A man in a silver mask spoke first. “What do you mean, no entertainment?”
A low murmur followed.
“We were promised?—”
“This is absurd.”
I let the complaints gather, overlap, swell.
Then I spoke again. “The young ladies you were promised are gone,” I said calmly. “They will not be returning.”
Silence fell.
Not outrage yet. Calculation.
“The authorities have been alerted,” I continued, tone unchanged. In truth, none had. But by God, I meant to put the fear of exposure into them.
“They are on their way,” I said. “You may remain here to explain your presence—or?—”
The room changed in an instant.
The faces of those who were unmasked drained of color. Glasses were set down with sudden care. A man near the windows turned sharply, peering into the darkness beyond as though expecting lanterns to appear at any moment.
More than a few swore under their breath.
One man stepped back toward the door. Then another.
“We must go,” one called out. “Now.”
Outrage evaporated, replaced by naked fear.
The Floralia endured only because it was invisible. Because everyone believed they were safe. Authorities meant witnesses. Names spoken aloud. Questions asked in daylight. And once the thing was dragged into view, there would be no burying it again.
The scandal would ruin them.
And that could not be allowed to happen.
They moved at once, no longer posturing, no longer protesting. Men shoved past one another in their urgency to escape, stumbling and swearing as bodies collided in the press.
I did not raise my voice. I did not pursue them.
Panic had done what no force could. I stood motionless and watched as they fled for the river like rats abandoning a sinking ship.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
The Aftermath
It had been three days since the events at the Floralia. Three days during which I had not seen Steele, though we had corresponded often—sometimes several letters in a single day. We kept one another apprised of our individual actions, careful in our phrasing, as though even paper itself might betray us.
The young women we’d rescued from that awful place had been taken to St. Agnes, an arrangement I’d made beforehand with Sister Margaret. Most of them, anyhow. A few had required medical attention and were even now recovering in hospital.
I’d foolishly believed that once matters settled, they would resume their lives. I now realized how impossible that would be. They’d been too damaged by the abuse inflicted on them to ever be the same again.
The report on the Floralia appeared inThe Pall Mall Gazette, with accompanying illustrations inThe Illustrated London News. The result was a scandal of prodigious proportions. It was all London society could talk about.
My name had been kept out of the papers.
