Cruel as a Queen
Page 23
“Paolo,” she exclaimed, walking into the shop close to the shipyard. Airships came and went around her, the hums of their propellers and boilers not quite masked in the small shop. Paolo had come to London, as a child, from Italy. His father was an abusive drunkard that his mother risked running from. She had left everything she had known to give her son a better life, and it had worked. His mother lived with him, a wife, and three children, and Paolo was one of the most successful vendors in London.
Paolo looked up from where he was marking in his log books—a task Vic had no urge to ever take on—and grinned at her.
“Victoria,” he exclaimed, opening his arms. She immediately stepped into his embrace, accepting the warm hugs he was famous for. He smelled like oil and the metallic sting of metal, the best combination.
“You know I prefer Vic,” she admonished, pulling from his embrace.
“I know. I just like to tease, is all. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I have a rather large order for you, I am afraid.”
“That Master Frederick working you to the bone again?”
Vic grinned.
“Actually, this order is for me.” She pulled a bag of coin from her belt. “I am the Master Tinker for my father’s expedition.”
Paolo clapped his hands.
“It is about time, no? Congratulations, Vic! You deserve it every bit.” He looked down at the pile of coins, and his eyes bugged. “How much are you purchasing?”
“Eight months’ worth of gear oil.”
Tears sprang to his eyes, and he pulled her back into his arms.
“That is enough to pay the rent twelve times over. You have taken care of my family by bringing this order to me.”
“I would never trust anyone else, Paolo. You are the best at what you do.”
She meant it. Paolo mixed the oil himself, making sure the balance was always right for proper lubrication. There was no one else who did what he did.
Paolo kissed her cheeks, excitement in his eyes, before grabbing his notebook and writing down her order. After he took the details of the delivery address and date, he grinned at her.
“Stay there. I have something for you,” he said, but before he could make his way to the back, the bell above the door chimed.
A man walked in, not many years her senior, dressed in a grey double-breasted sack suit. Vic immediately noted him as higher class than the men she usually dealt with. He did not once look her way as he pulled his gloves from his hands and walked up to the counter.
“Are you Paolo Ricci?” he asked, his voice rich and cultured. He was most definitely high class. Vic unconsciously smoothed down her trousers, noting the small smudges of grease on her sleeves she never seemed to be without.
“Yes, sir. What can I help you with?”
“I am in a need of an order of box gears, and see that it is delivered by tomorrow.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. It will take me at least a week to procure your order.”
“Are you the best-known vendor, Paolo, or not?”
“Yes, sir, but–”
“Then I expect the order on my doorstep by tomorrow evening. See that it is done, or I will make sure everyone knows you are nothing but a fraud.”
Paolo’s face went white.
“Excuse me?” Vic interrupted, furious at the man’s treatment of her friend. Class did not give a man permission to act a fool. “That is no way to speak to him.”
The man turned towards her voice. His amber-colored eyes took her in, from the boots on her feet, to the trousers, the corset, and the goggles strapped in her hair. His expression immediately changed, his whole demeanor evolving into a smooth, dignified viper.
“What is a beauty like you doing in a dingy shop such as this?” he asked, his voice a purr.
“Paolo is the best vendor in the city. No one else could get you gears that fast, and that is exactly why you came to him. Perhaps you could use a little more class when addressing him rather than act like a boar,” Vic said, holding her head high.
The man waved away her words and stalked towards her, stopping when they were merely inches apart. It was completely inappropriate for a man to be so close to a woman other than his wife, but Vic did not have delicate sensibilities. She was as stubborn as they came, and she refused to back down from this man, no matter his status.
“What does it matter how I choose to talk to my inferiors, Little Tinker?” His voice was soft and seductive.
“The true merit of man is not measured by his class.” Vic met the eyes of Paolo who was watching carefully, waiting to see if she needed any help. “It is measured by how he treats his inferiors.” She flicked her eyes back towards the well-dressed man in front of her. “Paolo will get your shipment as fast as possible, like he always does, and you will respect him.”
“And if I do not?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. His eyes dropped to her lips and she fought against the sudden skip in her heartbeat. She was not attracted to this fool. She refused to be.
“Then I will make sure there is not a crate of box gears in this entire city.”
The man’s lips curled the smallest amount, and he inclined his head.
“Mr. Paolo, as soon as possible would be splendid.” He dropped a large bag of coin on the counter, much more than his order cost. “I will await the delivery anxiously.”
He turned back towards Vic and smiled.
“Good evening, Madam Tinker,” he said, bowing and tipping his bowler.
Vic raised her eyebrows at the man.
“Good evening, Sir Boar.”
The man laughed and headed for the door, pulling on his gloves. At the last moment, he turned back and touched his cheek.
“You have a bit of a smudge just there.”
Vic wiped her hand across her cheek. Indeed, her hand held the telltale streak of grease, and she sighed. The man shot her one last appreciative glance before stepping out into the cacophony of airships and steam-autos, disappearing quickly in the crowd.
* * *
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Shipwrecked Souls
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