The Rat-Catcher's Daughter Read online

  THE RAT-CATCHER’S DAUGHTER

  Lilywhite Boys 0.5

  KJ Charles

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Rat-Catcher's Daughter (Lilywhite Boys, #0.5)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  With huge thanks to Helen Kord, May Peterson, and Lady Tiferet.

  This story takes place two years before the events of Any Old Diamonds.

  Content warning: the story opens with a scene of misgendering/transphobia and threat of violence

  Chapter One

  LONDON, 1893

  Christiana looked in the mirror, and wondered if getting dressed up would make the forthcoming beating better or worse.

  It was a toss-up. If she was painted and clad as herself, would the men coming for her be a little more restrained with their blows? Might they leave her face alone? Or would they be all the crueller for it?

  The question thrummed urgently in her head, but it was merely a distraction, because nothing she did would matter now. She was going to get her head kicked in whatever clothes she wore, because Kammy Grizzard intended to make an example of her, and Kammy’s examples were notorious.

  She wanted to be sick. Even more than that, she would have liked to run, but one of Kammy’s men was leaning on the outside of the door. Kammy was coming for a personal chat to express his disappointment, and any attempt to nack off would just get her an advance beating, an hors d’oeuvre before the main course. She’d have tried it anyway, but she was in a dressing room of the Britannia, a cramped Hoxton music hall, and there wasn’t a window.

  It wasn’t like she had anywhere to go, or anyone who’d hide her. Not with Kammy out for blood.

  Fuck it. She was looking at serious damage, because Kammy liked to be sure other people saw the examples he made. So she might as well look her best while she could, and it would be something to do while she waited.

  She shaved close. Plucked her eyebrows and lined them. Painted and powdered—it was always a nuisance finding the right colours for her tawny skin when most powders were chalk-white—lined her eyes with kohl, stepped into a shimmering green satin gown and matching emerald pumps with a darling heel, made by a cobbler who specialised in women’s shoes for larger feet. She tucked her shortish black hair under the long black wig, and contemplated Miss Christiana in the mirror.

  She wasn’t a classical beauty, perhaps, but she looked well enough. Big brown eyes, long dark lashes, a nice smile, not that she felt like smiling now. She was smart and saucy and near enough to everything she’d always wanted to be. It seemed horribly unfair that Kammy Grizzard would take that away.

  She wondered whether to add the paste emeralds she would normally wear with this dress. It might be seen as provocative, under the circumstances.

  Kammy Grizzard was a name to conjure with, but only in the Faustian sense. He’d started as a receiver of stolen goods and moved up to jewels. Now he also bought debts, because when you did that, you could buy people. Specifically, he had a line in women: actresses, singers, dancers, even a few society women, it was rumoured, and a handful of young men as well.

  He wasn’t a procurer or pimp, not as such. What Kammy did was train his pretty faces, put them in the way of wealthy men or women, and expect them to come back with their pockets full. Cash, portable valuables, jewels. Kammy liked jewels as much as he liked obedience.

  He sent you to seduce some wealthy person. You did the business with them for as long as it took, and helped yourself to whatever Kammy had told you to steal. If you got away, Kammy took the profit, which might be enough to pay your debt, or it might not. If you got caught, you hoped your mark would give you a thrashing rather than summon the police. If they didn’t, you kept your mouth shut and served your time, because nobody grassed up Kammy Grizzard. You didn’t grass him up, and you didn’t let him down.

  Christiana had let him down. He’d be making an example. She really wanted to be sick.

  She put on the string of glittering green paste. Took it off. Put it on again; took it off again, thoroughly disarranged the wig with fumbling fingers. She tried to straighten it and made it worse, snatched the thing off her head, and was standing there, gowned, painted, short-haired, and shaking, when the door opened and Kammy Grizzard walked in.

