Lord of Sin. Susan Krinard
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she were not yet prepared to admit that she might enjoy such companionship, she was beginning to change in spite of herself. Her undoubted interest in young Mr. Melbyrne was proof enough of that.
He is not overly bold, Nuala thought, and seems quite amiable of nature. Deborah would do very well to call him her friend. Or perhaps, in time…
“I’m ready,” Deborah said, interrupting Nuala’s thoughts. “Shall we go?”
Realizing how close she’d come to slipping back into her matchmaking ways again, Nuala focused all her attention on Deborah. “You do understand that we will be entering the rookeries where the murders took place?” she asked.
“I am not afraid of the madman who killed those poor girls.”
In truth, she had little reason to be. The man who had committed the horrible crimes had never been caught, but he had thus far attacked only prostitutes. Yet it took a great deal of courage to venture into a part of the city with which very few aristocrats were acquainted, and which even fewer would ever visit for any reason.
“Stay close to me and Frances,” Nuala said. “Do exactly as we tell you.”
The sun was only a little above the horizon as they climbed into Nuala’s carriage and left the clean, quiet streets of Belgravia. Nuala’s coachman knew the way; she and Frances had begun the work in Whitechapel two months ago, as part of the Widows’ ongoing scheme to carry out charitable activities that most ladies in Society would never think of attempting.
As the coupé rattled along toward the East End, Frances picked through her surgical needles, bandages and bottles of carbolic acid while Deborah clutched the sack of patchwork cloth dolls she had made during the past two weeks. Nuala knew they had not brought nearly enough food; there was never enough, and never would be. But it would stave off the hunger of a few desperate children for one more week, and soon the new school would be ready. The children could be fed more regularly there, even if their hard lives would make learning a challenge.
The coupé brougham continued through Cheap-side and finally drew up at Whitechapel High Street. It would go no farther. Nuala always left Bremner at the border of Whitechapel, where he would less likely be disturbed by those desperate enough to risk approaching the horses. She didn’t want to see anyone hurt, including the poor folk who would feel the bite of Bremner’s whip if they came too close.
She, Deborah and Frances left the carriage, and the footmen, Harold and Jacques, removed the hampers of food from the boot. They were heavy, but Nuala didn’t mind the weight, and slender Frances hefted the baskets like a circus strongman lifting a barbell. Jacques and Harold managed four each, though Harold’s grim expression announced his opinion of the work for which he had been conscripted.
Deborah took the remaining hamper and followed as they ventured onto Whitechapel High Street. The squalor was already evident. Deborah sniffed—struck, as any newcomer must be, by the stench of unwashed bodies, offal, human and animal waste, and rotten food. Featureless faces peered out from grimy windows, and children dressed in little better than rags ran alongside the three strangers, their small, gaunt faces as intent as tigers on the prowl.
But the worst was yet to come. Frances led them onto a narrow side street, and they entered a world that might have belonged in some tale of medieval horror. The dwellings could not properly be called houses; they leaned against each other like the inebriates who staggered in and out of the alehouses, any color they might once have possessed long since erased by rot and filth. Nearly all the windows were broken, and the bare patches of ground left where buildings had once stood were littered with dead animals, shattered glass and refuse.
The people themselves might have emerged whole from the infertile, rotten ground. Desperate, garish prostitutes waited on every corner, their faces withered under the paint. Unemployed men, young and old, looked up from under battered caps and stared at the intruders. Urchins, many parentless, crept from shadow to shadow, prepared at any moment to accost the toffs with cries and open hands.
Deborah must have felt many terrible emotions in the face of what she saw, but she gave no sign other than a slight quiver of her chin. A tiny girl in a badly torn dress crept up to her and grasped her skirts. Deborah almost stopped, reaching for her purse before she remembered the rules.
No money; that had been part of the agreement. Once coin was produced and given, the lost souls of Whitechapel would see not benefactors but fleeting salvation that must be obtained at any price. They were not evil, these people; Nuala had known hundreds, even thousands like them. They no longer had the luxury of gentleness.
She took Deborah’s arm, and the three of them picked up their pace. They made a final turn into a noisome alley. A crowd of men, women and children waited at the empty doorway of an abandoned building; more followed Frances, Nuala and Deborah until the alley was nearly full.
Without a word, Frances pushed past the men blocking the doorway. They stood aside for Nuala, Deborah, Jacques and Harold to enter, as well. The room was barren and far from pristine, in spite of Frances’s diligent scrubbing, but there were a few cots along the wall, left intact against all expectations, as well as several chairs and a rickety table.
Nuala set her hampers down, and Deborah dropped her bag on the nearest cot. Harold and Jacques faced the door, their arms folded across their chests.
Frances laid a clean cloth over the table and began setting out the bandages and medical supplies.
“Now,” she said briskly, “we will begin with the food. There will always be men who attempt to force their way to the front, but they must be ignored despite any threats they may make. What we have is for the most needy, the women and children.”
Deborah swallowed. “Have you ever been attacked?”
“Even the men have respect for courage and determination,” Frances said. “And Harold is quite strong…is he not, Nuala?”
Harold quickly hid a grimace. Nuala prayed that he and Jacques would be willing to continue the work…and that meant there must be no trouble.
She rearranged the food in her hamper and took it to the door. There was a rush as the hungry and destitute fought to be first.
Nuala raised her hand. “If there are any orphaned children, let them come in.”
Grumbling followed her announcement, as well as several curses. But after a moment a half dozen children appeared and crept inside like the most timid of mice, their eyes far too large for their grimy faces.
Nuala removed wrapped slices of bread, cheese and spring fruit from the hamper and gave packets to each of the children in turn. Deborah urged the children toward the cots, where they tore at the food with their teeth. Deborah laid a doll on each girl’s cot.
The routine was always the same. Harold, Jacques and Nuala stood guard at the doorway as the women came forward with their children, hollow eyes brimming with hope. They received their packets according to the sizes of their families and scurried away before they could be robbed of their precious burdens. Even so, there was barely enough food for those who had come.
“Word is spreading,” Frances said in a low voice. “We must soon find men willing to deliver wagons of provisions.”
“We shall,” Nuala said. “There is much that men will risk for money.”
Frances cast her a grim sort of smile. “That is one thing we have in plenty.” She glanced at Deborah. “How much have you left?”
“Only a few slices of bread and a wedge of cheese,” the girl whispered. “It isn’t enough for all of them.”
Frances moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, we ask that you send forward any women and children who have not yet received their ration.”
Stony faces stared back at her. A man shoved his way to the fore, a thin fellow in a patched velvet coat. His surprisingly broad shoulders filled the door frame, and a permanent leer seemed etched into his cold, scarred features.
“Wot’s