No Place for a Lady (41 page)

Thankfully, he declined. He did not like strong drink, and she did not wish to leave him alone. So they settled into her room with an awkward silence. She knew it was time to speak. With Jacob in the alley keeping an eye on the street, she was entirely private with the MP. She must make the most of her opportunity now, while she still had the chance.

But this part of her plan was more than hard. Now, she attempted the impossible. She had to convince the MP to listen to her as he would a person of power and influence.

She began slowly, with soft phrases to soothe him. "You have been very patient, sir, and I must thank you for your forbearance. Unfortunately, I must ask your indulgence for just a bit longer."

"Do not worry, Miss Dela—er, Drake," he said, though his voice wheezed a bit.

"Please. My name is Fantine Delarive." If nothing else, she would do this under her own name.

He smiled. "Miss Delarive, then. I have been in much worse places. The cargo hold of a slave ship comes to mind. Still, I cannot help wondering at Chadwick. I cannot like that he has exposed you to these rough surroundings."

Fantine shifted awkwardly where she stood, wondering how best to respond to such a statement. She decided on being forthright and honest. "Actually, sir, Lord Chadwick had absolutely nothing to do with this. He still thinks you safely ensconced in that charming cottage."

Wilberforce straightened, peering again at her tiny room. "I do not understand."

"Sir, these are my rooms. The best I have had, in fact, for most of my life. You see," she said with a touch of pride, "they are clean and serviceable. Few rats. A job downstairs. I was very lucky to find it."

Wilberforce shook his head. "But—That cannot be. You are a gently reared young lady."

She restrained a bitter laugh. The one time she truly wished to be exactly as she was, her companion refused to believe it. "I am a bastard. My mother was an actress who made little more than a few quid per show. The only way for her to survive was by bringing men into her bed. Then I was born."

"Impossible," snapped Wilberforce. "You are being brought out by Lord Chadwick as a family friend. I cannot believe his mother would countenance such a person in society."

"I assure you, it is true. It is, in fact, Lady Anne's most generous understanding that has convinced me to approach you today." She stepped forward, knowing her next words were the most important, and she prayed God would give her the right ones.

"I have lived on the street, seen the horrors that are forced on girls and boys alike. I have been a liar, a thief, and once I stabbed a man. It was only by God's good fortune that I found my father, and he was willing to help me. Otherwise, I would still be in the gutter doing anything I could to survive."

This time Wilberforce folded his arms across his chest and frowned at her. "You are a gently reared young lady. I have seen you be such on numerous occasions. This... this playacting does you no credit." He looked as if he were scolding a child, and Fantine wanted to scream at such willful blindness.

"I am not playacting, Mr. Wilberforce. At least not now. When I go about in society, however, I use my skills, learned painfully at my mother's knee. Later, Chadwick's sister and mother filled in the gaps."

"You cannot be serious."

"I have never been more serious in my life." Impulsively, she settled on the floor beside him, using her posture to be both submissive and imploring. "I was extremely fortunate. I found my father, and Penworthy was willing to help me change. But there are many who do not have so exemplary a parentage."

"Penworthy?" he gasped. He peered down at her, his frown growing deeper. "Yes, I suppose I see a resemblance. Around the eyes, I think."

"And in our singular determination to be heard, sir," she returned.

"Do not try my patience, young lady."

"Then do not willfully close your eyes to the truth," she returned hotly, abandoning her submissive posture. Shifting to the bed, she faced him eye-to-eye. He did not appreciate the change as he matched her glare with his own.

Good Lord, he was as blind as the worst of his class, willfully closing his eyes to what was literally right before his nose. But he was also a man of God, and perhaps that was how best to open his mind. Wilberforce saw her as a pampered, empty-headed young miss. Perhaps that would not change. First impressions were often the hardest to overcome.

But she had already sent a message to Nameless. He and his friends would be here any moment. Half of them had been chimney sweep boys. If their stories did not make the God-fearing Mr. Wilberforce weep, then nothing would.

"I want to introduce you to some of my friends," she said. "I do what I can for them, feed them when I have the funds, try to give them hope for the future when I do not. Perhaps you would also like meeting Louise. She is very young, but already she is considering life as a prostitute, and indeed, that is all that is open for her if she cannot continue her dance lessons."

Mr. Wilberforce merely folded his arms and looked at her, his expression thoughtful. "Why should I listen to them?"

"Because they will tell you how they live and what they expect. Then I will tell you how I want to help them. If we teach them, give them choices other than thieving or whoring, then it will be better for all of England. There could be less anger in the lower classes, you know. I need not tell you that alleviating that is the first step in preventing exactly what happened in France."

"The English people would never revolt against the Crown!"

Fantine bit her lip. No, she did not think they would.

But the upper crust seemed desperately afraid of the downtrodden souls. Their biggest fear was that the poor would revolt as strongly, as viciously, as they had in France. She was not above using such fear to meet her own ends.

"The poor are angry, my lord. You and I both know what horrors an angry mob can perpetrate."

He was silent a moment, glaring about the room as if it were to blame. She let him remain frustrated, stewing in his impotence. Then she spoke, giving him the answer as if it were his own idea.

"You can help them. Just by hearing their stories, you can show them that they can ask for help. Then we can work on a solution together."

"And if I refuse?"

She pulled at her lip. "I pray that you do not." She returned to her submissive pose, doing her best to look young, innocent, and so earnest it would soften his heart. "Please, I have prayed for someone to listen. Just once. Please?"

