The Last Confession of Thomas Hawkins

No one thought Tom Hawkins would hang. Not until the last moment.

Gentlemen don’t hang; not even ones found guilty of murder. Hawkins wasn’t much of a gentleman, that was true, but he came from a good family. A good family with good connections. The pardon would come. Sometimes the Marshal kept it hidden deep in his pocket, only to pull it out with a flourish when the procession reached the gallows. A bit of drama for the mob. A lesson, too: an act of mercy is always a lesson.

This is what Hawkins tells himself as his cart rolls slowly out of Newgate Prison. The pardon will come. I’ve kept my side of the bargain. I’ve held my tongue. But Hawkins has a gambler’s instinct, and he can feel the odds rising with each turn of the wheel.

He should have been freed hours ago. If he could only catch someone’s eye… but the Marshal is riding up at the head of the procession, followed by a band of constables armed with staves. Their boots pound hard against the cobbles as they march up Snow Hill. He can’t see them. He is a condemned man, and condemned men must ride backwards to their hanging, on carts swagged in black crêpe. He sits with his back to the carthorse, chained in iron, long legs stretched out in front of him. He sees only what he has already passed: the muddy road beneath him, the houses, the crowds of people.

The great bell of St Sepulchre tolls low and heavy as the devil’s heartbeat, summoning the town out on to the streets. Hanging day. He has heard the bell toll many times before. He has followed the carts to the gallows. He has watched men die slowly, blind beneath a white hood, their legs kicking the air. Now it is his turn to dance upon the rope, while the world cheers him to his death.

No. He must stay calm. The journey to Tyburn will take two hours through all these crowds. There is still time. He has done everything that was asked of him. Surely his loyalty, his silence, will save him now? A thin, snake’s voice whispers in his head. There’s nothing more silent than a corpse.

He pushes the thought away, concentrates on his breathing. This, at least, is still his to control. There is a smudge of dirt on the ankle of his left stocking. His eyes fix upon it as the cart arrives at the steps of St Sepulchre.

The horse gives a sudden lurch and he is flung forward, then back. He winces in pain as his shoulders slice against the sharp edge of his coffin. They have tied it behind him for the journey.

Breathe.

Four prisoners will hang today. Higgs and Oakley are footpads, betrayed by a fellow gang member. Mary Green was caught lifting a few yards of mantua silk from a shop in Spitalfields. Cherry red, the newspapers said, as if such a thing mattered. Hawkins is the only one convicted of murder. He is the one the crowds have come to see. Even with his head down, he can feel them staring. They hang out of every window; line the narrow streets five or six deep, on the brink of riot. They curse his name, tell him he will hang like a dog. The two guards flanking his cart grip their javelins hard, watching for trouble.

Sometimes the town shows pity, but not today. Not for a man who won’t confess his crime. Violence smoulders in the air, ready to catch flame. It would be safer to keep the carts moving, but there are traditions that must be observed on the road to Tyburn and this is one of them. Perhaps they will push the cart over. His arms are pinioned, but he could still run. He lifts his eyes to the crowds; sees only hatred, fear and fury. Aye, he could run – straight into the arms of the mob. They would tear him to pieces.

The church bellman appears on the steps. He is a narrow-boned, fretful man, and the hand bell is too big for him. He rings it twelve times, holding onto the handle with both hands. It is a struggle and he looks relieved when it’s over. The crowd, delighted, applauds him as if he were a comic turn at Sadler’s Wells. He frowns at them. This is meant to be a solemn moment and they are ruining it. ‘Pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners,’ he pipes, fighting to be heard over the din, ‘who are now going to their death.’

‘My thanks for that reminder,’ Hawkins mutters. The guard at his left bites back a smile.

The bellman calls upon the condemned to repent. The other three prisoners have admitted their guilt – they have an air of calm acceptance that draws approval from the crowds. Young girls throw sprigs of white flowers on to their carts. White for forgiveness. White for rebirth. Oakley is so convinced God will grant him mercy that he is going to his death dressed in his shroud; the long white smock and ruffled cap a sign to all that he is eager to leave this wicked world and ascend to heaven.

Hawkins is wearing a sky-blue velvet coat and breeches, and a white silk waistcoat trimmed with gold thread.

A plump, pretty girl trembles her way towards him as if he were a caged tiger and pushes her last sprig of flowers through the wooden rails of the cart. As he takes them from her their fingers touch. She gives a start, half-thrilled, half-terrified, and hurries back to the safety of the church steps. He sighs under his breath. Perhaps later she will tell her friends how she met the notorious Thomas Hawkins on the road to Tyburn. Will she say that the devil shone out of his bright-blue eyes? That his touch burned her skin? Will she pay a shilling for an inch of the rope that hangs him, and keep it for luck?

I will not hang,he reminds himself. The pardon will come. But he is no longer sure.

Part One
Chapter One

It began with a scream in the dark.

It was early January and I was limping my way home through Covent Garden. No longer the dead of night, not yet morning, but the secret hours before dawn, when rakes tiptoe from tight-shuttered bedrooms, and thieves slink back to the slums of St Giles. A time when good, respectable men are fast asleep, their houses barred and locked.

Long, uncounted hours earlier I had slipped out for a bowl of punch and a game of cards. I won three guineas. Such things must be celebrated. I bought a late supper for a ragged band of new friends, and a good deal more punch. The night continued. I spent the three guineas. Then I spent some more. At some point, I lost a shoe.

The first of the market traders were dragging their carts into the piazza, hunched double against the cold. They swung their lanterns into the shadows, searching for their allotted place. I saluted one or two as I passed, but didn’t linger. The weather was dismal yet again, the air damp enough to leave its trace upon my skin. Still – at least it wasn’t raining.

In fact, given that I had lost my shoe and my winnings, I was in a remarkably cheerful mood. I pulled out my silver watch and held it up to the moonlight. Almost five o’clock. Kitty would be at least half-awake by now; she preferred to rise early. We enjoyed such different hours it was a wonder we had ever met. I imagined her now, taming her wild copper curls with pins. Perhaps I would untame them again, pull out the pins and let her hair spill down over her shoulders. Or perhaps she would shout at me for staying out all night again. Yes, now I thought of it, that was more likely. Kitty had a fearsome temper. When the meek inherit the earth, she will be left quite out of pocket.

We had met the previous autumn, when I was thrown in the Marshalsea for debt. For the past three months we had been living beneath the same roof. Some of our neighbours thought it a scandal. The rest did not think of it at all, not in this disreputable part of town. I had spent the first few weeks recovering from a sickness of body and spirit that had left me weary and out of sorts. I had been tortured, beaten and betrayed in prison, witnessed murder and almost met my own death. It was the betrayal that lingered in me, an infection that would not heal. I kept old friends and acquaintances at a wary distance, wondering, wondering… Kitty was not without her faults, but I knew this much – I could trust her with my life.

Slowly, I recovered my strength. I read and worked quietly at my desk, strolled about the town in the daytime, and spent my nights with Kitty. I was content – for a while. Yes, yes, damn me for a fool, but a man of my temperament may grow tired of anything. Put me in heaven, and after a short, blissful period I would be knocking at the gates of hell, asking if anyone cared for a game of cards. Lessons that had felt so sharp and certain on my release from prison began to fade. What harm could it do, one trip to the coffeehouse? One short visit to the gaming tables? And perhaps another? I was not so bad – not quite so bad as I had been. Surely that was enough? I was not a monk, damn it.

Kitty did not mind this so very much – better to let me ramble about the town than have me sit scowling into the fire. What troubled her was that I had begun to slip out alone, without her.

‘It isn’t fair Tom,’ she had said, the last time she caught me sneaking from the house. ‘I am not some timid song bird for you to keep locked in its cage.’

‘That is true,’ I agreed. I had heard her singing. ‘But tell me what I must do, sweetheart? The world is how it is.’

‘Well you might look a little less pleased with it,’ she muttered.

I’d sighed and lifted my hands. A weak apology, but it was not my fault the town was made for bachelors. The women who frequented the coffeehouses and gaming tables and taverns could not be called respectable. Kitty didn’t care, but it troubled me that I couldn’t protect her in such wild places. Nor did I like the hungry looks of the men, slavering like dogs around her. I knew what they saw when she arrived upon my arm – a rich, unmarried wench sharing her bed with a penniless rogue. A whore, in other words. And men do not treat whores well, in the main.

‘Perhaps if we were married…’ I’d added, slyly.

I turned down Russell Street, leaving the piazza and the market behind me. I had asked Kitty to marry me a hundred times, and she had refused me a hundred times in return – with good reason. A few months ago she had inherited a fortune from her guardian, Samuel Fleet, including the house and print shop where we now lived together. If she married me, the business and all her fortune would fall under my control. How could she trust me not to gamble away her inheritance? She had never admitted her concerns to me, but I could see the doubt in those sharp green eyes of hers, whenever I asked for her hand. Given the choice between being rich or respectable she had chosen to keep her money and let her reputation fend for itself. I couldn’t blame her for it. I’m sure I wouldn’t marry me either.

A blurred shape leaped down from a wall into my path, startling me from my thoughts. A cat, out hunting. It pounced hard into a pile of stinking rubbish a few feet ahead. There was a scuffle, and then a long, vicious squeal. A moment later the cat trotted past, triumphant, a huge rat dangling in its mouth. I skirted the rubbish heap with an anxious eye. I had almost walked straight through it.

Russell Street is like a young country girl, fresh arrived on the London coach. It begins with good intentions – smart coffeehouses, handsome private homes. Then after a short distance it takes on a pragmatic but profitable air – an apothecary’s, a grocer’s store. After that comes a fast, sordid descent – a grimy gin shop, a gaming house, a brothel with broken windows and a rotting roof. And opposite the brothel, a bookseller’s and print shop, selling filth and sedition under the counter. A sign hangs above the door – a pistol tilted at a lewd angle. And underneath the pistol: Proprietor, S. Fleet. No longer. S. Fleet was dead – burning in hell or causing havoc in heaven, who could guess? This was Kitty Sparks’ place now.

