The Importance of Being Wanton by Christi Caldwell
Chapter 7
THE LONDONER
SUSPICIONS ABOUND
The town agitator, none other than Miss Gately, presuming to know what is best for all ladies everywhere, has been spied gallivanting throughout different ends of London, haranguing fathers and guardians, attempting to bully those gentlemen into her way of thinking. Is there no level to which this jilted miss will not sink?
M. FAIRPOINT
Two murders had been committed on Ratcliff Highway.
Two families, within two weeks of one another.
In all, seven victims had lost their lives on these very streets.
Granted, those atrocities had been committed more than seventeen years ago.
Never more did Emma Gately regret having listened to that ominous tale told by Daria, one of the Viscountess St. John’s sisters-in-law.
At the time, Emma had been fascinated by the telling, particularly by the young lady. Now she recognized her privilege, which had also blinded her to the fact that people lived in these parts of London.
That one of their members, Emma’s new friend, Cressida, had lived there.
Did live here.
And riding through the clogged roadway of Artichoke Hill only heightened the sense of impending peril that hung in the air.
The carriage lurched to a jolting stop, and Emma gripped the edge of her bench to keep from being flung, even as her maid went flying into the side.
A moment later, the carriage door opened, and her family’s driver, Tensly, looked up, his eyes reflecting her own concern. “Streets are too full,” he shouted loudly enough to be heard over the circus of sounds outside. He doffed his hat and wiped at his damp brow. “Cannot get any farther than this, miss.”
Emma leaned over and peered out. At her side, her maid, Heather, followed suit.
People filled the streets, vendors selling their goods.
It was, however, still broad daylight. How much peril could—?
A fellow in tattered garments with a ladder hoisted about his back shouted at Tensly. “Outta the damned way!”
As one, Emma and Heather immediately pulled back inside, with Tensly pushing the door shut behind them. “I don’t know, miss,” the young woman murmured, echoing Emma’s own reservations. “It isn’t the . . . safest place, and your parents would have my head if anything were to happen to you.”
“No, they’d have mine, and know that I was to blame, and appreciate that you were good enough, at least, to accompany me.”
“I don’t know about that,” the young girl muttered.
Emma chewed at her lower lip, warring with her indecision. The cowardly part of her said to forget this visit. The other part called her out for being not only a coward but also a privileged woman at that, who’d balk at visiting anyplace outside Mayfair.
In the end, those latter sentiments won out.
Heather groaned. “Oh, missss,” she moaned, recognizing what Emma intended even before she confirmed it.
“I’ll just be a short while,” Emma promised, drawing up her hood.
“I’m accompanying you.”
“No,” Emma insisted. “It will be fine. How dangerous could it”—something struck one of the carriage windows, knocking the glass loudly, and they both jumped—“be?” she finished with a smile.
And before the girl took it in her head to follow, Emma let herself out.
Tensly was there immediately with a hand up to help her. Calling her thanks, Emma started across the street, zigzagging around passersby and people moving livestock along. Her feet dragged through the thick mud coating the earth, and yet . . . the scent of dung filled the sky, competing with the smoke and soot for supremacy. And when collectively roiled together, the people who visited these parts, who lived here, were left with an ungodly stench thick enough to suffocate a person.
Shamefully, it had never occurred to her how people outside of Polite Society lived. In this case, even people who found themselves counted among the ranks of the ton, as Cressida and her brother now did, found their lives . . . a struggle. And Emma was struck by the depth of her own narrow-mindedness of the world around her and the economic plight of so many.
Where Mayfair sipped tea at this hour, it would appear Central London bustled with workers. Emma skimmed the rows of townhouses, a mix of new, bright, freshly painted stucco and sorry, crumbling structures, searching for the markings. Anything to set the dilapidated structures apart and highlight the place she’d come in search of. Regent Street was, in short, an area in transition, on their way to becoming a fashionable, safe, inhabitable place, but still on a long path to that point.
Emma searched the townhouses, looking for the number of Cressida Alby’s residence. She squinted . . .
And her heart fell.
Sandwiched between two gleaming white structures, Cressida’s home boasted broken windows and rotted wood, with holes enough to let the elements sail through. The modest but fine garments she’d donned, however, had revealed no hint as to how she’d truly been living.
Catching her hem, Emma held the already grime-stained article aloft and dashed across the street. The moment she reached the door, she lifted the knocker, letting it fall several times.
