The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1794 - 100: Miss Quinn of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street

The night engulfed the outlines of the south bank of the Thames River, and the low-lying London fog blurred the boundaries of the human heart.

The night fog, as thick as spread-out butter, cast a sickly orange glow on the gas lamps of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street.

A tall man was hastily weaving through the alleys.

He wore a faded cloak, his old leather boots caked with mud, and his hat brim pulled so low that not even the drunken man relieving himself at the alley entrance could see his face clearly.

His walking posture was somewhat peculiar; on one hand, he maintained the steady rhythm of a London gentleman, while on the other, he seemed to be on guard against something.

He frequently glanced back, avoiding the crowds, deliberately bypassing Pigeon Alley, Swetting Alley, and Beech Alley before slipping into Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, like a notorious thief afraid of being recognized.

At that moment, the street was bustling, with various "ladies" half-naked and sitting outside the taverns, but no matter how delicate their features, the obvious Adam’s apple and broad frame always betrayed their gender.

Indeed, they were all men.

However, since you have come to Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, you must address people according to the street’s rules. In the inns, taverns, and pleasure houses along this street, these "male ladies" are collectively known as "Countesses of Yellow Chrysanthemum." Though regulars rarely use such a lengthy title, generally addressing each other as "Madam" or "Miss." If you mistakenly use the wrong pronoun here, don’t be surprised if you receive a "powdered punch" in return.

After a long journey, the gentleman finally stopped outside the Old Madam’s Inn. A battered copper lantern hung before the inn, casting a dim light akin to an elderly person’s cloudy eyes. As the door opened, a mix of rouge and sherry scent hit him head-on.

"Oh... You’ve come quite early tonight, Miss Quinn." The bartender eyed him with a hint of teasing, but more so with familiar understanding.

The gentleman didn’t respond; he just nodded slightly and stepped inside.

As he ascended the stairs, he loosened a corner of his cloak, revealing a dark gray tweed coat so plain it looked rustic. But when he pushed open the westmost door on the second floor and removed his soaked hat, his true identity was finally hinted at under the light.

His face was thin, with slightly prominent brow bones, and his hair was cut short. Of course, if the Scotland Yard regulations were more lenient, he might have kept his hair longer. But there was no help for it, given that he was not only an officer at Scotland Yard but also the head of the fifth section of the Police Intelligence Department.

Ledley gently closed the door behind him, and the room fell silent, with only the occasional remnant of violin notes flitting from near the curtain, sounding like a flippant joke carried by the wind.

This room was especially reserved for him by the Old Madam’s Inn, conveniently located by the corridor corner, making it easy to spy and jump out the window for escape. Inside, a long narrow mirror hung on the wall, marred by a crack snaking from the top left to the bottom right, but Ledley didn’t mind.

Because for him, it was merely a place to change clothes.

He walked to the wardrobe, turned the bolt, and skillfully lit the candle on the table.

Shedding his cloak, he opened a small leather bag he carried with him, pulling out a well-tailored woman’s suit, with corset, skirt, and gloves all done in one swift motion, then adorned himself with a meticulously chosen pearl necklace and a purple satin hat. In just a few short minutes, Ledley King vanished from the world, replaced by the well-known patron of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street, Miss Quinn.

"Portrait of Miss Quinn of Yellow Chrysanthemum Street"

Ledley stood before the cracked mirror, quietly observing the "Miss Quinn" ahead of him.

He tilted his head slightly, examining his neck and shoulder line, a lock of soft hair fluttered by the wind through the window, suddenly giving him an inexplicable sense of intoxication, as if he had finally found a bit of security in this form that required no explanation or justification.

Unfortunately, this intoxication didn’t last long.

A knock on the door came from outside—three short taps, a pause, then another tap.

It was the unique signal from the Old Madam: "The new young Marquis" was ready, willing to accept Miss Quinn’s guidance.

Ledley took a deep breath, raised his chin, gracefully dusted off his skirt, his gaze reclaiming Miss Quinn’s usual arrogance.

He exited the room, walking down the corridor to the third-to-last room on the second floor.

Ledley gently turned the door handle, a smile unique to Miss Quinn, nestled between seduction and restraint, gracing his lips—the vague aroma of violets mingling between breaths, unspoken yet clear.

He even pondered whether tonight’s "young Marquis," as the innkeeper had described, was truly as green as claimed, hoping he wouldn’t be at his knees in submission after just a few words.

He slowly pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar room.

The scent of sandalwood lingered, sherry had breathed fully into the air, and a candelabra on the table burned at just the right angle, casting light upon the soft chair beneath the curtains... and, the person in the chair.

...

That person?

That person!

At first, Ledley didn’t quite process it.

His gaze remained on the person’s hands, holding a knife in the left, a fork in the right, their actions as elegant as if attending a state banquet.

Looking further up, was the face, expressionless yet composed.