St. James's Square, London 1805
William Callaway stood in the shadows of the iron fence
and thought again of how much he hated weddings.
The guests were arriving now for the wedding feast,
clustered along the pavement before Penny House as they
waited for the new husband and wife to appear. The
gentlemen laughed and joked, already drinking, while the
women preened like gaudy exotic birds in the late
afternoon sun, the plumes on their hats nodding as they
gathered in chattering little groups on the pale stone
steps. Their laughter rippled across the summer afternoon
air, bright with excitement.
William hunched his shoulders deeper into his coat,
ignoring the boy who'd guided him here. Too much joy, he
thought grimly, too much happiness and optimism for all
the suffering and misery that filled the world. Didn't
these fools understand that this couple was as doomed as
any other? Couldn't they see that what the beau monde
called love was only a fool's solace, temporary and empty?
The steady procession of carriages had slowed along St.
James's Street, and gentlemen leaned impatiently from the
windows to see the cause of the delay. William slipped
further back into the shadows, ducking his head beneath
the yew branches that overhung the wall. Almost as an
afterthought, he hooked his arm around the boy and pulled
him back into the shadows, too.
"Best not to let them see us gaping, Twig," William
warned. "They'd rather folks like us kept our eyes to
ourselves."
"In the gutter, you mean, Guv'nor?"
"I mean out of their sight," William said. "Poor people
are an eyesore to the rich, a blight they'd like swept
from their pretty streets."
A woman in one of the carriages noticed them, lifting her
scented handkerchief to cover her face and nose, and
William's expression hardened. How far would the gentry go
to rid London of those who didn't share their good
fortune? Workhouses, transportation, gaols...
Or poison? "A pox on what them want." Twig rubbed a grimy,
defiant thumb across his nose, ready to challenge them
all. "I say a cat may look at a king, an'them swells
an'ladies, too."
That made William smile. "No ladies in that troop, Twig.
Penny House is a gaming house, a private club for
gentlemen only, with no true ladies welcome."
Twig craned his neck to look back at the women with fresh
interest. "Then they all be whores?"
"After a fashion, yes." William wasn't in a humor to
discern the good women from the bad. Once, long ago, he'd
been part of this world, and he hadn't forgotten how such
women had fluttered around him in his bright new
regimentals, or how heady their perfumed scent had been
beneath his nose, their soft breasts pressed against his
chest. "The only difference comes with the prices they
command for their company."
"All whores, then." Twig whistled low. "Even the lady-
bride, Guv'nor?"
"She cannot be a lady," William said firmly. Everyone in
London had heard of the three Penny sisters, the clever,
beautiful daughters who ran this fashionable gambling club
near St. James's Square. Though the gossip claimed they
were the daughters of a Sussex minister, William doubted
it, just as he doubted the great virtue that they tried to
claim for themselves. The great sums they supposedly gave
to charity were likely exaggerated, too, or perhaps some
stipulation of their inheritance. There could be no other
explanation. How could a true generous spirit exist in a
place like this?
"No real lady could live in such a house, Twig," he said.
"Not catering to the follies of gentlemen as they do."
The boy glanced up at him, his dark eyes full of
doubt. "Beg pardon, Guv'nor, but not Miss Bethany Penny.
You'll see. She don't be like them. She be kind, an'
gentle, an' good to everyone, not just to fine gentlemen.
She be famous for it. Her 'flock," she calls us at her
door, like we be special to her. She be a true lady, all
right and no mistake."
But William didn't answer. Bethany Penny was the reason
he'd hired Twig to bring him to Penny House. The streets
and poorhouses were full of talk about her generosity to
the unfortunate, but William didn't give a damn if she
were twice, even three times the paragon that Twig and the
others claimed. All that would matter was whether she was
guilty, or innocent.
"You'll see, Guv'nor," Twig insisted. "Once you — ah,
there be the bride an' groom now!"
The open carriage was a glossy pale blue and decked with
garlands of white flowers that made the women squeal and
clap their hands with delight. Blue silk ribbons were
braided into the manes and tails of the matched greys, and
riding on the box behind were two trumpeters in old-
fashioned livery and powdered wigs, their gleaming silver
instruments heralding the arrival of the newlyweds.
"They say th'groom be richer than th'His Majesty himself."
Twig's voice rose, eager to share his own
information. "Mr. Blackley. That be his name. Mr. Richard
Blackley. They say he made piles an' piles of gold in the
Indies, growing sugar."
"How fortunate for him," William said dryly. "From the
looks of this, I'd guess he must be spending at least one
of those piles today."
All gallantry, the groom waved aside the footmen who
hurried to open the carriage door. He gathered up the
bride in his arms, kissing her to more applause and
cheers, then carried her up the stairs in a froth of
ruffled white muslin. The bride tipped her head back
against his arm and laughed with joy, not caring at all
that her coppery hair was tumbling loose from her
headdress or that her slippered feet were kicking so high
among her skirts that she displayed her legs clear to her
blue garters.
"Lor'," Twig said with open admiration. "Now that do be a
show, don't it?"