  He didn’t look like what he was, which was the cold heart of a web of crime. He looked like a minor bank clerk, with grey-brown clipped hair, a pasty-white complexion that suggested he rarely saw sunshine, and gloomy eyes. The two brutes who flanked him, with thick muscles and the joy of cruelty in their eyes, looked exactly what they were. One of them had a gingery handlebar moustache that was an act of violence all by itself, and a mostly-healed cut on his forehead. Christiana had met him before.

  “Hello, Mr. Grizzard,” Christiana managed. Her voice was too high, and it cracked.

  “Christopher Morrow.” Kammy looked her up and down. His eyes shone with damp disappointment. “You let me down, Christopher. I had a plan. I told you what to do. I made it easy for you, and what did you do?”

  “Let you down, Mr. Grizzard.” There was no point arguing. She wished he’d just get on with it, but of course the telling-off was part of the torture.

  “I’m upset,” Kammy said. “You could have been useful to me. I had plans for you. And then the very first time, you go and let me down.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Grizzard.”

  “That’s my apology. How nice.” Kammy leaned forward. “Where’s my fucking money?”

  I can pay. Give me time. Let me try again. Please don’t hurt me. The words jumbled in Christiana’s brain; her mouth, aware that it would be wasted effort, didn’t let them out. Her throat was closing. She felt an urgent need to piss and wondered if she was going to soil herself during the beating. In this dress, too; she’d never get the stains out.

  “You little shit,” Kammy said. “You think you get to walk away from me like it’s up to you? Like you decide what to do? I own you, Christopher Morrow. You’re my property, understand? What are you?”

  Fuck you, Christiana thought. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. She wanted to say it, and knew she was too afraid.

  “What are you?” Kammy shouted.

  “Your property,” Christiana said through her teeth. It wouldn’t help, but holding out wouldn’t do that either.

  “Mine. That’s right. And now I’m making an example of you.” He waved at the thug with the handlebar moustache like a man signalling to a waiter for more coffee. “Now, Geoffrey. What would you do with this one to make an example?”

  Geoffrey looked her up and down, taking his time. “Face, Uncle Kammy. People notice when you spoil someone’s face good and proper.” He smiled. The moustache humped over his lips like a ferret about to escape. “Face and hands, that’s what people don’t want to lose. Then legs.”

  “That’s right,” Kammy said. “Good boy. Start with his fingers, I reckon. Right hand. One by one, and break ’em twice.”

  Geoffrey’s smile widened vindictively. “Yes, Uncle Kammy.”

  “No, Uncle Kammy,” said a voice from the door, in contemptuous parody. “I really don’t think so.”

  Kammy swung round. Christiana gaped.

  There were two men there, each leaning against one side of the doorframe with arms crossed, like a matched pair of bookends. One was lean, with brown hair, darker eyes, and a pair of eyebrows that had Christiana mentally casting him as Stage Villain (Upper Class). The other man was big: a few inches over six foot, with very broad shoulders. He watched Kammy under eyelids drooping so low they were almost shut. Neither of them was smiling.

  “What the devil are you t
wo doing here?” Kammy demanded.

  “Mind your language, old fellow.” The big man spoke like a gentleman, but not like a nice one. “There’s a lady present.”

  Geoffrey bristled. “You’re intruding on our business. Get out.”

  “Shut up, Geoff,” Kammy said.

  “Yes, do that, Geoff,” the big man agreed. The contempt in his voice flicked like a whip.

  Geoffrey reddened. The newcomers both straightened up, and moved into the room, heading slightly away from each other, taking up space. The big one strolled towards Geoffrey, stopping significantly too close, so that Geoffrey visibly straightened his spine in an effort to look taller. The lean one circled like a stalking dog around Kammy’s other man, who shifted on his feet, readying himself.

  Christiana could see why. The big one really was very big, and the pair gave off the kind of aura that—well, when men like that came into the pub you drank up and went somewhere else. They moved like a walking invitation. Go on, try me. Just try.

