“I’m only saying, as a member of the police force, there are very few circumstances under which I can legally take the boy from Allen.”
“We know with certainty he makes a habit of beating the boy,” Fletcher said.
“The boy’s his apprentice,” Parkington said. He held up his hand to halt the immediate objection both Fletcher and Stone began tossing back. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s right; I’m only saying it’s permitted. My hands are tied. Getting myself tossed off my job would mean I couldn’t help anyone else. I’m telling you I can’t intervene.”
“But you won’t stop us from intervening,” Hollis finished for him.
Parkington gave a single, silent nod.
“Give us some direction,” Fletcher said. “Where do we begin looking for ’im?”
“Look for Four-Finger Mike,” Parkington said. “He’s slipperier than Allen. Not as sly, but better protected. His network keeps him hidden, lies for him.”
“Would they lie for Allen?” Fletcher asked.
“Can’t say.”
“I’ve heard Four-Finger is connected to someone named the Mastiff,” Fletcher said.
Parkington both paled and looked resolute. “You leave that dog to lie. There’s no one in all of London as dangerous. Go after the pups. They’ll lead you to the boy. But keep clear of the Mastiff.”
“But if he’s connected to all this—” Hollis began but was interrupted.
“Stick with Allen and Four-Finger. Heed me on this.”
“If the Mastiff is the mastermind,” Fletcher said, “shouldn’t we be taking this down from the top?”
“It’s a bigger ask than you realize,” Parkington said. “Let the dog lie.”
Stone plopped his hat on his head, looking at each of them in turn. “Are we gonna stand around arguin’, or are we gonna to find the boy?” He walked directly out.
Stone was not one to suffer fools, nor did he lack in confidence. It served him well much of the time, but England was hardly immune to the disease of prejudice. His stature and confidence, unfortunately, made far too many people look askance at him when those same people would have admired those very traits in a man who looked like they did.
“Keep me abreast,” Parkington requested.
“And you us,” Hollis returned.
Fletcher, Hollis, and Brogan followed Stone’s path.
“Does anyone know how we find this Four-Finger Mike?” Hollis asked.
“Go about asking everyone how many fingers they have?” Brogan suggested. “Anyone answers ‘Four,’ that’ll be your man.”
“I’ve someone who might know how to find ’im,” Fletcher said.
“His band of thieves won’t rat him out to you,” Hollis warned.
“She ain’t one of his thieves.”
“Ah.” Brogan nodded knowingly. “One of your urchins.”
“She sells flowers down by the Strand,” he said as they caught up to Stone. “She’ll not be there ’til the morning, though.”
“Leaving that boy in captivity overnight ain’t acceptable,” Stone said.
“I know.” Fletcher hated the idea as well. “But little Gemma ain’t the only person I know what’s likely to point us toward the blackguard, and the Strand during the day ain’t the only place I know of to find her.”
Stone couldn’t hold still, couldn’t seem to stop his tense bouncing. The man was on edge, and well he might be. A boy was in danger, held against his will. It was no small thing.
“I’m a little useless in this search,” Hollis said. “I have no connections to utilize who would have any idea who we were talking about, let alone know where to find him.”
“Actually,” Fletcher said, “there’s someone on your rung of society who does know him.”
That pulled all their attention. Fletcher’s lead was not an ironclad one, but it was promising.
He turned to Stone. “Follow whatever paths you find that seem promising. I’ll fill in Hollis and follow up with the flower girl in the morning. Between the lot of us, we’ll find the boy. I know we will.”
Brogan slapped a hand on Stone’s shoulder. “I’ve the Irish ability to adventure all night long on little but a hastily thrown-back pint. I’ll search the streets with you.”
“Headquarters at ten tomorrow morning?” Stone suggested, though it sounded more like a demand.
“Ten.” Fletcher nodded.
Hollis looked to him. “And you’ll make certain the Dread Master is aware of the situation?”
