but as soon as she was mostly healed she left and went back on the stroll.
Since then I’d tried to persuade her to give up the business, but the money had always been too good, and the trade too steady. Because Rina was young, beautiful, and posh enough to attract a better sort, she’d quickly built a list of generous regulars. They’d funded the purchase of her house of ill repute, which in turn provided shelter and protection for the lost gels my friend regularly plucked from the streets. For those too young to know what they were about, Rina even found decent employment. Her success had made her notorious, but Rina took great pleasure in being the most scandalous female in Rumsen—and still banked more money in one month than I did in a year.
My friend finally emerged from her bed and tottered to the lamps to light a few more. The old, threadbare flannel gown she wore made me stifle a chuckle—it bore no resemblance to the lacy, gauzy negligees she wore when entertaining her clients.
“All right.” Rina fell into an armchair and propped her brow against her hand. “Tell me who it is.”
“Nolan Walsh’s wife.”
“Lady Diana.” She exhaled heavily. “You’ve picked yourself a right one there. She’d be the eldest spawn of one of the Landau brothers.”
I thought through all the scandals I knew that involved Landaus. “The one who gambled, or the one who drank?”
“The investor. Lost everything in mine speculation.” She winced. “William or Wilson or something like that. In any case, he tugged the old school tie, sold her off. Pretty little thing, but no spine at all. You know she cried at the wedding?”
Rina faithfully attended every society wedding open to the public, always arriving heavily veiled and dressed in widow’s weeds. She claimed it was to drum up trade, as virginal brides always sent their newly wed husbands looking for satisfaction elsewhere, but I knew better. Rina had a passion for watching ceremonies and rituals, the grander the better. In a strange way, they seemed to comfort her.
“Would Walsh have a hand in this?” Men who secretly abused their wives disgusted me, but there was always a possibility that the banker had acquired a taste for hurting women or perhaps had his sights set on a third wife.
“Doubtful. He shows her off too much. He’d never rip up a brand-new waistcoat and then wear it after.” Rina smothered a yawn. “My money’s on the son.”
“Jealous?”
“Diseased. Sent home from Oxford after a bad case of the drips.” She said it with a strumpet’s satisfied relish. “Married five years now, but no children.”
I sat back. Since he only otherwise had two daughters . . . “Oh. So that’s why he married her.”
“And why he took her so young,” Rina agreed. “Walsh has a good twenty, thirty more years on this earth. Plenty of time to do the deed and then some. But why are you taking this job, Kit? You know how it will end.”
“She thinks she’s been cursed,” I said softly.
Rina
“Today, for tea. I’m a newfound, poor cousin.” I thought for a minute. “I need something in sprigged muslin, genteel-cut but no sashing. Lace. A very
Already thinking, Rina nodded. “Yellowed or shabby?”
“Yellowed. I’m a working lass.”
I followed her into the adjoining room, which was filled with freestanding racks of gowns. Rina had once made a vow never to wear the same gown more than twice, and after making a mutually satisfactory arrangement with her neighbor the spinster dressmaker, she had managed to keep it.
“I did a garden party play a few years ago,” she said as she sorted through one rack. “Old gent, wanted all of us dressed like debs. Had each of us sit on his lap so he could fondle us while we fed him biscuits and called him Daddums.”
I hid my revulsion. “I can’t wear white.”
“No one can, love.” She winked as she extracted one gown, held it up to me, and then exchanged it for another. “If you don’t soon start carrying a shade when you go out, you’ll be as dark as a shaman.” She switched the gown for a third, and nodded. “This will do for tea.”
I glanced down. “It’s pink.”
“And?”
“I despise pink.”
“It’s baby’s blush, and it makes you look like a proper lass. Turn round.” When I did, she held the yoke of the bodice to my shoulders. “If I snip out the pads, it should fit.” She tugged at the chain around my neck. “Can’t wear this.”
“I’ll tuck it under.” I only took off my pendant when I bathed, and even then I kept it within reach. I’d promised my mum I always would.
“Slippers.” She bent to retrieve a pair from a box beneath the gowns and handed them to me.
“They’re too big.” And even pinker than the gown.
“Stuff the toes with paper. Satchel.” She found and placed a fringed drawstring reticule on top of the slippers. “Crinoline.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“Kit.”
“They itch and they make me sweat,” I told her. “I’d rather go naked.”
She glared at me. “Then it will have to be three petticoats.” When I opened my mouth she tapped my cheek sharply. “This is not open for discussion, you silly twit. You’re going to the Hill. You know the butler will be counting them before he lets you through the door. Showing up underdressed is as smart as standing in the marketplace and shouting you’ve become an agent for the Crown.”
“I’d hang myself first.” She was right. “I hate being female.”
“Well, until you sprout a beard and a cock, there you are.” She patted my shoulder. “Come on, while you’re here I might as well feed you.”
I left the hateful pink gown and accoutrements in Rina’s bedchamber as she dressed, and then followed her down to the kitchen, where Almira had two steaming plates of eggs, bacon, and fry bread waiting for us.
“Someone’s worked a charm on poor Liv,” the cook told Rina. “She says she can’t feel her bum.”
Rina sat down and dug into her food. “That’s because she sits on it too much.”
“I smacked her bare with a switch meself to test it. Drew blood, but she didn’t even flinch.” Almira glanced at me. “Maybe someone could make herself useful while she’s dawdling here?”
“My eggs will get cold,” I complained.
She whisked my plate out from under my fork. “I’ll keep them on the stove.”
I turned to Rina, who shrugged. “All right, where’s poor Liv?”
“Purple door, third floor.” The cook beamed at me. “You’re a good lass, Kit.”
“I’m a deprived lass. I’m a starving lass.” I tromped back up the stairs to the third floor, found Liv’s purple door, and knocked on it. “Liv? It’s Kit, Mrs. Eagle’s friend from uptown. Let me in.”
I heard breathing, and then two strangled words: “I can’t.”
I propped a hand against the door frame. “Why not?”
More breathing, and choking. “Can’t . . . move.”
I tried the knob, which jammed at first and then opened. Inside I found Liv, wide-eyed and naked on the floorboards. I knelt beside her. “What’s all this, then?”
“Magic,” she gasped, as if she were having trouble taking in air. “Killing me.”
I looked her over, reached down, and slapped her face. “Come on. Snap out of it, there’s a good gel.”
She shook her head wildly, and then her eyes bulged as she gulped in a huge breath.
“Oh, sweet Jesu.” She panted as if she’d been running for miles. “I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t . . .” She stared at the hand she had lifted to her face and then at me. “How did you do that?”
“I walloped you.” I helped her up from the floor and wrapped her in a robe. “Sit before you fall back down.” When she did, I looked around her room. Aside from the usual female fripperies, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. “What have you been using?”