The Cocked Pistol is set back from the street, as if ready to slink away at the first glimpse of trouble. It is also narrower than the houses upon either side, which gives it the appearance of being squeezed slowly to death by its neighbours. I paused at the dark-green door, preparing myself for Kitty’s wrath. It could be a fearsome thing to behold, and rather thrilling for us both. Her face would flush and she would bunch her fists tight into her gown, her chest heaving. She would call me a selfish dog, a scoundrel, an inconstant son of a whore. At some point the questions and accusations would falter and she would grab me or I would grab her and we would fling ourselves up the stairs. She had the most bewitching way of slipping her fingers beneath the band of my breeches and pulling me into bed, while staring deep into my eyes. A simple thing, but my God it was worth all the shouting.

‘Thief!’

A muffled scream, close by. I gave a start, and peered up and down the dark street. There was no one there; not that I could see. The street fell silent, as if holding its breath. I felt the hair prickle along my neck. Was someone hiding in the shadows? I reached for my sword, drawing it smoothly from my side.

Someone shouted again, a sharp cry of fear. ‘Help! Help! Oh, Lord, spare us!’

A young woman’s voice – a maidservant, I thought. She was calling from the house I’d just passed – Joseph Burden’s home. The very last place I would expect a commotion. There were churches that were less quiet and respectable. I ran back to the door and thumped my fist against it.

‘Holla! Mr Burden! Is all well?’

No one replied. I could hear shouts and screams within, and footsteps on the stairs. Burden bellowing angrily for more light. The girl was still weeping. ‘I saw him! I swear I saw him!’

A housebreaker, it must be. January was their favourite month – long, dark nights and no one out on the frozen streets to see them. Except men like me. I pounded harder on the door. ‘Mr Burden!’

The bolts slammed free. Burden’s apprentice, Ned Weaver, stood in the doorway, clutching a hammer in his fist. His broad shoulders blocked the view into the hallway. He ducked his head to save it from catching upon the frame.

‘Thief?’ I whispered.

‘Aye.’ He gestured with his hammer, back over his shoulder. Still inside.

‘Is someone hurt? I heard screams…’

He shook his head. ‘It’s just Alice. Gave her a fright.’ An odd, rather sour look crossed his face. ‘He woke her up. The thief. He was standing over the bed.’

I took a step towards the piazza to fetch help.

‘Wait!’ Ned seized my arm and pulled me back to the front step, almost lifting me from my feet. It felt as if I were held in the jaws of some great hound. Burden was a master carpenter and worked his apprentice hard. ‘We have him trapped. Stay here on guard, sir, I beg you. Don’t let the devil pass.’

He thundered back up the stairs. Trouble, I thought, rubbing my arm. Well – I had a talent for it. I squared my shoulders and gripped my blade a little tighter, wishing I had not drunk quite so much punch. Or indeed been left with just the one shoe. I could still hear sobbing in an upper room, and boots thumping back and forth as the men searched the house – but nobody came back to the door. The more I waited, alone in the dark, the more puzzled I became. Why had the thief picked Joseph Burden’s home, of all the houses in London? There were finer places to rob even on this street, and Burden always kept his windows and doors firmly locked and bolted at night. He was known and mocked in the neighbourhood for securing his house as early as six o’clock in winter.

The door to the Cocked Pistol swung open, candlelight spilling softly on to the street.

‘Tom!’ Kitty leaned out, bare feet on tiptoe. She was half-dressed in a silk wrapping gown and a white quilted cap, a few loose curls spilling across her forehead. ‘There you are, you dog. What are you about? If you’re pissing against the shop again…’

My angel. ‘Housebreaker. I’m guarding the door.’

Her eyes caught light. She disappeared inside for a moment, then emerged in a pair of my boots, twirling a large frying pan in her hands. As she clopped towards me I considered ordering her back to the shop for safety. Imagined how that suggestion would be greeted. Remained silent.

‘How many?’ she asked from the corner of her mouth.

‘Just one. I hope.’

Kitty hurried back to the shop and called up the stairs. ‘Sam! Sam! Fetch my pistol.’ She picked up her gown and ran back to me, peering eagerly over my shoulder into the narrow hallway beyond. The house was still in uproar, panicked voices tumbling through the air in a confusion of shouts and commands.

‘Trapped like a rat in a barrel,’ Kitty murmured. ‘What will they do to him, Tom?’

I thought of Joseph Burden – devout, severe, unyielding. ‘Lecture him to death, probably.’

Kitty snorted.

‘They’ll hang him.’ A low voice behind us.

‘Sam,’ Kitty scolded, smacking the boy lightly on the arm. ‘Must you creep about like that?’

Sam Fleet – fourteen years old, named for his late Uncle Samuel, my old cell mate. Looked like the old devil, too – the same short, lean build, the same black-eyed stare. A darker complexion, like a Spaniard. Thick black curls tied with a black ribbon. He was holding a pistol.

I tucked it beneath my coat. Sam had already slipped past me, poking his head through the door into the gloomy interior. Burden’s house was a mystery to the neighbourhood; he did not encourage visitors. I tapped Sam’s shoulder. ‘Go back inside.’

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he did as he was told, sauntering away as if it were his own decision. I smiled after him, recognising the small act of defiance from my own youthful rebellions.

The house had fallen silent. I took a step into the hallway and shouted up the stairs.

‘Mr Burden? Ned? Is all safe? Do you have him?’

‘Mr Hawkins?’ a soft voice replied, from the landing above. A figure descended slowly – dainty bare feet, the hem of a dress brushing the stairs, a slim hand holding a candelabrum. She did not seem quite real at first, moving with a slow, dreamy grace. Judith – Joseph Burden’s daughter. She must be Kitty’s age, but she rarely left the house save for church, and I had never spoken with her before.

‘For heaven’s sake,’ Kitty muttered. ‘I walk faster in my damned sleep.’

When she was halfway down the stairs Judith paused, her free hand gripping the rail tight. There was a fresh cut on her lip. She stared at us both, grey eyes lost and distant in a pale face. ‘Why are you here?’ Her voice was slow and dazed, as if she were emerging from a dream.

‘Miss Burden – you’re hurt. Did you see the thief? Did he strike you?’

‘Thief? I… no.’ She put a hand to her swollen lip. ‘I saw nothing.’ She gave a hollow laugh. ‘Nothing at all.’ She sank to the stair, resting her forehead against the banisters as if they were the bars of a prison. The candelabrum slid to the floor.

Kitty leaped forward and settled it on the ground before it set the place alight. I knelt down beside Judith. She was trembling violently, her breath coming in short gasps. Whatever she had seen had shocked her out of all sense. Fearing she might faint or fall into a fit, I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. It was small and very smooth, the hand of a girl who spent her days embroidering cushions and pouring tea. ‘Don’t be afraid, Miss Burden. You are quite safe now.’

‘We have a pistol,’ Kitty said, arching an eyebrow at my hand linked with Judith’s.

‘And a frying pan,’ I added, smiling.

Judith offered a ghost of a smile in return. ‘You are kind, sir,’ she murmured, but her hand lay like a dead thing in mine.

‘Is Alice safe?’ Kitty asked. Alice Dunn was Burden’s housekeeper. She and Kitty would sometimes talk over the yard wall.

‘Alice?’ Judith withdrew her hand and curled up on the stairs, her head buried in her gown. ‘Why should I care if Alice Dunn is safe? She is only a maid.’

‘Judith.’

Joseph Burden stood at the top of the stairs, looming above us like a bear about to attack. An old fighting bear, long past its prime, but still dangerous. He was a giant of a man, with thick, strong arms from years of hard labour. His belly was vast, straining against his nightgown. He thumped down the steps and pulled his daughter to her feet with a savage wrench. Judith gave a cry of pain, stifled at once. Her father seized her by the back of the neck and with one great shove pushed her up the stairs. She slipped and scrabbled away, without a word.

Kitty clenched her jaw.

Burden heaved himself down the rest of the stairs and pushed his face into mine. ‘You. How dare you enter my home?’

I leaned back on my heels, avoiding his stale, hot breath. ‘Your apprentice begged me to stand guard. Did you find the thief?’

His face reddened. ‘There was no thief. Alice was mistaken. Foolish slut doesn’t know when she’s awake or dreaming.’

That made little sense to me. I’d heard the screams well enough – Alice had sounded perfectly awake and quite terrified.

‘Mr Burden. Did you strike your daughter?’ Kitty asked. Her voice was steady, but she was holding the pan in such a fierce grip that her knuckles had turned white.

Burden curled his lip. ‘Hawkins, tell your whore to mind her tongue or I’ll rip it from her throat.’

‘Coward,’ Kitty hissed.

Burden spun around, aiming his fist at her. She swung the pan like a racquet, and Burden’s knuckles cracked against the solid iron with a loud clang. He yelped in pain, cradling his hand. Kitty raised the pan above her head, preparing for another blow. I snatched her by the waist and led her out on to the street before she broke his skull.

‘Arsehole!’ she yelled, as he slammed the door on us. ‘Come out here and threaten me again – just you try it! I’ll kick your fucking teeth out.’

A cheer rose up from the brothel across the road. Joseph Burden was not a popular man down this end of Russell Street. Kitty glanced up at the whores leaning out of their windows, and bobbed a curtsey to them. Her temper was as fast and hot as lightning and died just as quick – thank God, or there would be no living with her.

She grinned at me and pulled me close, tugging on my coat with both hands until our bodies twined together. ‘Where have you been tonight, Tom Hawkins?’

I kissed her, running my hands down her gown, finding the soft curves beneath.

‘You stink of smoke,’ she sighed. ‘And liquor.’ She slid her cheek against mine, her skin smooth against my stubble. Brought her lips to my ear. ‘Kiss me again.’

I did as I was asked. The world melted away, as it always did. And I forgot all about Joseph Burden, and his daughter’s strange behaviour, and the thief who was never there.

That was my first mistake.

Chapter Two

I woke at the respectable hour of one o’clock. Kitty was long up, but her scent lingered on the sheets. I traced my hand down the mattress where she’d lain, smiling at the memory of last night’s tumble. She was still a maid – well, clinging on with her fingernails. Kitty said she had spent far too much time tending squalling babies and did not want me planting one in her belly – at least for a year or so. I suspected there were other, secret reasons. I thought she might be afraid I would abandon her.

