A slight gust of air by her hips makes her eyes snap open, her hand shoots out and grabs onto something solid. She looks down at the boy who's shoulder she grips tightly, there is a small black purse in his tiny hand. He struggles in her grasp but as a skinny child of barely 10, it doesn't take much for her to keep hold of him. He frowns, annoyed at being caught, but then looks at her with pleading puppy dog eyes.
"You know the rules, Iwan," Clarissa says sternly. Iwan pouts holding the stolen purse away from her.
"It's not fair!" He complains, "You always catch me."
"I do but the day I don't catch you is the day it's yours." She says, reaching over and nabbing her purse back. She slides it into her pocket then releases his shoulder, crouching down to look into his face. He has the prettiest green eyes and teeny dimples around his mouth. She fishes a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes the grime off his small cheeks. He groans in protest but lets her clean off the dirt.
Clarissa met Iwan when he was born, although she was just a child of 11 at the time. His mother was a seamstress that left Wales with her husband in search of a better life, however, when they arrived in London it wasn't quite what they were expecting. Iwan's father died in a mill accident three months after arriving. Pregnant, desperate, and starving his mother turned to prostitution to survive and ended up working for Peter and Roderick Lenoir, Clarissa's grandfather. Clarissa was helping her grandfather with his rounds when Iwan's mother went into labour. She held the strange woman's hand through the all the pain and the blood until the hand in hers went slack and Iwan's mother left the world for good, leaving a screaming curly-haired baby behind. Out of sympathy and having no children of his own, Peter adopted the baby boy and named him after his real father so that he would not forget his heritage and the parents that would have loved him.
"Did you eat today?" She asks him, folding down the collar of his ripped blue coat.
"Stop it." He grumbles, shrugging her hands off and sticking his collar back up. She sighs and stands up.
"Well did you?"
"I ate some breakfast." He replies, "And I stole an apple and some bread."
"Is that all?" Clarissa questions, aware that Peter tends to forget to feed his adopted son with the running of The Strand taking up most of his mind.
Iwan folds his arms around him and kicks at the ground. "Am not hungry."
She frowns but doesn't push the matter. She glances behind her at The One-Eyed Duke, the lights twinkle. "You had better be running along now. Peter won't be pleased if he finds you playing out here at this time."
"He ain't pleased about anything at the moment, he's always in a mood. Yells all the time." Iwan's chin juts in the air as he gives her a disgruntled scowl. She shakes her head fondly and messes up his blonde locks, he ducks under her arm and steps away.
"He's just stressed." She reassures, "Some changes are happening that are weighing on his mind."
"Changes like your grandpa?" He asks curiously, dropping his hands from sorting out his hair.
Clarissa's heartstrings pull at his innocent wide-eyed expression but she manages a small nod and a shaky smile.
"Exactly like my grandfather."
"Peter says he's up with my ma in the special place in the sky. Is that true?" Iwan looks up into the dark overcast sky, the blackness seems to have created a blanket over them.
Clarissa also turns her head to the sky, "I do hope so." She murmurs.
Sensing her sadness Iwan throws his slim arms around her waist and hugs her. She hugs him back and holds her breath, trying to dispel the tears that have formed. They stand in the street embraced for a minute, but he eventually pulls away and takes a step towards the nearest alley.
"Am going to go home." He tells her as he starts to walk away. "G'night.."
"Iwan?" She calls, following his path. He turns around and blinks. She holds out her hand expectantly. "My purse please."
Iwan's face contorts with rage and he stamps his foot on the cobbles in frustration. He shifts his left hand from behind his back and shoves her purse into her hand. He glares at the beaded bag before marching away, grumbling incessantly. Clarissa smiles as she watches him get swallowed up by the darkness. Although she has no need to steal from the rich her grandfather had taught her the many tricks of pickpockets and thieves, which in turn she began to pass on to Iwan. She jostles the purse in her hand, feeling the weight of the coins, before placing it back in her coat pocket and beginning the short walk home.
She passes many pubs on her journey, all alight and full of lively characters that sing and drink until they pass out on the ground. She makes sure to keep to the edges of the street and hides her face from those she doesn't know. Those who do recognise her pale freckled face and plaited chocolate hair bow their heads in respect to her. Many have sorrow in their expressions but no one interrupts her course.
