The Piper's Paramour, page 12
Rhys didn’t like the prospect ahead, but he knew it had to be done if he intended to ferret out the culprit. “I suspect the baiting rings will be the most likely place to look.”
“I agree,” Harry concurred. “I know it’s a rather unsavory affair, but you can take heart in knowing that once the guilty are arraigned, you can return to your research. I understand that, thus far, the queen has been pleased with your efforts and was reluctant to put a halt to them.”
“That’s something, at least,” Rhys noted.
Harry grinned. “You’ll find that most women — our monarch included — can be difficult at times, but the trouble is worth the reward.”
***
The following morning, Tory received a message from the mystery woman who had come by the studio the day before. She mentioned that her daughter had agreed to a portrait of her deceased granddaughter and that they would be there around eleven. It gave Tory plenty of time to tend to the rats and set up all of her equipment in preparation.
She still had to find time to make it to the framer’s that afternoon to set Rebecca’s photograph. Perhaps she would do that around lunchtime, although she would have to close up the shop in order to do so, something she was reluctant to do since sales for the fancy rats had been rather steady. Once her photography started to take off, she might have to consider hiring someone to watch the shop for the days she had to run these sorts of errands. It was a definite possibility she would have to look into further in the future.
As the hour neared eleven, Tory noticed a fashionable coach pull up in front of the shop. She walked over to the door as the older woman from yesterday stepped to the ground with the assistance of a footman, followed by a younger woman draped head to toe in black crepe, a concealing veil over her face. Only then did she carefully reach back into the carriage and bring forth a small child of about three or four in a white dressing gown. She held the girl close to her as Tory greeted them with a gentle smile.
“Miss Jones,” the older woman said. “This is my daughter, Phillipa.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Tory said sincerely.
Phillipa acknowledged her with a brief nod. “Mother says that you are quite skilled at your trade.” She swallowed hard, likely having difficulty keeping her emotion in check. “I’m glad to hear it. I’d like a lasting memory of Gwen other than a lock of her hair to keep with me.”
“Would you like to be in the photograph as well?” Tory offered. She’d found that some of her clients on the Isle wanted the deceased to be surrounded by their family.
There was a brief pause, and then Phillipa said, “I think I would. Yes.”
Tory led her over to the backdrop. “You’ll have to remove your veil, and then hold Gwen on your lap, as if she’s asleep.”
As Phillipa did as she was told, the older woman came up to Tory. “You must think me quite rude, as I never introduced myself yesterday.” She held out a hand. “I’m Mrs. Ellen Wood, although I’ve been a widow for nearly three years now.”
Tory had to work to keep her surprise from showing. She knew this woman’s name rather well. “You are the author of several novels, are you not, including ‘East Lynne’?”
“Among other things, yes,” Mrs. Wood concurred. “I also own the magazine ‘Argosy,’ where several female contributors write for me.” She eyed Tory steadily. “If you can make this photograph take away even a portion of my daughter’s grief, I can see that your talents are featured in my next issue.”
Tory didn’t know what to say. Acknowledgment in such a prominent periodical would certainly gain her notoriety in London, and gain her the respect for her business, but was it the kind of attention that she wanted? She brought to mind Rhys and his recorder, and the fact he’d been betrayed by the one woman closest to him. In spite of this, she didn’t want her success in London to mean his downfall, so before she agreed to anything she would have to speak with him. “Thank you, Mrs. Wood. I will certainly consider your generous offer.”
Ellen handed her a calling card. “When you’ve made your decision, come to this address.”
Tory tucked it away in the secret pocket of her dress, and then turned to Phillipa who was ready. Her eyes were red-rimmed and slightly swollen from her upset, but Tory didn’t think it would show up that much in the photograph.
She looked through the lens of her camera and her lungs caught. This might be one of her best pictures if it turned out as it appeared through the glass. The mother had such a look of melancholy on her face and the child was still and serene, completely at peace. It would surely give Phillipa a measure of comfort to know that her daughter, although deceased, would forever have the appearance of a sleeping angel in her arms.
Once the session was over, Tory gave Phillipa an impulsive hug, and then turned to Mrs. Wood who remained behind when her daughter returned to the carriage. “Give me until tomorrow morning to finish it. I’ll have the print ready by this afternoon, but I’ll have to take it to the framer’s.”
Mrs. Wood nodded. “I’ll return at the same time tomorrow.”
Once she was gone, Tory headed to her darkroom.
Chapter Twelve
Tory was extremely grateful to see Rhys a short time later. She’d managed to get the plate set, but she’d been overwhelmed by people looking to purchase a fancy rat, for apparently, word had traveled rather quickly about how well trained and docile they were, compared to any other place in the city.
The moment Rhys walked in with more rats, the customers milling about besieged him. If Tory hadn’t been so flustered, she might have found the look on his face rather humorous. However, as she motioned for him, he managed to politely extricate himself, and walk over to her. “If this keeps up,” he muttered dryly. “We won’t have to worry about a rodent problem in the city streets, but rather, in every English household. Then again,” he added. “My basement is starting to clear out, so I can’t say I’m not glad they are being adopted.”