Whatever the truth might be, I had vowed to myself she would remain a maid until we were wed. I had a foolish notion of our wedding night – clean sheets, a fire roaring in the grate, good wine – every comfort attended to. It surprised me, the strength of this honourable little dream. Terrified me too, to tell the truth. A man starts dreaming of such pretty things, and what’s next? An honest occupation. A home in a respectable part of town. A quiet, sober life. I might as well go home to Suffolk and turn into my father.

I did not confess any of this to Kitty for fear she would mock me, or – worse – find it charming. And so I continued to ask for her hand and she continued to refuse me, lightly, as if it were all a great joke. I could never quite find the way to say halt this now, Kitty: I am quite serious. Better to be rejected in jest than in earnest.

Well, there were other pleasures to be explored for now – and I had introduced her to most of them. There was something tantalising about her strange blend of knowledge and innocence. I suspect she knew that too, and guessed at its power: to leave me wanting more at the end of each night. My own Scheherazade. But we had shared a bed now for more than three months, and I feared that there would come a night when her resolve and my restraint would buckle at the same time and all would be over. Last night, as she lay naked beneath me, I had almost surrendered to it. My God, how had I stopped myself? I stared at my reflection in the mirror, at the tiny bruises running down my arms where she had clutched me tight. My control had been nothing short of miraculous. Saint Thomas the Perpetually Frustrated.

I yawned and stretched, rubbing my hands across my scalp. My head ached from the night’s debauch – too much punch and not enough supper. They will chisel that upon my gravestone, no doubt. I called down to Jenny, our maid, to fetch a pot of coffee and a bowl of hot water. Once I had washed and put on a fresh shirt and cravat, I was ready to face the day – or what was left of it. I drew back the shutters. Iron skies, the threat of rain, damp air that sank into the bones.It had been a cold, wretched winter and I was damned sick of it. My fingers hovered over an old, drab waistcoat. No, no, it would not do. I pulled out my new silver-buttoned waistcoat that Kitty had ordered for me as a gift. Much better. A gentleman must have standards, even on a grey, empty day in January.

I poured the last of the coffee and stood by the window, cupping the bowl for warmth as I watched the street below. The brothel was quiet, but there was a steady stream of folk passing by. Day folk. Ned Weaver plodded down the road, returning from a job with his bag of tools slung across one shoulder. He stared at the cobbles, his thoughts far away. Mrs Jenkins, the baker’s wife, called out to him from her doorway. She was a determined gossip and could knead and pummel a secret out of a man through sheer persistence. Ned was an amiable fellow with a handsome face and a slow, bashful smile. What better way to spend the morning? She called again, but Ned pretended not to hear her, thumping hard on Burden’s door. Mrs Jenkins stepped out from the cosy warmth of the bakery, pulling her shawl around her chest and hobbling across the street. By the time she reached Burden’s door it was closed and Ned was safely inside. She blew out her cheeks, offended.

I rubbed my lips. Curious. Ned was a good-natured soul. It was unlike him to ignore a neighbour in such a blunt, unfriendly fashion. Strange too that Burden’s door had been locked – that seemed an odd precaution for an imagined thief. I drew back from the window before Mrs Jenkins spied me.

Kitty and I lived in two connecting rooms on the floor directly above the shop. When we weren’t abed we would leave the doors between these rooms open, forming one large space, with a sitting room and hearth at the front and the smaller bedroom at the back. I could hear her chattering to a customer downstairs in the shop, voice bright and friendly. She loved to keep herself busy and had a gift for turning a profit. And I suppose I had a gift for spending it.

I frowned at the small desk beneath the window. For the last three months I had spent much of my time translating obscene literature to sell in the shop. I’m not sure this was quite what my father had in mind when he bundled me off to school. Not sure it’s what I had in mind either – sitting hunched over a desk for days on end. All those hours spent writing about stiff cocks, and all I gained in return was a stiff back.

I riffled back over my latest masterpiece – an intimate conversation between an experienced abbess and a naive but eager young novice, translated from the French. I’d called it Instruction in the Cloister. Now it was complete I must take it to a Grub Street printer to set and bind the pages. Then we would sell it, along with all the other secret books and pamphlets, the bawdy poems, the intimate drawings, the scandalised yet curiously detailed discussions of sodomitical practices. This was how Fleet had run the Cocked Pistol without being slung in gaol. Unlike Edmund Curll, his closest rival, he had never taken out advertisements or engaged in public spats with writers to gain notoriety. He had been discreet – and where discretion was not enough, he’d bribed and intimidated his way out of trouble.

When Kitty inherited the shop, she’d cleaned the place and brought order to the jumbled shelves. Aside from that, the business had not changed. Wary customers soon realised they could still purchase the same scurrilous material, and be served by a deuced pretty girl, too. They could even buy more respectable works if they were so inclined – political pamphlets, treatises on diverse matters of natural philosophy, poetry. Books of recipes and the lives of criminals sold particularly well. If we could find a murderous cook we’d make a fortune.

A commotion outside drew me back to the window. Half a dozen constables were marching up the street, clubs resting on their shoulders. Ahead of them strode a purposeful figure in a brown coat with old-fashioned cuffs, sharp chin thrust forward, cane striking hard against the cobbles.

Bugger the world. Twice.

I grabbed my wig and thundered downstairs into the shop. ‘Gonson!’

The elderly gentleman at the counter gave a yelp of alarm and tottered out on fat legs, thrusting his parcel of books in my chest as he passed. I slung them through a hatch into the cellar below while Kitty flew about the shop gathering up anything incriminating. She pulled a hidden lever on a back shelf and dropped everything into the secret cupboard behind, slamming it shut again as the door to the shop burst open.

John Gonson, city magistrate, paused in the doorway. Towering behind him stood Joseph Burden in his leather work apron, fists bunched at his side. The guards remained on the street, poking the dirt with their clubs and chatting idly. Not a raid after all, it seemed. Kitty and I exchanged relieved glances.

‘Mr Gonson.’ I gave the shortest bow I could make without causing offence.

Gonson stepped over the threshold, dropping his head to pass through the door. He was a trim, energetic man with a narrow face and a clear complexion that made him appear younger than his thirty-odd years. Here was a man who slept well and drank in moderation, who never placed a bet or took a bribe. Incorruptible and resolute.

His gaze flickered across the shelves, thin lips preparing to curl in disapproval at the first sight of something immoral. Gonson was not only the magistrate for Westminster – he was also a dedicated member of the Society for the Reformation of Manners. The Society had been founded many years past to rid the city of whores, thieves, and sodomites. One might as well aim to rid the sky of stars, but Gonson was patient and determined. He had brought a new vigour and order to the Society. His spies had infiltrated brothels and molly houses, and, while most of their stories were dismissed, some had reached the courts. Two poor wretches had been hanged for sodomy on evidence from one of Gonson’s informers, and he’d sent scores of women to Bridewell.

Gonson was – in other words – that very dangerous and compelling animal: a man of vision. And the Cocked Pistol was obscuring his view. Indeed, its mere existence was offensive – and in the last few months he had considered it his holy duty to tear it down. Many of our customers were men of influence, which afforded us some protection. But Gonson made sure to visit at least once a week to disrupt business.

Having found nothing disreputable on the shelves he moved his disapproval on to me. ‘I must speak with your boy.’

‘The thief,’ Burden snarled, prowling about the shop. Gonson was tall, but Burden’s head almost scraped the ceiling. We were all three of us large men, crowding the shop. Kitty had retreated behind the counter, feigning boredom. Let the stags rut for a time.

‘Call him at once,’ Burden shouted.

Ah, now I understood. Burden was looking for a scapegoat – and for revenge. He too was a member of Gonson’s reforming society, and a zealous one at that. He loathed the shop, loathed its very existence so close to his own home.

He’d also loathed Samuel Fleet, its previous owner. Sam was Fleet’s nephew. He’d been living with us for a month now at its request of his father, James – Samuel Fleet’s half-brother. I had been instructed to turn Sam into a gentleman, but frankly I’d have more luck shaving a wolf and wrestling it into a waistcoat. Where was he? A good question. Hiding in a cupboard? Climbing up the chimney? The boy was so quiet and nimble he could be tucked beneath my coat and I wouldn’t know it.

‘He’s running an errand,’ Kitty said.

Gonson ignored her. ‘Mr Burden has asked me to write a warrant for his arrest. But I must interrogate the boy first.’ Burden began to protest, but Gonson hushed him. ‘I follow the law, sir.’

‘For the scum of St Giles?’ Burden sneered.

‘For all men.’ Gonson puffed out his chest, staggered by his own magnanimous spirit.

‘Mr Gonson, with great respect, sir – this is a nonsense. I stood guard at Mr Burden’s door last night. No one entered the house and no one left it-’

‘-you let him sneak past, damn you!’ Burden interrupted.

‘You told me your housekeeper had been dreaming. That she was mistaken.’

Burden coloured. ‘My boy Stephen swears he saw the brat. Let me fetch him, sir.’ He hurried next door, calling loudly for his son.

Gonson frowned and took out his watch.

‘Mr Gonson,’ Kitty called to him. ‘I can vouch for Sam. He was here last night.’

He looked at her for the first time, his gaze steady beneath hooded eyes. ‘And what use is the word of a whore to me?’ he drawled.

I took half a step forward. Kitty slipped from behind the counter and grabbed my hand, squeezed my palm in warning. I hesitated, then exhaled slowly. What was the punishment for striking a city magistrate? A whipping? A few hours in the pillory? Gonson watched me, straight black brows raised high. My temple began to throb, slowly.

Burden returned, pushing his son Stephen ahead of him into the room. I had never met the boy before – he had just returned from school. At fifteen he had the thin, tangled limbs of a young calf, and his cheeks were chafed red from shaving more often than needed. But he had the same storm-grey eyes as his father, the same strong, square face. He would be handsome enough in a year or two. I smiled to myself. Here was trouble brewing. His clothes were drab and old-fashioned – on his father’s orders, no doubt – but he was without question a young rake in the making. One can tell a lot about a boy from the way he ties his cravat.

His gaze darted about the shop, as if there just might be a nude portrait hanging on the wall or a couple of whores groping each other in a corner. Ah… the disappointments of youth. I caught his eye and winked.