Hollis spoke of the mysterious head of the Dreadfuls without resentment. Perhaps he had begun to see some value in Fletcher’s arrangement with their leader.
“I will,” he answered.
Brogan and Stone went one direction; Hollis and Fletcher went the other.
“Who is the person you said knows this Fingerless Mike fellow?” Hollis asked.
“Alistair Headley’s been spotted with the man.” Fletcher kept an eye on the street as they walked, noting those he knew, those he didn’t, those who seemed out of place.
“Headley?” Hollis was clearly surprised.
“Elizabeth and I have been tracking someone we suspect is connected to the problems at Hogg’s school.” Lud, how was it that urgent bit of business had been so quickly and thoroughly pushed from his mind? “Headley’s tied to that man, so I’ve a few people looking after him.”
Hollis eyed him sidelong, blinking a few times. “There’s a great deal in those two sentences. I’m not certain where to begin.”
“Nothing in it’s too odd. I set m’ friends on people’s trails often enough.”
Hollis shook his head. “You and Elizabeth have been investigating? How did she get involved? When did you start calling her Elizabeth? And you suspect Alistair Headley? Honestly, I have a lot of questions.”
Understandable. “She were at Hogg’s school when I popped by to tell him of our concerns. Then, at a literary salon, she heard someone souring over education for the poor and how it oughtn’t be allowed. Looking in on that bloke led us to Headley. Looking in on Headley pointed me at Four-Finger Mike. Four-Finger Mike, if there’s any justice in the world, will lead us to Allen and, through him, Daniel.”
“And when did you begin calling her Elizabeth?”
Fletcher allowed a half smile. “When she told me I could.”
Hollis responded in kind. “A commendable approach.”
“She’s surprising, in the best way. Ain’t above her company. Sharp. Sense of humor. And she don’t seem bothered that I’m nothing much more than a street urchin in nicer clothes.”
“And she’s a lady born to ease but required to toil. You’ve moved up in the world. She’s moved down. That humbles a person.” Hollis knew that firsthand.
“Elizabeth is a survivor,” Fletcher acknowledged.
“Which is likely why you get on with her so well. You’re one, too.”
“All us Dreadfuls are survivors in our own way.”
They’d reached the corner where Hollis would turn one way to make his way toward his flat and Fletcher would go another.
“Ten o’clock at headquarters?” Hollis phrased it as a question, though he certainly knew he wasn’t wrong.
Fletcher nodded. Hollis moved on.
Alone with his thoughts, Fletcher stood rooted to the spot. He’d kept his worry and panic at bay while they’d searched for Daniel and Mr. Allen. But he knew what happened when he was left helpless, unable to do anything to solve a problem involving one of his precious street children. He returned in his mind to the life he’d lived among them, to his own nightmare of a childhood and the desperation he’d felt. It weighed him down, tore at his heart and mind. That darkness would close in on him soon enough. Was it suffocating Daniel, too?
Where are you, little one? I can’t help you if I cain’t find
you.
He walked on, acutely aware of every person he passed, every sound that reached his ears. Yet, somehow, he was surprised when he found himself on the front stoop of Thurloe Collegiate School. His feet had brought him there with his mind none the wiser.
It was too late for calling on a woman, but going home meant facing his ghosts. He’d done that far too often of late. His Urchins of London tales turned down paths so like his own childhood—without the supernatural beings, of course—that it was like reliving those long-ago years every time he put pen to paper. His childhood was fresh in his thoughts most of the time, and writing about it had, to his surprise, proven helpful, but it was still a heavy lot to bear.
A full quarter hour passed as he stood there, not wanting to leave but unable to convince himself to knock.
Then the door opened. There was no reason for anyone to even know he was there. How could he explain himself? He certainly couldn’t ask the housekeeper to send word to Elizabeth, not this late. The whispers would be all over London before the housekeeper even reached the first-floor landing.
But it wasn’t the housekeeper. Elizabeth, still dressed for the day despite the late hour, stood in the doorway.
