pretty widow’s skin. “Devere thinks there’s more than a small thrill in gambling. We saw those newspaper clippings in his offices. If he’s the sort who’s interested in reckless investments, likely he’s a gambler, too. And not at euchre.”
“London’s thick with gaming hells,” Desmond said, “all over the city.” He glanced at the increasingly tumbledown buildings as the cab threaded its way along the slum’s streets. “A man of some means, even small as Devere’s might be, wouldn’t come to this shithole. Beg your pardon, Mrs. Parrish,” he added when Marco kicked him.
“None … ah … taken.”
“We’re a coarse lot,” Marco noted. “Except Simon, who’s smooth as buttered satin.”
“Toff bastard,” Desmond said good-naturedly.
Mrs. Parrish continued to stare out the window. Barefoot children in rags chased after the cab, and people huddled on curbs and in doorways, some cradling bottles of gin. “I’ve never … I didn’t know it was like this.”
“Never went slumming?” Desmond asked snidely. “Ow! You sodding kicked me again.”
“I repent nothing,” Marco answered, “especially when you’re being a rude ass.” He might not have any love for the higher ranks, but he still knew the value of courtesy.
The widow looked appalled at the suggestion that she would ever go on one of the guided tours of London’s slums.
“Come and visit this like a tourist?” she demanded. “Why?”
“With the exposés in sundry newspapers,” Marco said, “and the zeal for reform, genteel men and women like you venture into Whitechapel and Bethnal Green to shake their heads at the occupants’ misery. They pretend that somehow, the poverty-trapped men and women are to blame for their wretchedness. An easier thought than to acknowledge the truth.”
A square of weak light fell across her face, revealing the look of illness on her face. “People used to tour Bedlam, too, and throw garbage at the patients. But that was nearly a hundred years ago. I’d never revel in the misfortune of others, or congratulate myself on my privilege.”
“Others do,” Desmond said.
“It’s only…” Her gaze lit upon a young girl leading a naked toddler down the muddy lane. “Missionaries would come to my house, asking for donations for places like this. I gave them money. Of course I did. Whatever you think of genteel women like me,” she fired at Marco, “we’re always taught to be charitable. It’s our duty. But I never saw this place before. I never knew … how bad it truly was.”
Genuine shock and horror edged her voice.
Had he been too quick to judge her based on her class?
“It wasn’t enough,” she murmured. “The money I gave the missionaries, or the funds we raised at our little charity bazaars. How could it be? A few dozen pounds can’t fix this.” She waved at the plight just outside the cab.
“No, it can’t,” he answered. From London to Toulouse to Moscow, he’d seen poverty. It was a constant, no matter where he traveled. Which made him all the more determined to make a change.
Turning her gaze to him, she said, “And here I am, pursuing my fortune when so many others have nothing.”
“You don’t have much, either,” he felt obliged to point out.
“Yet I’m not so far gone that I sleep beneath rags and get my dinner out of a bottle,” she countered.
He stretched out his legs. “Guilt’s a powerful motivator. Just ask my mother.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Mrs. Parrish snapped.
“I’m not. Once you have your fortune back, you can use it to help people. Truly help.”
“Perhaps I’ll surprise you and actually do that.”
He was beginning to wonder if she really might, and was alarmed that he believed she would.
“Nothing’s going to happen until we get your money back, and to do that, we need to find Devere,” Marco continued. “There’s one person in the whole of London who knows everything about the city’s gamblers:
“London’s thick with gaming hells,” Desmond said, “all over the city.” He glanced at the increasingly tumbledown buildings as the cab threaded its way along the slum’s streets. “A man of some means, even small as Devere’s might be, wouldn’t come to this shithole. Beg your pardon, Mrs. Parrish,” he added when Marco kicked him.
“None … ah … taken.”
“We’re a coarse lot,” Marco noted. “Except Simon, who’s smooth as buttered satin.”
“Toff bastard,” Desmond said good-naturedly.
Mrs. Parrish continued to stare out the window. Barefoot children in rags chased after the cab, and people huddled on curbs and in doorways, some cradling bottles of gin. “I’ve never … I didn’t know it was like this.”
“Never went slumming?” Desmond asked snidely. “Ow! You sodding kicked me again.”
“I repent nothing,” Marco answered, “especially when you’re being a rude ass.” He might not have any love for the higher ranks, but he still knew the value of courtesy.
The widow looked appalled at the suggestion that she would ever go on one of the guided tours of London’s slums.
“Come and visit this like a tourist?” she demanded. “Why?”
“With the exposés in sundry newspapers,” Marco said, “and the zeal for reform, genteel men and women like you venture into Whitechapel and Bethnal Green to shake their heads at the occupants’ misery. They pretend that somehow, the poverty-trapped men and women are to blame for their wretchedness. An easier thought than to acknowledge the truth.”
A square of weak light fell across her face, revealing the look of illness on her face. “People used to tour Bedlam, too, and throw garbage at the patients. But that was nearly a hundred years ago. I’d never revel in the misfortune of others, or congratulate myself on my privilege.”
“Others do,” Desmond said.
“It’s only…” Her gaze lit upon a young girl leading a naked toddler down the muddy lane. “Missionaries would come to my house, asking for donations for places like this. I gave them money. Of course I did. Whatever you think of genteel women like me,” she fired at Marco, “we’re always taught to be charitable. It’s our duty. But I never saw this place before. I never knew … how bad it truly was.”
Genuine shock and horror edged her voice.
Had he been too quick to judge her based on her class?
“It wasn’t enough,” she murmured. “The money I gave the missionaries, or the funds we raised at our little charity bazaars. How could it be? A few dozen pounds can’t fix this.” She waved at the plight just outside the cab.
“No, it can’t,” he answered. From London to Toulouse to Moscow, he’d seen poverty. It was a constant, no matter where he traveled. Which made him all the more determined to make a change.
Turning her gaze to him, she said, “And here I am, pursuing my fortune when so many others have nothing.”
“You don’t have much, either,” he felt obliged to point out.
“Yet I’m not so far gone that I sleep beneath rags and get my dinner out of a bottle,” she countered.
He stretched out his legs. “Guilt’s a powerful motivator. Just ask my mother.”
“Don’t make fun of me,” Mrs. Parrish snapped.
“I’m not. Once you have your fortune back, you can use it to help people. Truly help.”
“Perhaps I’ll surprise you and actually do that.”
He was beginning to wonder if she really might, and was alarmed that he believed she would.
“Nothing’s going to happen until we get your money back, and to do that, we need to find Devere,” Marco continued. “There’s one person in the whole of London who knows everything about the city’s gamblers:
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