Hazel captured her bottom lip between her teeth and rolled it.
Tyon sipped his tea to not stare at that delicious, plum lip. The tea tasted like ash in his mouth, the bitter tang of irrational emotions still lingering on his tongue.
She cast him a glance. “Actually, we haven’t discussed my salary yet. Mr Sancerre has been generous enough to offer me any cipher I repute appropriate.”
Aleximanus shrugged. “I’m sure we can find a deal that satisfies everyone. Tyon, you wouldn’t terribly mind sharing Miss Ravenwood, would you?”
Tyon slanted a glare at him. Anger claimed a chunk of his control and fuelled a sudden flow of his power. Another faint tremor rippled through the floor. By the way Aleximanus smirked, he must’ve guessed Tyon’s control was slipping.
“What’s that?” Hazel glanced around.
“Underground work. Terrible matter. One would think the entire city is going to collapse.” Aleximanus didn’t flinch. “Well?” he prompted Tyon. “Do you mind sharing?”
Tyon laid the cup on the table hard enough to cause the saucer to rattle. “I do mind, but I think the lady should be the one to decide.” He turned to her.
She folded her napkin, then unfolded it again. “I need to think about this, gentlemen.” Her cheeks flushed again, but this time it had to be anger if the strain of her neck and the way she clenched her fingers around her reticule were any indication.
“Of course, take your time, Hazel.” Aleximanus’s tone sounded sweet but with an edge. “You don’t mind if I call you Hazel, do you?”
“I don’t.” She must’ve caught a hint of Aleximanus’s evil, judging by how she paled, or she must’ve found the conversation offensive. Silence stretched as thick as London’s fog.
Hazel gulped her tea with one tilt of her head. “I’m afraid I have to leave.” She scraped her chair back and stood up. “Previous engagement. Sorry.”
Tyon and Aleximanus rose.
“So soon,” Aleximanus said. “Don’t you want to discuss further details of your employment first?”
“It’s not necessary.” She tugged at her glove hard.
“I might escort you home,” he insisted, hurrying to the door.
She shook her head, her fingers digging deeper into the fabric of the reticule. “It won’t be necessary. Thank you for the repast.”
“My butler will accompany you out.” Aleximanus went to the bell, but Hazel marched to the door.
“I know the way, thank you.” Without waiting for further words, she opened the door. Before stepping out, she peeped at Tyon, her expression softening. “I’ll give you my answer as soon as possible.”
She hurried out in a flutter of angry red velvet. When the front door closed, her footfalls died down.
“Look at what you’ve done.” Aleximanus scoffed. “You and your lack of control scared her away.”
Tyon propped his closed fists on the table. “What are you playing at?”
“Me?” Aleximanus had the air of hurt innocence. “I’m not after the hallow. It’s your first. I’m after Miss Ravenwood. As I told you, I want her to be my next lust-breather, and don’t worry, even if she becomes a lust-breather, her connection with the hallow will still work. Only her soul will be mine.”
A swift surge of fury shot through Tyon’s head, his heartbeat pulsating in his ears. Red bordered the edges of his vision. The hallow wasn’t what bothered him. “You aren’t going to hurt her.” His voice rang low and feral.
The table quivered, and the curtains fluttered even though the windows were closed. A vase on a table clattered. But he didn’t care. Not this time.
Aleximanus leaned closer from across the table, blue eyes smouldering with poorly concealed wrath. “You can’t do anything about this, and you can’t handle her. A couple of hours with her and you’re a boiling mess. You won’t stop me, Captain, because she’ll destroy you, sweetly, intimately, and the best part is that you’re going to love it.”
Tyon didn’t reply or punch Aleximanus as he wanted. Too much truth rang in those words to do anything but retreat.
Chapter 4
A NIGHT OF tossing and turning in the bed, thinking about a pair of enchanting, frightening golden eyes and two very different job offers wasn’t helping Hazel focus on the document Leon had handed her.
Standing in his office at the museum, he peered at her, cupping his chin as if gauging her reaction.