He was silent a long time, and Fantine held her breath waiting. Finally, she could stand it no longer and offered one last suggestion. She felt as if she were baring her soul in the most painful of ways, but it had to be done. If this were the only way, then she would do it. For Nameless and Louise.

"The priests say that God works in mysterious ways. Can He not work through me as well? Whether I am a mad debutante or a strange bastard, I am still part of God's kingdom, am I not? Will you not see what I can show you?"

In the end, the man raised his arms in a gesture of defeat. "Very well," he said, though it was clear he had little patience for this. "I will listen for an hour. But then I shall have to insist you take me to White's. My work is there, obtaining the votes I need for my bill. There is nothing here for me to see."

With that inauspicious beginning, Fantine brought in Nameless and Louise and many of the other people she knew to tell their stories. With each grimy face, with each angry or pathetic or thieving soul she brought in, she prayed to Wilberforce's God that this story would open the MPs head as well as his mind.

But it did not work.

By the end of the hour, he was as irritable, as anxious, and as willfully blind as before. True, he cared about the sufferings of the slaves. But there was no room in his heart for more.

She had failed.

"I am sorry, sir," she finally said. "I can see I have wasted both of our time."

"Oh, child," he said softly, and for the first time that day, she saw compassion in his expression. He reached out and touched her face, lightly, as a father would stroke the dirt from his child's face. "It is not that I do not believe their stories, but there must be priorities. God has sent me to end the suffering of the slaves. To divide my attention would damage both our causes."

Fantine pressed forward. "Surely you support what I wish to do here."

"And what is that?"

"To make a better life for them."

"They must do it on their own, as you have."

She shook her head. "It is not that simple. They need food, an education, the simple belief that they can."

Wilberforce merely frowned. "They must turn to God for that."

"They are turning to you."

"No, Fantine Delarive," he said softly, "they are turning to you."

And that, it seemed, was that. Wilberforce had his own cause. Now she had hers. "But how am I to help them?" she asked herself as much as him. "How do I build the things I wish for?"

Wilberforce merely smiled. "The way is simple. Find yourself a good husband—one who is smart, political, and rich. Then convert him to your cause."

She stared wordlessly at him. He spoke as if it were the easiest thing in the world. As if she had not just spent the last few hours determined to become a power in her own right.

But perhaps he was right. Perhaps she could use a rich, powerful husband. "But how do I get one?"

Then, for the first time ever, she heard the MP's laugh. It sounded hearty and strong in his frail body, and it was a wonder to hear it. "Surely, somewhere among your vast array of talents, you have learned how to charm a man?"

Fantine felt a coy smile pull at her lips. "Well, perhaps I have some knowledge of that."

"Then use it. Use whatever you have, whatever tool you can find. Pray daily, hourly if need be, and God will provide what you need."

Fantine twisted her hands in her skirt, still uncomfortable with such piousness. "You truly believe that?" she asked. "God will help me?"

"Yes," he said, his voice warm, "I truly believe that. As you said, God works in mysterious ways, even through a strange bastard or a mad debutante."

Looking into his eyes, hearing his powerful voice surround her, Fantine vowed to try and believe his words.

Then Ballast burst through the door.

Fantine was caught off guard. She had spent too much time in Lottie's safe home, and her thoughts now were centered on the future, not the present.

She should have known better, but it was too late. Ballast and three of his men burst through the door, catching her standing stupidly beside the MP, her knife across the room in a pile of Rat's clothing.

Wilberforce began to stand, but he was no match for the man who pushed him roughly back into the chair. Fantine was similarly cut off as she made a dash for her weapon. Ballast and his two remaining men surrounded her with a speed even she found surprising.

Ballast must have wanted her badly if his men were frightened enough to give their very best against a lone woman and a crippled old man.

So she straightened slowly, squaring her shoulders as she confronted Ballast. He looked as dirty and rumpled as usual, but this time his face had the added greenish cast of an old bruise finally fading. Fantine could not help smiling. She had known Marcus had hit him hard, but she had not realized how very punishing his fist could be to have marked Ballast for this long.

It was a gratifying thought.

Then the image was brought forcibly home as Ballast hit her solidly across the face.

She cried out as her head snapped back, and she fell, landing painfully, half across her bed.

Nearby, Wilberforce surged to his feet. "Stop it!" he cried even as the brute near him laughed and pushed the MP back into his chair.

"Get up," growled Ballast at her.

Fantine rolled painfully into a sitting position. Her head throbbed, and she tasted blood. But she did not speak. Not yet. She was still evaluating the situation.

She had expected Ballast to talk with her a moment, rattle his saber, so to speak, before he degenerated into true violence. But he had not done that. In one vicious blow, he had wiped away any veneer of civility. In seconds, Miss Fantine Delarive was gone, and a mixture of Fanny and Rat surged to the fore.

Fantine forgot her lessons in civility, forgot everything but the need to survive. With it came a cockiness, a solid belief in her own invulnerability that was as much a defense on the street as a knife.

Especially since it was the only weapon she had.

"Where is my son?" bellowed Ballast.

Fantine felt her eyes narrow in disdain. "Wot?"

"My son! Sprat! I saw 'im get in th' carriage with you and th' daft an' 'e ain't been home since. You bring 'im t' me, or I'll slit yer gullet from ear t' ear."

"You mean t' do that anyways," she muttered. "An' besides, I don't know where yer bloody brat is."

This time she was prepared for his blow. She pulled back, avoiding most of the impact, but he still caught part of her cheek, adding another bruise to her already swelling face.