by Jenny Brown
He fought down the memory of the bloodied saris, the babies’ brains spattered against the rocks. It had been a necessary sacrifice. Had they ordered the women’s camp to be moved somewhere safer, it would have given away their battle plan. But still, his stomach clenched, and he tasted a sour taste that was not entirely due to the major’s cheap wine.
Sensing his thoughts, the major tugged on his arm and tried to draw him from the crowd. He knew the whole story. Trev had told him the gist of it, late one night on shipboard when, unable to sleep, he’d sat up on deck the whole night, watching the Southern Cross wheel across the sky.
But Trev wasn’t going to let the ballad singer’s chant drive him away. He would not give in to weakness. The thing had happened, and he could do nothing about it now. He’d be worthless as a commander if he let a memory unman him. War was glorious only in verses of the Fleet Street hacks whose words this ballad singer chanted. Every soldier knew that the reality was different, and that the bravest thing many a soldier would do was to keep on living after the battle was over, knowing his victory’s true cost.
As he must.
He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes for a moment, forcing his mind to concentrate on the workmen who were pressed up against him, making himself inhale their stench, and hoping the reek of onions and unwashed bodies would drag him back to the present. When at length he opened his eyes, he startled.
A woman was staring at him. The woman in black.
Her eyes, which had sparkled so when she’d brought the crossing boy his dinner, were hard now, and glowed with what looked like contempt. The kindness he’d seen in them was gone. Her reproachful glare was the look he saw in the eyes of the sepoys’ women when they came back to him in dreams to rail at him for his failure to protect them.
Her gaze pierced through him, relentless and unforgiving. She had caught him in a moment of naked suffering, judged him, and condemned him.
As he tore his eyes away from hers, she vanished. Her disappearance left him bereft.
Why should it matter? She was no one. A stranger he’d never see again. It had only been a whim that set him chasing after her. But, even so, he couldn’t stop himself from scanning the crowd, searching for her jaunty bobbing feather.
He grabbed the major’s arm. “Let’s go.”
They’d dawdled long enough chasing after some will-of-the-wisp—a stranger, dressed in black, glimpsed for just a moment on a foggy evening, who had, for that one instant, seemed like a beacon in the gloom. He’d let his fancy run away with him. Whatever she’d done for the crossing boy, she had nothing for him. If he were to find her again, it might only be to see her pressed up against the wall servicing some wretch for a couple of pennies. Up close, she might smell like the men who surrounded him. She might turn out to be pocked and gap-toothed, barely intelligible, speaking the harsh cant of the streets.
It was time to go on to Mother Bristwick’s. Her girls might look at him with hard eyes, but they’d do what they were paid to do—which obviously he needed. Lust did funny things to a man’s mind. When it was taken care of, perhaps he wouldn’t be so morbid.
But as Trev turned to make his way out of the crowd, the tiny girl he’d seen standing by the fire approached him. She held a sheaf of papers under one arm and was waving a printed broadside, which featured a crude woodcut of horses in battle and the verses the ballad singer had just sung, with her other.
“How much?” he asked.
“Only two pennies.”
He reached into his pocket. The broadsheet would entertain his mother, whose idea of military glory was not far from that of the ballad singer. The girl handed him the broadside and faded back into the crowd.
As he watched her go, someone jostled against his side. With instincts honed in the bazaar he whipped around, one hand flying to his pocket. He knew what that jostling meant: It was the oldest trick in the book—the bump and grab—practiced by teams of pickpockets from Land’s End to Calcutta. One would do something to get the victim to show where he kept his money, then the other would take advantage of his inattention to rob him.
But as he spun around to foil the scheme, he stopped, paralyzed, when he spotted his assailant: It was the woman in black.
When she realized he’d seen her, she froze with one hand thrust deep into an opening of her long black skirt. Then she hid her face in her shawl, whipped around, and flung herself into the crowd.