And standing back, she waited, staring up at the run-down stucco unit belonging to Cressida’s family.
From within, there came the shuffle of feet and the annoyed mutterings of a person on the other side.
The panel opened. An aging apron-clad servant with straggly, stringy grey hair gave Emma’s garments a harsh once-over. “What ya want?”
Emma donned a smile. After all, Lila’s household, run entirely by former street fighters and their families, had familiarized her all too well with the unconventional servant. “My name is Miss Gately.” She procured a card from the reticule hanging on her wrist, and held it over. “I’m here to see Miss Alby.”
The old woman looked her up and down. “Wot ya want with the miss?” she demanded, making no move to take the ivory scrap from Emma’s fingers.
“Uh . . . yes,” she said, stuffing the article back inside her reticule and closing the latch. All the while, she studied this gatekeeper to the latest member snatched from the folds of the Mismatch; the woman’s sallow face proved an unreadable mask. Whether she was friend or gaoler to the young lady here in this household, Emma knew not. In the end, she opted for the truth. “I am a friend to Miss Alby.”
“Miss Alby ain’t got herself any friends,” the servant said bluntly, and made to shut the door.
Emma shot up a hand, inserting her fingers in the opening to keep from letting that panel slam on her.
Or to get your fingers severed,a voice taunted.
She spoke on a rush. “I assure you, I am very much her friend. I’m one of the founders of a society of young women, which Cressida once joined. She is my friend, and I have come to pay a visit,” she ended with a greater firmness. She’d not only come to visit, but more importantly, to ensure her friend was safe and well . . . and that she wasn’t being forced into that miserable marriage she’d no interest in.
The old woman eyed her a long while through sunken eyes, made all the deeper by the way in which she narrowed them upon Emma’s face. Then she glanced over Emma’s shoulder to the streets beyond.
Emma turned, following her stare, then gasped as a wrinkled hand wrapped about her arm and jerked her forward.
The servant slammed the door behind them. “Ya ain’t got much time with the miss,” she said gruffly. And then without bothering to see whether Emma followed, she stalked off.
Emma looked around at the dark foyer, devoid of sconces or candles, and climbed her gaze up to the empty place where once had hung a chandelier but now remained a ceiling peppered with holes and damp spots.
“Ya ’eard what I said? Ya don’t ’ave much time,” the old woman snapped, and Emma sprang into movement, quickening her stride to catch up.
It was a short walk, down a narrow hall that had been stripped—and poorly, at that—of the wallpaper, peeled as if in haste by someone who’d had intentions of making over the walls, but had abandoned their efforts upon the struggle to remove the previous work. The chipped and faded oak panels had been all pulled shut, but for one.
They stopped before that lone open entryway.
Faded green velvet curtains had been drawn far back to allow light into the parlor; that same garish green adorned the pieces of Chippendale furniture that showed hints of once greatness and wealth, but had since been dimmed by time and lack of care.
Cressida occupied a room beside the empty hearth, busy at work, darning—
Emma’s heart wrenched.
“Ya got company, gel,” Emma’s guide announced with a great tenderness and gruff warmth . . . the manner of which Emma’d not have expected possible of the servant.
The young woman’s head went flying up; with stockings and darning needles in hand, she sprang to her feet. “Emma!” Surprise rounded her eyes. She was immediately across the room, her arms outstretched, but then caught herself, rocking back on her heels and denying herself and Emma that overly warm greeting. “It is . . . so very good to see you,” she finished instead. Hanging her head, she brought her stockings and darning needles behind her.
With a grunt, the loyal maid plucked those articles from her mistress, dropping them into the front of her own apron.
“Won’t you join me?” Cressida said weakly.
Emma smiled. Removing her gloves, she dropped them into her reticule. “I would enjoy that very much.”
“Trudy, will you please bring refreshments for Miss Gately?”
“Oh, no, that won’t be—”
“Ya know we ain’t got refreshments,” the loyal maid chided, and Cressida’s face buckled.
“I don’t require refreshments,” Emma was quick to reassure. Collecting the younger woman’s hands, she squeezed lightly. “Your company is the sole reason I’ve come.”
Trudy’s harsh features softened. “There ya go, gel. A real friend ya don’t need to hide that rubbish from. Tea. We got tea,” she said, and with that, the gruff, coarse figure shuffled off.
The moment she’d gone, Cressida motioned to a small, faded gold settee with slightly torn upholstery. “Won’t you sit?”
