2

The White Horse was as lively as ever. Harry Bardwell, the jovial red-faced landlord, welcomed us in and found us the best and largest table in the far corner of the room, shunting out the poorly dressed molls who had lately been occupying it. He knew that we were celebrating, and the Berwick Street girls, when we were in high spirits, brought him good custom from the culls who would gather to join our table and buy us wine or punch.

And we were in very high spirits – even by our own standards. Polly and Emily had been over to Half Moon Street earlier in the evening to buy fresh supplies of condoms. They were laying the long sheep-gut sheaths on the table in order of size and inviting any man who passed the table to own as to which would fit him best. Polly was judging the accuracy of their boasting by thrusting her hand into their breeches – in return for a coin, of course. None of the men were complaining at this and were readily reaching for their purses.

Lucy was not interested in such antics. Instead, she was bending my ear about Mr Merrick. He wanted to buy her a ring, and she was trying to decide on exactly the right sort. I was pretending to give her my full attention, while at the same time laughing along with Polly, growing merry with wine and offering my assistance with the judging.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the door open to admit a gentleman in a miserable brown coat. He stood at the threshold for a moment, scanning the room with his hat in his hand and a scowl on his face. He was looking for someone. Possibly me. It was William Davenport, one of the magistrate’s men. I’d had dealings with him before – although ourbusiness had been murder, rather than pleasure. The men of Bow Street were few in number and relied on people like me to be their informers, their ‘eyes and ears’ around the streets, as he had called them. I had lately been useful to Mr Davenport, and to the magistrate, John Fielding, following the death of a customer of mine in March, and then once again in a matter concerning the theatre at Drury Lane.

A little over a week had passed since we had last met. He had come to my room at Berwick Street to share news with me, but our meeting had ended uncomfortably. He had been on the verge of asking to take me to bed, and I had thrown him out.

William Davenport had once thought me a thief and a murderer, but I had proved him wrong and earned his grudging respect. At the same time, I had found myself drawn to him. Unlike most of Mr Fielding’s men, this one was a gentleman; educated and fair-minded. He could be sharp-tongued and was far too sombre, but he took my opinion seriously, and held my confidences. There are very few people I trust.He is the only man I trust.

I should have taken his money. God knows, I need the coin. But then he would have become like all the others – just another one who paid to do what he wanted.

I had pushed him away and he had gone.

Lucy’s voice grated in my ear. She was wonderingwhether to press Mr Merrick for earrings to match her new ring.

‘Lucy,’ I said, turning and clutching her by the shoulders. ‘You deserve the best. Ask him foreverything.’ This was exactly the right comment for the woman who dreamed of jewels.

I stood up, and whatever she said in response faded into the hubbub as I danced towards Davenport, glass in one hand, wine jug in the other.

He greeted me – politely, if uncertainly. It was possible that I was looking a little flushed.

‘I wondered whether you might be here.’

‘We’re all here tonight,’ I said. ‘Ma’s allowed us out. We’re celebrating, as you can see.’ I waggled the jug. ‘You’re most welcome to join our table…’ I gestured to where Polly and Emily were now blowing into the condo