“Stop, thief!” howled the man standing beside Trev, launching himself after her. Others took up his cry.
Trev’s reached a hand into his pocket. His coins were gone, every last one of them. It hit him in the gut. Why did it have to be her?
But why should he care? He’d figured her for a whore. Why be surprised when she’d turned out to be a pickpocket instead? In the harsh hierarchy of the street, her calling might be a step up.
With studied casualness, he checked his other pockets, careful to avoid tipping off other criminals in the crowd as to where he kept his valuables. Fortunately, the pickpocket’s prying fingers hadn’t found anything else. But though his loss was trivial, her success made him uneasy. A man who followed his calling couldn’t afford to drop his guard. He wouldn’t last long without it.
If the woman in black had thought to find safety by hiding within the crowd, she’d been mistaken, for the men making up its outer circle had drawn together and linked their brawny arms to create a barrier. She’d not get out again. Not with the size of those brutes.
Trev stood on his toes to add a few more inches to the height that already gave him the advantage over the men who pressed in all around him, but he couldn’t find her. Then a cry rose from the other side of the crowd, which parted to reveal a thick man wearing the leather apron of a shoemaker. He had the girl by the wrists and was dragging her toward Trev.
“Steal from honest people, will you, missy?” he shouted. “Not while I’m about. Off to Newgate you’ll be, but not before I get my reward.”
The long feather swayed as she fought to escape the shoemaker’s grasp, then his meaty fist knocked off her hat. It fell onto the filthy cobbles, revealing curls the color of tarnished bronze. Even in the gloom, their beauty made Trev draw in breath.
“I ain’t done nothing,” she protested.
“Nothing but steal from honest folk as works hard for their money.”
“You can’t prove it!”
“Ah, but I can.” The man reached deep into the pocket in her black skirt, drawing forth a handful of something that glittered, but after he brought his fist up to his face to examine his takings, a look of disgust replaced his earlier look of triumph. His hand held only a few shillings worth of change.
“It’s mine, and you can’t prove otherwise,” she insisted.
“Canny little bitch, she is,” a man beside the shoemaker called out. “You’ll get no blood money for her. Too fly to steal a ticker or something else that could get her lagged.”
“That’s but one pocket,” the shoemaker said. “The drab may have a dozen more pockets hidden in her gown. I’ll find a watch on her, don’t you fear, and when I do, I’ll take her to the magistrate and claim me reward.”
The girl twisted in the man’s grasp and clawed at him as she tried to break free. Her ferocity did not argue well for her innocence. But as her eyes locked onto Trev’s, again, they stopped him in his tracks. He’d seen a look like that only once before, in battle, in the eyes of a man who’d exchanged blow after blow with him in a struggle that would only end with a death.
She wouldn’t give in, though she knew she could not prevail. She was magnificent, a woman warrior as bold as Boadicea. He’d never seen a woman show such courage. He hadn’t known one could.
But her courage wasn’t enough, for the shoemaker easily subdued her and bound her wrists.
Major Stanley tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. It’s getting nasty. We had best be off.”
“I can’t leave her to this mob. They’ll tear her apart.”
&n
bsp; “She’s a pickpocket, Trev. She’s only getting her due.”
“Perhaps, but I can’t leave her to these brutes.” Even as the words left his mouth, he wondered why he’d said them. He was a soldier sworn to protect the state and uphold the laws. He should abandon her to her well-deserved fate. But he couldn’t. Her simple act of kindness had stood out so starkly against the apathy all around her, and her eyes had, for that one agonizing moment, brought back to life the ghosts of the sepoys’ women. They, too, had been brave, but no one had come to rescue them.
Still, he’d be a fool to intervene. She was, after all, a criminal. But when the shoemaker jerked on the cord with which he’d bound her wrists and gave her a hard slap across the face, Trev grasped the hilt of his saber, which was sharp enough to slice through a man’s wrist, and charged through the crowd toward her captor.
