Where Your Treasure Is

The Cast

Part I

London

Hampstead

Sir Percival de la Coeur, uncle of Miss de la Coeur

Paul Morrant, a butler and manservant

Winifred de la Coeur, an heiress

Bettina Dupree, a lady’s maid

Richards, a groom and driver

Doctor Frederick Frost, a physician

The staff of the Hampstead house

Detective Randal Owens of Scotland Yard

Constable Robert Clive, London Police

Cheapside

Amelie Barron, cousin to Miss de la Coeur

Delilah Barron, mother of Miss Barron

Bert Barron, cousin to Miss Barron and Miss de la Coeur

Natasha Barron, mother of Mr. Barron

Gretchen Burns, cousin to Miss de la Coeur

. . . and about town

George Broughton-Caruthers, heir of Hereford Hall

Black Diamond, his mount

. . . a Very Important Person

The City

Mr. Graham Buckner, a bank officer

Selway Adams, a secretary

Mr. Kent Darby, a clerk

Southwark

Court Furor, a driver and prizefighter

Eglantine, a cab horse

Geoff Ratchet, a friend of Mr. Furor

Hezekiah Boors, a friend of Mr. Furor

Seamus Todd, a friend of Mr. Furor

P. Lili Piani, a gang boss

Fanny Merton, a barmaid

Sam Merton, brother of Miss Merton

Beryl Stuart, half sister of Mr. Furor

Rosie Cartwright, friend of Miss Stuart and Mr. Furor

Zeke Odom, a sparring partner and dogsbody

Jeb Davis, a trainer

Billy O’Connell, a trainer

Grynt Spivey, a traveler

Jasper, Mr. Spivey’s cart horse

Detective Inspector James Patterson

Detective Sergeant Nicholas Peele

. . . and of the Turf

Berserker, a racehorse

Part II

London

Southwark

Bess Montague, a madam

. . . and about town

Horace Greystone, a barrister

. . . and of Tattersall’s

Sweet Little Banshee, a racehorse

Richmond

The Earl

Mrs. Harris, a former actress

Jarvis Perrot, a journalist

Nancy Whyte, a lady’s maid

Cheapside

Latimer Kleinfeldt, a jeweler

Holloways, Norfolk

Elizabeth Pettiford, a housekeeper

Mrs. Lumley, a cook

William, a groom

Struthers, a butler

Jakes, a footman

Molly Striker, a housemaid

Oliver, a hall boy

John Burns, husband of Mrs. Burns

The little Scots, children of Mr. and Mrs. Burns

Reverend Fontaine, a vicar

The villagers and tenants of Holloways and Hereford Hall

Tulip, Miss de la Coeur’s mount

Puck, Mr. Barron’s mount

Flora and Meriwether, a mare and her foal

Hereford Hall

Charles Broughton-Caruthers, brother of Mr. Broughton-Caruthers

Hotspur, Mr. George Broughton-Caruthers’ mount

Cairo, Egypt

Colonel Andrew Perth, resident of Mena House

Amr, a manservant

Part III

Venice, Italy

Herr Steinwicz, a tourist

Frau Steinwicz, Herr Steinwicz’ wife

Gianni, an artist

London

Cheapside

Fabrizio Bertollini, a shop clerk

The Old Bailey

Jonas Worthington, a judge

Mr. Humphrey Whitehouse, a barrister

Arabella Bertollini, fiancée of Mr. Ratchet

Part One

November 1892 – March 1893

Chapter 1

A Spinster Reflects

Winifred de la Coeur was not a traditional beauty, but she was one of a kind. Or so George had whispered while they played cards. He had won the hand and taken hers in his. After all these years, she ought to know better than to trust him.

She stood with her maid in the hall before the pier glass and examined the result of their morning’s work. They had begun earlier than usual. Bathed, combed, powdered, and perfumed, Winifred wore underlinens trimmed in lace a duchess would envy. Her dress was the latest fashion. The crowning achievement was the hat, an enormous concoction of absinthe silk covered in black tulle and ostrich plumes.

Morrant is right. I do look frightful! Her hands flew to her head.

Pooh! What does he know? Bettina scoffed, none too quietly. She adjusted the veil and shot a sour glance at the butler, who strode past them into the breakfast room.

Dr. Frost arrives at ten o’clock, Morrant announced. He scooped the brandy bottle from where it rested by Percival’s feet then read aloud from the daybook in which the older man penned his thoughts. "‘CAN A MAN ALTER HIS CHARACTER?’ Not before breakfast, sir."

I’m not hungry, Percival grumbled.

Up late? ‘The unexamined life is not worth living,’ and so forth?

More like ‘Lions prowling about the door’! He pushed away the coffee and toast Morrant set by him. Tea with Tasha and Delilah yesterday nearly finished me. Like battling hydras! He peered into the hall at Winifred. Plans today?

The bank and luncheon with George at Simpson’s.

You’ll take Morrant with you? I don’t need him.

Winifred yanked on her gloves and lifted her chin. Nonsense! They read the Irish bill tonight, don’t they? That’ll take ages.

Long after midnight probably. All I shall think of the entire time are smoked oysters on buttered toast, a good cigar, and you. Blanchard holds forth like a hailstorm whenever he thinks we’re eager to get away. Worse than my old schoolmaster. I’m too old for this sort of thing.

Precisely. I’ll be at the opera with Amelie and Bert. You’ll stay at your club, so of course you’ll need Morrant!

In the breakfast room, her uncle tried to deflect his manservant’s attempt to get him to eat. She watched with affection. Two bachelors, just as she and Bettina were two old maids. While her uncle’s bad lungs had aged him prematurely, Morrant’s physique was still trim, his black hair touched with grey along the temples. She frowned at her reflection, tugged the tight bodice, and wished she were going riding on the Heath with her cousins Amelie and Bert.