“Did you mean to come inside, Fletcher, or are you particularly fond of doorsteps?”
He pulled his hat off and held it against his chest, assuming the mien of a humble petitioner. “Could I sit by your fire, miss? A bite to eat? Spot o’ tea?”
She motioned him inside.
“Are you certain?” he asked. “It ain’t a proper hour for callers. I know you worry about such things.”
“Don’t you think whispers are more likely if you’re seen standing on my front step at all hours?”
He couldn’t argue with that. Only as he stepped inside did he realize she wasn’t wearing any shoes. He’d caught her more ill-prepared for a visitor than she was letting on.
She ushered him into her small office set directly off the entryway. He’d met with her in there before. This time the curtains were drawn, and the school was entirely quiet. It was a far more intimate arrangement, yet he didn’t feel awkward or uncomfortable.
“Any success locating that poor little boy?” Elizabeth asked. “I’ve worried over him ever since the stablehand told you of his disappearance.”
He allowed some of the tension to slip from his lungs.
“We’re trying to locate him. The man we suspect took him is proving a wily fellow.” He dropped his hat on her desk, careful not to disturb the stack of papers there. “And we’ve learned he associates with a heap of seedy characters. Not very reassuring.”
Elizabeth clasped her hands together, raising them to her lips. Her brow pulled low. “What is to be done?”
“A few of the others are searching tonight, hoping for a spot of luck.” He rubbed at his weary eyes. “I know someone what might have information, but I’ll not be able to speak with her ’til morning.”
“Meaning, to be useful, you now have to endure a night spent waiting.” She crossed closer to him. “I suspect, Fletcher Walker, you are a man unaccustomed to being idle.”
“I ain’t got much to offer anyone. It’s blamed frustratin’ when even that’s snatched away.”
She tipped her head to the side, eyeing him with curiosity. “Do you really think that?”
“Think what?”
“That you have little to offer.”
He laughed humorlessly, half leaning, half sitting on the edge of the desk. “If you saw what the other Dreadfuls contribute, you’d full agree with me.”
She assumed an expression best described as “disapproving schoolmarm.” He actually laughed to see it.
“You should know, Mr. Walker, we here at Thurloe Collegiate School take a very dim view of falsehoods.” Though she made the declaration with a tone of laughter, there was an earnestness beneath it. “I have seen you toss yourself, unwaveringly and with determination, into your efforts to help Mr. Hogg. I’ve watched you interact with the children you have rescued. You do so with kindness and unmistakably genuine concern.”
“All us Dreadfuls pour ourselves into this work. Ain’t nothing special about that.”
She set her hands on her hips. “Are you questioning my authority on this matter?”
He reached out and tenderly brushed his thumb along her chin. “You’re being kind, but I know my worth.”
“I don’t think you do.”
He let his hand slip along her jaw, his thumb caressing her cheek. “I’m simply an overgrown urchin. We ain’t got a lick o’ worth. Never will.”
“Well, I am a schoolmistress who stays up late at night writing questionably received works of literary mediocrity. I can see where you would be extremely jealous.”
He laughed out loud.
She did as well, but far more quietly. “I see you are no longer concerned about my reputation if people realize you’re here.”
He dropped his fingers from her face and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “You’re a bad influence on me, dove.”
Her eyes glistened. “Good.”
“Does this mean you intend to be a troublemaker more often?” He caressed her hand between his.
Something in her expression changed. Softened. Tucked itself behind a tiny, unexpected surge of bashfulness. Yet she made no motion to pull away, nor did she object to his compliment or the touch of his hand. There was hope in that, but also confusion.
Their current spots in the hierarchy of things were decidedly uneven, no matter Hollis’s insistence that Elizabeth had come down a notch or two in life. Being viewed as proper and appropriate and “good enough” formed a crucial part of the foundation of her school and held a great deal of weight amongst the people she depended on to keep her school afloat. He suspected it meant a lot to her personally, as well.
He cared too much about her to risk that.