“Give her to me,” he commanded in the tone that had reduced more than one subaltern to tears on the parade ground. “She stole from me. I’ll punish her.”
A muttered oath beside him told him that, despite his wariness, Major Stanley had followed him into the crowd and stood now by his side. Trev’s confidence swelled in response to his friend’s show of loyalty.
The shoemaker puffed himself up—he was a large man obviously accustomed to having his way. But Trev was taller and fitter, and the major was no weakling, either. When Stanley reached for his own saber, some of the shoemaker’s bluster abated. Trev could almost hear the man calculating his chances in a fight and rating them poorly. Still, he must not count on the man’s behaving rationally. Some bullies just liked to fight, and if the shoemaker could get the crowd behind him, there still might be trouble. Best to use diplomacy rather than force to defuse the situation. That was always the best approach.
Taking his time, Trev made a great show of replacing his long, curved saber in its scabbard. Then he demanded of the shoemaker. “How big a reward do you expect to get for her?”
The man growled, “Reckon ten pound. More if she’s been in the jug before.”
“You deserve more for having apprehended her.” He reached into his belt and extracted a few notes. “Here’s twenty. Give her to me and take it for your trouble. I’ll see that she is punished.”
“So you say.” The man eyed him warily. “But how am I to know justice will be done?”
“Do you question the honor of an officer of the King’s Dragoons?”
The threat in his tone made the shoemaker hesitate, and when Major Stanley took a step toward him, his hand on his saber, the man standing beside the shoemaker intervened. “Come away, Tom. Sommat’s better than nowt. The girl might be clean, and you’d get nothing from the magistrate. I say take the captain’s money and to hell with her.”
The shoemaker briefly considered this. Then he reached for the notes Trev held out and pocketed them. Grabbing the girl by the leather lacing he’d used to bind her wrists, he dragged her toward Trev.
“She’s yours, Captain. And good riddance to the drab. Reckon you’ll find you paid too much for her.”
A stocky man in a porter’s garb called out, “What about the shilling she forked off me, eh?”
“I didn’t fork nothing off you, porter,” the girl shot back. “If I were to steal, it wouldn’t be from the likes of you, but from the rich. They steal more from the poor than I ever could. But you’ll never see them hang for it.”
“Aye, she’s got a point,” the porter said. “The rich bleed us dry, they do. Who pays for their diamonds and jewels but the workingman?”
The mood of the crowd shifted again, as a few men shouted the Radicals’ slogan, “Liberty for all!”
“Come on, then,” Trev said to the girl, brusquely. “Before they turn on both of us.”
He grasped her by the wrists and pulled her toward the edge of the crowd. She hung back for a moment, putting all her weight on her heels as she resisted him, but as the muttering around them grew louder, she saw reason at last and gave in though she kept her chin up and straightened her shoulders as he led her out of the crowd.
As they reached the edge, her eyes dropped to the cobbles, and he followed her gaze. When he saw what it was that had captured her attention, he gestured to Major Stanley to hold her for a moment and dove back into the mass of onlookers to get the bedraggled black straw hat that had fallen under their feet. He picked up it and brought it back to her.
“Yours, I believe?” he asked.
Warily, she nodded, as if unwilling to show anything that might be interpreted as gratitude. But even so, he could tell his small gesture of kindness had surprised her. Before restoring it to her, he examined the hat closely and brushed it with his sleeve, to rub off the streaks of dust it had acquired during its progress down the pavement. Then he did what he could to smooth out the crumpled feather and carefully set the hat on her head, giving it a slight tilt before he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
She pursed her lips as if she would repay him for his thoughtfulness by spitting at him, but at the last moment, she thought better of it. He took her bound wrists from the major and led her out of the crowd, drawing her toward the main street. When they had reached an empty stretch of pavement, Major Stanley asked, “Whatever will you do with her?”
“Damned if I know. But you’d best go on to Mother Bristwick’s without me.”