Neither man had hidden his astonishment as she twirled into the breakfast room in her parrot-green ensemble. Her uncle shaded his eyes. Good Lord, you’re bright as a Christmas cracker! Are we to have the Highland fling? He squinted at the skirt’s purple tartan trim while she kissed his cheek. My dear, you look ready to pop!

It’s not Guy Fawkes ’til tomorrow, sir, Morrant said.

It’s so tight, I might explode! She had exhaled against her tight stays. It is vulgar. I feel like Gloriana gone wild. Add seven ropes of pearls, and call me the Virgin Queen.

Morrant coughed.

It was impossible to tell whether his eyes expressed disapproval or suppressed amusement.

About his opinion of the idiotic tea gown she had worn while she and George played cards the prior evening, there could be no mistake. Morrant and Bettina had had words over it. In spite of the man’s usual equanimity, the recent changes to her toilette had put him in a permanent state of alarm. His opinion of George had already involved the use of horsewhips. Though Bettina asserted that a woman dressed for herself, and Winifred inwardly argued that a servant’s thoughts about her wardrobe or the way she lived should not matter, Morrant’s opinion did.

She grimaced at her hat and reached for it. Ce chapeau, est-ce que les femmes françaises appellent la Catherinette?

Bettina caught her hands. Poof! Do not tease about old maids. I work hard to dress you beautifully! The hat is très chic et vous êtes une femme de la mode, a fashionable lady. We want people to notice! She adjusted Winifred’s jabot. The cut of the jacket is so modest, so cunning!

I suppose it makes me look less fat. In the long mirror, she critically regarded her hips.

Madame Gretchen is all skin and bones, so our cousin can get away with no corset. She pushed in Winifred’s waist. We are not so!

Bettina Dupree was a dark, exacting young Frenchwoman of martinet nature who was perpetually at war with the laundress and chambermaids if they so much as breathed on Winifred’s dressing table, or touched her perfectly turned kid boots and gloves.

Almost purring, the woman shook a deep grey cashmere cloak over Winifred’s shoulders, fastened its silver buttons, and bent to straighten the silk of the dark purple lining. After lunch with Monsieur George, we will meet at the dressmaker’s, n’est-ce pas?

More shopping. Winifred was already bored by her birthday resolution to attend more to her appearance, but Bettina read the society pages and took the notices seriously. She looked forward to the grand fashion houses and complained that all Winifred wanted to wear was a riding habit. Richards will drive you. À bientôt! She smiled radiantly for her maid’s benefit and kissed both her cheeks.

Richards sat on the brougham’s high box, bundled against the cold. Leaves danced along the street in a gust of wind. Morrant walked down the steps, a blanket draped over his arm. Winifred quickly followed, glad of Bettina’s insistence she wear the warm cashmere.

Morrant handed her up, checked the foot-warmer, and then decorously spread the blanket over her knees. She watched his hands smooth the material. Their faces were very close.

Morrant!

No, miss, let me—if I may—speak first.

His tone was so serious; she prepared herself.

Though you’re not in the best spirits this morning and worried about your uncle, you appear fit to face any challenge, even in that dress and—, he hesitated, if one might hazard a guess at the identity of that object upon your head—that hat!

The hint of his smile and the kind expression in his dark eyes were a relief. He returned her hand’s pressure, then closed the carriage door.

Richards cracked the reins.

Winifred twisted about to catch a last glimpse of Morrant, who stood on the steps and watched after her. The carriage turned the corner.

Hampstead’s quiet streets gave way to those of Regent’s Park. As traffic increased, Winifred’s spirits rallied. Never fond of London, this morning she welcomed its energy and activity, an astringent if not a completely palatable medicine for her nerves. Richards’ whip handle tapped her window.

Still going to the City, miss?

Yes, straight to the Royal Empire Bank!

George’s letter with its bold cursive had arrived in the morning’s post. Morrant laid it between her and Percival. She had torn open the envelope and felt her cheeks flush. It’s only about that piece of land he wants to sell me. She threw the letter on the table, pushed away the nearly finished plate of kedgeree that she already regretted, and pretended to read the newspaper’s financial section.

That detestable piece of land, Percival had snapped. I wish the earth would swallow it! And their owner George, she had thought. Her uncle added that he was sorry if she was disappointed. She knew he was relieved.

During a shooting party that September, George had proposed the sale of a twenty-acre wood that separated the de la Coeur and Broughton-Caruthers estates and where the game warden encouraged the foxes. Winifred said that she was not interested. George replied that she made an art of playing hard to get.

How it must gall him, she had gibed. The first son in five generations obliged to sell off parcels of land rather than buy them! His brother Charles lived in Scotland in an enormous castle with his wife and two little girls. He had a steady character and was happily matched. They had acres of hunting grounds and no mortgages in sight. Charles had little money of his own but did not owe any either. Nor did he share George’s lavish habits or the propensity for ennui that drove Hereford Hall’s heir into low company and reckless deeds.

George smirked. But he’s boring, and neither as good looking nor as popular as I am.

On the day before she came up to London, she rode her horse Tulip across the fields to inspect the wood. Beyond it lay Hereford Hall’s brick towers, graceful lawns, and chestnut-lined drive. She had given Tulip a smart kick and galloped down the sandy lane that led to the sea. In spite of her elder cousins’ warnings, she and George had raced one another on it many times. She bent over her mare’s neck, urged her to go faster, and pretended to outdistance her neighbor. She was Queen Bess, who ruled a kingdom of her own. No need of any man!