“I’m relieved as well, but it’s put me behind developing a photograph I took this morning. Do you mind watching the shop while I finish up?”
“Not at all. It’s time I helped out for a change.” He gave her a dashing wink that warmed her completely, and kept a smile on her face as she finished her work in the darkroom. By the time she had the printing frame set and returned out front, most of the assemblage were gone — as were most of the rats.
“My goodness,” she breathed.
“Indeed,” Rhys murmured with a grin that showed off his dimples. “All it took was mention of being a veterinarian and they were happily trotting out the door with their new pets.”
“Well,” she teased flirtatiously, putting her arms around his neck. “You are rather persuasive.”
After a breathless kiss that left them both wanting for more, Tory reluctantly pulled away. “Might I prevail upon you for another favor?”
He wagged his brows at her. “What will I get in return?”
She laughed. “Anything you want, good sir. Within reason, of course.”
Rhys put a hand over his heart, as if wounded. “Would I dare to suggest otherwise?”
She decided not to comment on that. “I need to go to the framer’s this afternoon before they close. Would you mind watching the shop?”
He gave a mock bow. “It would be my honor to assist you.”
Tory gave him another quick peck on the lips. “You may not be a perfect man, Rhys Grayson, but you are my hero.”
Rhys left to go pick up some more rats, and Tory ate a quick lunch in between customers. She was glad when most of them also inquired about her studio and left with her photography information.
It was nearly three in the afternoon by the time Rhys returned. He walked in with an apologetic look on his face. “I didn’t mean to take so long, but I had to find some more cages.” He set down the items in question by the window, raising his brows to find that only three remained. “I think I’m going to have to return to the streets tonight, but I suppose that will work for my current mission.”
“What’s that?” Tory asked.
He told her what information Harry had relayed, and her stomach became queasy. “Are you certain you must attend those horrid blood baths they consider sport?”
“If I want to catch who’s responsible for this recent plague, then yes, I must.”
Tory swallowed nervously. “But… gangs? How many are there? Won’t that be dangerous?”
He smiled as he walked over to her, reaching out a hand and cupping her cheek. “Your concern is touching, my dear, but I think I can take care of myself.”
She raised a brow. “With so many odds stacked against you? You are only one man, and not as invincible as you might like to believe.”
“No,” he agreed. “But neither do I go looking for trouble. I observe the proceedings, nothing more, and then if things get too heated, I remove myself from the trouble. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” she returned without hesitation. “It’s the other miscreants in this city that I don’t.” With a sigh, she grabbed her satchel containing the photographs. “I’ll return shortly.”
An hour later, Tory walked out of the framer’s shop with a light heart. Although she was still worried over Rhys’s late night escapade, she was thrilled by how wonderful the two portraits had come out. Each were unique in their own way, one a happy, proud family that would surely make Rhys’s friend Harry equally honored, and then there was the serenity of Phillipa and Gwen. If possible, the print had come out even better than the real life image she’d saw through the glass. Both of her customers should be very pleased.
When she returned to the studio, she found Rhys sitting in one of her studio chairs reading a novel. “I can see you’ve been working hard,” she teased.
He looked up and grinned, showing those dimples. “Quite.” He shut the book and rose to his feet. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s your adoring face everyone wants to see, for I certainly had no luck once you were gone.”
She put her hands on that muscular chest. “It has nothing to do with you. You’re magnificent.” After a light kiss of welcome, she walked over to the counter and removed the photographs from her satchel.
Rhys had followed and he stared at the images for some time. Tory was about to go mad with waiting, about to burst at the seams wondering what he thought, but then he slowly lifted his gaze to her and said softly, “You are the one who is magnificent.” He shook his head. “You know, I never believed photography could be classified as art, but to have the ability to recreate such true life scenes with such precision, it couldn’t be called anything else.”
“Do you think Rebecca will be pleased with the outcome as well?”
He nodded. “Undoubtedly.” He leaned across the counter and gave her an impromptu kiss. When he pulled away, those mossy green eyes connecting with hers, he said, “You need to have more confidence in yourself. You have a remarkable talent.”
He was right. She had always doubted herself because she felt inferior. While she had a good upbringing and a wonderful tutor in Mrs. Cameron, she was still just an orphan who was raised in a foundling home. It wasn’t until Rhys made her admit her shortcomings that she truly believed in what she did.
“Thank you.”
***
Rhys dressed in a rough, brown suit that night when he hailed down a hansom and headed for one of the most renowned rat-baiting clubs in London.
The Blue Anchor Tavern was located on Bunhill Row and run by Jimmy Shaw, who had a close partnership with Jack Black, the man that supplied plenty of rats for him to use in his spectacles. Ironically enough, the Bunhill Fields burial ground was directly across the street, for on a single night, some two hundreds rats or more could be killed in the basement of the tavern, where spectators could see the entertainment take place in a wooden ring. Shaw’s personal terriers, “Jacko” and Tiny the Wonder were infamous for their skills. And although the queen had passed a Cruelty to Animals Act in 1835, it didn’t encompass rat-baiting, and even though it did cover dog fighting, Jimmy Shaw was rumored to have continued that ruthless sport nonetheless.