‘Tell Mr Gonson what you saw,’ his father commanded, oblivious.

Stephen hesitated, then lifted his chin. ‘I’m not sure what I saw, sir. It was very dark.’

Burden glared at him, open-mouthed. Was this the first time his son had defied him? And in such a public fashion, too. He drew back his arm and gave the boy a vicious blow across the back of his head. ‘Impudent puppy! Tell them!’

I winced, but the blow only made Stephen more defiant. ‘There was no thief,’ he declared. He gave his father a sly, sidelong glance. ‘Are you sure I should tell them what I saw, Father? What I truly saw last night?’

I was sure Burden would beat Stephen again for his insolence, but he seemed frozen, of a sudden.

‘Mr Burden,’ Gonson prompted, ‘have you wasted my time, sir?’

Burden found his voice at last. ‘I… Forgive me, sir. A misunderstanding.’

‘Well,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your visit. If you wish to purchase a book, I could recommend-’

‘Damn you!’ Burden snarled. ‘Damn your foul books.’ He reached for the nearest shelf and dashed the contents to the floor, tearing the pages from one and crumpling them with his fist.

Gonson grabbed his arm and muttered in his ear. Burden’s shoulders slumped. He threw the pages to the ground and stormed out, dragging his son with him.

Kitty dropped to the floor, gathering books and ripped pages into her apron.

Gonson picked up his cane. ‘You’re amused by this, sir?’

‘No, indeed.’

‘It is a game to you – to set a son against his father. To provoke a decent citizen to violence. A neighbour.’ He prodded at a book, broken-spined on the floor. ‘I’m told you are an educated man, sir. A student of Divinity. Peddling filth. Corrupting the ignorant. Do you have no sense of shame? No sense of Christian duty? Those disgusting books and pamphlets you sell – fie, fie, sir – do not deny it! The men who pass through my court – the men I send to the gallows – these are your customers, Hawkins. You help set them upon that path. Can you not see the harm and suffering you cause? Do you not want your city to be free from crime? To end the squalor and the misery?’

He halted, the zealous fire dying in his eyes. He could see I was unmoved. I was a parson’s son – the first skill I’d learned was how to ignore sermons. I was unsermonisable. He scowled, black brows knotted tight. ‘Perhaps you are worse than I dared imagine,’ he mused. ‘Perhaps it is not this shop that pollutes the neighbourhood. Perhaps it is you,Mr Hawkins. Perhaps you lie at the heart of all this corruption and vice. A black spider in a filthy web.’

I laughed, incredulous. Was I to be blamed for all the vice in London? I was almost flattered – until I caught the quiet fury in his expression.‘Mr Gonson…’

‘I’ve heard dark stories about you, sir. Dark and terrible. I’ve heard rumours that you killed a man, down in the Borough.’

Behind him, Kitty faltered for a moment, reaching for a book.

‘I paid them no heed,’ Gonson continued softly, almost to himself. ‘I fear I was wrong. I shall look into the matter.’ He fixed his hat and left.

Kitty sank to the nearest chair and lifted her eyes to mine. She looked terrified. We both knew the rumours were false. But if Gonson investigated the events of last autumn… If he talked to the wrong people down in the Marshalsea gaol… He just might discover the truth. ‘Oh, Tom…’ she breathed, and began to shake.

‘He has no proof, Kitty. No witnesses.’

‘No. But he will dig and dig until he finds something.’ She set her shoulders, resolute. ‘I won’t let him take you from me, Tom. I’d rather die.’

Chapter Three

Sam was not on an errand. Kitty had lied to spare him Gonson’s interrogation. But where was the boy? He was not in his room at the top of the house, nor in the narrow storeroom where he sometimes lurked, tucking himself into impossibly cramped spaces to read uninterrupted. I wouldn’t mind, but the books weren’t even contraband. There was something disturbing about a boy his age choosing Newton’s Principia over Venus in a Smock.

I propped myself in the doorway to his room, gaze travelling across the charcoal portraits he’d sketched. There must have been twenty or more pinned to the wall, curling at the edges from damp. Pictures of his family, of neighbours and street traders. I recognised his father James – straight-backed as a soldier, with a piercing look in his eye. A handsome woman drawn in profile with a sweep of black hair about her face: Sam’s mother, I guessed. A baby sister, merry-eyed and chewing a tiny fist. I searched for affection in the drawings, but there was more precision than love in Sam’s pencil. A mirror that did not always catch the best angle. He had drawn me sitting at my desk, my hand resting on a book. I looked bored. Petulant.

‘Mr Hawkins?’ Jenny, our maidservant, emerged from her garret room across the landing. She’d learned to hide herself when Gonson appeared. She attended the same church and did not want him to discover where she worked. ‘Is it true? Will they arrest Sam?’

I smiled at her. ‘Heavens, no. There was no thief. Alice had a bad dream, no more.’ I thought she would be reassured by this, but if anything she grew more agitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

‘Your pardon, sir. Alice ain’t a foolish girl. She knows when she’s dreaming.’

I studied her for a moment, wondering how Sam might sketch her with that unflinching eye of his. She did not seem well – her complexion was almost grey, her eyes red-rimmed and sore. ‘What troubles you, Jenny?’

‘It’s Sam, sir, he’s the thief,’ she said in a rush. ‘He’s been… creeping about the house.’

‘Well – that is the way of him, Jenny. I am not sure he means anything by it.’

‘In the dark, sir. When we’re asleep. I woke the other night and he was stood over my bed.’

I flinched. It was not like Jenny to tell tales. Not like her to offer an opinion on the weather, she was so timid. ‘I didn’t hear-’

‘I made to scream but he clamped a hand over my mouth. And his eyes – I thought he meant to kill me! But then he was gone so fast and it was so dark I thought I’d dreamed it. But now Alice says she saw something…’ She tailed away, looking up at me with a hopeful, expectant expression, as if I might snap my fingers and make all well with the world.

‘This is strange indeed,’ I said, baffled. ‘I will speak with Sam-’

‘No, oh please, sir, no! Please don’t say nothing. I’m so afraid of him. The way he stares… He’ll murder me in my bed, I’m sure of it!’ She broke down, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand.

‘Jenny, come now. There is no need for this. Sam was here in the house all night. I saw him myself. He can’t be in two places at once.’

She sniffed, and shot me a frightened look. ‘The devil finds a way, sir.’

I promised Jenny that I would think further on the matter. I also promised to fix a bolt on her door. I was unsettled by her story, but what more could I do without confronting Sam, which she had begged me not to do? There was a chance she had indeed dreamed it all. I had my own reasons not to trust the boy, but I had seen him with my own eyes last night, while the thief was supposedly scurrying about next door. Shadows in the dark, that was all.

I headed downstairs, stomach rumbling. Dinner – that would help banish the gloom. I poked my head into the shop but Kitty had vanished, replaced by… ‘Ah, damn you. There you are.’

Sam was reading a book of anatomy, black curls falling across his face. His gaze slid briefly to mine, then dropped back down to an illustration of the heart, labelled in close detail.

I tapped the page. ‘So. You’re learning the mysteries of the human heart.’

‘Ventricles.’

A month ago I would have been perplexed by this response. But I had learned to form sentences around the odd word he deigned to expel into the air. In this case: ‘No, sir. I am not studying the mysteries of the human heart, but its mechanics. Including, for example, ventricles, a word I will now say out loud for my own unfathomable amusement.’

His lips curved into a faint smile.

‘Where’s Mistress Sparks?’

Nothing.

‘The magistrate paid us a visit. Mr Burden accused you of breaking into his house. He claimed Stephen saw you – though Stephen denied it. What do you say to that?’

Nothing.

‘I defended you. Miss Sparks lied for you. Sam,’ I prompted, exasperated. ‘When a gentleman defends you against an accusation of theft, it’s customary to express gratitude. Much obliged to you, sir, for example. Thank you, Mr Hawkins, for defending my character. I am in your debt.’

Sam closed his book. ‘Bliged.’

Just one vowel short of a word. A triumph. When Sam first arrived at the Cocked Pistol I’d thought he was shy with strangers, or missing his home and family. As the days had passed, I’d come to realise that this was his natural temperament. He was a strange boy, no doubt – but I had not considered him a danger to the house. Had I been too trusting of him?

I was about to venture out in search of a decent meal when a young lad entered the shop. His clothes were badly patched but clean, and he was well fed. One of James Fleet’s boys. I glanced at Sam and caught the slightest flicker of fear in his eyes. Afraid of his father? Well – he was not alone in that.

The boy handed me a slip of paper.

Hawkins. I have something for you. Come at once. Bring Sam.

I paid the boy and sent him on his way. I could feel Sam’s gaze upon the note from across the room.

‘Your father wishes to see you.’

His brows twitched. Ach, I knew that anxiety well enough. Tell a boy his father has summoned him and nine times out of ten it’s trouble. I’d spent half my childhood in my father’s study, staring at the floor while he expounded upon my failings. Weak. Obstinate. Wilful.

‘I’ll change,’ Sam said.

I blinked, confused – as if he had somehow read my mind. By the time I understood him he had slipped around the counter and was climbing the stairs to his garret room.

‘You are dressed well enough,’ I called up to him.

‘Too well.’

A good point. I returned to my own room and threw on my drabbest waistcoat and breeches, and a fraying, mouse-coloured greatcoat. No silver buttons, no embroidery. Not for a trip to St Giles.

St Giles is barely a ten-minute stride from Covent Garden but it might as well be another country. The Garden is not without its perils – especially at night – but the stews of St Giles contain some of the deadliest streets in the city. The last time I’d ventured in I had crawled out again upon my hands and knees, battered and bloody, lucky to be alive. I had been led there by a linkboy I’d paid to light my way home. Instead he had tricked me, leading me through the twisting maze of verminous streets into an ambush, where I had been robbed and beaten.

The same boy was at my side today.

Sam’s father, James Fleet, was captain of the most powerful gang of thieves in St Giles. I would call them infamous, but their success hinged upon the quiet, secret way they went about their business. Fleet was careful not to make a name for himself, except where it mattered: whispered in the shadows. While other gangs swaggered about the town boasting of their deeds, Fleet’s men were stealthy, silent and – if caught – never peached another gang member. For ten years James Fleet had ruled St Giles – and barely a soul knew it.