Her pride could not bear that George, or even her family, might suspect that while she had won the battle against her suitors, she had lost the war. At summer’s end, once the field cleared and the dust settled, she discovered she was tired of holding up the increasingly heavy standard of her virginity. The other debutantes of her year had long retired from the lists on their fiancés’ arms or were preoccupied by their confinements. She had attended so many weddings she lost track of the sprays of orange blossom Bettina cleared from her dressing table or the number of silver rattles she and Amelie had wrapped. Her freedom was not the triumph she had imagined it would be.

At the first touch of sea breeze, Winifred had reined in Tulip and started for Holloways. Her uncle’s country house lacked the Hall’s Tudor grandeur. Its rustic parks and woods were a bit unkempt, like Percival in the morning before Morrant got hold of him. Yet local legend had it that Queen Elizabeth had favored Holloways over the Hall for reasons that had little to do with its fine trout streams and more with her host’s golden-brown eyes. His portrait hung in the library. Elderly servants claimed he resembled a young Percival. Winifred gazed on the pale, handsome face with its halo of red-gold hair and wondered why her uncle had never married.

At the dressmaker’s, she confronted the mirror and her own prospects. Her ayah always said that she had her mother’s high cheekbones and graceful movements. The rest was like her father, according to Percival; high coloring, blonde hair of the type called strawberry, a strong chin and full, labile mouth, and the de la Coeur eyes. Once too often, George had teased her about her taste for plain skirts and blouses. Bring out the most daring creations, she commanded the designer, no matter how outrageous. Determined to make George choke on his words and torment him with her wealth, she had written to the bank for her mother’s Indian necklace.

That was before Morrant’s distressed glances at the tea gown.

With only Bettina to see the flimsy article, how daring she had felt. They played cards before the fire. Morrant had entered. Never had she been more aware of her body, bare beneath the sheer folds of the garment the seamstress promised would afford freedom at home. As if she had not understood what the woman implied!

Bettina, who was proud of their bold choice, scowled at Morrant. Your deal, Mademoiselle, she coaxed.

Winifred wanted to sink beneath the floor but had dealt the cards. To complete her misery, George strode in, unannounced as usual.

With enough dresses for a lifetime, she did not need to go to another fitting. The necklace was so valuable, she ought to leave it locked up. She’d never actually seen it, only the insurance drawings when the lawyers reviewed her father’s estate. Its fiery opulence had reminded her of him. Rare, singular. Until recently, she wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing it.

Like her ridiculous new wardrobe, that was George’s doing as well.

Driven indoors by late-summer rain, he had promenaded with her and Amelie in the Hall’s long gallery. Beneath portraits of his ancestors, they talked of the Queen’s legendary sojourn in the neighborhood. Amelie mentioned the old monarch’s love of jewels.

George laughed. I can’t tell one from another. They’re all alike to me.

What about your mother’s necklace, Winifred? Amelie cried. The one with the big orange diamond like a bird’s egg! I saw the drawings when she chose her presentation jewels. All that gold, big pearls, and yellow diamonds too!

A Moghul’s hoard! Tonight, let’s play dress-up, like our Christmas romps. Win shall wear all her jewels and be our sultana. No, Gloriana! Bert and I will carry her in on a palanquin! Come on, Win! Amelie, be our Diana! Hail to our virgin queens! George winked at Amelie, who turned bright pink and walked quickly ahead of them.

Oh George, do be quiet! Winifred scolded. I’d never take it out of the bank!

The jewels were a shield to raise before fellows like him. They were also a reminder of the love that brought her into the world. Her mother never had the opportunity to enjoy her husband’s gift. Hours after Winifred’s birth, she was dead.

I’ll never wear it--ever! Winifred had said on the ride back to Holloways.

If I had such lovely things I certainly would, Amelie had sighed.

Going without Morrant to the bank was a stubborn gesture, just as buying the clothes was a grandiose one, and meeting George for lunch was a foolish one.

Tears filled her eyes.

She stuffed the tulle veil onto the brim of her hat. Its net was like a cloud of smoke. Waving her hand at the ecstatic saleswoman, she’d proclaimed that she would take the lot, and now she hated all of it! No more silly hats! No more succumbing to maids and cousins! The jewels could stay in the vault. By Sunday, the dreaded birthday would be over. She’d be at Holloways and would ride Tulip alongside Amelie. They would race across the field behind the house under a sunny sky. Clouds would billow over the sea, and startled rooks would rise from the frosted grass.

George could eat lunch by himself.

Richards jerked the reins.

An omnibus forced them to the left of the thoroughfare as they passed Haymarket and turned onto the Strand. Cabs clustered thickly and propelled their slow but steady progress east.

In spite of the cold, the carriage interior felt close. She pushed down the window. Boiled cabbage and wet manure; rotting offal and greasy soot; the sour, sharp tang of horse urine. She pressed her handkerchief to her nose and silently urged Richards to drive as quickly as possible.

When the carriage stalled again, they were caught in the City’s crush of traffic.

A flower girl darted into the street and pushed dangerously close to a neighboring hackney’s wheels as it attempted to roll ahead of Richards. Apparently indifferent to being smashed, the girl thrust a nosegay of violets at the hackney. Her fingers were blackened, her shawl thin, her teeth rotten. From the cab’s interior, a gloved hand shot out and waved her away.

Winifred hoped the girl would not approach her carriage next. Her emotions about the poor were never more keenly alive or conflicted than when she was in London. In Ahmedabad, she and her father swayed above brown faces, over bright dresses, veils and turbans. A naked man sat cross-legged, smeared with ashes. Her father explained the caste system, the chasm that separated Brahmins from Untouchables. In the shade of temples to foreign gods, the street-sweepers and beggars made her sad but were part of an ancient, foreign system. On her first London visit, she’d been appalled that poverty existed there as well, only stripped of its romance.

