Tessa couldn’t recall if he’d ever hired a nanny for her; she’d never needed one for the wenches had taken her under their collective wing. The Underworld was her second home, and, at the early hour, she’d caught her friends just as they were getting to bed after a night’s work. Now they were enjoying a chat in Pretty Francie’s chamber.
The women wore bright, clingy peignoirs while Tessa was once again in a lad’s get-up. This time, she’d chosen slim-fitting trousers and forgone the scratchy wig, tucking her plaited hair beneath a cap. Even during daytime, a woman alone in the stews invited danger. Without the hindrance of petticoats and skirts, Tessa moved with confidence through the streets, her daggers tucked snugly in her boots.
As she chatted with her friends, Tessa surreptitiously monitored Belinda. Since being beaten and robbed by O’Toole, Belinda had lost some of her natural vivaciousness. The bastard had taken more than money from her: he’d punched a hole in her self-confidence.
If Grandpapa would give me a seat at the table, I’d stand for Belinda and all the women like her, Tessa thought fiercely.I’d make bastards like O’Toole think twice about taking advantage of the defenseless.
Thankfully, Belinda appeared more like her old self this morning, her honey-colored curls bouncing as she giggled, the bruises around her right eye faded to a mottled green. Swift Nick Nevison had his front paws on her generous lap, munching on pieces of cold mutton that she fed him from a plate.
“I almost feel sorry for this Bennett fellow.” Pretty Francie lounged on her bed, her trademark auburn hair tied in rags. Her handsome face was heavily painted. At thirty-four, she was now the club’s madam and rarely serviced customers, but she liked to keep up appearances. “’E didn’t know what ’e was taking on.”
Years ago, when Pretty Francie had been a house wench, she’d been especially kind to Tessa. Daisy and Belinda had joined The Underworld some time later, and Tessa considered them, along with Francie, to be her bosom friends.
Sitting at the foot of Francie’s bed, Tessa shucked her cap, tossing it onto one of the bedposts. “He knew perfectly well what he was in for becauseI warned him. Said flat-out that I wouldn’t tolerate having my freedom curtailed. Why would I need a bodyguard when I’m perfectly capable of handling myself?”
“Our Tessa ain’t no milk-fed miss,” Daisy, a saucy brunette, said with a wink. She and Belinda occupied the adjacent settee. “Can take care o’ ’erself, she can.”
Tessa beamed at what she considered to be the ultimate compliment.
“But after wot ’appened to your grandfather at Nightingale’s,” Belinda put in hesitantly, “don’t you fink you might be be’er off wiv some protection?”
At the reminder of the murderous attempt, a cold droplet slid down Tessa’s spine.
The shooting had taken place a month ago, right outside Nightingale’s. Luckily, the would-be assassin had missed, and Ming had returned fire with deadly accuracy. To maintain order, Grandpapa had suppressed gossip; Belinda and the others only knew about it because Tessa had confided in them. Since then, there’d been no other threats, but the event had left Tessa shaken. Her grandfather was not invulnerable…and he was down a man.
John Randolph, the former Duke of Covent Garden, had died in a carriage accident two months ago. In the never-ending struggle for power in the underworld, Randolph had been a staunch ally to her grandfather, and his loss, Tessa knew, was a big blow.
It made her more determined than ever to stand by her grandfather’s side.
Where he needs me.Whenever she was out in the underworld, she acted as his eyes and ears. Aware of the importance of appearances, she was also a proud ambassador of the House of Black.
“We Blacks will not be intimidated,” she declared. “Am I right, Swift Nick?”
The ferret’s eyes were alert in his furry brown mask. When Tessa gave a subtle nod of her head, he mimicked the motion vigorously, giving the impression that he was agreeing with her.
Belinda laughed. “Howe’er did you train ’im to do that?”
“It was easy. Swift Nick is the cleverest fellow who ever lived and all the protection I need, aren’t you, dear?”
In answer, the ferret loped over to Tessa. He clambered onto her lap, rolling over, and she obliged his request for a tummy rub. He madetook-tooksounds, the ferret equivalent of purring.
“That ferret may be clever, but it ain’t no guard.” Brow pleating, Francie said, “Belinda ’as a point, luvie. Maybe you shouldn’t be comin’ ’ere alone.”
Frost spread over Tessa’s insides. Her grandfather had tried to curtail her visits, and her father went along (not because he cared, but because he wanted to curry his father-in-law’s favor). She ignored their orders, continuing to come in secret: no one was taking away her friends, her home.
“The lunatic who shot at my grandfather is dead,” she said firmly. “There’s no threat.”
“Are you certain o’ that?”
At the seriousness in the other’s gaze, Tessa sat up straighter. “What have you heard, Francie?”
Francie hesitated, confirming Tessa’s suspicion that her frienddidknow something. Too often, people underestimated prostitutes, believing that because they made their livings on their backs, they didn’t have anything between their ears. Tessa, however, knew the truth.
Her friends had minds as keen as her daggers. Not only were the women observant and shrewd, they were also privy to all manner of secrets. Men in their cups, and in the throes, were less likely to be discreet. Most of them didn’t think they had to be with an “empty-headed” wench.
Which meant Francie and the others had access to prime information. Others might believe that money was the currency of the stews; Tessa knew better.
Nothing, but nothing, made a man (or woman) more powerful than information.
