A Study in Ashes (68 page)

“The Violet Queen offered to do him personal, like.” Gareth shrugged. “No one’s going to tell her to shove off.”

Confusion made her sway on her ridiculously high heels, and she put a hand on the stair rail. “What would that old carcass want with Dubois?” Hyacinth wrinkled her nose. “She doesn’t even have to work anymore.”

“Didn’t you go see her the other day?”

“Yes. She was all good manners and second-best tea.” But still, the woman had to be up to something. “Is that all Dubois said?”

Gareth shrugged.

“Damn it all.” She turned and clattered back up the stairs. She strode to her private chambers, where she should have found a plump, pale body strapped to her chevalet—a tilting frame vulgarly known as a Berkley Horse—waiting for the first kiss of pain. She gave it a savage snap of her whip, as if the smooth wood could feel the burn of her displeasure.

Then she stood glaring at the rack of switches, whips, and cat-o’-nine-tails she’d mounted on her wall. There were more extensive collections out there, but she fancied herself an artist who had no need of an excess of tools.
So then where are my regulars?

“Forgive me, Miss Hyacinth, but I overheard,” said a soft voice from the doorway. It was Tigress, a new girl the Violet
Queen had sent over and most likely there to spy on Hyacinth’s activities. “I know my former mistress. You have the essence of what she wants.”

Hyacinth’s head snapped up. “What does that mean?”

The girl bowed. She was slender and dark-eyed, her black hair long and straight. A fool might have called her delicate, but Hyacinth could see the lean muscle beneath the girl’s tawny skin.

“You interest her,” said Tigress. “Perhaps she wishes to understand your success.”

“So she takes all my customers?” Hyacinth asked indignantly.

“Forgive me if I am mistaken.” The girl bowed again, retreating. “Perhaps it is not the queen, but just the war that keeps your customers away.”

“I don’t believe that.”

But Tigress was already gone.

Irritation soaked Hyacinth’s mood, coupled with alarm. The Violet Queen had been anxious to bring Hyacinth to heel, but there had to be more than an urge to discipline an underling at work. After all, if a business failed, the Violet Queen could take none of the profit. And in Hyacinth’s book, the only thing stronger than money was irrational, overwhelming emotion—not exactly the response one wanted to inspire in a steam baron.

Perhaps she wishes to understand my success?
Unlikely. The woman had been in the business for years, and had made it to the top. She knew what made it successful. It was something else—something more primal. Something that looked too much like what the Violet Queen had lost.

Hyacinth wanted another talk with the old baggage, and she wanted it now.

HYACINTH CHANGED INTO
a more sedate ensemble—this one at least covered her ankles, if it left rather a lot of visible décolletage—and decided to take Gareth and Tigress with her. There were no cabs on the rubble-strewn streets, so
they had to walk the distance to the Violet Queen’s house. Hyacinth had never lacked confidence, but there were times when numbers gave one a feeling of security, and crossing London had just become one of them. Police and soldiers were out in force, but they were sorely outnumbered. Looters circled the carcasses of the banks like hungry dogs, and mercenaries—the Gold King’s Yellowbacks or King Coal’s Blue Boys—fended them off or joined them, depending on the odds at the time.

“How much farther?” Gareth asked nervously, listening to distant rifle shots. Tigress lifted her head as if mildly interested in the noise, but said nothing.

“It’s just up ahead.” Hyacinth kept her voice even, even if her heart was pounding hard enough to make her light-headed. They’d seen a lot of Blue Boys in the last few blocks, and they were far enough out of Whitechapel to catch the attention of rival crews. The last thing she wanted was to get caught in the middle of a fight.

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish, Miss H?” he asked. “You can’t just give the Queen of Whores a talking to.”

“She took what’s mine. She took what I laid my skin and sweat down to have. The last girl who did that to me …”

Hyacinth trailed off. It had been a lot of years since anyone had crossed her quite that way. “It was Sarah Makepeace, who took my paint box at school. I waited until we were at archery and then taught her a lesson.” But even that hadn’t been the same. The paint box had been a gift. She’d cultivated her customers, and that made them more truly hers than any ordinary possession.