The flower girl’s shrill Cockney accent repelled her. Had such squeamishness in the village tailor’s wife for an unbaptized brickmason been called to her attention, she would’ve condemned it. She knew all her tenants’ names as her father had in India. London’s poor were different, an unruly mass governed by no law but survival of the fittest. Crowds of red-faced men and women hurried through the cold. Only streets away from the bank lay terrible slums where the real Untouchables lived.

A slatternly woman and a well-dressed man turned furtively into an alley. A boot black strolled past, oblivious. A fat man’s stentorian voice shouted, ham rolls for sale! He waved a greasy sign at passersby while his competitor’s placard advertised a chophouse. An organ grinder sang, his pitiful, tiny monkey atop his shoulders. The ragged maiden wove between them, in and out of the traffic, and waved her bouquets. Her ruined smile never wavered.

There were so many, too many like her. Outside the safety of Hampstead, of Holloways, this was the world; a pullulating, stinking, indifferent tide of humanity heaving against her carriage and about whose wretched lives she dared not think. The flower girl was almost squashed by the wheels of a passing omnibus. Winifred rummaged desperately in her reticule for some coins.

The hackney’s driver tossed some coppers. Winifred blessed him. The girl caught one and thrust up her flowers. A brace of urchins descended on the rest of the coins. The boys rolled in a heap. A bobby furiously prodded their backs and heads with his stick, shouting for them and the girl to clear off.

Winifred turned away. After visits to the poorest cottages, Cousin Delilah said it was best to put what one saw out of one’s mind. Winifred couldn’t. It was difficult not to ask why others weren’t as fortunate. Those first, heady days when she came of age had been accompanied by a wonderful expansiveness. Percival’s solicitors informed her that she was a woman of substantial property; deeds and shares, houses and farms. All her father had earned. There were no inherited titles appended to her name but no entailments or debts. The Hampstead house, the vast farm in Gujarat, more acreage in Norfolk, their revenues! Parliament’s latest laws ensured these would remain hers unless a disgruntled husband sued her in a divorce claim.

George’s invitation to lunch had to be about more than selling her twenty acres.

Half the horror of her debut had been suffering flattery for a beauty she was clear-sighted enough to observe wasn’t hers. Yet as Arthur de la Coeur’s daughter, she was inclined to a high amount of self-regard that might have been called vanity if it hadn’t had some substance to bolster it. Like him, she was strong-minded and intelligent and proud of it.

Her self-esteem was capable of being rattled, however. The night of her last ball, Bettina had helped her into a low-cut gown of pale gold satin. Delilah fastened rubies and pearls around her throat. Finally, they crowned her hair with matching jewels. A young woman of glowing blonde looks like hers should make the most of what there was to make the most of, Delilah said for what felt like the thousandth time. Winifred wished the woman would give this grating advice to Amelie, who gazed dreamily at the elaborate toilette’s progress.

A marquess’ son partnered her during the first dance. She was miserable. Her dance card was full, but no one suited. No wonder George called her Gloriana. A baronet’s son asked her to stand up with him twice. To her relief, he finally stopped chattering. Like so many others, he’d probably given up when she refused to make small talk. Then she realized it was because his glance had strayed down to her bosom, to take in what she had to make the most of.

At least George made no bones about flattering her. When her suitors began their campaigns in earnest, he’d retreated and mirthfully watched her discomfiture. He finally emerged from the cardroom and came to her aid. They sat in the moonlight, mocking her suitors. Why do they bother about my eyes and my dress? Why don’t they simply compliment my money?

It’s difficult to make love to a bank account.

Winifred smiled. You’ve some experience of it.

Too much! Now, that woman over there. Very good-looking, but have you heard that she and our hostess—? George leaned closer. He always knew embarrassing tidbits about guests, or made them up. He enjoyed straining the bounds of decency as he recounted such tales.

Monsieur George, il est vraiment le Diable lui-même! Bettina cried when Winifred repeated what he had said about the women.

For all his buffoonery, George helped her through an awkward adolescence. When she was sixteen, he returned to Norfolk as a captain of twenty-four and made sure she was not left a wallflower. At hunts, they strayed from the company. He treated her with the flattering, coy, slightly aloof attentions of a worldly older brother. Like her, he preferred the country. His slightly risqué, masculine anecdotes of army life, or the antics that led to his rustication were thrilling. Because of his frank, relaxed manner, it was easy to confide her frustrations and fears. Though he laughed, other times he didn’t. Suddenly, he would break into his Cheshire Cat smile, challenge her to a race, and take off like the devil was at his horse’s heels. Unable to resist, she would tear after him.

Natasha and Delilah chastised her behavior and obliquely warned about its consequences. This was intriguing, for George enjoyed a romantic reputation, like a dashing highwayman of old. Friendship with a man who so jauntily flaunted the rules was a sort of freedom by association. Whispers of his affair with an actress made his lighthearted attentions all the more flattering.

When he lifted her onto her horse or grasped her waist in the waltz, his hands lingered or his eyes gazed into hers a second too long. Invariably, she stumbled on his toes, and their encounters ended in merriment. But as she lounged in her bath or curled up in bed, she indulged in flights of fancy. What would it be like to be the lover of such a man—if not George himself, at least one so lively and spirited? Not that, at sixteen, she had been apprised of what being a man’s lover actually entailed.

His behavior at the last summer ball more than disappointed her. She relied on his companionship to get her through the season’s trials. After shaking off the baronet’s son, she found Percival busy in the cardroom, so she fled onto the veranda. A few feet away, obscured by an arrangement of ferns and palms, two men smoked.

What the confounded deuce are girls about these days? The baronet’s son’s voice complained. What a block of ice that de la Coeur woman is!

George chuckled. Come, Archer! A man might put up with a great deal for her.

Granted, she’s rich as the Queen of Sheba and quite an armful but dashed difficult!

She’s rather jolly once you get to know her.

I beg your pardon. You should’ve stopped me. I hope I don’t offend.