Emma immediately took up a place on that bench, resting her reticule on her lap.
The other young woman claimed the matching settee across from her.
A brief, silent awkwardness fell. “Now you can see why he wished me to wed . . . ,” Cressida murmured, clasping her hands upon her lap. “To sell me.” This time, however, there was an acrid bitterness in her avowal.
So much resentment and hate filled Emma . . . for what Cressida Alby and all women endured.
“Regardless of wealth, brothers and fathers”—even the devoted ones—“are only interested in selling one’s daughters. For gain. For wealth. For familial friendships.” As had been the case with Emma’s parents.
“Why have you come?” Cressida asked curiously.
Not for the first time since she’d arrived in Regent Street, Emma’s heart pulled for the young woman. Did she truly not know she called her a friend? That she wasn’t alone? By the rounded set to her shoulders and the sad glimmer in her eyes, the answer was likely the latter. “As I said to Trudy,” she said gently, “you are my friend, and you have been missed. Not just by me, but the others as well.”
“I’m sure no one even noticed,” Cressida murmured, dropping her glance to her pale-pink muslin skirts. “I hardly contributed and really only listened.” She spoke with a quiet sadness of someone who’d heard those words tossed at her, and now spoke them in rote remembrance.
“That isn’t true.” Quitting her place, Emma went over to join the younger woman. “That isn’t true at all. You came and listened and wanted to be there with us. Because you believe in what we believe in and our mission for other women, that makes your contribution as meaningful as anyone else’s.” Unlike the members who’d so quickly defected because of a newer, brighter, shinier organization to come along. “Your role among our society isn’t to be understated.”
A tremulous smile formed on Cressida’s wide mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered through tears that shimmered in her pretty brown eyes.
Emma brushed the drops that fell from the younger woman’s cheeks. “Come now, none of that! This is a happy time. We are reunited, and I’ve come to share all the latest developments with you.” With that, Emma proceeded to provide her recently found friend with an enumeration of the latest developments, from the inception of Charles’s new club to the loss of their members.
By the time Emma concluded, the earlier sadness in Cressida’s eyes had been replaced with the sparkle that usually brightened them. “What do you intend to do?”
Emma lifted an eyebrow. “You assume I intend to do something?” she asked, touching a hand to her breast in pretend disbelief.
“I know you intend to do something,” the other woman said, and they joined in laughing.
When their shared amusement had settled, Emma confirmed her friend’s supposition. “I intend to confront him, of course.”
“Of course.” Cressida clapped her hands together, then sighed. “How I wish I might take part again in the society.”
“You can, and you will.”
Just like that, the light went out of the young woman’s eyes. “You don’t know my brother.”
“I have two.”
“Not like mine,” Cressida said, her words so faint Emma strained to hear, and when she did, a chill traipsed along her spine. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“But . . .”
“I’m not coming back. And I do not wish to speak further of it.” Cressida spoke with a forcefulness Emma had never recalled from the girl.
“Of course,” she said quietly. “We needn’t.”
Trudy arrived with a tray bearing three mismatched teacups and a chipped porcelain pot, which she set down before them. Instead of taking her leave, however, the woman settled onto the vacant settee, and helped herself to a cup of tea with an ease cementing that familiarity between her and Cressida.
“Trudy was our family’s all-purpose servant,” Cressida shared as she accepted the pot of tea from the old woman and poured first one cup, then another. “She is family.” She handed Emma one of the cups.
“Closer than family,” the old woman grunted, and sipped her drink.
Closer than familytherefore also meant a confidante who might have a greater chance of succeeding where Emma had otherwise failed. “I was encouraging Cressida to rejoin me for the Mismatch meetings.”
“Mr. Alby won’t allow it,” Trudy said bluntly.
Cressida sneered. “Baron Newhart. Do not forget he is now a baron.”
“Don’t care what ’e is,” Trudy spat. “Always been a selfish sod. Now ’e’s just a selfish one with a title and a sense of import, and ’e won’t ever agree to the girl’s attending.” Trudy directed that last part at Emma.
“But . . .”
“’e’s not pleased she went against ’im,” Trudy went on. “Only way ’e’d likely consider it ’tis . . .”
If Cressida agreed to marry the man he wished so he could have the fortune he wanted. And even that wouldn’t secure Cressida the freedom she needed from a rotter like her brother. “You’d simply go from one prison to another,” Emma said tightly. “That will never do.”
