by Anne Mallory
“Forget the terms.” He thrust forward the last few inches and shoved the folder into her delicately gloved hands. “I’m not interested. Leave London and take your parents with you, or you will regret it.”
“But”—she looked up at him with those wide eyes—“what do you want in return?”
“I want you to leave.”
“I can’t just take these. They are worth far too much—”
He walked around the desk and took her satin-covered arm in his hand. Soft under his bare fingertips. He had no use for gloves unless he needed to hide himself. They hindered his aim.
And he never touched people unless it was to harm them. Nobody except Roman and Nana.
He could feel the heat of her beneath his fingers, warm and real.
He picked up his pace, opened the door, and thrust her into the hall. Two men were running down the corridor, and he gave a jerk of his head to the interior of the room. They slipped inside.
Her solicitor was groaning against the wall of the hall as if he’d been attacked too, but Andreas didn’t spare him another look. He pulled the door shut.
He stared at the wood as the sounds of the men moving bodies echoed behind him. He knew she was still standing there on the other side, unmoving, folder in hand.
He could still smell her there, standing on the same boards.
He had given her most of her family’s debts back. Ripping his plans to tatters. A variety of horrible outcomes could now commence.
It didn’t matter. He never relied solely on one course of action. He could complete his revenge in a variety of ways.
And he could still feel the heat of her in his usually rock-steady fingers. If any of the men behind him were stupid enough to comment upon the twitching, they would join the bodies already on the floor.
Better to get her out of his office and life. That way he’d never see her again.
Chapter 3
“What?” he barked at the knock. He had gotten a sum total of two hours’ sleep. Though dealing with the perpetrators who had burned Building Twelve in their search for the Exchange records had relieved some of the tension she had created.
A head peered around the edge, a very nervous look upon young features. “Sir, there is a woman here. She, um, she is making trouble downstairs.”
He very carefully laid down his pen. Stupid tilting-headed nightmares. “Describe. Her.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Gray hair and brown eyes, smartly dressed.”
Something loosened. “Gray hair?”
“Well, not really. It’s brown—she didn’t get the wig all the way on, you see.” The boy tripped over the words at Andreas’s expression, displeasure assuredly tightening it. “My sister’s an actress and she always complains about the sides, so I know what ter look for, especially when I see a pretty face,” he squeaked in a half-broken voice. “She brought biscuits!”
Andreas stared, sure that he had incorrectly heard the boy’s terror-filled last words. “She brought biscuits.”
“Yes.” The boy perked up, terror receding for a moment. “And they are quite tasty, fluffy centers and butter-crisped crus . . .” The boy physically shrank back. Good. “Yes, um, well, but, she delivered four baskets and is asking for requests for the morrow. It’s pandy-, pander-, pandetmonitum,” he said faintly. “That’s what Mr. Fox called it.”
Andreas tapped his finger on the desk, staring hard at the messenger.
“They said to tell you.” He could barely hear the words, so faint as they were.
“Then Mr. Fox should fix it, shouldn’t he?”
The boy ran to the door, hell’s hounds on his heels.
As irreplaceable as Milton Fox was, if he didn’t take care of the problem, he would be replaced.
Milton could deal with her smile. It was like the plague, creeping in on little rat feet, reaching to infect him. He wasn’t going near her.
The next day he was interrupted by another knock.
A slightly older voice spoke this time. “Sir, Mr. Fox thought you should be informed that there is a woman downstairs—”
“Describe her.” He didn’t lift his head, his voice harsh and partly directed at himself.
“Prettier than street Sarah, uglier than floor Sarah.” When Andreas didn’t look up or respond to that absurd description, the lackey hurried on. “Floor Sarah has bigger ti . . . er, um . . . the woman downstairs is handing out pamphlets.”
Andreas counted to ten. Roman always wanted him to do that when he contemplated murder.
He wanted to know if Phoebe Pace was still in disguise and what impression she was giving. His vague question asking for a description served that purpose well. This was by far the stupidest answer he had received in the flurry of visits in the past two days.