Clarissa's grandfather, Roderick Lenoir, was a prominent figure in the expansive underworld of London, even those who did not work for him knew of his power and presence. He became infamous for taking over land and property through merciless and gruesome methods. People respected and feared him in equal measure. He had the power to walk into a room and capture everyone's eyes, everyone's attention, everyone's respect. He knew how people operated and how easily they can be manipulated, he could twist his way out of every tight spot, every difficult situation.
Roderick tried to pass this knowledge onto his son, Silas Lenoir, but Silas had extraordinarily little interest in the people that live in The Strand. This disinterest grew to a dislike when he met Marie Sauvageonne, a rich French heiress with a strong aversion to poverty and everything it represents. She convinced him that any person below their station was not worth the trouble of bothering with. Roderick watched as his only son became too involved with his new wife and glamorous life to remember that people were depending on his family for survival.
Together Silas and Marie have three daughters, Celeste, Catherine, and Clarissa. The first time Roderick looked into the face of his youngest granddaughter he immediately knew that this girl was going to be the one destined to take over the leadership of the darker side of the Lenoir family's success and station. Clarissa became his protegee when she was 6 years old and thus was raised by her grandfather and the people of The Strand instead of her prejudiced mother.
As she nears the borders of The Strand's territory Clarissa becomes more aware of the people that walk the streets. Most of the area around the River Thames has been claimed in some way, however certain streets and parks remain no man's land and it is best to keep a watchful eye if you ever pass through these.
She had walked the way home with her grandfather many times before and never felt fear, but tonight an unsettled feeling sticks in her stomach and she can't shake the feeling of being watched. Her pace quickens along with her pulse, this might be her territory but all manner of unsavoury characters have been known to cross through. Jack Sheppard, the notorious thief and prison escapee, was rumoured to have spent his final weeks posing as an honourable gentleman in The Strand before he was recaptured and executed.
"And where do you think you are headed in such a rush?" A voice demands. Swiftly Clarissa dislodges the small knife hidden in her sleeve so it slips into her grasp, she holds it securely by her side, ready to attack. She turns around cautiously. The oil lamps that line the street flood warm light and shadows onto the pair. The stranger steps into a pool of light and it throws their face into sharp relief. Clarissa immediately lowers the knife.
"Are you trying to get stabbed?" She cries, her heart racing.
"So ya back around then." Florence Mires says, grinning and leaning against the railing along the River Thames.
"So it would seem," Clarissa replies, tucking the knife back into her dress.
"I erd some gossip at The Duke but you can never be sure. I thought you'd've come looking for me." Florence says, twirling a strand of red hair around her index finger, "Am 'urt."
Clarissa has to resist the urge to snort, while she might be close friends with the prostitute, she doesn't have time to check every scoundrel's bed to simply notify her that she has returned to action. Blessed with a petite and curvy figure, fiery red hair and soft features Florence has been successfully working as a whore in The Strand since she was 15 and brings in a significant chunk of money every month. She is a beautiful but damaged creature, the hard rulings of men have left their mark on her soul if not her skin. Clarissa took a liking to the wild girl immediately and their friendship has spanned over 12 years, it's not typical but she would call this prostitute her best friend.
"My apologies," She says, resting her forearms on the railing and looking into the murky depths of the river. "I had some business to sort before I could socially call." She twists her head to smile at her friend, "I missed you though Flo."
Florence moves closer and lowers her voice, "You saw Peter? What happened? What did he say?"
Clarissa sighs, "He tried to push me out, he doesn't trust me or my motives. I had to convince him to let me try but he doesn't want to work with me."
"Of course he trusts you, he is just wanting to be sure of..." Florence trails off, chewing on her lip. "...Of things."
Clarissa shakes her head. "He said that I am not like my grandfather and that it won't work as it did before,"
The words taste bitter coming out of her mouth.
"Clary, you aren't like your grandfather." Florence states, "But that's a good thing. He took us through a lot of pain to end up here. We need you to keep the peace and defend us, not wage more war."
Clarissa nods. Florence is five years her senior and can remember the tough and dark times that Roderick put The Strand through to create a lasting and profitable peace, whereas Clarissa only has flashes of memory.
"It's hard to keep the peace when you don't know who defending it from," She says bitterly.
"What?"