  Kammy didn’t seem bothered. “I asked you what you were doing here.”

  “We felt like picking on someone our own size,” the big man said. “You should try it some time. Any takers?” He smiled down at Geoffrey. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “Actually, we’re on an errand,” the lean man said. His voice was surprisingly deep. “Did I hear Miss Morrow here owes you money?”

  “Owes me a lot more than that,” Kammy said. “We had an arrangement and he let me down. I don’t like welshers.”

  The lean man glanced at Christiana. “What arrangement was that?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I asked a simple question. What’s the problem here, Kammy?”

  “Well, I’ve two problems,” Kammy said. “One is that Morrow was supposed to work his debt off and he made a mess of it, see? And the other is that you two are in here getting in my way.”

  The big man glanced at the lean one, who tipped his head a fraction. The big man said, “We’ll buy the debt.”

  “Thus solving both your problems,” the lean man added. “Don’t say we never do anything for you.”

  He kept his eyes on Kammy. The big man watched both thugs, a steady survey. Nobody spared a look for Christiana.

  “You’ll buy his debt,” Kammy repeated. “Come into money, have you?”

  “Earn a penny, save a penny, it all adds up,” the big man said piously.

  Kammy smiled, the effort of it lifting both ends of his moustache. “Ah. Now, if you boys have business to do with me—”

  “We spoke about this,” the lean one said across him. His tone was entirely uncompromising.

  “We make our own arrangements, old chap, you know that.” The big man sounded faintly amused, as though he didn’t take Kammy seriously. Christiana had no idea how anyone could not do that, and would have very much liked to sit down. “This is a separate issue. We want Miss Morrow here, debts, obligations and all. We’ll buy her off you.”

  Kammy looked between them. “Now, why would you want to do that?”

  “Well, you know Jerry,” the big man said. “Ladies’ man to the end.”

  The lean man grinned satanically. “And Templeton is such an admirer of the music hall. Kammy, old chap, if your men keep sidling about like that, someone’s going to get hurt.”

  Christiana could well believe someone would get hurt today, and the odds of it being her were not getting any less. She took a very gentle backward step towards the dressing table.

  “Let’s be reasonable,” the lean man—Jerry—went on. “You want your money, and this one’s no use to you.” He jerked a thumb at Christiana without looking. “Do it your way, you’ve got a mess to clear up and no money. Sell us the debt, you get paid in full, and we all part friends.”

  “That’s a very generous offer,” Kammy said. He and the newcomers were eyeing each other like cats.

  “We like to make the world a better place. How much does she owe you?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “It was two hundred and fifty!” Christiana blurted, and could have cut out her own tongue as Kammy turned to her with a savage look.

  “Kammy, Kammy, Kammy.” The big man, Templeton, shook his head. “Is that any way to start a friendly negotiation?”

  “He owes me money, and he let me down.” Kammy jabbed a thumb at Christiana. “If he walks away, there’s others’ll think they can. What’s my reputation worth?”

  Jerry’s eyebrows angled improbably. “There’s a question. Really, Kammy. Between this and the mistake you’re making about the Bulwerton ball job—”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a set-up. The Lazarus lot are all over it, flies on shit. If your men turn up you can kiss them goodbye. I tell you that free, gratis, and for nothing, since we’re all friends here.”

  Templeton extended long, powerful arms, interlocked his fingers, and flexed them outwards. “So friendly.”

  “Nothing but the most loving kindness,” Jerry concluded. “So we’ll give you two hundred and fifty for Miss Morrow and all her debts and obligations.”

  “Four fifty.”

  “Kammy.”

  Kammy’s jaw set. “He’s worth something to me.”

  “You were about to spoil her for good,” Templeton pointed out, smiling.

  “He didn’t do what he was told. Four fifty or I’ll have him broken and you can watch.”

