The Den Of Iniquity. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
wish for him to feel censured. ‘We may speak of whatever you’d like.’ She exhaled, feeling more comfortable than only a few minutes before.
‘How will you spend your day? Are you in need of the carriage?’ He too appeared more at ease and opened the newspaper where it lay in wait at the corner of the table.
Still the arrangement was awkward without her mother present. Mealtime usually centred on conversation shared between the two women. She’d never felt the need to inform her stepfather of her daily schedule as she usually accompanied her mother on calls or received friends in the drawing room. With a twinge of guilt she finished her bread with large bites and hurriedly explained how she intended to continue her mother’s efforts.
He nodded with approval though she’d spilled it all out rather quickly. ‘See, I am correct. You are more like your mother each day.’
Accepting his words as praise she excused herself and informed Henderson, their butler, she needed the carriage brought around. Nettlecombe was located on the opposite end of London from Mayfair. Situated on Weymouth Street in Bloomsbury, the multi-level house represented old England more than the stylish design of the Daventrys’ three-storey town house.
At times, Vivienne believed when she crossed Oxford Street and travelled beyond Grosvenor Square she entered an entirely different world; though collectively the population, whether it included orphans, lords, nabobs or cits, composed the heartbeat of London. Apparently she would need to adjust her categorical consideration to include gaming hell proprietors. The idea caused her mouth to twitch as if she kept a secret on her tongue and refused to let it out.
The ride to Drury Lane was lengthy no matter the hour was early. She would leave her carriage to wait in the shopping district of Wellington Street and discretely hail a hackney to take her the remaining distance to Mr Sinclair’s establishment. A current of excitement accompanied the solidification of her plan.
Wanting to pass the time in a more productive fashion she removed her journal from her reticule and with capricious attention focused on the list she’d composed earlier, but after a few minutes she abandoned the attempt. Not much later the carriage rolled to a stop. She spoke briefly to the driver and then set off to purchase fresh flowers. She’d asked Cook to prepare a goodwill basket, the servant accustomed to Vivienne’s charitable requests.
Now, with the basket looped over her arm and a small bouquet of daisies in the other hand, she walked to the corner and hailed a hackney to take her to number eleven Bond Street, St James Square. The wiry driver, unshaven and potent-smelling, cast a curious eye at the basket and flowers before accepting her money with a grimy smile. They set out at a discombobulating pace. Vivienne sat primly, legs pressed together, basket and flowers on her lap, for fear she might bounce out of the flimsy gig. A sense of relief paled her excitement when the conveyance finally pulled to the kerb. She exited without a glance over her shoulder and across the cobbles she went.
At first her mind whirled with the right words to say, the exact conversation to be had with Mr Sinclair, but as she crossed the street and approached the address a diffident qualm caused her steps to falter. She stopped near the kerb, safe on the pavement beside an umbrageous chestnut tree where she could muster her courage and consider the residential location lined with two-storey buildings in varying shades of brick and slate. Nothing about the conventional environment suggested a lively gaming hell thrived across the street. If indeed she’d arrived at the correct address, Mr Sinclair proved cleverer than she’d given credit, his gambling establishment essentially hidden in plain sight. Deep in admiration, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a male voice questioned her from the other side of the tree trunk.
‘Watching number eleven, are you?’
The stranger was dressed in brown from head to toe, as flat and dull as the tree bark where he’d all but blended in aside from the startling scar on his face. No one could mistake it, a jagged white line from his eye socket to his chin and just as unsettling as the jarring hackney ride. She wasn’t one to speak to strangers, already troubled by her recent pangs of ambiguity, and so she moved away, staring over her shoulder to ensure he did not follow her as she took the steps, dropped the brass knocker and prayed the door would open.
She darted a glance across the roadway but as far as she could tell the man was gone, dissolved into the ever-present murmur of city life. Drawing a deep breath, she dropped the knocker again, more solidified in her purpose and quick to regain the delightful anticipation of seeing Mr Sinclair again. His hypnotic stare was the exact balm needed to soothe her ruffled feathers. But no one answered. Disappointment caused her shoulders to sag and she placed the basket at the foot of the door, uncertain how to proceed.
‘Looking for Sin, are you?’ A lad, no more than ten years at most, approached the bottom stair, his hands busy with a pair of dice tossed into the air in a pretentious game of catch.
‘I am.’ She reclaimed the basket and descended the stoop. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’
The boy straightened his posture, a half-smile tilting his cheeks. ‘For a shilling I do.’
‘Oh dear.’ She should have anticipated the ruffian entrepreneur would place a price on the information. Clearly she’d need to develop more savvy business acuity. She placed the basket at her feet and opened her reticule to extract the coin but she held it tight, unwilling to offer it forward. ‘That depends on the information you share, young man.’
‘You should call me Ace.’
‘I’d rather call you by your given name. I’d wager your mother chose your name with heartfelt consideration so I’ll use it and you’ll answer if you have any hope of receiving payment.’
Thwarted, the lad dropped his grin, clasped his dice in one fist and flipped a peek to the locked doors above them. ‘I’m Thomas and you’ve no chance of catching anyone here now. ’Tis morning and the hell’s been open all night. Sin is sleeping with some bawd by now.’
Unimpressed by the lad’s mimic of swagger far beyond his years and likely obtained from places he should never have frequented, Vivienne waited. He stared at the coin and then, in his first show of boyhood, eyed the basket with earnest longing as he laid one hand across his flat belly.
‘I have raspberry jam and fresh bread, sugar biscuits and sesame cakes if you spend a few minutes telling me what you know, but be warned I have no patience for bouncers or Banbury tales.’ She adopted a strident tone and watched him closely. Indeed, she might be better at this than she originally thought.
‘Aye. I understand.’
They settled in companionable silence, on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the entrance of the gaming hell before she removed the linen napkins and other contents of the basket in an unlikely picnic. She allowed the lad to dine first and when his appetite was satisfied, good heavens he was a bottomless pit, she cleaned up their mess while he regaled her with everything observed as he earned coin at the kerb watching expensive cattle.
‘And Sin won’t want flowers.’ He ended with a sharp nod towards the abandoned bouquet. ‘Men like us don’t like flummery.’ He said this with such disparagement she almost laughed outright.
‘Then what do you suggest, Thomas?’ She stood, ready to take her leave. A part of her felt disconsolate for she hadn’t met Mr Sinclair, yet another brighter part rejoiced to have fed Tom thoroughly.
‘He likes Miss Mirabel well enough.’ He looked her over with wide-eyed assessment. ‘I reckon he could like you too.’
More than a little appalled, Vivienne cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t imply…’ What did she mean by soliciting advice from a streetwise urchin? ‘Very well, Thomas. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this morning. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’
‘I doubt it.’ He had the dice in the air again, his boyish expression replaced with a contrived expression of cynicism. ‘But you never know.’