"Peter told me that a family called Cavendish is looking at our ports. I know no one by that name. " Clarissa admits, "It could be anyone."
It's a dangerous situation when known competitors start looking at your ports and territory, it's even worse when you don't know who it is, their limits or who they have in their pocket.
"Not....anyone," Florence says slowly. Clarissa double blinks and frowns at her friend.
"You know who it is?"
Florence suddenly looks guilty, she starts to twist her hands together, "Not entirely," She doesn't elaborate.
"What do you know Flo?" Clarissa demands, stepping close to the girl and fixing her with a straight glare.
"Alright calm down." Florence hisses, she leans in close and checks that they have no eavesdroppers before speaking.
"I was with a client in The City the other day and as I was leaving The Horse and Hare I heard one of the men say something about a Cavendish coming to meet Alderbridge and to check on a few things." She says, "It was odd though because no soul knew who it was."
"So, Cavendish is moving in on The City then." Clarissa murmurs to herself, "We need to keep an eye on that." She shakes her head, clearing her mind and glances at Florence, reproach in her eyes. "What were you doing with a man in The City anyway? You know that's not safe."
Florence rolls her eyes, "Easy for you to say, I haven't got a silver spoon in my mouth. I need to eat, Clary, and it's been real dry around here since your grandfather went, people are staying away."
"I am sorry," Clarissa says immediately, "I just don't know what I would do If I lost you. I can protect you if you stay in The Strand. Out there I cannot do anything. Did that happen tonight?" She points at a significant tear on the left side of Florence's scarlet dress.
Florence glances down at the gash. "I just caught myself, I am not hurt."
Clarissa reaches to her ears and unclasps the black stone earrings she chose this morning. She holds them out. "Here, they aren't expensive but they could feed you and the girls for a few days. Sell them, wear them I don't mind. Just be careful."
Florence reluctantly excepts the jewellery and tucks them into her bosom. "Thanks. When will I see you again?"
Clarissa shrugs, "Mother has the house under lock and key but I'll find a way out. I always do."
A crash behind them has both of them jumping and whipping around to see a group of men stumble out of a pub and fall onto the ground in a heap. They all try to stand up but their limbs are too tangled and they end up back on the wet stone.
"A bit of a different life from a finishing school, innit?" Florence comments, watching the men with interest.
"Worlds apart." Clarissa agrees.
"Well if you'll excuse me, I have some business to do," Florence says, pulling the deep neckline of her dress down even further and tossing her hair behind her shoulders. She confidently strides over to the drunkards. With a smack of her lips, she gains their immediate attention, their eyes travelling all over her body. Clarissa watches her disappear into the pub, with her new acquaintances hanging on the words she spins.
Pulling her coat tighter around her, Clarissa starts the final part of the walk back, fighting through the bitter wind. She reaches Westminster and begins to relax as she walks down her street, Queen Anne's Gate, to house number 15. Her home is a large white stone townhouse with tall windows and balconies on the top two floors. She hops up the one step to the front door. She ignores the lion's head door knocker and opens the door. She creeps into the house, closing the door quietly. She carefully removes her coat and shoes, tossing them into a side wardrobe. Her feet barely make a sound as she pads through the entrance hall to the wide circular staircase that leads up to the other three floors.
She climbs the carpeted stairs to the third floor and then walks down the corridor to end room. She pushes open the door and enters her room. Her room is large and open, with a cream and rose four-poster bed pushed against the right wall. Opposite the bed is a marble fireplace that holds a few paintings and several books as well as a vase of white lilies. There are two oak cabernets on either side of the fireplace and a cream armchair faces the fire at an angle, a small table to its left. Two large oak wardrobes stand behind the door, a small vanity table between them covered in many types of gleaming jewels and necklaces. A changing screen stands to the left of the double doors that lead to the balcony, from which there is a clear view over St James Park.
She crosses over to her armchair and begins to take off her dress, she folds it up and lies it across the back of the chair. Next, she pulls her hair free of the modest plait and lets her shiny locks fall down her back. She opens the left-hand wardrobe and takes out a pale lavender nightgown. She changes into it, discarding her underclothes. The clock on the mantlepiece shows that the time is almost 3 in the morning by the time she climbs into her bed and lets the curtains fall around it. Slipping beneath the covers, she stares up the roof of her bed and sighs. She closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.