  Templeton’s smile dropped away. Christiana swallowed. There were too many men in the room, and the atmosphere felt like the air when you were waiting for the first crash of thunder: thick, still, ominous. “We said we’d exhaust our other options before resorting to tactics anyone would regret, didn’t we, Jerry?”

  “We did.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “God, so am I.”

  Kammy sighed heavily. “Now, just a minute.”

  “All right, one minute,” Jerry agreed. “In which I offer you three hundred quid for Miss Morrow and her debts and obligations, plus the inconvenience and the example. We buy her; she’s ours, and not, Kammy, yours to touch or to call on ever again. That’s our offer and it’s not open to further negotiation. If it’s worth three hundred quid to you to beat her to a pulp, say so and we’ll bid you farewell. Or you could try my patience one more time and see what happens.”

  “Don’t try his patience,” Templeton said. “I’ve tried it lots of times, and it just doesn’t work.”

  “Three hundred,” Jerry said again. “Take it or don’t.”

  Kammy considered for a very long moment. “Three fifty. I’m not going lower.”

  Jerry inhaled meaningfully. Templeton said, “Done.”

  “Excuse me?” Jerry snapped at him.

  “I’m not a shopkeeper. Three fifty, Kammy.”

  Kammy nodded, with a distinctly smug look. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  They shook, Kammy’s hand disappearing in Templeton’s fingers. Nobody asked Christiana’s opinion.

  “My money?” Kammy enquired.

  “Of course,” Jerry said, somewhat sourly. “Let me walk you out while we arrange that. Out you go, gents. In front, please.”

  He herded the thugs out and left, arm in arm with Kammy. Templeton stayed, leaning against the door.

  Christiana stared at him. He was good-looking enough, but good looks didn’t make unwanted touch tolerable. Except she didn’t have a choice about what she’d tolerate, because she’d been bought and sold.

  “What do you want with me?” It was better than standing in silence, waiting. “Why did you do that?”

  “Charitable impulse. We’re kindly souls.”

  Christiana set her teeth. “You bought me. What for?”

  “You’ve been spending too long with Kammy, Miss Morrow. We don’t buy people.”

  “You said—”

  “It’s the only language he understands. We paid off your debt, that’s all.”


  “You bought my debt. I know what that means.”

  “We aren’t in the money-lending business,” Templeton said. “If I wanted to keep accounts for people I’d have got a job in a bank, and wouldn’t things have turned out differently. Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do you mean, don’t worry about it?” Christiana demanded. “I owe you three hundred and fifty quid that I don’t have!”

  “I mean don’t worry. Forget it. Write it off. Call it a birthday present— Jesus!”

  He moved with startling speed, catching Christiana before she fell and steering her to a chair. “Sit. Put your head between your legs, right down. It’s reaction, that’s all, perfectly natural in the circumstances. Keep your head down and raise your arms. If you pass out you’ll get that frock dirty and I won’t be held responsible.”

  She did as bid, blinking away the spots. After a moment she defied the dizzy nausea to look at him. He was squatting by the chair, which was definitely better than looming over it. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Templeton. Pleased to meet you.”

  “But who are you? Why did you pay my debt? Did—did you mean it, that I don’t have to pay it back?” Of course he didn’t. That didn’t happen. She made herself say, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Personally, nothing. We came here on a pal’s behalf.”

  “A pal,” she repeated.

  “A great admirer of yours. He heard you were in trouble and asked us to sort it out, as a favour. So don’t thank us, thank him.”

  “Thank him. Right.”

  Templeton looked at her with a little frown. “Look, not to raise indelicate subjects with a lady, but I assume, having bought you, Kammy intended to sell you.”

  “He wanted me to—” She didn’t want to say it. “Be nice to gentlemen for him.”

  “Of course he did. Well, I don’t know any gentlemen I’d want to be nice to, and our friend isn’t a gentleman anyway. If you’d like to thank him for putting a good word in, his name is Stan, and if all you want to do is say thank you, that will suffice.”