But no one had spoken a word during dinner.
Now, as Charlotte hurried farther from her home in Mayfair, cold, scared, on a mission of mercy that might not even be wanted, guilt smote her. Her sister had none of what Charlotte took for granted every day. Pippa’s mother hadn’t even owned a pair of gloves.
If Amelia Cashel was to be believed, her daughter, Pippa, was now a doxy? As proper and sheltered as Charlotte had been, she knew what a prostitute was, what happened during the transaction. She had science and medical books to thank for her knowledge, since her mother would never speak of such an intimate subject as relations between a man and woman. If either of her parents knew she read about anatomy and physiology, they would be horrified.
But the idea of any woman being forced to be employed as a prostitute … Most women of society seemed to believe that a woman who sold her favors did so because she wanted to, because some fatal flaw in her character that she couldn’t overcome made her behave so poorly.
Was that true?
Were the Cashels merely subject to their sinful natures?
If so, what did that make her father, who had kept a mistress for two decades? Who had turned them out without any means of support when he tired of them?
Shame writhed through her middle, and she gripped the handle of the basket until the wood bit into her hands.
The air stank. Trash gusted along the street, and the buildings loomed overhead, the upper stories cantilevering out over the ground floors, cutting off the faint moonlight. Lamplight showed around tattered curtains or crooked shutters, and a rat scurried across her path. She stifled a yelp, jumping as it skittered into a pile of old rags crammed into the corner of a stairwell.
She’d arrived in the rookery.
A sign hung over one establishment halfway down the block, where light poured from every window. With such frigid temperatures gripping the city, no one lingered on the street. A man hurried from the opposite direction, head bent. He glanced up but wasted no time ducking into the tavern.
As Charlotte slowly approached, she could make out the sign swinging in the wind from two icy chains. Each swing squeaked, emphasizing the quiet everywhere else.
The Hog’s Head.
The sign was in the shape of a barrel—a hogshead—but also bore the carved likeness of a pig’s head.
Just the head. Severed and sitting atop the barrel.
She swallowed. A most uncouth advertisement for a public house.
Still, she’d come this far, and a public house open at this hour might be the best place to inquire as to the Cashel residence.
Girding herself with what remained of her courage, she put her hand on the door and pushed it open.
Inside, a room crowded with tables, chairs, men, and talk greeted her. Only a few heads looked up at her entrance, but one by one, conversations ceased and eyes fastened on her. Her heart thudded painfully, and her lungs felt tiny and crammed into the top of her rib cage.
The odor of stale beer and unwashed male hit her, and she winced. A fire roared in a massive fireplace, and to the side, an unkempt large man came up a set of stairs from below with a barrel on his shoulder. At the sight of her, he lowered it to the floor with a thunk.
“Sharkey, me eyes is going wonky. I b’lieve I better be done for the night,” a man to her left said, setting down his glass. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say a girl had just walked in here.”
“It is a girl, you buffoon,” the large man with the barrel called out.
“Cor, get a look at her.” The loud whisper came from the back of the room. “She ain’t from around here, that’s certain.”
“Here, lovey, come sit wif us.” A pockmarked man jumped up and grabbed an empty chair.
“No, come sit with me.” A rotund man with a florid face scooted his chair back and patted his thigh. His eyebrows waggled, and his lips shone wetly in the light from the fireplace.
Charlotte’s mouth went dry as she searched from one face to the next for any sign of … well, perhaps for someone who didn’t look either disreputable or lascivious … or both.
Several chairs scooted back, and their occupants rose, fanning out and approaching her slowly.
Her knees felt quite mushy, and her heart threatened to batter its way out of her chest. Which made her angry. Why should she cower? These men had no right to frighten her so.
“Gentlemen, I will ask you to mind your manners. I’m in need of some information, not attention.” She kept her chin up and tried to make her eyes fierce, but the crack in her voice didn’t fool even her.
They continued to advance, crowding her back toward the door. She held the basket in front of her, and with one hand strove to find the door latch behind her without taking her eyes off the men.
“What information are ye lookin’ for, me dove?” A hulking fellow with a beard that seemed desperate to hide his entire face grinned, showing off a few gaps where his teeth should reside.
For a moment, Charlotte couldn’t remember why she was there. She blinked. “I need to find the home of Amelia Cashel and her daughter, Pippa.”
The men stopped moving. The biggest man scratched his cheek, his fingers rasping in his beard. “Whatcha lookin’ for Pippa Cashel round ’ere for? She ain’t ’ere. She’s too good for St. Giles by a long stretch. She’s up in King’s Place. Is that where you come from? If ya do, I’m going to have to save my pennies and visit you up there.” His eyes flared, and he licked his lips.
Charlotte shook her head, unable to look away. This must be how a mouse felt when facing a snake. “No, I was told she lived in St. Giles. Her mother told me just today.”
“Her mum lives round ’ere, but not her.”
Disappointment seeped in, and for a moment Charlotte forgot her precarious situation. She wasn’t going to meet her sister tonight.
“What you want with her anyway? We’ll keep you company tonight.”
Her fingers found the latch behind her, but before she could open the door, the large man planted his palm on the wood over her head and leaned close. His hot, nasty breath puffed against her cheek, and she pressed away from him only to find that another man had come up on her left. His eyes were gimlet sharp.
“Been a while since we saw a fresh face around here. You do look like you could be a King’s Place dolly-mop yourself, though yer dressed more like a nun. But still, there might be somethin’ interesting under all that fabric.” His hand, nails crusted and filthy, reached for her hood, yanking it back. The abrupt motion and Charlotte’s endeavor to evade him tugged pins from her hair. Her yellow curls tumbled about her shoulders, and several men sucked in quick breaths.
“Blimey,” one man breathed. “Look how clean her hair is.”
Charlotte tried to stuff her curls out of sight and tug her hood back up, but with only one hand, she made the situation worse, feeling pins slide and tangle in her hair.
“I’m sayin’ it now. I get her first.” The big man shoved the smaller man aside. As his giant hand reached for Charlotte’s arm, she squirmed around, icy fingers scrabbling for the latch.
A whistling sound followed by a thud froze everyone in the room. Glancing up, Charlotte spied a bone-handled knife vibrating softly, embedded in the door. Was it possible for blood to truly run cold? Her vessels felt as if the Thames ran through them.