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“That isn’t very sporting,” Father says between bites of his quail, and I’m glad to see him eating.

“Yes, very bad form.” Grandmama tuts.Advertisement

“Perhaps you should go to the Hippocrates tonight,” I suggest. “You know you’ve a standing invitation to join them.”

“An excellent idea,” Father agrees.

Tom pushes his peas to the side of his plate. “Perhaps I will,” he says. “If only to get out for a bit.”

I’m so cheered by this news that I eat two pieces of cake for dessert. When Grandmama frets that such an appetite will mean bringing back the seamstress, I laugh, and once I put the idea into her head, she laughs, too, and soon, we’re all laughing while the servants look on as if we’re barking mad. But I don’t care. I have what I want. I have it, and it will not be taken from me. Not by Lord Denby or anyone.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

DR. VAN RIPPLE’S CALLING CARD LISTS AN ADDRESS IN a shabby little district that reminds me of a comfortable chair in need of an upholsterer. The row houses are not particularly well kept. They have no aspirations beyond providing lodging to their inhabitants.

“Charming,” Felicity says as we make our way down a narrow, poorly lit street.

“It got you out of the house, didn’t it?” I say. Children run past us. They play in the dark, their mothers too tired to care.

“Well, my mother still believes that I’m there, sitting at the piano. That was an impressive trick, Gemma. Tell me, do your powers detect Dr. Van Ripple’s lodging house yet?”

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“For that we only require our eyes and direction,” I reply.

We pass a pub that spills out working folk. Some are stooped with age; others can’t be older than eleven or twelve. Mothers cradle babes to their bosoms. A man stands on a crate just outside the pub. He speaks with vigor and conviction, holding his audience in thrall.

“Should we work for the sweater fourteen hours a day for a pittance? We should do like the match girls done at Bryant and May, and our brothers on the docks!”

There are mumbles of encouragement and of dissent.

“They’ll starve ’oos,” a man with hollows under his cheeks shouts. “We’ll ’ave nuffin’.”

“We already ’ave nuffin’—it’s the only fing I don’t want more of!” a lady calls and everyone laughs.

“A strike! Support our sisters o’ the Beardon factory. Take courage from their stand, brothers and sisters. Fair pay, fair hours, a fair London!”

A cheer goes up. The crowd applauds. It draws the attention of a constable.

“Here now,” he says. “What’s this about?”

The man steps off the crate, holding out his hat. “Evenin’, guv’nah. We’re collectin’ for the poor. Spare us a copper?”

“I’ll spare you a room for the night—in Newgate.”

“Can’t throw us in jail for assemblin’,” the man says.

“The law can do what it bloody well likes!” the constable says, waving his nightstick. He disperses the crowd but he cannot disband their convictions; the people talk in excited whispers still.

“’Ere now,” a lady holding a baby chides. “You sum o’ them fancy ladies come slummin’?”

“Certainly not,” Felicity replies, sounding every bit like the sort who would hire a carriage with friends to gawk at the poor.

“Well, you can clear off. We won’t be your entertainment fo’ th’evening. No’ for the likes of you.”

“Have a care—”

I take Fee’s arm. “Not a word.”

We turn the corner and there it is. We’ve invented a tale to gain entry, but the tired landlady knows not to ask questions of her lodgers’ lady callers, lest she discover her suspicions are ugly truths. She knocks twice on the magician’s door and wearily announces us.

Dr. Van Ripple’s eyes widen in surprise. He wears a worn-out dressing robe over his trousers. “Come in, come in. Dear me, I wasn’t expecting callers this evening.”

He closes the door and bids us have a seat. An enormous board in a gilded frame looms in the corner. It shows a painting of a much younger Dr. Van Ripple in a turban. His fingers point toward a dazed woman who would appear to be under his spell. The board reads Doctor Theodore Van Ripple, Master Illusionist! Feats of magic that must be seen to be believed!

On one wall hangs a portrait of an older woman with dark hair and eyes like Dr. Van Ripple’s. Beside the portrait is a hair wreath, made to honor the dead, the hair cut and framed as a reminder of the loved one. This one is a coiled braid of faded gray and brown. pqdm.com