As we left Drury Lane and crossed St Giles’s road I put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. It was a little over three months since he had led me into the stews. I was tolerably certain I’d forgiven him. We had been strangers at the time, after all – and indeed his father had made amends, later. But I still remembered the look of pride and curiosity on Sam’s face as I was beaten to the ground. The satisfaction of having pleased his pa. ‘Do you remember the last time you brought me here?’

He tilted his face and looked up at me, black eyes cool and unwavering. ‘Yes.’

‘You’ve never apologised for it.’

He thought about this for a moment. ‘No.’

I gave up.

The city streets are never fragrant, but St Giles wins the honour of being the foulest-smelling borough in London. It is impossible to walk a straight line – one must gavotte around the piles of shit, the clotting pools of blood, men lying drunk or dying in the filth. Sam weaved through it all with an easy tread, while I caught my heel in something so rancid I almost added my own vomit to the street. I reached for my pocket handkerchief, then thought better of it. There would be narrow eyes watching us from every alleyway, every rooftop. I did not want to enter St Giles waving my hankie to my nose like some ridiculous fop.

When Sam had first come to stay with us there had been a trace of the St Giles perfume trapped in his clothes, his hair, his skin. We had given him fresh clothes, clean linen, and several trips to a nearby bagnio where his skin was scrubbed and scraped and rubbed in sweet-smelling oil. I’d suggested that he might wish to shave off his curls as well, to discourage lice and other pests. Disdainful silence. Now he was back in his favourite ‘old duds’ – a battered hat tipped low over his face, a torn and shabby coat, thin breeches. His father could have paid the best tailor in town to stitch a new set of clothes for his only boy, but that would have drawn unwanted attention. Where did he get the chink for such rum togs, eh? No one in James Fleet’s gang wore fine clothes. Clean and modest – that was the order. That’s how I’d known the boy with the note was one of his.

Hawkins. I have something for you. Come at once. My stomach tightened.

A few nights before I had made a grave, foolish mistake. By chance I had met with Sam’s father near St James’s Park. It was not his usual haunt and he had looked somehow diminished, wandering through such a respectable part of town. Indeed he had seemed so lost that on a whim I had invited him to join me at the gaming tables near Charing Cross.

I did not think to wonder what he was doing in St James’s. A man such as Fleet is not stumbled upon by chance. I am sure now that he had been waiting for me, but I did not even consider the idea at the time.

He had caught me at a ripe moment and he knew it, the cunning bastard. The Marshalsea had cast a long shadow on my soul. I had almost died, and it had changed me – I could see it when I studied myself in the mirror. I did not trust any more to: ‘and all will be well’. I was no longer the careless boy I had once been. But what was I then, in truth? Not a clergyman, despite my father’s wishes. So then… what? What was my purpose? I couldn’t say. And a man without a purpose is easy to trap.

I took James Fleet to the gaming house as if I were leading a pet lion upon a leash. Look! See what I have brought with me! I gambled away all the money in my purse and I drank until the floor pitched like a boat beneath my feet. All the vows I had made when I left prison fled before that cheap, seductive thought: damn it all to hell – life must be lived! I had won my freedom from gaol. I had won Kitty’s heart. I had won my safety. The game was over. So what now?

Another roll of the dice, of course. Because the game must never end.

I sat with James Fleet in a tavern – so drunk I cannot even remember the name of it. And I confessed to him what I had barely admitted even to myself. That I was suffocating. That I had begun to suspect that a life without risk for a man of my nature was in fact a kind of slow death. Fleet had leaned forward, interested. ‘I could use a man with your talents, Hawkins.’ The next morning I’d woken with a pounding headache and the uneasy feeling that I had accidentally made a pact with the devil.

And now he had something for me.

Sam turned on to Phoenix Street, a long road that runs straight through the heart of St Giles like an arrow. Most of the houses were ruins, rotting roofs patched with tarred cloth, as if the risk of fire weren’t grave enough amidst all the timber frames and gin stills. One building had collapsed into the street overnight – a couple of thin, ragged street boys were loading the wood into wheelbarrows to sell. They saluted Sam, who gave them a tight nod as we hurried on.

There were eyes upon us in every window here. Men lurking in every shadow. I could feel the stares burning the back of my neck as we passed. I stole a glance up at the rooftops, scouting the wooden planks and ropes that laced the houses together in one long, tangled forest of outlaws. The rookery, they called it – a town for thieves hidden in the skies. A man could clamber right through it without once touching the ground. We passed a gin shop, then another. And then another. At the fourth, a tattered scrap of a boy was puking his guts into the street, blind drunk. A group of older lads jeered at him and kicked him on his way. There were no old men here.

James Fleet did not live on Phoenix Street. His house was hidden, tucked away like a coin buried deep in a miser’s pocket. This was my first visit to his den, and Sam had led me on a strange, intentionally confusing route. But I had learned my lesson the last time he had brought me into St Giles, and I paid close attention to every twist and turn and double back.

Suddenly, without warning, he shoved open a door near the end of the street. It was stiff, and he had to throw all his weight behind it. Somehow he managed this without making a sound. It struck me that Sam used silence the way other boys worked with knives or their fists. I thought again of Jenny’s whispered confession and felt a flicker of unease deep in my chest.

We climbed up through a tall, narrow house, its rooms partitioned with sheets and blankets to cram in as many bodies as possible. No need to guess what happened behind those temporary walls. The air stank of sex and bad liquor. Above the low sobs, the groans of pleasure and pain, I could hear a little girl crying out again and again for her mother. No one answered her. I stopped on the staircase, overwhelmed. Sam glanced back, and I could tell from his impatient expression that these sounds meant nothing to him. They were, after all, the sounds of his neighbourhood, of his childhood. He heard them the way I might hear the cry of gulls and the rush of the sea against the shore. We moved on.

At the top of the house we pulled ourselves through a trapdoor onto the roof, wind gusting fresh air on our faces. From up here we could see the city stretching into the distance, the dome of St Paul’s far away to the east. Even Sam couldn’t resist. He paused to look out over his father’s estate, balancing lightly on a damp board that ran between two of the houses. A look settled upon his face that I recognised well – the joy and anxiety of coming home.

‘Your father will be pleased to see you,’ I called out.

He spun nimbly on the beam. ‘Stephen. He denied seeing the thief?’

Good God, it was bad enough that he barely spoke. Even worse when he hodge-podged conversations in such an eccentric fashion. ‘He said it was too dark to be sure.’

Sam smiled. Then he padded over the beam onto the next roof.

The gambler in me found all of this exhilarating – slipping across rooftops through the deadliest part of the city. Was this not life? Was this not something to make the heart beat faster? A quieter voice counselled that such risks may be exhilarating, but were not conducive to a long life. Oh, and for God’s sake – don’t look down.

Sam was a few paces ahead of me, perched at the edge of the roof, staring down at a courtyard below. The houses huddled together to create a tiny, secret square in the middle. Sam rolled his shoulders. Stepped on to the ledge. And jumped.

I gave a shout of alarm and scrambled to the edge. Beneath me, about ten feet down, Sam had landed neatly on the balcony of a modest wooden house built in the heart of the square. Being two stories shorter than the houses surrounding it, there was no way of seeing it until you leaned right over the roof.

‘What am I to do?’ I called down.

Sam tipped back his hat. Crooked his finger.

‘Don’t jump for fuck’s sake,’ a voice growled through a window. A moment later, Sam’s father swung out onto the balcony. A short, strong man, he was dressed in a plain shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled. His head was bare, scalp dark with bristle. ‘You’ll break your neck. Or tear a hole in my roof. Then I’ll break your neck.’ He grinned and pushed a ladder out until it lodged firmly against the roof where I stood.

I tested it anxiously with my foot. ‘Will it take my weight?’

‘Takes mine.’

I considered the iron muscles of his arms and chest. He was a head shorter than me, but still at least a stone heavier. I took a deep breath and climbed down slowly, conscious that I was crossing the threshold arse first. Now there’s a way to make a man feel vulnerable. Intentional, no doubt.

Fleet’s den was the most curious place I had ever visited – so unlike a normal home that at first I could make no sense of it. The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked into one – or had been built that way. This one large, square room stretched right up to the pitched roof, with beams left open to crack your head upon. The balcony wrapped all the way around this top floor. From here one could throw a ladder onto any roof in the square or clamber down to the street by rope. It was a building designed for escape.

I presumed that this room served as a well-guarded meeting place for Fleet’s gang, but there were also hammocks slung from the beams and a grate in one corner with a leg of mutton roasting on a spit. My mouth watered at the smell of it.

Sam dropped his hat on a hammock and pushed a hand through his curls, watching his father from the corner of his eyes. Something unspoken hung in the air between them – a question or a threat. But then Fleet chuckled, and pulled Sam into a brief hug. He kissed the top of his son’s head, then shoved him away.

‘Gah! You smell like a whore. What do they wash you with, fucking rose water?’

‘Lavender,’ Sam replied, glaring at me as if I had spent the last month flogging him with razors.

I turned up my palms. ‘You wish your son to pass for a gentleman. That includes smelling like one.’

‘True enough,’ Fleet conceded. He gave Sam a friendly shove. ‘Run and see your mother.’

Sam hesitated. ‘Pa-’ He caught his father’s sharp look and left at once, scrambling out onto the balcony and climbing down a rope to the next floor rather than use the stairs.

Fleet waved me over to a seat by the fire. The smell of roast meat was almost too good to bear, but I knew better than to ask for a slice. It was not wise to be indebted to James Fleet – not even for a bite of mutton. I lit a pipe to stave off the hunger while he poured us both a mug of beer and settled down in the chair opposite. He was a handsome bull of a man, with a wide forehead and a sharp jaw line. He had the same striking black eyes as his son, but Sam’s features were almost delicate, set in a lean face with high cheekbones. There was nothing delicate about James Fleet. His face and hands were traced with scars – a map of old battles fought and won.

‘How’s Kitty?’ he asked, taking a swig of beer.

‘She’s well.’ My voice sounded thin.

He chuckled over his beer. ‘Don’t look so worried, Hawkins. I’m not going to eat her.’

I forced a smile. ‘You have a proposal for me?’