She re-read the same paragraph again, but grasped only a few words—Tyon’s name and some alleged accusations about criminal activities. The lack of sleep, dinner, and breakfast took their toll on her concentration. “I don’t understand. Tyon is. . . I mean, Mr Sancerre is wanted by the police.”
“No.” Leon held up a hand. “But after he came here asking questions about you, I contacted a friend of mine, a journalist at The Herald. Sancerre’s name sounded familiar. I remembered having heard it on occasion, mentioned by my journalist friend. He told me Tyon has been involved in a few sordid affairs concerning smuggling of artefacts. Rumour has it, he’s a skilled killer too and that the police turn a blind eye on him, maybe because he bribes the right people. Nothing has ever been proved, but I wanted to warn you, in case you decide to accept his offer.”
Hazel laid the paper on the desk and rubbed her tired eyes. Until a few days ago, she would’ve given anything to have a job. Now she had two offers, could accept both, but didn’t want to.
“Hazel.” Leon sat in the chair opposite hers. “I feel responsible about your current situation. I didn’t manage to protect you as I should have, and I don’t want you in danger for any reason.” His voice cracked when, as usual, he glimpsed the portrait of his deceased wife. “I don’t want to lose a friend.”
“Thank you.” Any other word died in her throat. Tyon terrified her. Only a fool wouldn’t fear the raw menace emanating from him. Was he a killer? Yes, she could believe that. The cautious way he carried his massive body, his hawkish gaze, and the nervous twitch of his hand over something hidden under his jacket belonged to a killer.
Not to mention that his offer was ridiculous. How was she supposed to find an item without knowing what it was? Although, she might have an idea from where to start the search—the list of relics she’d prepared for an auction a few weeks ago. A few lovely artefacts had caught her eye.
She shook her head. Madness. She’d dealt with dozens of items. Yet, if she was completely honest with herself, a side of her cried in disappointment at the idea of not seeing him again. She hated the confusion that his gaze, the brief touches they’d exchanged, and the deep timbre of his voice caused her.
Leon cleared his throat. His dark eyes seemed bigger in his tensed face. “You have another offer, if I’m correct. The other man who came here asking for you.”
“Yes.”
“How is he? Do you think he’s a reliable gentleman?”
Mr Alexander was another matter. Refined, wealthy, charming. But the hint of danger lurked underneath the golden surface of his decency. Or perhaps it was her imagination. She saw dangers everywhere and didn’t trust anyone, but she hadn’t imagined the cold calculation in his brief touches and in the gleam of his artic eyes, and she hadn’t appreciated being treated like goods to be shared between the two men. It could’ve been exhaustion or hunger, but something dark and threatening had lingered in his sitting room to the point she’d felt the urge to leave.
“Mr Harcourt is a true gentleman.”
Leon smiled, chest deflating. “I’m glad to hear it. Are you going to accept his offer?”
“Possibly.” She reclined her head and stared at the wall in front of her. Leon’s blackboard was crammed with ancient runes, hieroglyphics, and other odd circles crossed by—
The door swung inward, and Sir Morris swept into view. Hair the colour of carrots swished about a tense jaw when he raked a gaze over her. “What is she doing here?” He closed a hand on the pommel of his walking stick and stroked his well-trimmed beard.
Hazel bolted u
pright and regretted it. She didn’t have to snap at attention every time he was around anymore. The only good thing of having lost her job was that Sir Morris wouldn’t hound her any longer.
“Morris, please.” Leon stood up, running a hand through his hair.
“She doesn’t work here.” Sir Morris’s cheeks flushed, matching his hair. Now he resembled a giant carrot.
Leon clasped his hands behind his back. “I believe I can invite a friend for a chat in my office.”
Sir Morris opened his large mouth, big enough to swallow an entire apple, but Hazel cut him off.
“I was leaving, anyway.” She snatched her reticule from the chair. “Leon, thank you for the talk.” Without sparing a glance at Sir Morris, she brushed past him, but he stuck out an arm and blocked her.
“Our talk isn’t finished yet.” The musical lilt of the vowels sanctioning his sophisticated upbreeding did nothing to sweeten his menacing tone. He might’ve been reared as a gentleman in the noblest and finest colleges, but he’d always be a beast. “I still have matters to clarify with you, miss, and I have good memory.” He touched the cheek she’d slapped. “I also know your address if you prefer a more private chat,” he whispered the last words.