Rhys found the tavern was also the perfect place to listen for conspiracies, and in this instance — rat smuggling. While he wasn’t a fan of the blood bath that would soon take place, he had been there before in the hopes of uncovering similar information. And since he was part of the rat catching world, although preferring to work on his own, he was allowed into the fold, if not wholly trusted.
He nodded to the man standing guard outside the tavern and made his way down the stairs toward all the commotion. When he glanced at the crowd that had already gathered around the pit, shouting and hurling obscenities, he noticed several familiar faces. Of course, Jack Black was in attendance in all of his colorful finery, along with his devoted following — the “Queen’s Catchers,” as they called themselves.
Rhys sauntered further into the room and saw Gentleman Johnny in his fashionable black suit with his “Rat-coteurs”. They were the closest group to competition that Jack Black had, for Johnny wanted to be the official rat catcher to the queen. In such, there was always a bit of tension whenever they were together.
“Wot ye doin’ ’ere, Gray?” Came a cockney scoff from behind him. “I didn’t think ye cared t’ rub elbows wi’ th’ likes o’ us.”
Rhys turned with a smirk to reply to Alfie Augustine, a teenage rebel that had formed his own gang — “The Rough Whiskers” — comprised of young boys who were nothing more than pickpockets and thieves. “Gray” was the nickname he’d been called ever since he started rat catching.
“It’s good to see you too, young Alfie. But shouldn’t you be home minding your mother?”
“Nah,” Alfie spat on the floor. “She’s too busy spreadin’ ’er legs ’n Whitechapel t’ bother wi’ me.”
Rhys crossed his arms, his gaze steady. “You might try to exercise a bit of caution when it comes to biting the hand that feeds you.”
He gestured behind him. “We don’t need anyone. We take care o’ ourselves.”
Rhys snorted. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”
Not willing to engage in a tug-of-war of words that would take all night, Rhys turned and moved on — nearly running into Tough Ricky, the leader of the “Vermin Dispatchers.” Tall and lanky with greasy black hair that hung in his face, he smiled widely to show off yellowed teeth and even a few missing ones. “How ye been, Gray?”
“Well enough,” Rhys replied evenly. “I can see things haven’t changed much around here.”
The other man’s smile remained in place as he said, “Yea, they’ll let anyone through th’ door these days.”
Rhys was comforted by the weight of the pistol concealed in his jacket — he just hoped he didn’t have cause to use it. But judging by the glint in his opponent’s eye, he was spoiling for a fight.
“Don’t ye have better things t’ do than run off th’ only decent toff that’s go’ any coin?”
Rhys was rather surprised that his sole ally in the place at the moment was Tom Smith, leader of the “Rat Reapers.” While he was a brute of a man with a scarred face, meaty fists, and a temper to match it all, he wasn’t someone you wanted to cross, or meet on a London street late at night. But neither was he foolish enough to pass up a potential payday. And right now, that’s how he looked at Rhys.
“So who are ye bettin’ o’ tonight, Gray?”
Rhys had no interest in wasting his money on anything, but when he walked in he had the idea that he wouldn’t be leaving here in tact without some sort of wager. It was the price to be had for potential information.
He reached into his vest and held up five pounds into the air. The arena silenced, for when money spoke, villains listened. Without taking his gaze off Tom, he announced, “Put it all on Whitey.”
Tom threw back his head and laughed as the money was snatched from his grasp. The brute put an arm around Rhys and said, “Ye made th’ right choice. My terrier has been in th’ lead all night.”
Rhys breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now that the initial tension had passed, perhaps he could learn something of import.
“’Ello, Gray.” Rhys turned to Jimmy, who looked none too happy to see him. “I’d like a word…”
***
Tory sat in a hired hansom outside the Blue Anchor Tavern and watched Rhys go inside. She hadn’t meant to follow him tonight, but Cinnamon had fallen ill and she wasn’t sure what to do for him, so she’d set out for his townhouse to seek guidance, and watched as he’d departed. On impulse, she’d had the driver pursue him, thinking that he was going rat catching again, and she could meet up with him at the rail station.
She certainly hadn’t expected to find him at such a seedy establishment — or what his purpose could be for going there this late at night.
Of course, her mind wanted to imagine the worst that he was engaged in a secret tryst, or perhaps he was an inveterate gambler, but she shoved those unsavory thoughts away nearly as soon as they appeared. Rhys was devoted to her and was too smart for the former, so there had to be some other explanation.
But after nearly an hour, without any sign of him, she started to wonder if she shouldn’t just head back home. She already felt foolish for sitting here as long as she had.
As she was just about to instruct the driver to do just that, the unimaginable happened. The door to the tavern burst open and she saw Rhys come tumbling out into the street. A man in fashionable dress, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, laughed heartily as Rhys tested his jaw and rose to his feet.
She couldn’t hear what was being said, but she saw the wicked grin that Rhys sent his opponent — just before he lunged at him. Her face was adhered to the window of the carriage as they went crashing to the ground, rolling around and trying to gain the upper hand. As a crowd began to gather around them and obscure her view, she decided it was time to stop this insanity.