He wasn’t ready to discuss business. This conversation would play at his pace, not mine. ‘So. What progress with my boy?’

‘Good. Save for the incessant chatter.’

He snorted back a laugh. ‘How long will it take?’

‘To turn him into a gentleman?’ I shrugged. A thousand years?

‘No, no, no. To pass as one. You turn my son into a real gent and I’ll wring your fucking neck.’

‘Ah, well. That’s the secret. There’s no such thing as a real gent.’ I was not speaking entirely in jest. If a man wore the right clothes and spoke in an easy, confident manner, there was a good chance he would be allowed into the court. The nobility was such a strange collection of eccentrics, fools, and fops that even the most unlikely fellow could pass.

Fleet waved his hand, dismissing the notion. This sort of subtle distinction bored him. ‘There are places I can’t go. Opportunities I can’t seize. Sam knows this world – my world. I need him to understand yours too.’

I thought of Sam, sullen and silent behind the shop counter. ‘I will do my best.’

Fleet held my gaze, just long enough for me to understand what would happen if my best did not meet his expectations. ‘Well then,’ he said, as the sweat trickled down my back, ‘can’t ask fairer than that.’

I took a sip of beer. ‘We had a visit from Mr Gonson today.’

‘Hah. Society of Fucking Manners.’

‘Our neighbour accused Sam of breaking into his house.’ I paused. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Anything stolen?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone murdered?’

‘Good God – no!’

Fleet settled back, satisfied. ‘Shall we discuss business?’

I had already decided as I climbed over the rooftops of St Giles that whatever James Fleet wanted of me, I must find a way to refuse.‘Mr Fleet,’ I assembled my most regretful expression, ‘I fear I may not be able to help on this occasion-’

He stopped me with his hand. ‘For pity’s sake, Hawkins – stop clenching your petticoat. A proposition, nothing more. Chance to make some money.’ He fixed me with a look. ‘Your own money.’

Oh, that stung, I admit. It was true I had been living off Kitty’s fortune these past few months. A fortune she had inherited from Fleet’s half-brother.

‘I’ve had word from an acquaintance at court. A gentlewoman has asked for my help. Needs to be done secret. Quiet. I want you to meet her tonight. Find out what she wants.’

I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. That was all – truly? Nothing more? Perhaps I could, just this once… Best not to refuse Fleet over such a trifling request. And would it not be encouraging, to earn a little spare coin of my own? ‘How much?’

Fleet shrugged. ‘If I can help her I’ll pay you a tenth of the fee.’

‘Half.’

A hacking laugh. ‘One meeting with a fucking courtier? Let me consider.’ He scratched his jaw. ‘One-tenth.’

I took a slow pull on my pipe. This was Fleet’s world – he could slit my throat in here and never swing for it. But if I did not bargain with him now I would appear weak. ‘If it’s so easy, why not send one of your men? Why not go yourself?’

Fleet gritted his teeth, and said nothing.

I smiled at him through the smoke. ‘Because you need a real gent. Someone who can pass. Someone who won’t frighten the poor lady half to death.’ A thought struck me. ‘Your brother used to do this for you, didn’t he? Play the gentleman.’ A vision of my old cell mate, grizzle-cheeked and dressed in his shabby old nightgown, crossed my mind. Forgive me, Samuel, for calling you a gentleman. I meant no offence. ‘You must have been forced to turn down quite a few opportunities these past months. Perhaps your friend at court will lose patience? Try someone new?’

Fleet scowled. ‘Careful, Hawkins.’

‘Half.’

‘A quarter.’

‘Half.’

A long, long pause. The blood was pounding in my ears. What was I doing, bargaining with a man who could break my jaw with one swipe of his fist? But I couldn’t resist it; I was almost feverish with excitement. My God – I hadn’t felt this alive in months.

Fleet leaned forward until our knees were almost touching. He stared deep into my eyes. ‘Now here’s a man I can work with,’ he murmured. ‘A third.’

I held out my hand. By some miracle, it wasn’t shaking. ‘Agreed.’

Chapter Four

Kitty was closing the shop by the time Sam and I returned from St Giles and a hurried chophouse dinner. She hummed to herself as she tidied books back on to the shelves, tucked a sheaf of nude line drawings into a leather wallet. I loved her more than anything in these moments. They reminded me of the first time I’d seen her in the Marshalsea, making a pot of coffee, the simple grace as she moved back and forth, the quick and capable way she worked.

She saw me and her face lit up – the warm gleam of pleasure that I was home. A blink and it had vanished. Kitty would walk about our bedchamber without a stitch of clothing and not give a damn how hard I looked at her. But she kept her deepest feelings hidden from me as much as she could, as if they were a poor hand of cards I might play against her one day.

‘And are you staring at my arse now, Tom Hawkins?’

‘Always.’

She grinned and wrapped her arms about my neck. ‘Where have you been?’

‘St Giles. Fleet wanted to see his boy.’

Kitty stiffened and glanced at Sam, who was pouring himself a mug of small beer. Sam’s uncle, Samuel Fleet, had been her guardian and she had loved him fiercely, for all his faults. This was the only reason she allowed Sam to live under her roof. She did not trust or like James, his father. ‘Dangerous place to be strolling about,’ she said, running her fingers down my waistcoat. ‘I hope you took care of him.’

‘It was perfectly safe, we-’

‘I was talking to Sam,’ she laughed, letting me go.

Sam’s cheeks flushed pink. It was hard to read his thoughts in the main, but where Kitty was concerned he might as well have shouted them from the rooftops. She was a lively, pretty young woman. He was a fourteen-year-old boy. Not everything in life is a mystery.

‘You are in a merry mood,’ I said, smiling down at her. I was pleased she had recovered from Gonson’s visit.

‘I have a gift for you.’ She kissed me upon the lips, stopping the question. ‘Tonight.’

A gift. My mind wandered over the delicious possibilities. Was it too much to hope she’d found a willing friend and asked her to join us…?

Yes, most likely it was.

She removed the apron she’d tied about her waist and shook out the dust. ‘You must change before we leave, Tom. I can smell the stews on your clothes.’

I frowned, sniffing my shirt cuff. ‘Leave? Where?’

Her lips pinched into a hard line. She folded the apron hard. Snap. Snap.

Oh, Lord.‘Supper…?’ I guessed.

‘Supper. Theatre. The Eliots.’

Damn it. I had clean forgot. John Eliot was Kitty’s lawyer, and an old, trusted acquaintance of her father. He and his wife Dorothy were fond of Kitty and saw a good deal of her – at the risk of their own reputation. An unmarried woman, sharing my bed and running a notorious print shop? As far as good society was concerned, Gonson spoke the truth – Kitty was nothing more than a whore. ‘Better a whore than a slave,’ she would say with a curl of her lip. But her defiance starved her of companions. She was nota whore, nor a servant, nor a lady. She did not fit. The Eliots, thus, were precious friends. Dorothy – who was much younger than her husband – was expecting her first child in the spring. Kitty had taken to visiting her several times a week, basket brimming with fresh fruit and home-made tinctures.

The Eliots were pleasant enough company and I loved a night at the theatre, for the audience as much as the play. There was always some great spectacle or scandal, and it was amusing to watch the nobs rub shoulders with the rest of us. But I had made a deal with James Fleet and I could not free myself of it now. ‘Kitty…’

Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Quietly, stealthily, Sam drifted upstairs to hide.

I reached out to touch Kitty’s shoulder.

She pulled away. ‘You promised. You don’t even remember, do you?’

‘Of course I remember,’ I lied. ‘It’s just that I have an appointment tonight. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but it’s important.’

‘More important than me?’

Well there was a question not to be answered.

Kitty turned away so that I couldn’t see the disappointment in her eyes. She began to shuffle the books upon the shelf. ‘Who is it you’re meeting?’

I searched for an answer that wouldn’t create more trouble, but what could I say? I was drunk and bored, so I told the most dangerous villain in London I might work for him. ‘I’ll take you another night. I promise-’

‘I don’t give a damn about the theatre!’ she cried, gripping my shirt so hard I thought she’d tear it. ‘What’s the matter, Tom? Why are you acting in such a strange, sneaking fashion? Tell me! Where are you going?’

‘For pity’s sake!’ I snapped back. ‘Would you stop all this nagging. You’re not my wife, damn it.’

She flinched and drew back, as if I’d slapped her.

I hadn’t meant to hurt her – only to stop her questions. The words had flown from my lips without thought. But they were mean, and the message behind them was cruel. That we were not bound together after all. That I might abandon her whenever I chose – broken-hearted and ruined. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ I groaned, reaching out for her.

She hugged her arms across her chest, stepped beyond my grasp. ‘No. It’s true,’ she said, cool and remote. ‘I’m not your wife. And you are free to do you as please.’

With that she stalked silently from the room.

Kitty left for the theatre an hour later, too angry even to call a goodbye. She took Sam with her in my place.

I sighed and trudged slowly up the stairs to change. I knew nothing about the woman I was to meet tonight, except that she was a courtier, afraid and desperate enough to seek James Fleet’s help. I selected a black silk coat and breeches, and a red waistcoat. Sober, dependable, with a military dash. That would do well enough. I tied my cravat with a flourish, gathered my hat and cane from the hallway, and stepped out into the night.

A couple of young rakes and their companions were sauntering down Russell Street, away from the Garden. I recognised one of the girls. She winked at me as they passed. That young fool with his arm about her waist would most likely find his purse missing in the morning. But for now they were a merry bunch. I stood in the middle of the street, tempted to slip into their wake. That way lay Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the theatre, Kitty and the Eliots. I could still go to them – forget all about my secret assignation. James Fleet could always find another gent – real or otherwise – to complete his business. There was no need for me to risk my easy, contented life for a stranger. Head east. Head east and chase after Kitty.

But then I would never know who was waiting for me in St James’s Park, would never learn the secret they wished to spill. A mystery left unsolved for ever. Damn Fleet, the cunning bastard. How could I resist the intrigue? It was like putting a bowl of punch in front of a drunk.

One meeting, that was all. A brief conversation with a noblewoman, no doubt about some trifling matter. A stolen bauble, a petty piece of blackmail. I would pass her troubles on to Fleet and he would resolve the rest. One meeting. And never again, of course.