William grunted with disgust. A show, yes: a vulgar, self-
indulgent, ostentatious display of the worst and noisiest
sort. No wonder Penny House's more staid neighbors
complained to the watch, if they were often forced to
suffer through this sort of low rigmarole. How many of
London's orphans could be fed tonight simply for the cost
of the silk ribbons trailing from the carriage and horses?
"That be Miss Bethany," Twig said, stepping away from the
wall as he pointed toward Penny House. "There, near the
bottom of the steps, her an' her sister Miss Amariah."
With new interest William looked to where the boy was
pointing. From this distance, all he could see was that
Bethany Penny shared the same red-gold hair as her
sisters, and that she was the same height, too, tall and
slender and graceful. Beyond that he had only a vague
impression of a simple but elegant — and no doubt very
costly — bright blue gown that fluttered about her legs
and hips with a provocative sway, and a matching bonnet
whose wide brim hid her face. She carried herself with a
beauty's confidence, sure her every move would draw
attention.
Or was it the arrogance of a woman who dabbled in poison
under the guise of charity? A clever woman whose cookery
could nourish, or kill?
He sighed restlessly, refusing to let himself be drawn
into her spell. Four men, good men, had been murdered
since spring. William couldn't let himself be lured into
thinking better of Bethany Penny just because she was
beautiful.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she ran her fingers
flirtatiously along the edge of the sweeping brim of her
hat, then hooked her arm through her sister's. Their heads
nodded toward one other, sharing some secret between them,
as they climbed the steps after their now-wed sister, with
the rest of the guests following.
"So much for the public diversion, lad," William said.
"The rest of that party's only for those with an
invitation."
He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for a coin to
pay Twig for his time. He was more tired than he wished to
admit, the scar in his leg aching from having kept pace
with the boy. He shouldn't have let his pride make him
leave his walking-stick at home, not when the consequences
were that every nerve in his body groaned in angry protest.
He glanced back to the steps where the woman had stood.
Seeing her and the other revelers of Penny House had
brought back too many old memories that he'd rather keep
safely in the past, and the effort of shoving them further
back into his head had been just as exhausting as the long
walk to this part of London.
"We'll return tomorrow, Twig," he said, purposefully
turning away from Penny House, and his own past. "Better
to give this foolish lot plenty of time to sleep away
their celebrating."
"Oh, no, Gov'nor, not at all!" Twig flung his arms out, as
if offering William the world. "Miss Bethany won't be
above stairs with them others. She never goes there. She
always be below, in the kitchen an' at her door for us."
William frowned, skeptical, the coin tucked between his
first two fingers. "On her sister's wedding day? I am
sorry, lad, but surely a woman like that will have other
ways to occupy herself this evening than giving scraps to
poor folk."
"Beg pardon again, Guv'nor, but you don't know Miss
Penny," Twig insisted. "She gave her word yesterday that
she wouldn't forget us tonight, and she won't. She won't."
William shook his head. "With this lot, "tonight' could
mean noon tomorrow."
"Not with Miss Penny." With the nerveless audacity of
London street-boys, Twig grabbed William's arm to lead him
toward the back of the gaming house. "I'd wager there
already be a line to her kitchen door. Come with me,
Guv'nor. I swore I'd take you there, an' I will."
William shifted his weight from one leg to the other,
wincing at the sharp, fresh pain. But this time the pain
wasn't limited to his leg, instead shooting straight to
his conscience as well.
He was still alive to feel that pain, still alive to worry
over a pretty woman's reaction to his ravaged face and
body. Too many others were not as fortunate, including the
four dead men who had died not on the battlefield, but
alone and unlamented on these London streets. He had been
their major, their leader, and they had always followed
him with unquestionable courage.
And he would not fail them now. "Very well, then, Twig,"
he said softly. "Lead away." The boy knew the way exactly
as he'd promised, guiding William from the affluent public
face of St. James's Street down the narrow alley that ran
behind the grand houses. Used for deliveries or
emergencies, the alley was unpaved and muddy, lined with
high walls to protect the tiny city gardens. Heavy locked
doors kept outsiders away and the ladies safe within,
along with their whitewashed Chippendale benches, a bed of
carefully tended flowers and perhaps a nodding crabapple
tree or two.
But there was no genteel ladies' garden behind Penny
House, nor was there a heavy padlock to bar the alley.
Instead the door was propped open, so welcoming that even
Twig marched boldly beneath the arch. Inside these walls,
the ground was worn bare, with only a pair of halfhearted
yews in planters beside the door, and several rough
benches.
Yet what William noticed first wasn't the lack of a
garden, but the crowd of people, more people in this
little yard then had likely been in all the others on the
street combined in a year. They stood in a queue that
began at the back door and snaked back and forth until it
nearly reached the alley, and they stood patiently,
quietly, with the resignation of those who'd seen too much
of the raw end of life. Sad women with fretful, ailing
babies, old men bent with age, grimy, hollow-cheeked girls
and boys like Twig — they all had their places in line.
But the ones that caught William's attention were the men
who should have been in their prime: men still young in
years, but old in the ways that only war could cause.