Page 44 of Lord Gabriel’s Undoing

She turned indignant eyes on him. “I have seen rats before, you know. I didn’t spend all my time at Coakham Hall in the schoolroom or sitting sewing. I can assure you that I very much dislike sewing and most other pursuits Aunt Fanny refers to as ‘maidenly.’”

He chuckled, but hurried her on, very much aware that time was of the essence. Despite Cecilia’s view that no one would miss her and her new friend for hours, one could never be sure.

From Brooks Mews they turned into the narrow thoroughfare that was Avery Row, then out into the more salubrious Grosvenor Street, with its fancy carriages and strolling tulips with their fine ladies on their arms. Here was a place where he very much felt that they stood out, but they fortunately didn’t have to stay there for long. Ducking between the carriages and avoiding the worst of the mud, they crossed Bond Street and dived into Little Maddox Street, where most of the houses boasted shops on the ground floor—milliners, dressmakers, tailors, and Dickenson’s Drawing Gallery where his stepmother sent Cecilia every week in order to hone her nonexistent artistic skills.

“Where on earth are we?” Phoebe asked, seemingly having forgotten not to stare because she was now peering into every window they passed as though she fancied going in and asking for a fitting.

They were approaching a crossroads. Gabriel pointed to their left. “Hanover Square, but that’s not where we’re going.” On the corner, the impressive porticoed bulk of St George’s Church reared up—the venue of choice for most society weddings, and indeed, where Ambrose had not so long ago wed the Honorable Isabel Huntsville. A marriage that had not turned out in the way the duke, their father, had hoped for his son and heir.

Phoebe stopped in her tracks, and Gabriel had to halt as well. “Now I recognize where we are. We attend church here on a Sunday.” She paused. “Good heavens. It looks quite different for some reason.” She gave her head a shake. “Can it be because I have the sense that if I were to try to go inside dressed like this I might not be quite so welcome?”

Gabriel chuckled. “I imagine you might be turned away at the door. Now you’re beginning to understand. That’s why we’re in disguise—so you can feel how it is to be unimportant, to have to move out of the way if someone who thinks they’re superior comes along. I doubt the rector would recognize you now and would look down his long nose at you in disgust as a brat from the gutters.”

She gave a slow nod. “I think I’m starting to understand.”

They bypassed St George’s and its rector and took the left fork up Maddox Street. Gabriel had no need to hesitate. He knew not just the more usual streets of London, but also most of the back streets, as well as the network of small alleys and courtyards. They crossed Swallow Street, which was in the process of being demolished so a new road could rise up more splendidly in its place, at the T-junction. Now the type of housing was beginning to show a more marked change and they were leaving comfortable Mayfair behind.

He glanced at Phoebe to see her reaction to this gradual metamorphosis. Very soon they would be reaching the more disreputable parts of London, and after that, the Parish of St Giles, home to the worst rookery in the city.

She was staring towards where a pile of rubble was being loaded by two workmen onto a cart. “What’s happening here?”

Gabriel paused in the narrow entrance to Major Foubert’s Passage. Its unusual name was all that remained to remind the passerby of what had once been that French gentleman’s riding school, as the rest of it now lay in tumbled ruins on their right. “They’re constructing a new road. Orders of the Prince Regent himself.” He shrugged. “And guess what? It’s to be called Regent’s Street. Just like the park he’s instating in what was fine farmland in Marylebone. Where hard-working farmers and their families have farmed for generations.” He shook his head. “I can only think he wants to mark London for posterity. So no one will forget him.” He couldn’t help the sneer.

Her brow furrowed. “Don’t you like him?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, I don’t. Fat old lecher. Not a thought for the people—the real people—of this country…of this city. He’d do better to build houses for the poor who right now as we speak have to live like pigs in their sties. But no, he chooses to build another road for the rich, and an ornamental park, which no doubt the poor will be excluded from. And in the process he displaces countless families who end up moving to places such as we’re about to visit. Where already too many people are crammed into too small a space.”

She didn’t say anything. She might be shocked by his words, but he would stand by them if he had to. And if he had to shock her, then so be it. And if it left her disliking him, then he would just have to put up with it. He’d rather be honest than not, although no doubt she’d think that an odd sentiment in a man she’d caught trying to rob her of her jewels.

Major Foubert’s Passage led to King Street, and was still, thankfully, a broad cobbled way scarcely marred by bits of rubble. They crossed into Tyler Street, and here the differences became even more apparent. They were now on the border of Soho. Tyler Street was a narrow, and much more modest street of older brick buildings that looked very different to the wide streets of towering, stucco-fronted houses in Mayfair.

Phoebe drew closer to him, and her hand found his, as though she feared their separation on this busy, unfamiliar thoroughfare. Her nervousness tingled up his arm.

He carefully freed himself. “Remember you’re a boy now. Men don’t hold hands. Not even with boys. Hang onto my coat if that will make you feel more confident.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry.” And he felt his coat tug on his shoulders as she seized herself a fold of it. A limpet on a rock, determined the tide should not wash her away.

Carnaby Street, and the market, lay to the right, full of butchers, linen sellers, and even a quack pharmacist that Gabriel had once visited, but they had no time to stop and browse. If they were to be back with time to spare, which meant well before dinner, then they had to hurry themselves. At the end of the road they turned right into Silver Street and from there into Little Windmill Street where the character of the area descended a further notch.

“See this house?” Gabriel pointed at number sixteen. “This is the famous anatomy theatre where they dissect corpses. Where do you think they get them from?” It was an attempt to distract her from her understandable fears, which from the expression on her face must be growing fast. He needed to remember she wasn’t really an adventurous boy but a gently brought-up young lady. Cecilia had been similar.

At least Phoebe appeared to be getting used to their situation and, although frightened, didn’t look as shocked as he’d thought she would. She frowned. “Don’t tell me. From the poor?” Her voice held irony and, he was pleased to note, a renewed determination.

He nodded. “Even when you’re dead, you’re worth something. More than you were when you were alive, if you’re destitute. Sometimes up to twenty guineas.”

She seemed to be taking most things in her stride. Admirable. He’d had a few worries about taking her with him, but up until now these had proved unfounded. For a complete novice at subterfuge, she was taking to being a boy well.

They entered Knave’s Acre, an area not so bad as the rookeries, but nevertheless not a place one would normally take a young lady for an outing. The narrow street was crowded with butchers, smiths, and workshops, most of these establishments with their wares spread out into the street. And of course, taverns. A large number of taverns now they were drawing near to their goal, as well as quite a few gin shops.

In Prince’s Street, Gabriel slowed the pace. “This,” and here he waved his arm in an encompassing gesture. “This is what has always been known as the French Quarter. Do you know why?”

She raised her delicate eyebrows. “After all the émigrés escaping France during the revolution? Like your real mother? The woman we’re seeking.”

He shook his head. “No, not after those French. You’ll be surprised to hear there were other French people here before them. The Huguenots. In the seventeenth century they fled France because they were protestants. And now the fleeing Catholics have joined them. A real hotchpotch of religions with the Jews thrown into the mix as well.”

She swallowed. “Do you think it’s possible your real mother might be right here, perhaps behind the doors and windows of one of these houses or shops?”

He shrugged. “It’s possible. But London is large and she could be anywhere in it, or not in it at all. She could be dead. She could have returned to France if she thought it safe.”