“I don’t think so.” Hazel shoved his arm away and on trembling legs marched towards the exit.
A faint trail of Sir Morris’s perfume, too sweet and mellifluous to be pleasant, stalked her along the corridor until she exited the staff-only section of the museum and entered the chaotic and noisy area open to the public. The doorman tipped his hat up when she rushed by, and she offered a quick wave.
In better circumstances, she would stop at the Egyptian section and bask in the beauty of the jewels found in the Valley of Kings. Through tourists and flocks of students admiring glass cabinets with dinosaurs’ bones, she hurried downstairs to the main exit.
Once on the pavement of Cromwell Gardens Road, she leaned against the museum’s cold wall and put a hand on her chest. Sir Morris knew where she lived, and she hadn’t mistaken the threat in his voice.
Damn. She slammed a fist against the wall. Mr Harcourt’s offer was her sole chance to earn honest money, find another apartment, and leave Sir Morris behind. Tyon . . . She had to refuse his proposal. If half of the things she’d read about him were true, she should steer clear of him. She’d send him a message, informing him of her decision. So she wouldn’t need to see him again, wouldn’t have to talk to him.
Hazel kicked a pebble and let it clunk down the curb. A hint of sadness pressed on her chest. Not seeing Tyon again. Why would she care? She’d send a nice note and thank him.
No. She’d go in person. Now.
Going home didn’t appeal to her. She’d end up moping about her empty pantry and listening to her rumbling stomach. She couldn’t go to Mr Harcourt’s house. Showing at the gentleman’s door wouldn’t be appropriate. If they were going to work together, she should establish the rules of their partnership right from the beginning. Popping in, uninvited, might give him the wrong idea.
Tyon had been kind to her, paying the cab’s fee for her. He deserved a personal visit. Not that her heart didn’t ache at the idea of never speak to him again.
The omnibus ride to Whitechapel lasted half an hour. Plenty of time for Hazel to change her mind dozens of times. She should alight at the next stop and go back home. Whitechapel wasn’t her nice and safe Bayswater area, and Tyon wasn’t a true gentleman. Still, if he’d wanted to hurt her, he’d had many occasions yesterday. But today she was going to tell him she didn’t want to work with him. What if he became angry?
“Whitechapel!” the ticket boy shouted at the crowd of commuters, a hand closed on the wooden post next to the exit.
The omnibus rolled to a halt, and people brushed past her to alight.
Now or never.
Sucking in a deep breath that strained her bodice, Hazel jumped out of the omnibus and into Whitechapel’s gaping mouth.
She wriggled her gloves, loitering at the entrance of White Church Lane. Tyon’s house was a few yards away, tucked after a corner. Behind her stretched the safety of her usual, old life made of pondered choices. Tyon was the thrill of excitement and danger a part of her craved.
She squared her shoulders and marched onwards. The sooner she finished this the better. Just a quick chat. Thank you, Mr Sancerre, but I’m afraid I must decline the offer. Simple. She wouldn’t need to enter his house. The speech could be carried out standing on the porch.
Hazel skidded to a halt in front of Tyon’s black door. A woman sat on the dirty steps, a basket filled with potatoes on her lap. Her grey hair fell over wrinkled cheeks as she peeled and cut.
“Good morning.” Hazel rose on her tiptoes to peek inside the window.
“Mornin’ missus.” The woman didn’t gaze up.
“I’m searching for Mr Sancerre.”
“Not in. He’s doin’ the round.” She slanted her chin towards the general direction of the street, gnarled fingers handling the short blade.
“The round?”
“Like every Friday.”
Damn. Hazel tormented her gloves again. She didn’t want to come back here to talk to him. “When will he be back?”
The woman shrugged and lifted milky blue eyes. “Dunno. May take a while. Why don’t ye chase him if ye are in a hurry?”
“I don’t want to disturb him.” Besides, she had no idea what this round was. “What does he exactly do during a round?”
