Perdita by Joan Smith

“Alton is nobody. Don’t you know who Mr. Brown is?”
    “No, but I know what he is, and we are not interested.”
    “It is all arranged! He’ll have my neck in a sling if she’s gone.”
    “Do you mean to stand there and tell me you have cooked up some deal for Brown to come here?” I demanded. “Mick Daugherty, whoever said there were no snakes in Ireland was mistaken! It was done the night you took him into the blue carriage, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?”
    "I meant to share the blunt with you. I knew she’d give in to him, sooner or later. No point antagonizing him, and you don’t have her under contract. She told me so. He was generous—gave me a hundred pounds. I have to produce her.”
    My first violent burst of anger gave way to mirth. How capital it was, that Mr. Brown had been hoodwinked. So insistent, so overbearing, underhanded, every vile thing you can name, and we were outwitting him. When he came, his April would be gone without a trace, for we would naturally not leave any forwarding address. His staying away from the Green Room for those few nights had been a ruse to calm my nerves, to get the Incomparable safely delivered to London, with no bother or fuss. "You are not going to produce her, Daugherty. Better produce his hundred pounds, instead.”
    “I’ve spent half of it. I’ll give you the rest.”
    “No, thanks. Maybe he’ll be satisfied with a pound of flesh instead. I know you are familiar with the works of Shakespeare, but I have a variation to suggest. Let him cut out your tongue; it will save you a deal of future trouble.”
    “Where are you going? Give me the address.”
    “Send him to Carleton House. If April is not there, he is bound to find some plump bird to his taste.”
    Alton and Perdita came into the hall. I went to the doorway of the parlor to bid all my old friends a last farewell. My anger with Daugherty robbed me of any feeling of regret at leaving, not that there would be much, but shared adventures had forged a bond between some of us. I felt a pang in particular for Angie, to know she was mired forever in this sort of existence, at such a young age. I must say she looked perfectly content with her lot, though. She was playing with Cathleen, already forgetful of us when we left.
    We squeezed into John’s stylish sporting curricle and were off, free of all the ignominies of the theatrical world at last. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Daugherty in the middle of the road, checking to see what route we took. I was sorry John had given his real name, but in the commotion it might have escaped Daugherty’s notice. He would not know where in the city to find him in any case. I did not think we would hear of Mr. Brown again.
    "Moira, I wish you will tell me what is going on,” John said, shouting over the noise of the carriage, the horses, and the busy streets. “I can’t make heads or tails of Perdie’s story. What were you doing with that pack of pimps and trollops?”
    His youthful face was red with annoyance, while his brown eyes bulged with shock. “It is a long story, John. Let us wait till we reach the quiet of your saloon. How is your mama?” How quickly the trite, polite phrases returned to mind.
    “Sick as a dog,” he answered frankly. “Got a dose of this wicked flu that is going round. Hope I don’t pick it up from her, for I am due to attend a house party on the weekend. Leave very soon to go to Grifford’s place, in Kent. They are trying to find a parti for that ugly patch of a daughter that has been hanging on the family tree till she’s wilted. Half the men in London are going to look her over.”
    “You can’t go,” Perdita said calmly. “You will have to take us to Brighton instead, to visit my Aunt Maude.”
    “The devil I will! Millie Grifford may look like a dog, but she is the richest squinter in the country. I’ll try my hand with her, like all the others. Favors me, to say the truth. Can’t imagine how it came about, for I