Molly Boys

Creating London Underside has been a real labour of love. Where I was able I strived to remain as historically accurate as I could in order to maintain a sense of authenticity for the time period. However, this is a work of fiction and exists in the fascinating place between victorian pseudo science and the supernatural. It was inspired by classic victorian gothic novels and penny dreadfuls and as such I have taken some artistic liberties with some of the historical content. Please also note that some of the language, attitudes and references use outdated language, again this was to give a sense of the time period and is not intended to cause offence. Copyright © 2023 Wendy Saunders (writing as Vawn Cassidy) All rights reserved. www.vawncassidy.com London Underside Book 1 Molly Boys No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book contains explicit and graphic sexual situations, explicit language, drug use, violence and murder. Reader discretion is advised. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Book 2 The Freak Show About the Author Also by Vawn Cassidy 1 The clatter of the cobblestones beneath the wheels of the clarence cab was uncharacteristically soothing, a numbing distraction from the maelstrom of Everett’s resentful thoughts. Even now, his stomach burned and his cheeks heated as he recalled the weight of his father’s words. The letter had arrived just as he was leaving for the evening’s entertainments, and he shouldn’t have taken the time to read it. He knew better. His body jerked roughly as the cab rolled along the uneven streets, causing him to reach out and brace himself against the stark interior. He glanced out of the small side window, but the heavy shroud of darkness and the late hour only succeeded in making him feel even more alone in the relative anonymity of the small enclosed vehicle. Not that he minded being alone; in fact, most of the time he preferred it. He’d spent all his life held up to the unattainable example that was the perfection of his elder brother. Sometimes he wondered why his father had even bothered with another child. Hugh was the apple of his eye and Everett… well, he was the useless spare. Unfortunately for him, even being the spare came with heavy expectations. Being the second-born son of a marquess may have afforded him wealth and education, but it came with its own set of shackles. Shackles of which his father had been only too quick to remind him. Letting out a slow exhale, he closed his eyes, his fist tightening on the silver pommel of his polished black cane. He was running out of time and he knew it. Even now he could feel the weight of his father’s demands suffocating him. His future was laid out before him—a future not of his choosing, but rather one forced upon him, filled with nothing more than duty and endless rules. He opened his eyes when he felt the cab jostle to a stop and shook the morose thoughts from his mind. His future may be stalking him, lurking in the shadows like a predator, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep running from it as fast and as far as he could. Reaching for the handle of the door, he unlatched it easily and stepped down onto the street, his heavy overcoat swinging around his legs. Closing the door, he reached into his pocket to retrieve a couple of coins which he handed to the driver. The man’s brutish face was impassive as he clucked his tongue loudly and shook the reins, urging the horses into a walk. Everett stepped back and watched the cab disappear into the smog beyond the dim glow of the lamps. The cold air nipped at his nose and cheeks, and he pulled the collar of his coat higher, as much to conceal his identity as to ward off the chill. He glanced down the quiet street. The chances of him being noticed were slim. Not only was it too dark, but the coin he’d given the driver would be enough for the man’s discretion. After all, it was not the first time he’d visited this particular establishment and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Turning away from the deserted street, he eyed the tall building surrounded by black iron railings. It wasn’t situated in the worst part of Islington but it certainly was not considered fitting for someone of his station, an irony when he considered who owned the establishment. He climbed the steps to the large black door, grasped the brass knocker, and gave it three sharp raps. After a moment, the door creaked open and a familiar face appeared. “Good evening, Haywood,” Everett said as he stepped through the door and into the small foyer. “My lord.” The man inclined his head as he closed and locked the door behind him. Reaching out, he first took Everett’s hat, cane, and pale yellow kid gloves, followed by his heavy coat, leaving him in his dinner jacket and waistcoat. Along the darkened corridor drifted the sound of raucous laughter and chatter, underlaid by faint strains of music. “Need I inquire where he is?” Everett asked solicitously. “I believe you will find his lordship in the main parlour… entertaining his guests.” “Indeed.” Everett’s mouth curved. “Thank