They turned a corner and the large, elegant house came into view. Hyacinth’s two-story, in need of paint and a proper gardener, was a hovel in comparison. This place had four levels, an enormous porch, and an acre of stained glass. The grounds were no less stately, with a rose garden flanked in ornate iron benches.

Gareth gave a low whistle. “Where do the customers go?”

Hyacinth was about to say this was the Violet Queen’s
residence, not her whorehouse, but Tigress spoke up. “The pleasure rooms are in the back. You see, there are no windows. Discretion is complete.”

Hyacinth cleared her throat. “I should go in alone. Sit out here and wait for me.”

Tigress bowed and Gareth folded his arms unhappily. Ignoring them both, Hyacinth mounted the broad porch with its scrollwork ornamentation and reached for the bell. But then, almost of its own accord, her hand drifted to the bright brass of the doorknob and turned it.

The door opened easily and she stepped inside. The front hall, with its potted palms and black-and-white tiles, was as elegant as upon her last visit, but something was different.
There are no servants
. A footman should have reacted the moment she came up the porch. Now that she was inside, she should have heard a maid or the butler or even just a tweenie bustling about. Hyacinth narrowed her eyes. Something was going on—if the servants had run away, they would have picked the place clean, and there was still a valuable china vase on the hall table.

Now very curious, Hyacinth began drifting through the house, aiming for the intimate sitting room where she’d met with the Violet Queen. That led her down a short hallway punctuated by portraits of reclining nudes, perhaps the chief attractions of the establishment. One might have been a younger version of the proprietress herself.

Hyacinth felt the tickle on her neck that said someone was watching her. Turning slowly, she saw nothing, but heard an eerie clicking. Nerves brought gooseflesh to her arms and she suddenly wished she’d brought a gun. There was a hideous, slavering, huffing sound that made her stiffen.

And then the Pomeranian trotted into view, a menacing puff of cinnamon fur. Hyacinth heaved an irritated breath. It gave a single yap in response.
Brilliant
. If there was anyone in the house, this creature would give her away.

“Hush!” She crouched and it skittered aside on ridiculously tiny paws. “Oh, don’t be like that.” Hyacinth generally liked dogs better than people, but she didn’t have the
patience to deal with this now. She grabbed the thing, gloves sinking deep into the silky coat, and shoved it back into the room it had come from, shutting the door. There was a whine and a scratch, but then it was quiet.

She kept on, and in another few steps she heard voices—a man and a woman. Instinctively, she shrank against the wainscoting, inching toward the sitting room. The paneled doors were shut, but she could hear just enough to recognize that the female was the Violet Queen, speaking quickly. The male voice gave one-word replies—not enough to decide if it was familiar.

Tight with anticipation, she bent close to the door, her ear pressed to the crack.

“You can’t win this, Keating. No one is with you after what you did.”

Finally, the man gave a complete sentence. “That’s quite a different tune than the one you sang a week ago.”

Jasper Keating?
So that was the mystery man! And that explained why the servants must have been banished to another part of the house. The Gold King wouldn’t risk having his business overheard.

Hyacinth reached for the doorknob and turned it all the way, making sure there was nothing to catch as she pushed the door open a crack. All of a sudden, the voices were much more distinct.

“You hadn’t blasted half of London then.” The Violet Queen’s voice was harsh. “If you want allies, leave them a bit of ground to stand on. You make enemies when you destroy their livelihoods.”

Hyacinth put one eye to the crack in the door. The pair was standing at an angle, the Violet Queen almost with her back to Hyacinth. Mrs. Cutter was wearing a deep indigo costume, the short jacket stitched heavily with glass beads that glittered with every motion. Keating was close to the mantelpiece, one hand on its pale marble shelf, the other in a sling. His features, usually the picture of distinguished elegance, looked hollow with shadows.

“I didn’t hurt anything of yours,” snapped Keating.

“Of course you did. I live here.”

“Men will always come to your door, Mrs. Cutter.”

She made a disgusted noise. “Courtesans require more than a back alley shag. We are the demimonde, and that relies on prosperity. You are the great financier. What do you think happens when you block the roads, stop trade, and crush half the banks?”

“I hold all the cards.”

“You hold the cards to Armageddon. Enjoy your hand.”

