Yet the dowager made a show of her surprise nonetheless, her hazel gaze widening and lingering on the ridge that now seemed to throb and burn on Bea’s cheek. In the eyes of the beautiful lady, Bea saw the reflection of a beast.
As pain knifed her in the chest, she told herself that it shouldn’t matter what Wick’s mama thought of her…but it did. In the other’s expression, she saw what had led her to flee London all those years ago: disgust hidden behind feigned sympathy.
“My dear Lady Beatrice,” the dowager said with a solicitous smile. “How I admire your courage. It cannot be easy to make an appearance in London.”
“Mama,” Wick said in a tone of warning.
Bea wasn’t about to let him fight her battles for her. Pretending to misunderstand the dowager’s comment, she replied, “Thank you, my lady. Coming from the country, I confess it does take courage to confront the commotion of Town. I am unused to the crowds and the noise.”
The dowager’s smile did not waver. “Now I know of several Wodehouses. Are you any relation to the Duke of Hadleigh?”
“He is my brother, but we have not been in contact for some time. It is my preference that things stay that way.”
The lady’s fine brows rose, but Bea felt she had to be blunt. The last thing she needed was for the other to alert Benedict to her presence in Town.
Wick must have shared her concern for he said, “I trust you will be discreet, Mama. I am assisting Lady Beatrice with a matter which must be handled with the greatest care and caution. Her life could be at risk if her personal details are bandied about.”
“Goodness, how dramatic.” The dowager’s hands fluttered to her breast. “Not to worry, my dears—you know I am the soul of discretion. I shan’t breathe a word to anyone of Lady Beatrice’s presence.”
33
The dayafter his mama’s arrival, Wick received word from his men that they’d located Randall Perkins’s family. They’d spoken with a couple by the name of Palmer living in the Seven Dials. Although the Palmers didn’t know a Randall Perkins, they said they did have a nephew named Ralph—a troublemaker, apparently—whose age and physical description, down to the port-wine stain, matched that of Perkins.
Leaving Richard and Violet to deal with settling Mama in—the latter being none too pleased that Beatrice occupied her favorite suite—Wick wasted no time in making the journey over to the address his men had given him. Since he was accompanied by Beatrice, who refused to be left out, he took along guards for good measure.
They arrived at a tenement at the heart of the Seven Dials. At night, the neighborhood was the playground of thieves and cutthroats, and anyone heading into the narrow, winding streets and dead-end alleyways was taking their life into their own hands. By day, the thickly populated area appeared less menacing, but pickpockets were everywhere, on the lookout for pigeons to pluck.
As Wick handed Bea down from the carriage, her hand gripped his.
“What is it?” Wick asked.
“I swear it’s that same boy again,” she whispered. “The urchin I saw outside your office three days ago and again outside Doolittle’s Emporium. He’s hiding in the alley across the street.”
Wick casually glanced in the direction she indicated. Sure enough, he saw a movement, the flash of brown hair, a ragged sleeve disappearing into the shadows.
“I’ll send Wilcox after him,” he said, gesturing to the guard atop the carriage.
“No, don’t.” She stayed his hand. “He’s just a lad. I’m sure he means no harm.”
“You’re too soft-hearted love. That ‘lad’ had the look of a mudlark.”
“A what?” Bea tilted her head.
“A mudlark. A band of street urchins who scavenge the Thames and pickpocket for a living. They may look innocent but try taking on a flock of them. Mudlarks are notoriously enigmatic of purpose and loyal to their own.” Wick took a hard look into the alleyway. “If you see the boy again, let me know. I’ll have a talk with their leader.”
“You know their leader?”
“I’ve hired The Prince of Larks in the past to gather information.” At her puzzled look, he explained, “The mudlarks are known as scavengers and pickpockets, but their main trade is the acquisition and sale of knowledge. They have eyes and ears everywhere…which is extremely useful when, for example, you want to know a competitor’s bid on a project or how a Member of Parliament plans to vote. And while the Prince doesn’t mind his larks engaging in petty theft now and again, he doesn’t countenance them harassing females.”
“You have rather colorful acquaintances, don’t you?” she said after a moment.
“Welcome to the London underworld.” He led her toward the tenements, a ramshackle building with a sagging roof that resembled a collapsed soufflé. “Now stay close and keep your wits about you.”
The number his man had given him was on the fourth floor, which necessitated climbing a set of exposed, creaking stairs that felt as if they might collapse at any moment. They passed flats with peeling doors and some without doors at all, a ratty curtain serving as the only means of privacy. They stepped over men passed out in the hallway, too drunk or uncaring to take the final steps home. Women in dirty aprons dealt with squalling children, some of the younger females still wearing the face paint of their profession. The air was ripe with greasy, pungent smells.
Wick found their destination, a corner flat that had a door painted a cheerful blue. He knocked, wincing when that set off the screaming of a babe within. Those cries were joined by more cries and still more cries, the effect like auditory dominoes: within seconds, the rising cacophony could be heard down the hall.
The door swung open, a stout matron wearing a cap glaring out at him.