“Thank you for letting me grumble to you, dove.” He placed a light kiss on her fingertips before slipping his hand away once more. “I’ll let you return to your mediocre literary efforts.” He winked to make certain she knew he was teasing.
“And I’ll let you return to yours,” she tossed back.
Oh, she was a temptation, that was for sure and certain. Her wit and sharpness. Her beauty and grace. Her willingness to see him when so many of her standing would simply look right through him.
She was a temptation. But he was a risk.
A good bit of distance was best.
by Mr. King
Installment IV,
in which our Heroine flees to the fearsome Forest and, to her shock, encounters the mysterious Highwayman!
Lucinda’s little houseguest, she discovered, was called Nanette. She, like Lucinda, had recently been made an orphan. The poor child, alone and without a home, had wandered into the forest looking for food and shelter. What she had found, according to her own vague but insistent recounting, was a horrendous, terrifying monster!
Nanette grew too distraught after only one or two questions for Lucinda to discern the exact nature of the creature she insisted resided amongst the trees. The details Lucinda had gleaned spoke of howls and moans, which might have been the wind, and flashing eyes in the darkness, which might have been moonlight reflecting off dew-wet leaves. The heavy, threatening footsteps Nanette had heard proved more difficult to explain away.
Nanette quickly found a place in Lucinda’s heart. She was a dear girl, tenderhearted and eager to make Calden Manor home. Lucinda was unspeakably grateful for the child’s company and felt she might be able to do some good in the girl’s life.
The matter of Sir Frederick remained unresolved. That he’d cared enough about poor Nanette to rescue her from the forest spoke well of him. That he’d trusted Lucinda enough to bring the girl to Calden Manor called into question the snub he’d offered when she’d crossed his path d
uring her ill-fated afternoon of shopping. She hadn’t mentioned the encounter to Miss Higgins, who had, blessedly, not been nearby during the fateful rejection; Lucinda’s heart could not bear to see pity or laughter in the eyes of her one and only friend.
Her loneliness, her confusion, and her desperate wish to see Nanette safe and happy filled her thoughts as she and the girl sat around the table in the sitting room late of an evening. Lucinda worked on an intricately detailed fire screen, while Nanette concentrated on a sampler of needlepoint.
“I do hope Sir Frederick will call on us.” Nanette sighed. “He is ever so handsome and ever so kind.”
Despite her thoughts, Lucinda found she wished for the same. “I too enjoy his company.” In her thoughts she added, “Most of the time.” He had, after all, shown himself quite capable of being hurtfully dismissive. “And I would like to thank him for bringing you here.”
Nanette smiled shyly, sweetly. “He told me you would be kind to me and that I would be safe here.”
“That was a kind thing for him to say.” Kind as well as surprising.
“I believe he is very fond of you.” Nanette’s gaze returned to her needlework, though her smile remained.
“What leads you to that conclusion?” Lucinda’s heart pounded in her chest as she asked the question. Did she truly wish for the answer? Was she fully prepared to hear it?
“He smiles when he talks about you,” the girl said. “Nothing else makes him smile. I think he tries not to, but when he speaks of you, he can’t stop.”
Lucinda herself had never seen the baronet smile. Not once. Could it be true that she, the lady he had refused to even acknowledge mere days earlier, inspired that rarely seen expression in him? How utterly unexpected!
“His smile makes my heart flutter about,” Nanette said. “As if I am a little nervous, but also very happy.”
That was a feeling Lucinda knew well. Handsome men had that effect on many an unsuspecting woman, and Sir Frederick was decidedly handsome. She could only imagine his smile would render him even more so.
Her thoughts, jumbled yet pleasant, were interrupted as an unexpected but instantly recognizable scent reached her nose. That of smoke. She glanced in the direction of the fireplace, but, as always, it sat empty and cold. The manor was nearly devoid of coal or firewood. She had taken to keeping blankets nearby and wearing her coat during the particularly intense cold of morning.
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