Not at all. George’s voice was smooth. Next time, don’t be put off by a little ice. Drive in your spike. She’ll melt.

There was a long silence.

I say, this is dashed awkward, George. Are you and Miss de la Coeur⁠—?

As I said, once you get to know her, she’s very— George let the rest of the thought hang in the air, like their tobacco smoke.

That he would discuss her in such a way with another man; that he would speak of her as quarry, as one conquered. Foxes indeed! In the carriage home, she hid her woe from Percival. In her room, she’d torn off her dress and trampled its satin folds with such fury that Bettina wailed. She flung her tiara and reviled herself for being so naïve.

If only he would ask her to marry him! She’d have the pleasure of refusing in front of all the patrons at Simpson’s. Never mind that the neighborhood had buzzed about their probable match for years. She could afford to ignore him, even if he could not afford to ignore her.

Her mind raced with figures, pounds, and shillings. They sprouted willy-nilly like garden weeds and blossomed with compound interest. Mr. Buckner had reported that her German bonds’ percentages were rising. Mr. Bartles was about to close on a purchase of land adjacent to Holloways that promised access to a future branch of the railroad’s main line. She’d make a loan on easy terms to Bert so that he and Amelie could finally afford to marry. They’d waited so long. Of course, she’d cancel it as a wedding present. Their first housekeeping would be at Hampstead. As soon as the upstairs plumbing and renovations were complete, she’d tell Bert about her surprise. There were plenty of rooms, so many she and Percival didn’t use. A study for Bert, a pretty sitting room for Amelie, and a nursery!

Richards rounded the corner. The bank rose before them. She forgot the pedestrians struggling in the cold. She made plans that had nothing to do with George and grew excited.

The hackney she’d seen earlier pulled alongside them at the curb. A bright spot of purple in the cabby’s hatband, the flower girl’s bunch of violets, caught her eye. Bunched beneath his dark chin was a plum-colored neckerchief, gaudily spotted. His profile was partly hidden under his hat’s brim, and his long, dark hair was pulled back in an old-fashioned queue.

Involuntarily, she sat forward.

Morrant!

The resemblance struck her as delightfully funny. Her old friend would’ve found that absurd tie a worthy mate for her grotesque hat. She called to Richards to see if he had noticed the man, but her old groom did not seem to hear her.

Their vehicles drew nearer, and her first impression was corrected. The man was a very rough type. His scarred, square jaw was peppered with beard, his profile classical but not quite. The resemblance to Morrant was so marked as to be interesting, but the driver was definitely not in her friend’s league. His deep voice and Cockney accent were audible when he spoke to his horse. He was not the sort one would want to meet in a dark alley.

Two other carriages jammed before theirs. A bobby waved his hands. Men shouted. Both the cabby and Richards worked to restrain their horses and keep their trappings from tangling.

Winifred studied the cabby once more.

He was dapper in a down-at-heel way, a real London character. He wore a top hat, heathery-grey checked pants, and fingerless gloves. His worn velvet coat was a garish purple almost as gaudy as that which adorned her tartan flourishes. Its cut was fanciful and old-fashioned, more like a gypsy costume than livery. The coat was likely a dandy’s cast-off from years ago, its survival into the present era miraculous. Its previous owner had probably been a rake. She wondered if its present one was. Like George.

George again! Go away! She craned her neck to see the rest of the cabby’s face.

A hawker cried out, Chestnuts—hot—chestnuts!

Winifred only half heard him. The cabby leaned toward the open window of his vehicle, shouting unintelligibly to his fare. She stared at the wilted violets and his broad shoulders. The resemblance to Morrant was uncanny. She hastily drew back as the man straightened on his box.

How happy Amelie would be when Bert told her the good news. How Natasha would cry, though she always cried these days. Amelie would be married at St. George’s in Hanover Square and have as many flowers as she wanted. Winifred would host the breakfast and assemble the trousseau with Bettina. Inwardly, she already argued with Delilah over details. Perhaps there’d be another, happier trip to the dressmakers’ shops for Amelie’s wedding gown and touring clothes.

The cabby pulled at his horse’s reins, making way for Richards. One of the bank’s liveried footmen held a spot for their carriage. Winifred tossed aside her blanket. Forget George! Morrant was right. Whatever the next hours might bring, she was ready.

Chapter 2

A Fool and His Money Are Soon Parted

Approaching the right turn that would take him to Swift Street and the Royal Empire Bank, Court Furor concentrated on traffic. Cold bit his cheeks and hunger gnawed his belly, but he ignored both through force of habit. The soles of his boots were thin and his gloves pointless. He hunched more deeply into his coat and wished he hadn’t tossed his last coppers to that flower girl. But when she had thrust her wilted violets at him and smiled—those black teeth of hers—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Of course, she could’ve stained them for effect. At her age, he’d already had quite a few similar tricks up his sleeve to elicit the pity of potential targets. Early on, he’d known how to get by. Only because of that girl’s need—or her guile—he was now officially without a penny to his name. What did that say for the wisdom of experience?

No point worrying about what the day would bring, never mind the next one. At Beryl and Rosie’s flat he’d read in a pamphlet the doctor had left that the life expectancy of men from the East End was only—it wasn’t worth repeating. At twenty-four, he was living on borrowed time. No one had to tell him that.

People down his way didn’t celebrate birthdays, mostly because there was nothing to celebrate, but he was doing all right for a boy born in the Old Nichol. That is, he’d opened his eyes on another day. If he opened them tomorrow, he’d be twenty-five. He even had a job, sort of. Dear old Mum would’ve felt, not proud, exactly. She couldn’t feel much these days. Wound in a dirty sheet and dropped into a pauper’s grave. How old had she been? He’d no idea. But she’d known his birth date to the hour and the minute. Baptized and registered, he was!