West, then, to St James’s Park. I did not stop to consider the Burdens’ house as I passed, never thought to look up at the windows or wonder about the previous night’s drama. Too much had happened since then for me to think of it. It was eight o’clock and already dark – most likely Joseph Burden had already locked and bolted the house for the night. I didn’t even notice.

I hurried through the Garden with my head down against the wind, the chill air digging its fingers through my clothes like a thief searching for coins. I pulled my coat tighter, striding past Tom King’s coffeehouse, ignoring the raucous shouts and cheers of its customers. I’d wasted a hundred nights in there with King’s clever, dangerous wife Moll. Not tonight. She would only winkle the truth from me and use it in some poisonous way, then dismiss her betrayal with a laugh. Best to keep yourself locked and bolted against that one. She was fine company, but she’d pinch the soul from your body and flog it to the highest bidder given the chance.

Walking along the windswept Strand I prayed for a hackney cab to escape the cold, but they were all busy, horses clattering by with steaming breath, drivers swaddled in thick blankets, holding their whips in numb fingers. So I continued on, shoulders hunched, jumping over puddles of rainwater and filth.

As I reached Charing Cross I heard a gruff shout of ‘By Your Leave, sir!’ and footsteps pounding hard behind me. I jumped aside, narrowly avoiding collision with a sedan chair jolting fast along the pavement, the man inside gripping the window edges hard to stop himself being flung about. The second chairman tipped his chin in thanks as he passed, but his passenger leaned out and glared back at me in outrage. He was an older man in his fifties with a red, sweating face. ‘Damn fool!’ he cried, spittle spraying from his lips.

I halted in surprise at his rudeness, searching for a suitable reply. A waterman turning for home watched the chair bobbing its way down the Mall. ‘Twat,’ he observed, cheerfully.

That would do. I touched my hat in appreciation and pressed on.

On Pall Mall, the blazing lights of St James’s Palace cast a bright glow upon the pavement. Somewhere deep inside those rambling old buildings the king and his family would be playing cards or backgammon, watched by bored, obsequious courtiers. If I were king I would insist upon something fresh and new every night – a ball, a masque, a play. Or dismiss the entire court and wander naked through the palace, frightening the servants – why not? What use was being king if you could not do as you pleased? But by all accounts King George liked nothing better than routine – the same wearying pomp and ceremony day in and day out. It was said he visited his mistress at the same hour every day, pacing about outside her rooms if he were a few minutes early, squinting at his watch. I had distant cousins on my father’s side of the family who spent their lives at court fighting for power and position amidst all that drudgery. My God – they were welcome to it.

I reached the end of the Mall and slipped into the park beyond, a hand resting on the hilt of my sword. St James’s Park was a good deal safer than the stews of St Giles, but courtiers drove their carriages along Kensington Way late into the night. And where courtiers drove their carriages, foot pads and highwaymen were never far away – lean Highland wolves prowling amidst a flock of plump, dozy sheep.

I headed deeper into the park where the grass was higher, cursing silently as the wet mud splashed my stockings and pulled at my shoes. The lanterns along the King’s Coach Way shone like jewels on a necklace. I crossed back into darkness, low and swift. I must not be seen here – not by a soul. A courtier meeting a young man alone at night in the park – reputations had been ruined by less.

Deep in the shadows of Buckingham House I took out my watch, holding the face up to the moonlight. Half past eight. Fleet’s mysterious client should arrive at any moment. As a courtier, doubtless she would ride through the park from the palace itself. And as a woman, surely she would come by chair or carriage, with servants to protect her. I tucked away my watch and waited, stamping my feet to keep warm.

A few minutes later I caught the whisk of wheels along the King’s Way. Out of the darkness a handsome black and gold carriage glided smoothly across the grass towards me, the driver urging on the horses with a light tap of his whip. Liveried footmen stood on either side of the carriage, guarding the doors, and a third stood on the back. The red velvet curtains at the windows were drawn tight. My heart began to pound, blood singing through my veins. Ahh… this was why I had come, in truth. This brief feeling of mystery and excitement. No doubt in a few seconds the door would swing open and some trembling old dowager would tell me that her pug had run off, and might I find it for her.

I was about to step forward when someone gave a shout close by. ‘Halt! Halt you dogs!’

A shot rang out, exploding in the night air with a bright flash. I spun around in time to see a figure surge through the gun smoke. In my shock it took me a moment to realise this was the same man who had cursed me from his sedan chair near the Mall. Now he was sprinting towards the carriage, his face wild with rage.

‘Run, damn you!’ he snarled at the driver, who was trying to calm the terrified horses. ‘Run – or by God I’ll shoot you dead!’

The driver almost fell from his perch in terror, sliding to the ground and racing off into the darkness. Two of the footmen ran too, without a backward glance. Only the guard closest to the assailant stood firm – an older man, with a scarred face.

‘For shame,’ he called down. He gestured into the carriage. ‘Would you attack an innocent woman?’

‘Innocent?’ The man with the pistol laughed nastily. ‘She’s a whore. The whole world knows it. Stand aside.’

With a great cry the guard leaped down from the carriage, landing heavily upon the other man. He shoved him to the ground and punched him hard in the stomach.

I sprang forward. By the time I had passed around the horses, the two men were rolling in the mud, punching and tearing at each other in a violent struggle. The horses had begun to rear up in fright, hooves thumping into the ground, knocking the carriage from side to side until the door slammed open. I caught a glimpse of a woman trapped inside, wrapped in a black velvet cloak, her face frozen in terror. As her clear blue eyes met mine, I realised with a jolt that I knew her.

Henrietta Howard. The king’s mistress.

The guard was losing ground. I hesitated, not sure who to help first, then jumped onto the carriage step and held out my hand. Mrs Howard looked at me in a daze.

‘Hurry,’ I said. The horses were whinnying with fear, ready to bolt at any moment. I leaned into the carriage. ‘Madam – please. Your hand!’

She started, as if waking from a nightmare, and slid towards me. As the carriage jolted forward she fell into my arms and I pulled her by the waist to the ground. A second later the horses took off, dragging the carriage behind them at a deadly pace.

I had saved Mrs Howard at the expense of her guard, who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, and swaying on his feet. He lifted his fists, but there was no strength in him. His attacker struck out with one last, fearsome punch and the guard thudded to the earth. He didn’t move again.

Mrs Howard put her hands to her mouth. ‘No,’ she said, softly.

The man heard her and grinned, full red lips gaping wide. He looked half-mad, eyes gleaming with excitement. In the confusion of the attack, I had thought he must be a highwayman, but now I was not so sure. Highwaymen did not travel by sedan chair. From his clothes I thought he must be a nobleman, but he had an old rake’s face, blotchy and ruined by years of debauchery. There was blood pouring from his temple down his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice it. Too drunk, no doubt – but my God he was fierce with it. He gave the guard a vicious kick to the ribs then staggered back, panting hard.

A cloud drifted apart and the moon shone bright, flooding us in silver light. Something gleamed bright by the man’s boot, a glint of metal. The breath caught in my throat. The pistol. I drew my sword and prayed to God he didn’t look down.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he slurred.

‘Nobody. I heard shouts.’

‘Well, Sir Nobody. That whimpering bitch belongs to me.’ Mrs Howard gave a low sob and he leered at her. ‘What – did you think you were free of me, slut?Did you think you were safe?’ He laughed. I could smell the liquor on his breath from ten paces.

Mrs Howard gripped my arm. She was shaking with fear. ‘Please, sir, I beg you. Don’t let him take me.’

I pushed her behind me.

In a flash he was on me, knocking me down and dashing the blade from my hand. He was fearsome strong, despite his age and the drink – and he knew how to fight. I kicked out in panic, but he swung his fist hard, catching my jaw. My head smacked against the ground and my vision blurred. I slumped back, stunned, as the world spun about me.

In an instant he had pounced on me, fingers tearing at my throat. I grabbed his wrists and tried to struggle free, but he was too strong. I thought of the guard lying a few feet away, knocked senseless but alive. I might not be so lucky.

The man let go of my throat, raising his fist for another blow. This was my chance. I pushed up with all my strength, twisting and kicking at him in a fury. There was no grace or strategy to my blows, but I was bigger than him, half his age, and sober. As we rolled in the mud, my hand hit something hard. The pistol. I snatched it and aimed the muzzle at his head, pinning him to the ground with my free arm.

He fell still, staring at the barrel pointed an inch above his face. Then smiled. ‘There’s no powder.’

He was right – there’d been no time to reload it. I turned it around in my palm, felt the heft of it. Then I raised it high and slammed it against his temple. He gave a grunt of pain, and lay still.

I staggered to my feet, reeling. My jaw throbbed and I could feel blood seeping from my throat where his nails had torn into my skin. ‘Mrs Howard,’ I called out into the night. ‘My lady?’

But she’d vanished.

Chapter Five

The house was dark and empty when I returned home. I heated a pan of mulled wine over the fire in my chamber, breathing in the warm, soothing scent of cloves and nutmeg.

I had been in a shocked stupor on my walk home, lurching through the streets in a daze. Now, as I collapsed into a chair by the fire, I realised how close I’d come to losing my life. I pulled off my wig and loosened my cravat. My left cheek was badly swollen and my jaw was throbbing so hard that I could only take tiny sips of wine. It did not seem broken, but I could tell it would take days to heal. So much for the thrill of adventure, Hawkins – you damned fool.

What the devil had happened? The ferocity and speed of the attack had left me reeling. I had seen men strip to the waist in the street to fight over some imagined slight. I’d been beaten and chained to a wall in gaol. I’d survived a riot, for heaven’s sake. But I had never seen a man rage so far out of control and so fast. He was like a fighting dog, driven into a frenzy by a lust for blood. Could Mrs Howard have inspired such madness? Or was he cursed with an endless fury, always ready to leap into battle? Considering the way he’d spat and sworn at me from his sedan I guessed it was the latter. Either way, I prayed to God I never encountered the brute again.

As for Mrs Howard, who would blame her for running back to the safety of the palace? Whatever her present troubles, her lover could protect her far better than I. He was the king, damn it! I was glad to have saved her tonight, but I wanted no more part in such a dark intrigue. Court politics, James Fleet, and a raving mad man with a pistol? No, thank you, indeed.

