“We’re not magic,” said Alan. “We’re Catholic.”
“Sends it askew,” said Sir Robert. “Sounds like this house of yours, Violet.”
“It’s like foresight. Not much known and even less written down. If I could do some experiments…”
Alan was used to being looked at like he wasn’t there. Being looked at like a butterfly pinned to a board was a new one.
“Edwin,” said Miss Blyth, laughing. “Leave the poor man alone.”
The word experiments sounded moderately hideous. But it was a way to be useful to them, wasn’t it? Alan sat up straighter and returned Courcey’s look.
“I’d consider it. What’s the hourly rate?”
Lord Hawthorn laughed. The sound climbed Alan’s spine with thoughtful fingers. “Careful, Edwin. This one haggles like a Whitechapel fishmonger.”
Alan turned to glare at him. The cool amusement in Hawthorn’s eyes made him wish he hadn’t.
Alan was dressed in one of his two good work suits: trousers and waistcoat of tough brown material that he’d bought in the hope they’d look sober and smart for a long time and hide the dirt enough not to need washing too often, so the fabric would last. And it had lasted, for a while. Now he badly needed new ones. He needed a new pair of shoes, just like everyone else in his household. Like half of London. Needing new shoes might as well be a permanent state of being, like being Catholic, or having eyes so blue they made goose bumps appear on the arms.
He could always feel the wafting disapproval of his shabby appearance from the editors and senior writers at the Post. And that was nothing to the way he felt here, in this beautiful room in a huge Bayswater townhouse, with an earl’s son looking at Alan as though he were counting every shiny patch and every place where Bella’s neat darning showed.
Lord Hawthorn’s waistcoat had a subtle play of purple thread down the grey panels, and small silver buttons in the shape of knots. His shirtsleeves were blindingly white, his collar crisp. He probably had two pairs of shoes for every day of the week and employed a different bootblack for each pair.
Alan wanted to tear off every single one of those buttons and grind his worn-down heel into the top of his lordship’s foot until he felt the bones crunch. He exhaled.
Hawthorn said, “I’ll wager you’d never heard the word perturbator before any of the rest of us. So which of your many talents are you here to sell, Mr. Ross?”
Shame and anger tangled within Alan. Sainted Mary, he hated being here, having to do this. Guilt tried to send out a black squirming arm to join the fray. He squashed it. He didn’t have a choice.
“You never called on me for help with your silver-seeking quest, Miss B. Thought I’d drop by and make the offer again, if you needed it.”
“What,” said Hawthorn, “is there nothing left to steal in London?”
“Someone told me to stick to peddling pornography.” It was out before Alan could remember that this wasn’t the Lyric. Miss Morrissey was a gentlewoman who hadn’t been party to that heady, ludicrous evening where Alan’s stash of erotica-for-sale had been the entertainment. And Sir Robert—oh, Christ, Sir Robert was the older brother of the girl he’d sold the stuff to.
Miss Debenham gave a delighted cackle. “Going door-to-door with the business now, are you? That’s very enterprising. I hope you brought more samples.”
“Shut up, Violet,” said Miss Blyth amiably. She directed her dimples at Alan. “You’re right, we haven’t needed your services yet, but I’m sure we could find something. How did you know where to find me?”
“I know a bloke writing for Tatler. Got a nose for gossip like a bloodhound.” Alan managed a smile through his tension. “The young and unmarried Maud Blyth is staying practically unchaperoned in the same house as Lord Hawthorn, their debauchery encouraged by the wildly scandalous Violet Debenham. Nobody thinks much of her brother for letting it happen, sir,” he added to Sir Robert, fishing for anything below that affable smile.
It didn’t work. “Nobody ever thought much of me anyway,” said Sir Robert. “But it’s true. People keep telling me that nobody’s going to entrust their daughter’s hand in marriage to someone with so little care for his own sister’s virtue.”
Miss Morrissey hid a spurt of laughter behind a napkin.
“My virtue is in daily peril.” Miss Blyth flicked a crust of toast at her brother. “Robin. I demand you do something.”
Laughter between the two of them. Alan glanced from one Blyth to another and made a rapid decision.
“I’m around and about the city a lot for the Post; they don’t expect me to stay in the office all day. If you have a use for me, Miss B—anything at all—I’d appreciate it. I won’t ask for charity, just work. But my own sister’s husband was injured last month, and he can’t bring in a wage for a while, so things are tough for their little ones.”
Miss Blyth’s face melted at once into concern. “Of course we can find something.”
“I wasn’t joking,” said Courcey abruptly. “We could use a perturbator, and not just for studying. Violet—if he isn’t affected as much by magic, then some of the difficult doors…”
“Like a canary in a mine?” Miss Debenham raised her eyebrows at Alan. “You don’t have to agree, Mr. Ross. The thing is, we haven’t found Lady Enid’s knife yet, and this particular house is making the search … interesting. It’s not safe or easy work, even before you consider that our enemies are constantly trying to break in at night.”
Alan hesitated. If something happened to him, then what would become of Carolina and Dick and their family—Bella, who had no prospects in her condition—his mother—?
And if he didn’t agree, what would happen to them then?
“No less safe than running around a great ship with a pack of murderers,” he said. “If you think I can help with the hunt, you’ve got me.”
“Well, you can name what you want in return,” said Miss Debenham. “If Dorothy deserves hazard pay, then you certainly would.”
Alan had been turning this one over. Asking baldly for money seemed grubbier and more obvious, here in someone’s fancy dining room, than it had on the Lyric. Not to mention that he felt like a bloody blackmailer, coming back to dip his hands greedily into the same pot.
Besides: no matter how deep the pot, you couldn’t keep coming back to it forever. He wanted something that would sustain him and his for longer than a single payment. What was the saying? Give a man a fish …
He forced his voice into its mildest talking-to-superiors form—the one he used on his editors—and turned to Lord Hawthorn. The largest fish here, if Alan could land him.
“Quid pro quo,” he said. “I want a favour.”
4