The woman laid the basket on a step but kept the knife. “Follow me.”
A knot tightened in Hazel’s throat. “It’s not necessary. I’ll wait.”
Wasted breath. In her uneven gait, the woman limped along the pavement. Her shoulders hunched at every step when she swung her hip forwards as if she had one leg shorter than the other.
Hazel straightened her hat and followed. What a brilliant idea she’d had. Tyon’s round might mean he ran house by house, collecting protection money and threatening people to slit their throats. Great. Some throat-cutter would slaughter her and ditch her body in a dark alley. Nice way to repay her parents for all their efforts in feeding her and teaching her old languages.
The woman chatted with a man in clipped sentences that Hazel didn’t grasp, then wiggled two crooked fingers at her. “He’s with the Nicholsons,” she said as if this explained everything.
Hazel dragged herself forwards, flinching when a group of children ran past her. She sped up until she reached the woman. “Who are the Nicholsons?”
“Poor devils. Father’s sick for the coal.” The woman touched her chest. “The black breath we call it. Nasty thing. Ain’t good for yer head too when ye breathe too much dust. Mother’s missing a leg. Four mouths to feed.”
Hazel’s pace slowed. Good god. She couldn’t believe Tyon was extorting money from these people.
They took a sharp turn to the left in an alley so narrow she wondered how Tyon had squeezed his big body in there. His shoulders must’ve got trapped between the walls. Broken windows peeked at her like the toothless mouth of an old man. The street widened, and doors with rotting wood and flaking paint opened on the brick walls.
“In here.” The woman didn’t bother knocking and shoved a faint-green door inwards. “Is Tyon here?”
Hazel peered over the woman’s shoulders. Four children were stuffing their mouths with bread and biscuits, sitting at a scarred table. A stick of butter lay in the middle, a big pat missing. Only a few candles lit the dirty room. She’d seen stables better tended and horses better fed.
One of the children wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ye missed him by a spit. He’s gone to the Wells.”
The woman waved a hand and backpedalled so quickly she smacked against Hazel.
“Sorry.” Hazel tried to not wince at the stench of unwashed clothes.
“This way.” Frowning, she pointed a finger somewhere behind her. She trotted away into yet another dirty, narrow alley.
It had to be Ty
on. Hazel cast a last glance at the Nicholsons’ house. He’d brought food to them. A warm fluttery feeling spread in her chest. Could his round mean that he brought food to poor families?
“He’s here!” The woman showed a toothless grin, her face brightening.
Hazel sped up. Either the woman’s enthusiasm was contagious, or the urge to prove her theory overwhelmed her. Freezing air flavoured with coal dust filled her lungs as she ran. She halted at a dark red door where the woman stood.
Tyon was inside the house, a brown sack thrown over a shoulder, and talked with a short, thin young woman rocking a sleeping baby. Dirty hair was plastered to the side of the young woman’s pale face. She kept shaking with sobs and repeating, “Thank you.”
The only sign that Tyon might be somewhat affected by the woman’s tears and grateful stare was the ticking of a muscle in his neck and the light tremor in his hand. He gave a quick head-bow and turned, only to freeze on the threshold when his gaze fell on Hazel.
“Visitors, Mr Sancerre.” The old woman patted Hazel’s shoulder. “Chased ye for all the place.”
He stepped closer, one inch at a time, adjusting the sack on his shoulder. A frown marred his brow as if he’d been caught stealing.
Hazel should say something like ‘good morning’ or ‘sorry to bother you.’ Instead, the first thing her mouth decided to let out was, “Are you helping these people?”
He stood close now, merely a couple of feet from her. His clean scent covered the smell of coal and grime and who knew what else. A muscle in his jaw pulsated, and his hand clenching the sack twitched. “Surprised?” The note of hurt was hard to miss. She must’ve offended him with her question.
The old woman shot a glare at her, lips pressed into a grim line before walking away towards Tyon’s house. “’Ave to finish peeling the potatoes.” She waved her knife in greeting.
“Well?” he prompted, clenching the sack tighter.
Hazel fixed a stray curl behind her ear, aware they were alone now. “I, I didn’t expect that.”
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 4