Chapter 1
Tom Courtney had been born to the gutter, but in his opinion, the aristocracy of England often far outdid the poor of Seven Dials in terms of nefarious lechery.
Oh, it was the topic of much conversation, the ways of residents in the terrifying and filthy East End… how they were criminals, stole anything that was not nailed down, drank gin by the pint, and played cards or dice on street corners. And that? That was just the beginning.
The artist Hogarth had sketched and printed it all.
And the ton did love to make comments on the low morals and shocking behavior of the men and women of the gutter.
Selling their children on the street, or abandoning them on foundling doorsteps. Surely, they had no feelings!
And those who weren’t criminals and worked back-breaking jobs, could not be roused from stupors on their hours off, sprawling drunk on stairs, forgetting the children they seemed to birth in scores.
Then of course there was the smell, the scum, the disease.
Tom’s hands curled into fists as he stood in an upper hallway in the luxury of his club. He contemplated the righteousness of the ton and upper classes as he listened to the sins being whispered in the room adjacent to him.
He was accustomed to the high opinions of hisbetters. After all, since he had begun to traverse the hallowed halls of the ton, all due to the position he had won with much wily difficulty… well, he was accustomed to members of the ton, regaling him with their shock at his place of origin, gazing down at him over powdered noses, twirling lace handkerchiefs, and jeweled hands.
Oh yes, they were quite serious as they rambled on with wine-soaked breath about how the residents of St. Giles needed to be done with once and for all and that the noose and workhouse really were the only options for such unrepentant masses.
The astonishment that he was a gentleman, that his behavior was so polished compared to the people he had grown up with? It stunned them, almost as if he was one of the creatures that had been brought back from Captain Cook’s explorations and put on display for all to marvel at.
It could be wearing, but he humored them. After all, in the end, he had more blunt them most of them now, better houses, and he did not have the same fears as they. No, what had he to fear after his childhood?
The truth was most of the people that he had grown up with were dead. Very few children had made it to the age of five, let alone thirteen.
He had clawed his way out from the dangerous warrens of the East End. He had no humbleness about him. The effort had taken an incredible amount of fortitude, courage, and a few lucky happenstances with adults who did not wish to misuse him.
Unlike most children of his class, he had done more than survive. He had friends who were dukes, knew the secrets of some of the highest in the land, and lived like a prince.
Yes, he had been fortunate. He’d also been hungry and waiting and ready to grab any opportunity in his boney fists.
Now? As a man who never feared where his next meal might come from, or where he would bed down that night without being attacked, it was his estimation that the great lords of this land were the most nefarious.
For they had been born to better opportunity and better education, yet often chose to do the most heinous things.
As he lingered in the dark corridor, lit only by a few flickering sconces, Tom listened to the four masked gentleman drinking brandy, swilling it down, smoking tobacco, and laughing at the skin-crawling misdeeds that they were contemplating.
He swallowed back his disgust as his opinions were only confirmed. His club was one of the most influential in London, though it was nothing like Whites.
His was a secret club. Membership was exceptionally difficult to obtain and it was a place not of gambling or prostitution.
Ladies of the night did grace the halls if they so chose, and he protected their business if the need arose.
In his establishment it rarely did. For he was clear about the sorts he welcomed. And drunken brawlers dressed in silk were not welcome.
Now, sometimes great affairs of the heart, soul, or simply pleasure took place in his halls and of course, there was the odd card game. But ultimately, his place was one of freedom and ideas where people came to be themselves.
After all, England did not necessarily approve of one being themself.
The great lords were supposed to behave as theyoughtand lords, it seemed to him, thought that theyoughtto behave in ways in which they took the different, chewed them up, and spat them out.
(Do you need this space?)
Now, it could be argued that the young lady who was the subject of the discourse in the room before him was not vulnerable.
After all, he had heard of Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Earl of Greystone.