The Firstborn

Chapter Twenty-One

Haughton sat in the carriage, while Winston occupied the seat across from him. Haughton pulled at the shade that covered the window and glanced out at the city. They were well into the East End, judging by the quality of the streets beneath them and the sounds that reached them through the walls of the carriage. It was no surprise to him that David would choose such a disreputable neighborhood for his supposed meeting with Lucy, Sophia's sister. Though Haughton was already wary of even finding the younger Miss Brixton there. He doubted his expression would register even a modicum of shock should he walk into the inn and find his brother waiting with a careless demand for several thousand pounds in return for the child.

"I believe we've nearly arrived," Winston announced, matching Haughton's glance beyond the shade of the opposite window.

As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Haughton gripped the edge of the seat while a round of curses sounded from somewhere outside the vehicle. He didn't wait for the door to opened for them but instead stepped down on his own before anyone had even jumped down to lower the step. He realized as the two of them departed the carriage that he'd made the right choice in opting for a more plain, conservative mode of dress for this particular errand. Together, they blended in neatly with the dull colors and ochreous layers of smoke and fog that seemed to cling to every corner and cobblestone.

"We shall meet back here in one hour," Winston said, glancing at the watch he'd tugged from the pocket of his waistcoat. "I'll proceed to the Calf's Head Inn on foot, while you meet with Miss Penrose at the Rose and Thorn."

Haughton tore his glance away from an altercation between a crossing sweeper and a tradesman to look at Winston. "And you're certain that my brother and Miss Penrose were spotted together at the Calf's Head?"

Winston nodded, his right hand going to the outside of his coat, where no doubt his notebook was concealed inside. "Several witnesses report their comings and goings from there, and the innkeeper himself confessed to there being an infant on the premises. No doubt that's why they've arranged this meeting in another building entirely, to keep you off the scent. But if the child is indeed at the Calf's Head, I'll do my best to collect him while you're otherwise occupied with the sister. If all goes well, I'll return directly to the carriage and wait for you."

Haughton bristled. "All better go well," he muttered beneath his breath before checking his own watch. "Best be off now, rather than risk keeping anyone waiting."

They parted ways at the edge of the pavement, Haughton's destination only two blocks away while Winston set off with the silhouette of St. Matthew's behind him.

A ripple of guilt passed through Haughton as he made his way towards the Rose and Thorn. Sophia had initially insisted on accompanying them, but he had insisted she remain in St. James's Street, to rest and to help prepare the house for George's arrival, an arrival he did not allow himself to doubt would be occurring before the day was out.

After a few words with the innkeeper, a tall, reedy man with yellow fingernails and yellower teeth—what he still had of them—Haughton was led into a private room in the back of the building. The place was small, furnished with scraps that looked to have been rescued from a previous century and propped up against papered walls that were stained and warped along every corner.

Lucy Brixton sat in a decrepit armchair, her dress and manner attempting to put forward the notion that she was of a higher quality than the room in which she currently resided. Her gown was some ghastly concoction of pale green silk and so many flounces and layers of fussiness that she resembled a petits four more than a young woman.

"Lord Haughton!" She extended her hand to him, fully expecting him no doubt to traipse across the cluttered room and plant a kiss to her fingers. Instead, Haughton remained at his post just inside the door and tugged at the cuffs of his gloves.