For three days since he had arrived back in the city, Pyke had followed Emily at a discreet distance, as she had gone about her business. He had been surprised by the scope and extent of her work; not merely time spent in her organisation’s offices on the Strand but also visits to both prisons and asylums. In one such establishment, a crumbling former nunnery in the village of Stoke Newington, curiosity had compelled him to bear even closer witness to her actions. As far as he understood it, her work involved inspecting premises and living conditions and writing reports in order to lobby for change; he had not expected her to spend time with the Bedlamites, or to be so openly affectionate with them. As Pyke had watched Emily perch on the edge of an elderly woman’s bed and stroke her bony visage, he had thought about her deceased mother and how much, if anything, Emily knew about her fall from sanity and Edmonton’s role in orchestrating her removal to an asylum. Even from a distance, her warmth of character was impossible not to notice, but her good intentions carried a hidden cost. In an alley next to the asylum, she had produced a small flask from under her shawl and, unseen by everyone, except for Pyke, pressed it to her lips and drunk. Startled by the sudden arrival of her carriage, Emily had discarded the flask in a nearby bush. Later, Pyke retrieved it and discovered its content to be gin: something that surprised and pleased him. She was as flawed and vulnerable as everyone else.
Pyke surveyed the charities that were to benefit from the event and the list of people who would be attending the function on their behalf in the performance notes. Emily Blackwood was described as Lord Edmonton’s daughter, reminding him of Emily’s association with the aristocrat. He wondered how much she knew.
Ten minutes after the performance had started, Pyke vacated his seat in the stalls and ascended the theatre’s main staircase from the lobby to the circle. He found a bored attendant and instructed him to deliver an urgent note to a lady seated in one of the boxes. He described Emily and handed him the note, together with a guinea coin.
He felt out of place in such a setting, as though it was as clear to everyone else as it was to him that he did not belong there. He had been more comfortable firing blunderbuss ball shot into a crowded tavern surrounded by some of the city’s most violent criminals than he did in such esteemed surroundings.
It was fifteen minutes before he heard footsteps glide across the carpet over the muffled sounds of soprano and tenor voices reverberating throughout the theatre. As Emily walked towards him, her hips moved gracefully under her dress. When he stepped out of the shadows and approached her, she jumped slightly, as though she had not actually expected it to be him, and it took her a few moments to recover her composure. Pyke took her hand and led her to the female cloakroom.
Alone, in the dimness of the room, they contemplated each other without speaking. He felt his jaw tighten as he took in the whiteness of her neck, her sculpted cheekbones, her gloved hands and smoky eyes. Pyke was about to say something when she reached out and pressed her index finger lightly against his lips. He felt his throat tighten in anticipation but it was she, rather than he, who stepped forward into the space between them and raised her neck to meet his stare, their lips practically touching.
‘All of your lovely hair . . .’ She brushed her fingertips across his freshly shaven head.
Pyke shrugged. He had cut it with a razor even before he had left for Ireland. ‘I had to see you.’
‘We cannot talk here,’ she whispered, her eyes never once leaving his.
‘If not here, then where?’ He did not want her to visit him in a place as sordid as the Old Cock tavern.
Her eyes filled. ‘I thought you might be dead.’
Gently, he took her hand. She made no effort to resist his overture. ‘I wondered if I would see you again.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Her fingers coiled around his thumb.
Pyke opened his palm and allowed her to trace a line down it with her little finger. He told her about his garret.
‘My father owns a town house in Islington. On rare occasions, he permits me to use it, if I have to attend social occasions late in the evening.’ She gave him the address. ‘Will you meet me there after ten? There’s a gate at the side. Come around to the back door and knock twice.’
The desire to kiss her was now so intense that Pyke could barely restrain himself, but Emily acted before he had the opportunity and withdrew; nor would her stare meet his. Later, as he thought about what had happened, he was struck by competing sentiments: on the one hand, the intimacy that they had generated had seemed, to him at least, utterly authentic; on the other hand, he could not help but feel that her attempts to keep him at arm’s length were motivated by more than a respect for social convention.
Edmonton’s Islington residence was a three-storey town house on Cloudsley Terrace, a row of new houses looking out over an attractive expanse of common land, ten minutes’ walk from the junction of New Road and High Street in Islington. Although the house was beyond his own financial means, Pyke was disappointed by its size and scale. It was more than adequate for ambitious office clerks who worked in the City, but it seemed far too modest for a titled aristocrat. This impression was reinforced when he was escorted by Emily’s servant to the drawing room on the first floor.
It was a well-appointed and tastefully decorated room, with a Turkey carpet covering most of the wooden floor, a high ceiling adorned by intricate cornice-work, a large bay window at the front of the room and a series of easy chairs and a cream sofa arranged around a grand piano. But as he settled down on the sofa and waited for Emily to appear, it struck him that, aside from the marble fireplace, there was nothing extravagant about its decor. On closer inspection, the sofa and chairs seemed threadbare, and apart from two small but intriguing drawings that hung on one of the walls, the overall impression was one of modesty and even thrift. Again he wondered about Godfrey’s comments about the perilous state of Edmonton’s finances.
Emily had changed into a pale-grey cotton dress with a high-cut empire waist. Alone in the room, there was a palpable awkwardness between them, as though neither of them knew how to greet the other or what to say.
Perhaps to strip away some of this politeness, Pyke told her as much of the truth about what had happened to him as he felt was necessary. He intimated, though only obliquely, that her father was involved in the blood- letting that had taken place, mostly because he did not want to deceive her about his own intentions towards the man. Perhaps he told her too much, because when he had finished her expression seemed to indicate a mixture of bemusement and fear.
Emily was not as brittle as he had first supposed, but he did not yet know whether she was as robust as she pretended to be. Nor, despite her apparently self-evident loathing of her father, did he know where her loyalties ultimately lay. Therefore telling her even a little of the truth had been a calculated risk.
Emily looked at him with an impenetrable expression. ‘One night, shortly before you showed up at Hambledon, I overheard my father talking about an incident in which you had tricked him into paying for the return of goods that you’d stolen from him. He called you a scoundrel but sounded a little impressed too.’ She looked away and shrugged. ‘He’s not a man who’s easily impressed.’
Pyke weighed up this information.
‘I knew my father had something planned for you but I didn’t know what.’ Her expression softened. ‘I should have said something to you.’
‘You have done more than enough to assist me and I will for ever be in your debt.’ He hesitated for a moment, to collect his thoughts.
Blushing slightly, she said, ‘But you still seem bothered by something.’
‘I am not so much bothered as . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t think for a moment I am not eternally grateful for what you did for me but I am struck that your actions carried very grave risks for you.’
‘What? In terms of upsetting my father?’ This time Emily laughed. ‘As you may have noticed, ours is not a warm or even a close relationship.’
‘But he is still your father.’ He studied her reaction carefully. The light from the candle accentuated the shape of her cheekbones.
Emily took her time to respond. ‘When we last talked outside Newgate, you intimated that you were cognisant of certain aspects of my mother’s demise.’ She shook her head. ‘When she finally passed away, he did not even permit me to attend her funeral.’ Pyke waited for her to continue but she seemed to want some kind of acknowledgement, so he just nodded. ‘I hate him. I know that’s a terrible thing to say but I can’t help it . . .’
‘I would imagine he’s not an easy man to like.’