Look up lad, she used to say. You have to look up to get up. So far, the highest he’d managed was a carriage box. Screwed to the lowest rung in the social ladder, Court kept his eyes on the traffic and minded his horse. If he raised his sights too high, he might run over one of those boys who kept darting out into the street, begging coppers he didn’t have any more of.

He was the last son of Mick and Sadie Furor. His four older brothers had given up in quick succession during their infancies. According to Beryl’s pamphlet, his miraculous survival beyond the cradle was another statistical anomaly, though no one had taken note but his dear old Mum. By the time he was delivered, Sadie was completely worn out. She’d lost her good looks and her patience with her heavy-handed, fast-talking, skirt-chasing mate. Mick Furor saw his new son as another gaping mouth to feed and acted accordingly. He eschewed all responsibility for Court’s upbringing except to provide him with a bad example and an early education in how to pick a pocket or take a blow. Meanwhile, Mick continued to populate the neighborhood with his dark-haired progeny, supplying Sadie with interminable heartache and Court with a half sister, Beryl, among others. For all he knew, the rest of Mick’s children had suffered the fates listed in the pamphlet and died young of various fevers, neglect, or starvation.

Then again, one never knew. One of the louts in the hackney, Geoff Ratchet, was from the old neighborhood and the same approximate age as Court. People said there was a resemblance. Court didn’t see it. The Methodists who headed the school they’d briefly attended preached that all men were brothers. If that included Geoff, Court hoped the minister was wrong.

On the eve of his quarter century, Court felt it incumbent upon him to reflect. Since it would be ages before he’d be able to get some sleep, he might as well. His survival was both a mystery and a wonder. He was a man of no prospects and no property but preferred to think of it as freedom from responsibility. Both of his parents had survived much longer than Beryl’s pamphlet indicated was normal for folks of their ilk. Court supposed he might too but wouldn’t bet on it. Mick was stabbed in a brawl while Court was yet a boy. Sadie had recently succumbed to gin poisoning after a series of abusive liaisons. Her last paramours came from the list of Mick’s compatriots: card sharps, pickpockets, and opium addicts. Court’s company was not much better. But he was inclined to gambling, horseflesh, and women.

It was no secret he fancied himself a bit of a lad though he wasn’t overly tempted by long, romantic entanglements. An hour or two with a willing girl would suit. Truth be told, he was too poor to maintain a woman in a manner that would satisfy his pride. He’d lost too much at the tracks recently. He had done a fair bit of prizefighting to make ends meet but currently avoided the ring like the plague since he hadn’t done too well there either. He didn’t like the beatings he’d been recently forced to endure in the fixed fights set up by his employer, P. Lili Piani.

Today was a sort of busman’s holiday, driving Geoff and his friends to the bank. He sensed commotion within the hackney. He rapped on the roof and was answered by a thud. Idiots, the lot of them! That big bear Seamus couldn’t help it, but Hez had more sense. Except that Geoff had appealed to his sense of honor. That always did it with Hez, being an ex-army man. As for himself, he would’ve never agreed to drive if Geoff hadn’t promised to forgive a quarter of the interest on Court’s debt to him and to loan some more money at a better rate so Court could placate Piani. Money—it was the usual tangle, as Beryl always said. He was tired of Piani breathing down his neck. After today they’d be square. Driving was one of his few skills besides fighting. So far this morning, it had been easy.

Flicking the reins, more by way of communication than impatience, he urged the mare forward but was in no particular hurry. Again, the cab shook. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Better to look at a horse’s ass than inside the cab. There sat the three biggest ones this side of the Thames.

Given a choice, he preferred equine company. Horses were easier to talk to and never asked for money. This old girl still had lovely legs, fore and aft. If only she’d been bought by someone who knew how to use her properly. A waste, that’s what it was. At the tracks, it wasn’t the betting, it was speed and beauty that fascinated and thrilled him. A horse going full tilt, her soul afire—that was pure magic. It was the spectacle of a fine creature running for all she was worth, giving it all she had that kept him going back. It certainly wasn’t his meager winnings. He ought to know better than to think he’d ever have any luck that way. Geoff told him he was a fool to waste his time. He leaned forward and spoke lovingly to the mare.

There were all sorts of ways to waste a life. Beryl said that he was good at most of them. Gentlemen spent all day at the tracks, he argued. Nobody said they were loafing! If he’d dared believe there was any truth to Sadie’s tales, his pedigree would’ve inclined him to a pride his friends couldn’t own. But he placed no credence in her family stories. His mother claimed her side descended from Britons who trafficked in stolen horses and whose scions found their way into the Roman families who chose to stay in Britain after the main force withdrew.

Didn’t she mean Normans? Raving, when she talked like that. Court would mop his mother’s forehead with his neckerchief. Romans, she had argued, shaking her finger. No one could possibly remember that far back. Well, she did! Heroic blood flowed in his veins, the finest. Latin! Anglo-Saxon! A family tree, a coat of arms! Court had peered at the dirty wall, the empty spot where she pointed. Ah, the old family pride, loose on the hoof! He’d hidden her gin bottle.

If ever there had been horses, they were lost long ago. In her last hours, Sadie was still telling tales. Her people had ridden armored into battle during the Hundred Years War. No foot soldiers, them! Knights! Parish records proved it! In the chapel where she had been christened! Where was that? She stared with wild, feverish eyes. The details of her own life eluded her. Give her the Bible! It was all there, the family tree! The only Bible he’d ever seen was at the Methodist school. The only book in their room was his copy of the Arabian Nights, so he put that in her hands. By the time the preacher arrived, she didn’t know anybody and had no more need of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Poor Sadie, she’d not owned one pretty ornament he could pin to her dress. It would’ve been stolen before she was cold.

No use crying about it.