They sipped their tea in silence.
After they’d concluded, they resumed their discourse, with Emma filling Cressida in on other details she’d missed since she’d been forced to resign her membership. When their visit was concluded, Cressida alone escorted Emma to the door. “It has been so lovely to see you,” she said wistfully.
“I shall come again, and will continue visiting until you resume your place.” Emma smiled. “And then, even after it,” she vowed. Trudy rushed forward with Emma’s cloak, and she accepted it from the older woman. “It has been a pleasure, Trudy.”
“The same,” the old servant said gruffly. “Now go on with yarself.”
Adjusting the grommets of her cloak, Emma stepped outside. The rush of sunlight, after walking the dim halls, proved briefly blinding, and she lifted a hand to shield her stare. She blinked several times in a bid to adjust her vision to the afternoon sun . . . and gasped.
A slightly soft-around-the-middle gentleman stood at the base of the steps.
The brother.
Raising a monocle, he peered at her. “Miss Gately,” he said coolly.
Emma donned the same smile she had when first meeting Trudy; however, the baron proved even more unbendable than the maid. “Lord Newhart,” she greeted, infusing as much charm as she could, finding herself with the opportunity she’d sought. Holding on to the wrought iron rail, Emma took the steps to meet him. “I had hoped to speak with you.”
“Oh?” He doffed a hat so high it looked more a prop for a stage with a farcical production about some lord than an actual article a real, nonfictional man might wear.
“I don’t know if you are aware, but I’m one of the founders of the Mis—”
He cut her off. “I know precisely who you are.”
Hmph.So this was not going to be as easy as she’d anticipated. Not that she should have expected anything else, given how the male members of Polite Society had responded to the formation of the Mismatch Society.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Miss Gately?” The gentleman made to step around her, and she hurried to place herself in his path.
“If I might beg a moment of your time, Lord Newhart?” She added another smile to her appeal.
All the while her mind raced, running through everything she already knew about the man before her, as well as everything her friend and Trudy had revealed this day, about his pomposity, his regard for his title. She shifted tactics.
He grunted. “What is it?”
“It is just . . . your sister has been such an addition to”—his brows dipped, and Emma continued, careful to leave out mention of the name of the society that blinded this man and most men to anything but their resentment—“Polite Society,” she neatly substituted. Some of the tension eased from his high brow.
“Oh?”
“Yes, yes. Very much so. I do not know if Cressida has mentioned, amongst her friends she includes the Viscountess St. John. The Dowager Viscountess St. John.” There was a visible softening to the man’s fleshy lips with every respectable title she dropped. “The Countess of Waterson and the Duchess of Wingate.”
The pale planes of his rounded face tensed, and he thumped the bottom of his cane on the limestone step. That thumping inadvertently sent loose pieces of the stone flaking free. “A former courtesan and a street fighter’s wife. My sister is above reproach and will not be keeping company with such shameful, wicked, wanton creatures.” With every insult hurled, the color in his face deepened until his cheeks were splotchy red.
That red matched the rage that raced through her at the audacity of this man, who couldn’t hold a candlestick to the women of strength and courage and convictions.
“Now, if you will excuse me,” he demanded, this time sharper and harsher in that command.
“No, I will not.” Emma dropped her hands onto her hips and blocked his efforts once more.
His already buglike eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon.”
“You are making your sister a prisoner, and I am here demanding you set her free to spend her days as she would. And she would have those days spent at the Mismatch Society.”
“You . . . you . . .” He surged forward, and Emma kept herself rooted to the place where she stood on the middle of his steps, even as under her skirts, her legs trembled and the nerve endings cried to flee. If she did, then the message would be sent loud and clear to bullying men such as the one before her that the women of the Mismatch Society could be intimidated. “Stand out of my way.”
If bullied once, bullied a thousand times more in the future to come. “I will not, until you agree to let Cressida attend.”
“My God, you are stupid.”
Emma curved her lips in a slow smile meant to challenge and taunt. “I prefer brave.”
He shot out a hand, gripping her arm so hard he pulled a gasp from her. And it only emboldened him. Cocksure and arrogant, as only a bullying man could be. He tightened his hold all the more, and tears pricked behind her eyes from the fierceness of his touch.
And then Lord Newhart smiled his first smile of their meeting. “No woman will ever dare come to my household and order me about. That is a mistake, Miss Gately.”
