Page 31 of When We Touch

And still, Eddy was like every young man of his age. A few years older than Justin, he was fascinated by play, and was known in certain circles as “Prince Collar and Cuffs.” He loved being a dandy, gambling, and he loved women and, a few very close to him knew, men as well. He was wary of many of the women who swirled around him in his grandmother’s world at court—as well he should be. Despite an outward appearance of adhering to the strict morality and devotion to legal spouse and family brought in by Prince Albert, many of those hanging about were vultures.

Eddy was aware he was a vulnerable target.

He especially loved the East End. He came without a title, even if his entourage was often with him. He met women, and Luther Green saw to it that a steady supply was available. The East End was filled with the worst kind of prostitutes—aging women, often close to death through cirrhosis of the liver from too much gin, and frequently pockmarked, filthy, missing teeth, and certainly, simply ugly. For the prices they charged, a loaf of bread, doss money for a single night, they sometimes managed to get by. Their ugliness didn’t matter, for such business was usually carried out quickly, from behind, and a woman’s ravaged face need not be seen.

But these “fallen angels”—as they were sometimes, ridiculously, romantically called—had all begun somewhere. Of course, there were those who began their careers late in life, deserted by a husband, or, sometimes, consumed by alcohol addiction.

But there were those who came fresh off the boats from foreign lands, young and innocent, not even aware of the profession that was about to engulf them, ruin them, and make old women of them far before their time. There were poor-paying jobs to be had in factories, and many started out there with dreamy eyes, praying for a better future. For them, a night with a “gentleman” paid more than a week of hard labor.

It was these fair maidens who men like Luther Green found for his “special” customers.

That night, with Percy, he had planned a rather spectacular event in one of his private rooms. Belly dancers and harem masters, scantily clad, engaging in theatrical sex, moving on to afford whatever entertainment a man might require. The room had a secret stairway that led to small private rooms upstairs, and in the midst of pageantry play and raucous behavior, a man might choose among the entertainers for a private assignation.

The belly dancers weren’t real at all. Nor did they really know how to belly dance. But both the men and women brought in for the play had been ordered that cleanliness was demanded for the roles they would play, and the scanty apparel provided had indeed been provocative. Justin himself seldom engaged in such base play; he had a mistress, Louisa, who served the Crown Princess Alexandra, was widowed, and perfect for his needs. Their affair was quiet and unremarkable; neither expected marriage or everlasting fidelity, and it suited them both well. But tonight . . .

One of the young women had been quite alluring. Truly fresh, with huge green eyes, a wicked free length of ink-dark hair, and breasts the size of melons, rouged and exposed. She had lured him up the stairs, and he had discovered that her innocence was but play. Her lips were sensual and well-formed and she knew how to use them, along with various other body parts. It helped that he had imbibed far too much cheap whiskey, and, of course, by that time, it seemed that anything at all might be amusing, so when the first young beauty was joined by another, he just lay back and enjoyed. They expected payment, though, and somewhere, in the dull recesses of his mind, he realized that he was able to afford his entertainment because he was allowing his sister to take on his debts. That had left him feeling ill, filled with self-loathing. As it happened, he owed no one anything for the evening, since Percy Ainsworth had paid for it all beforehand. Still, Justin had to wonder if that absolved him of guilt or not, and then, later, as they staggered into the streets, Eddy among them, and the horse nearly ran them down, he found himself not angry, but wondering just what a loss there might have been if he had died there in the streets.

“Sweet Jesu!” Eddy exclaimed suddenly, and Justin realized that the Prince was staring at him. He had dark deep-set eyes in an almost handsome face. “You saved my life, Graham!”

“What?”

“You pushed me out of the way!”

Justin shook his head. “Eddy, the horse would have shied away; that was a well-bred animal. Trust me—we were all startled, but I don’t think that I pushed you out of the way, I think that the horse managed to sidestep us. Lord knows, my head is reeling. I might well have knocked us all into the animal.”

“Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?” Among their party that night was Walter Sickert, the artist. Justin personally thought many of his paintings were a bit too base and bizarre, but Walter was gaining a following. Like Eddy’s mother, he was Danish, and therefore, the Princess thought he was a good person to teach Eddy about life.

Justin wondered if Princess Alexandra knew just what Sickert was capable of teaching Eddy about street life, but then again, with the friends Eddy already kept, he couldn’t think of anything much more base or degrading the Prince could learn. He had it on good report that there was a certain house on Cleveland Street where the Prince played. It was a brothel which offered male prostitutes.

Roger, who had somehow remained the most sober of them, was still staring in the direction the horse had run.

“Rather fine animal for a place like this,” he commented.

Percy burst into laughter and clapped a hand on Roger’s back. “And so are you, Sir Roger!” he proclaimed. “And me, of course, I’m really far too fine an animal for this place, but then again, I am an animal.”

“Listen!” Roger said. “Hear those whistles? The coppers are all about!”

Roger was right; somewhere near, whistles were sounding. Pretty soon, he thought, the streets might well be filled with bobbies, hurrying about, after some criminal—petty or other. In these streets, they often enough stepped over bodies. Most of them still warm and breathing, but so far under the influence of drink that they were dead to the world—for the present.

Upon occasion, there was that body of one gone forever. Men knifed men in these parts for whatever pennies might be found in their pockets. They killed out of jealousy or rage, or because of a barroom brawl—when glass was broken, then driven into the jugular of one poor fellow or another. Little notice was taken.

Paupers died without fanfare.

Not that the police didn’t try. Justin knew that they tried very hard.

But the roots of evil here were deep. They were in the filth and grime of the streets, the tenements with their shattered windows stuffed with rags to keep out the worst of the cold and the stench and the wind. They were in the desperation caused by starvation, and a life so severe that all the civility earned in thousands of years of existence was reduced to simple survival.

“We’ve got to get back to my coach,” Percy said, and even he sounded somewhat disturbed; none of them wanted to be caught.

Many things went on in truth. But they were all hidden from the Queen. They might be living in the nineteenth century, but her virtuous disapproval could be known.

“There! Percy, there’s your coach now!” Roger said.

And indeed, the massive carriage with the Ainsworth coat of arms displayed on the doors was thundering down the street, heading their way. It pulled to a stop.

To Justin’s amazement, the head that popped from the doorway belonged to none other than Sir James Langdon.

“Get in, fellows, get in. There’s some commotion going on down the street.”