What mattered was getting some grub and how much he owed his boss Piani; ergo, his involvement in this fool’s errand. Whether his ancestors had ridden in Aquitaine or not, he was bound to be in a mess before the day was out. Geoff’s plan had seemed sagacious to the trio in the hackney when he rehearsed it with them in the yard of the Boar and Hart after a moderately successful day at the racetracks and over a second order of very strong rum punch. It had sounded cockeyed to Court, but he knew better than to argue with Geoff when he was drunk. Sam, the young brother of the barmaid, Fanny, had been eager for a part to play and hung on Geoff’s words. Enjoying the relaxing effects of the rum, Court had pulled his battered top hat over his eyes.

It was not meant to be a robbery per se. Geoff produced a short iron pipe from his boot and a plan of the bank’s first floor from his coat pocket. Where the hell had he gotten that? Hez asked. Never mind, Geoff snarled.

I drew it, Seamus said proudly, after I went ’round there the other day to have a look.

It’s very nice, Hez hiccupped. Is it accurate, to scale I mean?

Geoff thumped the man’s head. Ain’t goin’ to ’ang in the Royal Academy is it? The point was to make it look like their victim, a bank clerk named Selway Adams, had taken his superior’s strongbox.

Hez was confused. It’s a bit complicated, ain’t it? Couldn’t we just invite him ’round for another card game and rough him up a bit?

No! Geoff had a reputation to maintain, a score to settle. He was going to ruin Adams!

He’ll lose his job, Hez said thoughtfully and gave a yearning glance to Fanny who was inside behind the bar. What if he has a wife—or a child?

Nobody cheats me! Geoff raised his iron pipe and smacked it against his open palm. The son of a bitch would crawl—bleed! He ground his teeth and smacked his palm with the pipe again.

Hez grew uncomfortable. It was only a few pounds.

Silently, Court agreed. It was much less than he owed Geoff. He’d lost all his bets that day at the track.

Geoff imbibed more punch. Adams was the lowest! A card sharp, a cheat!

People has some choice names for you, too, Seamus offered.

Geoff snapped at him to shut up. A gentleman requires retribution!

No, that ain’t what they call you, Seamus corrected.

Court smothered a laugh. Hez and Sam didn’t. Geoff banged on the table.

Fanny came out into the yard. What’s all this? Sam, put down that pipe.

Come on, Geoff! It’s only money, Seamus said soothingly. Right, Courty?

Geoff was unaffected by their mirth. His successful courtship of Piani’s niece, Arabella Bertollini, had puffed him up. Like an adder, he still felt tender in his new skin. We needs firepower.

With a sigh, Hez produced an army-issue pistol. Fanny rolled her eyes at him.

The sight of the gun had made Court queasy.

I can ’elp too! Sam cried.

Now Geoff, come on! It’s only money, Seamus repeated. He looked worried.

Court couldn’t afford to feel disinterested in Geoff’s plan. He’d worked for Piani since he was a boy, so it wasn’t the first time that obstreperous individual had promised to cut his throat. This go-round, he’d threatened to have one of Court’s ears, too. There was also a creditor to whom he still owed several shillings, with interest, for his claret-colored velvet jacket and some other matters that concerned room and board at the Montague Hotel. More importantly, he must make good on a bill he’d signed for the equally spendthrift Hez. Admittedly, he and Hez had been a bit drunk the night he offered his signature, but he could’ve sworn the paper said shillings, not quid. Oh well, Hez and Fan needed a bit to live on. He was fond of Sam, and dear Fan was a former sweetheart. The assumption of Hez’s IOU was a sort of wedding gift. If the ceremony ever came off. She hadn’t forgiven Hez for that bad night when he and Old Swank got into it. Five shillings or fifty sovereigns, any money was a fortune. Thanks to that beggar girl, he hadn’t a penny!

The wind whipped through his coat, a last extravagance from his days of feeling a bit flush. It wasn’t warm or even that smart. It would be worn out before he paid for it. Or if today went like he expected, it would outlast him. As for the money he owed Piani, it seemed a paltry sum to become so violent about, given the man’s deep pockets and his stranglehold over just about everyone Court knew in Southwark, but he wasn’t inclined to argue with a man of Piani’s lack of principle. Plus, he was tired of touching his friends for the odd bit of cash so as not to starve.

After Geoff and the boys finished with Adams, Court was to drive the nag away from the bank at better speeds than the jockeys who’d so recently and sorely disappointed him. Given the risk and his recent record at the turf, the odds weren’t in his favor. Yet in spite of hugging the shores of the barely legitimate and mostly illegal for the majority of his life, he’d managed to avoid trouble with the law. Incredibly, he’d never seen the inside of a prison. Hard labor held no particular terrors. Where his next meal came from was more pressing.

As he rounded the corner and drew alongside a very fine brougham, he heard a hawker cry, Chestnuts—hot—chestnuts! Their aroma momentarily disturbed his otherwise stoic response to a perpetually growling stomach. He might get more to eat if he went to prison.

Inside the crowded hackney, his friends grew rowdy again. Seamus, a much bigger man than Geoff and Hez put together but who had less brains than either, demanded to stretch his legs. Court bent to the window. He was amused but not reassured by Geoff and Seamus’ risible interchange.

In addition to Hez’s pistol, there were three sticks of ersatz dynamite in a carpetbag. The glorified firecrackers were Sam’s enthusiastic contribution. He had also produced a small pad of detailed drawings, incendiaries copied from various homemade, safe-cracking guides, the sort commonly circulated amongst Piani’s cronies and most likely pure Greek to Adams or to anyone else other than the police.

