“I’ll have my money back.”
She’d attempted to pull away from him, but his grip was too tight.
“My money.”
She answered him in a nearly indecipherable voice. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hear what she was saying. He couldn’t understand her. It took several moments for him to figure out her accent and that she was denying the theft. He solved the problem by reaching into her cloak, finding the hidden pocket, and pulling out what she’d stolen from him.
When he let her go, he expected her to disappear into the crowd. Instead, she scowled at him.
“You’re a fool if you keep it all in one pocket. Spread it out so that if you do lose something, it’s not everything you have.”
“Good advice,” he said. “When was the last time you ate?”
She put her hands on her hips and said something he was certain was an insult.
“Come along, then, and I’ll buy you a meal.”
He didn’t have any trouble deciphering what she said next. He’d used the same words when joking with the stable lads at Adaire Hall.
Gordon bit back a grin, turned, and headed for the exit out of the station. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “If you’re coming, come, but no more insults, if you please. I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.”
He thought it was curiosity more than anything else that had Maggie following him. From the way she’d eaten that day, he was right about thinking that she was nearly starving.
He’d suspected that Maggie had earned most of her money as a prostitute, but he’d never asked and she’d never confessed to it. From the beginning he’d wanted to help her. When he thought about it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the countess’s influence. There were times when he could almost hear her voice guiding him to do more and to be a better person.
To his surprise, Maggie had become a friend. It was Maggie who directed him to cheap lodgings, and Maggie who first took him to the Alhambra. He’d been fascinated by the acts as well as the fact that the establishment seemed to be a resounding success. Music halls were evidently the newest entertainment in London, and they were filled to capacity with people out for an evening of fun.
For six months he’d attended every music hall in the London area, studied the layouts, made a list of the acts, the fare charged to enter, and the various drinks served at the small bars inside. By the time he’d rented a building himself, he was prepared and determined to duplicate—on a smaller scale—what he’d seen at the Alhambra.
The Midlothian had a small orchestra, a stage where scenes could be changed simply by a quick rotation, and a series of trapezes attached to the framing of the roof. Instead of simply hiring a male trapeze artist, he employed women who’d been trained in the skill. They also doubled as dancers in the last act, appearing on stage clad in numerous petticoats and performing a dance classified as French and therefore moderately scandalous.
He never hired prostitutes and he made that clear to everyone from the beginning. Whatever arrangement they made with the clientele was their business, but he didn’t condone it. Nor would anything of that sort be done on the premises. In addition, he ensured that the women in his employ were always treated with dignity. They had a carriage to take them home, most of the time in the wee hours of the morning. Their safety was important to him, especially when tales came to him of horrendous deeds in other parts of London.
In the past year the Midlothian had been expanded to seat eighteen hundred people. Originally, the only patrons had been men, but over the past two years he’d opened it up to include women, providing entertainment for them as well as during what he called Ladies Fridays. It was a familiar sight to see a group of women seated by themselves, eyes widening as they took in the trapeze artists, roaming singers, or the elaborate show on the stage.
The Dundee was his second music hall, but due to the success of the Midlothian, he’d had it built from the ground up. It had been designed by a Scottish architect with a taste for whimsy. The Dundee had soaring columns and a painted ceiling resembling a heather-strewn glen. A dozen private boxes jutted out from the walls around the stage. The building was filled with gilt and crimson, and attracted every kind of patron from artisans to working men and their wives to young toffs who declared themselves too filled with ennui to be charmed, but were, nonetheless.
The jewel of his empire, however, was the Mayfair Club, a private club catering to wealthy gentlemen. There were strict criteria for inclusion—each potential member had to be vetted by ten current members. Yet the stringent requirements had attracted exactly the sort of clientele he’d wanted. Now the Mayfair Club was the most prosperous of his ventures. A great many peers were members, including one royal personage.
The sixth Earl of Burfield was a member as well. Harrison wasn’t aware that it was Gordon’s club, however. Nor did Gordon have any intention of informing the man that every cent he lost at the Mayfair Club went into his pockets.
As he became successful, Gordon made sure Maggie wasn’t left behind. He’d discovered that she had an affinity for numbers that rivaled his bookkeeper’s. In addition, her knowledge of London had proven to be invaluable. She’d been his first employee and was responsible for hiring the women who worked for him.
In that first year her appearance had changed drastically. She was no longer painfully thin. Her complexion had improved, as had her hair. One day, on walking into her office, he realized that Maggie was a beautiful woman. Her appearance had previously been dulled by her circumstances and something else: a lack of hope.
She wasn’t starving now, but she had that same look in her eyes as when he’d first met her. As if she was trying to figure something out that was alien to her.
“Will you be going back to Scotland?” she asked now.
The letter was indeed bad news. His father was ill. Jennifer had written him again, the second time she’d done so.
Gordon pushed back his chair and stood before Maggie could hug him. She believed in effusive physical demonstrations of affection.
He glanced at her. “Yes, it’s time I went home.”
Adaire Hall, Scotland
“Are you very certain that this isn’t a new cradle, Lady Jennifer?”
Jennifer directed the footman to place the cradle in the corner of the room, bit back a sigh, and turned to the midwife.
“Yes, Mrs. Farmer. It’s the Adaire cradle. It was the one I was put into.”
She hoped Mrs. Farmer didn’t inquire further about the cradle. The midwife didn’t need to know the tragic history of Adaire Hall.
When her brother was an infant, a fire destroyed the north wing where the nursery was located. A nursery maid had died in the fire and her mother had been severely injured and nearly blinded attempting to save her son. She bore the scars from that night for the rest of her life.
“It’s just that it’s bad luck for the child to be placed into a new cradle.”
She knew that, but she’d been placed in a new cradle. It hadn’t done her any harm.
The midwife had a range of strange beliefs, including her request that a live hen be placed in the empty cradle to ensure that the child was a boy. Jennifer absolutely refused to carry a chicken into Lauren’s suite. The laundress had hand-washed the lace adorning the cradle and, per the Adaire custom, Jennifer had placed a silver coin under the pillow.