated London News. They would observe, keep clear of the action, and record what they witnessed.
It hadn’t been difficult to convince them. I’d told them a private celebration would be held on the river, likening it—deliberately—to the revels of the Floralia. They had no trouble deciphering the implication, as such gatherings were understood to be licentious and immoral. They were particularly eager to expose the rot beneath respectable society.
I did not, however, alert Scotland Yard.
They had failed to investigate the missing women after their disappearances had been reported. I had come to suspect that the decision had not been born of indifference alone, but of influence. Someone high enough and powerful enough had ensured the matter went no further.
Had I gone to the Commissioner with word of the Floralia, I had little doubt what would follow. The Yard would arrive noisily and far too late to discover no celebration underway and no young women on the premises. There would be nothing to see, nothing to seize, and nothing that could not be quietly denied. The organizers would have been alerted to the raid.
So, we waited, impatiently, for Nicky to deliver the information about the meeting place.
The evening was cool, but not enough to warrant a fire. The hearth in the private room we had hired lay cold. The ale, however, flowed freely. The Thames would be colder, and those present clearly believed it prudent to fortify themselves with something that might warm the blood.
Everyone, that is, except Rosalynd.
She had dressed in what she termed appropriate attire. The blood red gown she wore was cut low, revealing far more of her than I found acceptable, though for the moment she had concealed it beneath a cape. It would only be upon her arrival at the Floralia that she intended to arrange matters so she could, as she put it, ‘flash her wares.’
I was not amused, even if she was right. A demure gown would have served no purpose at all.
I drew her aside to the far corner of the room, where the noise of the others fell away enough to grant us a semblance of privacy.
“You have your pistol with you?” I asked.
She nodded. “I do.”
“Loaded?”
“Of course.” A quick grin flashed across her face. “Not much use otherwise, Steele.”
“How many bullets?” I demanded.
“Three. The first as a warning. The next two—” She paused. “—to strike true.”
The urge to shake her was nearly overwhelming. “Do not warn,” I said, keeping my voice low and hard. “Shoot to kill. Do you hear me?”
“I do.”
In the next instant, there was a knock, and Nicky stepped into the room.
The troubled expression on his face told me things had not gone according to plan. “Something went wrong,” I said before he could speak.
“You might say that,” Nicky replied. “Fairleigh has taken opium. He’s in no state to attend the Floralia—or to go anywhere at all. He’s breathing, but barely conscious.”
“So we don’t know where the barge is waiting.”
“Actually, we do.” Nicky reached inside his coat. “The invitation was lying on the hall table. He’d opened the envelope before he indulged. While his manservant’s back was turned, I helped myself to it.”
“Where’s the meeting point?” I asked.
“The river stairs below Vauxhall. Guests must arrive by ten o’clock.”
“Will both barges be waiting there?” Rosalynd asked. I had explained to Nicky there would be a barge for the women separate from the men’s.
“Supposedly,” Nicky said. “But I can’t swear to it.”
Rosalynd turned back to me. “I’ll have to take the chance, Steele. One of us needs to be at the Floralia.”