What was that? Fanny had snatched the pad from her brother. She grew angry, and when she was roused, her Cockney was flavored with her native Norman accent. With Guy Fawkes on the way, the boy had lately made and tried out some small firecrackers, startling the Boar and Hart’s patrons and setting fire to some flour sacks Fan had saved for her knickers. Sam refused to tell her where he got his supplies. He snatched back the pad and passed it to Geoff. The man stuffed it in his trouser pocket.

Masterminds indeed, cried Fanny derisively, but for the first time, she looked worried. Hauling up Sam by the collar, she smacked the back of his head. This ’ere lot ain’t no example to you! Bone idle when there’s real work to be done! Get inside! There’s potatoes to peel!

I ain’t peelin’ no taters! I’m in the gang!

I’ll gang you! Fanny cuffed Sam. Hez—ooh! Do-nothin’! Loafs, the lot o’ you! Get out!

At that point, Court had felt it necessary to intervene on Sam’s behalf. Fanny had a heavy hand, but she was right. The child was only eleven and ought not to be involved.

When Court picked up the trio at dawn, he was more relieved than ever that Fanny had held firm. Sam was nowhere in sight. Geoff arrived with his iron pipe hidden in his greatcoat and a jackknife strapped to his waist. Hez wore his military pistol inside his vest. Seamus had a ham sandwich stuffed in his pocket, but he needed no other weapons than his corpulent fists. Judging by the thuds and muffled shouts in the hackney, Geoff and Hez were completely drunk. The morning promised to descend into mayhem.

He directed the horse to a slow walk, trying to secure a place in the queue for the curb. In the gleaming brougham beside him sat a woman, her face hidden under an enormous, bright green hat trimmed with black ostrich feathers. Her driver signaled, and Court tugged his reins. Her carriage cut in front of him, taking a spot held open by a waiting footman in the bank’s livery. Court philosophically picked the grime from his fingernails while another footman helped the woman descend and took her small case. Though a thick veil covered her face, Court caught a glimpse of golden hair, coiled in heavy masses on her shoulders. The wind lifted the edge of her mantle, and he was briefly amazed by the brilliant green of her dress.

The chestnut seller and his cart caught up to the line of vehicles. The aroma was delicious. What he wouldn’t give to go to that chophouse advertised on the other man’s boards. Court’s stomach ached. He felt a twinge of resentment toward the woman. She’d obviously never missed a meal in her life.

As if in response to his thought, she pointed to a group of dirty little boys who trailed after the chestnut vendor. She gave one of the footmen some coins, and he purchased a whole tray of nut-filled paper cones. Wrinkling his nose, he quickly distributed them and wiped his hands with distaste. Meanwhile, the woman and the footman with her case mounted the stairs to the bank. The boys tore open the cones, spilled hot chestnuts onto the pavement, and began pelting one another with what they did not cram into their mouths. A bobby ambled toward the group; the vendor moved on; and the other footman followed the woman and her companion.

While Court observed this little drama, Geoff and Hez tumbled out of the hackney, almost as ill-behaved as the children and shouting oaths at one another. On his way to break up the boys, the policeman admonished Geoff and Hez to watch their language and be sharp about it. Geoff scowled at the bobby, but Hez blanched and made an involuntary gesture, almost a salute.

Court wished he could melt into the traffic. He turned up his frayed collar and tipped his hat over his eyes, avoiding the policeman’s. It had been a good idea of Seamus’ to smear some boot blacking over the cab’s number and give it a run through the mud as well. He rapped smartly on its top. Seamus climbed out, stretching luxuriously. He peered up at Court, who jerked his chin meaningfully in the direction of the bobby and then at Geoff and Hez.

Seamus mumbled, Well, I never, extended his long arms, and unceremoniously collected Geoff and Hez into a whirligig of variously patterned pants, waving limbs, and shouts of Oi, get off! Let go!

Under Seamus’ influence, Geoff and Hez more or less calmed down and quietly mounted the steps, the big man stalking behind them. The bobby had plainly concluded the trio was not made of City men. He finally turned away. Whistling, he walked to the corner and joined another policeman.

Court exhaled. Another day in his haphazard, hungry life. This poor old nag, that flower girl’s black teeth, those spilled chestnuts, and the woman in the green hat with her coins—Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What could a fellow do but look up and forget about all of it? He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder at the policemen, flicked the reins, and told the mare to walk on.

The Royal Empire Bank’s lobby was designed to crush the customer with the institution’s irreproachability. Its rotunda soared three stories and surrounded one immediately with echoing balconies of roseate marble along which darted junior clerks or walked with stately mien secretaries and officers of the august, old firm. Like ravens, they strode purposefully in black morning coats and crisp white shirts with collars that raised the wearer’s chin to a sharp incline denoting the loftiness of his work. The clerks’ high desks leaned over Winifred in ponderous, uniform rows, and the constant murmur of masculine voices was dreadful with the secrets of high finance.

She took off her gloves and smacked the leather against her palm. At the bank, she felt sure of herself. She marched to a towering desk. A dry, bespectacled man glowered down at her. Good morning. I am Miss de la Coeur. I have an appointment with Mr. Buckner.

As though she had turned a key in a gigantic windup toy, all the men within earshot stopped and faced her. The clerk almost threw himself from his perch and begged to assist her progress to Mr. Buckner’s office. Another man pushed him aside and, raising his eyes in wonder to her hat, introduced himself as Mr. Darby. He said his name as though he hoped it sounded important enough that she’d allow him to accompany her upstairs. She stared him down. Well? she asked in the tone she used on men who already bored her. What are you waiting for?

This way, Mr. Darby said breathlessly.

As their group sallied forth, the tone of the other clerks’ murmurs distinctly changed and was punctuated by the sound of her name going on before her. Heads bobbed in deference. One footman followed; the other hastened ahead, opening doors. Clerks peered over their desks to catch a glimpse of her. Winifred swept along, elated. She loved visiting the Royal Empire Bank.

Their little party climbed the