He glanced at the girl. Her expression was impenetrable. He would have given a lot to know her thoughts in the moment.
“Well, you’ve found plenty with which to warm your corpuscular molecules,” the major said. “By God she is a beauty, Trev. Can’t say I don’t envy you. Though you’d best keep a good eye on your wallet now that she knows where you keep your brass.”
Chapter 2
The bastard. The bloody stinking bastard of a dragoon. She’d been mad to try to rob him, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Not when she’d seen him standing there, every inch the proud officer, slumming, sneering at her and the crowd, not bothering to hide his contempt. The look of disgust she’d seen in his eyes as he’d listened to old Barrow’s ballad had pushed her over the edge. How dare he exhibit such scorn for her and her people!
When she’d seen that expression of loathing fill his eyes, she’d wanted to do more than steal his coins. She’d wanted to wipe that disgusted look off his face. She’d wanted to slash his dashing blue uniform and smear his close-cropped curls with filth ’til he was as ragged and soiled as the men he so disdained.
What did he have to be so proud about? He was a dragoon, a tool of the greedy rich, a heartless killer, just like the dragoons who’d ridden down the protesters at Peterloo—trampling down women and children while wearing, no doubt, that same insolent sneer.
A dragoon like the one who had murdered Randall.
The familiar pain lanced through her heart as it always did when she remembered her lost love. But she shouldn’t have let her anger make her careless. Randall had warned her there was no room for passion in a pickpocket’s heart—not when they plied their trade. He’d been so right, he who’d taught her all she knew of the knuckling lay.
But she’d ignored his advice and given in to the impulse of the moment. She was lucky she wasn’t on her way to the hulks. This cursed officer might have saved her from rotting in one of those floating prisons, but she owed him no thanks. It had been a dragoon just like him who’d killed Randall—murdered him and dumped his body in the Thames.
But this one would not harm her, not if she could keep her wits about her. Everything about him might radiate insolence, even the way his cloak snapped in the wind, but she wouldn’t let that bother her. Let him think he’d found himself a bit of fun. He’d soon learn his lesson, the proud bastard. If he thought he had her where he wanted her, he’d soon find out his mistake.
This wasn’t the first time she’d found herself at the mercy of some man who expected his superior strength to give him the advantage over her, but they never reckoned on the strength of her wits. She’d get herself out of
this scrape, too. She must just forget about Randall, set aside her rage, and clear her mind. She must study this man, whose iron grip confined her wrists, charm him, and find his weakness. All men had one—usually greed or lust. For all his proud demeanor, this one would be no different. And when she’d found what made him tick, she’d use it to win back her freedom.
She let her shoulders slump. Let him think her defeated; it would keep him from being on his guard. He’d revel in his power, and, with luck, it would make him sloppy. But she must be careful, so very careful. She hadn’t liked what he’d said to the shoemaker about punishing her.
As the captain led her toward a darkened alley, striding ahead of her on those long legs of his, he fixed her now and then with a probing gaze. His eyes were set deep beneath the straight brows that slashed across his forehead and far too observant. He wasn’t stupid, despite being an officer, which was a shame. Stupid men were easier to deal with, and as she struggled to keep up with him, it became clear this man was no uniformed popinjay, either.
The long muscles in his legs rippled beneath the tightly-stretched buckskin breeches. They were strong muscles, which told her he spent his days doing more than just prancing around a ballroom. And that scar that slashed up from his lip and kept his face from having the beauty it might have otherwise possessed. How had he got that?
It might have been from dueling in the park over some imagined slight. The dragoons in London were an idle bunch, given to gambling and fighting amongst themselves. But somehow she thought not. It might just as easily have been earned in battle. There was something about this man that was different from those she’d seen before.
When he finally came to a halt, she asked him, “Where’d you do your fighting, soldier?” Men loved to talk about themselves and brag about their courage. Time to get to work on him if she were to get herself out of this situation safely.