I closed my eyes, exhausted now the danger had passed and my blood had cooled. I drifted into a fitful sleep, still sitting in the chair… and woke in darkness. The fire had burned out. Voices drifted from the shop downstairs, snatches of laughter. I pulled myself slowly to my feet. Kitty was singing a ballad – loudly and somewhat off-key. A man begged her to spare his ears, and then they both laughed.

A shard of jealousy pierced my heart. It was John Eliot; I recognised his voice at once. Old, blissfully married, and round as a football. But still, he was alone with Kitty. I stole down the stairs, listening to their conversation. It was nothing – idle talk about the play and the devilish annoying people in the seats around them. I stood by the door and tortured myself for a few moments, even so. How could she sound so cheerful, when we had argued so badly just hours before? Did she not know that I had almost died tonight? That she could have come home to discover she had lost me for ever? Well, no. She did not know that, Tom. In fact you refused to tell her where you were going, if you recall.

Feeling somewhat foolish, I nudged open the door and bade them both a good evening.

‘Ah! Hawkins!’ Eliot exclaimed, rising to his feet and smiling warmly. They were seated at the table with a bottle of wine between them, lit only by a solitary candle.

‘So,’ Kitty said in a flat voice without turning around. ‘You are home.’ As if she did not care tuppence.

I took Eliot’s outstretched hand.

‘Brought her back for you, Hawkins,’ he said cheerfully, then lowered his voice. ‘She was in half a mind to stay with us tonight… Good God!’ He squinted at me. ‘What’s wrong with your face, man?’

‘What’s this?’ Kitty scraped back her chair, then gasped in shock. ‘Tom!’ she cried, pushing Eliot aside and dragging me towards the candlelight. ‘Is that blood?’ She touched my cravat, saw the deep gouges beneath. ‘Oh… You’re hurt…’

‘I’m fine,’ I sighed, secretly delighted.

‘Sam!’ she called and a dark figure released itself from the shadows. I had not even seen him hiding there. ‘Run across to Mrs Jenkins and fetch some ice. She took a load this morning.’ She pushed him from the room and ran half up the stairs. ‘Jenny!’ she yelled, in a voice that must have woken every Jenny in a five-mile radius. ‘Wake up! Mr Hawkins is hurt!’

A few minutes later I was settled on a low couch while Kitty washed the wounds at my throat with a scalding mix of brandy and hot water. I winced and gestured to the bowl. ‘Could I not drink that instead? It looks… medicinal.’

‘You’re filthy,’ she said, dabbing hard at one of the deeper cuts. ‘Have you been rolling around in the mud?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I was attacked in St James’s Park.’

Kitty’s brows rose sharply. ‘A highwayman?’

‘I’m not sure what he was. A mad man, perhaps.’

She nodded and continued tending my wounds. After a little while, she said, ‘I am a good, patient soul, am I not, Mr Eliot?’

Eliot had returned to the table, a glass of claret balanced on his fat belly. ‘A saint,’ he agreed.

‘Because I do know how you hate to be nagged, Tom. And of course I am not your wife, so it is not my place to ask, “and what took you to the park so late?” or “who did you expect to meet there?” It would be most indelicate of me to suggest that perhaps you should have taken me to the damned play this evening instead, as you bloody well promised. Gah!’ She scrubbed at a spot on my jaw. ‘Damn it. This dirt won’t come off.’

‘I think it’s a bruise,’ I said, weakly.

‘Oh. So it is.’ She stopped scrubbing. Touched her lips to it.

‘Kitty…’

‘This was James Fleet’s work, wasn’t it?’

I gave a small, grunt, admitting nothing.

‘It’s no great puzzle,’ Eliot called from the table. ‘Kitty mentioned your visit this afternoon…’

‘… and then – all of a sudden – you had a secret, unexpected meeting,’ Kitty finished. She cupped a hand to my swollen jaw and held it there lightly. ‘Tom. Tell me this. Is it finished with?’

‘Yes,’ I said, without hesitation.

‘And you promise you won’t work for that bastard again?’

‘Never.’

She reached over and hugged me close, hiding her tenderness in a grip that half-crushed my ribs. ‘Well then,’ she said, when she was done injuring me. ‘You are forgiven. Are you not the luckiest dog alive?’

Sam materialised, and dropped a packet of ice in my lap. I shrieked an oath.

‘Mrs Jenkins wants sixpence.’

‘Cow,’ Kitty muttered.

‘Did you enjoy the play, Sam?’ I asked, once I’d recovered.

Sam shook his head, curls flying.

‘Oh!’ Eliot and Kitty protested together.

‘It was made up,’ Sam shrugged. ‘Don’t see the point of it.’

‘What was the play?’

‘The Beggar’s Opera,’ Kitty answered for him, when it became clear that Sam did not know and did not care. ‘We’ve been talking about it for weeks, Tom.’

‘Oh…!’ I said, crestfallen. ‘I was longing to see that.’

Kitty muttered something under her breath.

Eliot slapped his hands upon the table and pushed himself up from his chair. ‘I’m sure it will run for weeks. Anything that rude about parliament is sure to be a success.’

‘Was it not about a gang of thieves…? Ah.’

Eliot squeezed himself into his coat, flexing his arms with a look of surprise, as if it had shrunk since he took it off. ‘I doubt Mr Gay will be welcome in court from now on. But I suppose that was the point. The play is his revenge upon them all.’

‘Indeed?’ Eliot made it his business to read every newspaper and broadsheet he could lay his hands upon, and always knew the gossip around the court. ‘How so?’

He plucked his hat from its hook on the wall. ‘Gay is a great friend of Henrietta Howard. He was sure she’d secure a nice plump position for him at court one day – planned his future on it. Then old frog eyes was crowned king and it transpired that Mrs Howard had no influence over him whatsoever. It’s the queen he listens to and no one else. Who would have guessed it? A man taking advice from his wife.’ He winked at Kitty. ‘Most unnatural.’

I smiled but stayed quiet, thinking of the terrified woman I had met so briefly tonight. I was not surprised she’d failed to help John Gay: she couldn’t even save herself. Had she promised something similar to the man who had attacked her tonight? Some preferment that had failed to appear? Ach, and what did it matter? I would never see her again.

‘Mackheath should have hanged,’ Sam said.

‘Hanged?’ Eliot was outraged. ‘He’s the hero!’

‘He’s a highwayman,’ Kitty corrected him, plucking his hat from his head and setting it upon hers at a jaunty angle.

‘You can’t kill the hero, not in a comedy,’ Eliot persisted, reaching for his hat. Kitty swirled away from him, laughing. ‘The audience would riot.’

Sam disagreed. ‘Seen fifty or more Mackheaths turned off at Tyburn. The audience cheers.’

Later, Kitty and I lay in bed, drowsing under thick blankets as the fire dwindled to ash. I rested my head against her heart, listening to its soft beat as she ran her hand over my scalp, bristles rasping beneath her fingers.

‘I must visit the barber,’ I said.

She traced a finger down my bruised jaw. ‘Leave it to grow a little. I like it when it turns soft. It feels like moleskin.’

I chuckled and reached for her hand.

‘Tom,’ she said, after a while. ‘Could I have lost you tonight?’

I thought of the man’s fingers tearing at my throat. The heavy thud of horses’ hooves. The desperation and terror in Henrietta’s eyes. ‘Of course not.’

‘I couldn’t live without you,’ she said, very quiet.

I laughed. ‘You could live very well without me. Think of the money you’d save.’

She sighed and said nothing. The room was dark, and silent, but I could feel her disappointment in the air all around me, settling upon me like a dank mist.

There was a loud thud against the wall behind us. We both started in alarm.

Thud. Again, louder this time, something slamming hard on the other side of the wall.

‘What is that?’ Kitty whispered, crawling closer to the wall to listen.

I fumbled for my tinderbox, sparked a light. As I lit the candle, a woman cried out.

‘Ahh! Ahh, God. Yes!’

Kitty clapped a hand to her mouth. Started to giggle.

The bed thumped again, and the woman yelped.

I stared at the wall in astonishment. Next door was Joseph Burden’s house. People didn’t fuck one another in Joseph Burden’s house. We exchanged excited looks. ‘Who is it, do you suppose?’

Kitty put an ear to the wall. ‘Alice? Alice and Ned?’

‘No. Their rooms will be up in the attic.’

She listened closer, frowning in concentration. ‘It can’t be Judith. I suppose it must be Alice.’

‘With Stephen?’

There was a long, shuddering moan, then silence. Kitty pulled a face. ‘Ugh. That wasn’t Burden, was it?’

We threw up our hands in horror at the idea – then sniggered like children. Joseph Burden, proud member of the Society for the Reformation of Manners, was fucking his housekeeper. Well, well.

‘Oh! Your gift!’ Kitty said, then reached under the bed and lifted out a handsome wooden box. She slid it towards me, a little nervous.

I put the box on my lap and rested the lid on its hinge. Inside lay a dozen packages, narrow and flat. I took one out and opened it up, conscious of Kitty watching for my reaction. Nestling in the envelope was a long, translucent sheath folded in two and tied loosely with a thin piece of ribbon. A condom.

‘I ordered them from France, for the shop. They’re made from sheep’s intestines.’

How arousing. ‘Yes. I’ve er… I’ve used them before.’

She slipped her hand in mine. ‘So… we don’t have to wait, any more.’

Her face gleamed in the candlelight. So young, so pretty. This was her gift to me, then. The last of her innocence. I brushed her hair from her face. She smiled, nervous, and looked deep in my eyes.

Tell her. Tell her why you’ve waited this long. Tell her that you want to marry her first and take care of her. That you want it to be different from all the other times. Tell her that you’re afraid if you don’t wait, she will never have cause to marry you.

Tell her that you love her, damn it.

I opened my mouth… and the words died in my throat. ‘I’m… I’m rather tired tonight, Kitty. After all that’s happened…’ And it was true, save for my lie of omission.

Her eyes softened with concern. ‘Oh. Of course,’ she agreed, embarrassed, shutting up the box at once and slipping it beneath the bed. She touched her lips to my cheek. ‘Of course.’

I blew out the candle and we lay in silence in the dark.