Bristling with anger, Keating took two steps toward Mrs. Cutter. “I’ll take Green’s territory just as I did Scarlet’s.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You plan to stop me? You barely have territory. You don’t have an army. You don’t even have a maker.”

Hyacinth bit her lip, utterly enthralled.
There has to be something here I can use to my advantage
.

The Violet Queen raised her chin, the picture of hauteur. “I may be a whore, but there are only so many ways I will agree to be fucked, Mr. Keating.” And she reached beneath the short jacket of her costume and pulled a pearl-handled Derringer from the small of her back.

It was small, hopelessly old-fashioned after seeing so many of the makers’ fancy guns. Still, the sight of it caught Hyacinth by surprise, and she gasped. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough to distract the woman for a fraction of time. With his uninjured hand, Keating pulled out a slender rod—more of a wand than a proper gun—and fired. A ball of blue light crackled through the air, but the Violet Queen was quick. She ducked out of the way in time for the shot to sizzle against the door Hyacinth still held. The next instant, a chunk of the heavy paneled wood exploded into splinters, raining sharp points down on Hyacinth’s head. She shoved the door away, accidentally catching the other woman in the face as she turned to run. Mrs. Cutter’s eyes flew wide as she saw Hyacinth standing there, clearly seeing another enemy. It was that look in her eyes, guilty and afraid, that startled Hyacinth.
She’s done something that she knows has turned me against her
.

By then, Keating had caught up. He thrust his strange weapon against the Violet Queen’s temple. “How dare you!”

The woman swore and spun around, clawing at his face. Red lines sprang up on Keating’s cheek, but he barely flinched. Instead, he fired. The Violet Queen flew backward, over the back of the sofa, and slammed into the wall. She fell to the floor, her neck twisted almost completely around. The room filled with the stench of burning cloth and flesh.

Appalled, Hyacinth staggered back into the corridor, trembling starting in her knees and working upward through the rest of her. “Bloody hell.”

Keating noticed her, giving her a sharp look. “Who are you?”

“Miss Hyacinth,” she said automatically. “Governess of one of her houses.”

“I hope you found this instructive,” he said with a curl of his lip.

Bastard
. She was still shaking, her skin in a slick, cold sweat—but she knew how to play this game. She’d been the tyrant of the Wollaston Academy for Young Ladies, and head-hunting savages didn’t hold a candle to a crowd of bored debutantes. “I found it liberating,” she said in her best boarding-school drawl. “Madam had been poaching my clients for herself. I’d come to settle accounts, but you’ve done so admirably, sir.”
Though really, this was rather more than I’d planned
. She swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t vomit.

He was studying her now, cradling his injured arm as if the sudden activity had hurt him. “You have admirable nerve.”

“A professional asset.” Her gloves were damp, clinging unpleasantly to her palms, but she forced herself to look him in the eye. “And I only saw as much as you say I saw.”

He put the strange-looking gun away. “I’d rather that wasn’t a necessary consideration. It’s always unpleasant when a friend lets one down.”

And it gives your enemies ideas
. She knew that from the schoolyard, too. If the popular girls turned on one of their own, it was only a matter of minutes before the unfortunate victim became the school pariah. And this is where she saw her opportunity. “You are the ally of the Violet Queen.
There is nothing to say that position needs to be held by Mrs. Cutter. Her network of informants, her houses and clients, are all still there.”

“What are you saying?” Now he looked almost amused.

Hyacinth edged up to the body, attempting to look more steady than she felt. Her mind whirred frantically, calculating odds, reading every nuance of his expression. She knew how to survive, and much of that depended on reading her marks. “I’m educated and I understand this business. I can help you. I can even cover this up for a few days.”

“I don’t know you.”

Oh, but you do, now that I think about it. It was your judge and jury that murdered my family and made me a whore
. But the smile she gave him was conspiratorial. “A few days, Mr. Keating. Check on me as often as you like, but I will keep the information flowing for you. And I saw what you did to someone who crossed you. I may be a tart, but I’m not a fool.”

“All other considerations aside,” he said coldly, “there will be fierce competition to fill this sudden vacancy at the top. If I grant you this position, how do you propose to keep it?”