He finally looked at the boy, who shifted under his black gaze. “Pamphlets?”
Andreas recognized him as one of the leaders of the twelve to eighteen crowd. That explained the pubescent response to her description. The boy shifted at whatever showed on Andreas’s face. “Yes. She got into a right state when she realized no one could read them, though. She’s setting up some sort of litacerary curse. Some of the boys want to know—is that like gypsy magic? Can you curse someone to read?”
“Leave.”
It was good to know that people still promptly followed darkly hissed commands.
“Sir, we have a problem.”
“Describe the woman.”
“ . . . how did you know it was a woman?”
“Describe. Her.”
“Reminds me of my aunt Patty. She always smelled like baked goods and hugs. I like her.” This was said somewhat defensively.
Andreas rubbed his eyes, figures blurring on the page. The responses were growing worse. He should do something about it. But it meant acknowledging the problem. He didn’t want to acknowledge her existence at all.
“But, see the thing is, sir, we don’t know what to do with a hundred chickens.”
He didn’t take his eyes off the paper the fourth day as the first knock came. “Describe her.”
“Oh. How—” Whoever it was cut off abruptly at Andreas’s hand gesture. “Nice? Kind of strange for the Quality though. Even the men get their noses upturned. But she didn’t blink at the smell in the alley at all.”
Andreas paused. “The alley?”
“Well, she must have smelled it, as she is having people clean it. But she didn’t get high-and-mighty about it, and she’s chipping in herself too. Got all of the boys to help even. Helps that their bellies are full of biscuits each day. Right good, they are. Think she even bakes them herself. A woman of quality baking for us, can you run your head around it?”
Andreas lifted his head, sheer rage—mostly directed internally—searing him. The boy suddenly seemed to remember to whom he was speaking.
“I’ll, I’ll just be going,” he squeaked. “Have it under control, of course. Mr. Fox just thought—”
“If anyone comes up here again to inform me of something she is doing, I will shoot him.” He thought that was said quite pleasantly too, and it bore forth when the boy tripped running out. He should have issued the threat on the second occasion of disturbance. He would have had peace and quiet since—no one would be fooled into thinking it an empty threat.
Andreas waited for the door to slam before pushing away from the desk. He whirled around and walked to the window, then edged the drape and sheer away to peer through the slit. Sure enough, there was a strange gray-haired head—a ridiculous wig mussed from activity and sticking up in some spots—directing mismatched street rats in the back alley.
He could even hear some of her words, now that he allowed himself to think it not just a crazed remnant of an overactive imagination.
“We’ll get this done quickly, working together! There is some nice architecture here to admire too. Perhaps we will tackle the front next week?”
Andreas let the sheer fall back into place with the drape, his fingers still to
uching the material. Perhaps he would wake tomorrow and find it just another in a string of nightmares.
No one knocked on his door the next day. Nor the day after. Nor the one after that. But that didn’t mean he was unaware of what was happening. Someone had carried a plate of those fucking biscuits past his room, and even the oak door had provided no barrier for the smell. Not for anything of hers.
After someone had put one on his lunch tray the first day, he had . . . discouraged . . . such a future action. Not that he ate most things that were brought anyway, but the biscuit had sat there, looking fluffy and happy and innocent, and smelling of the same, and he’d wanted to squash it beneath his bootheel.
The boy who had retrieved the tray had been the recipient of his ire instead. He hadn’t had one on his tray since. And he’d heard the little shits whining ad nauseum in the kitchens later asking when Mr. Roman would return.
Work again commenced on the alley in the back for the fourth afternoon. With a cheerful voice leading the damned.
A cheerful voice emerging from lush, curved lips, no doubt.
“You are doing a great job. We will have this space looking like Berkeley Square in no time.”
He rhythmically tapped his pen against his paper. Tap, tap, bloody tap.
“Great effort, Fred. And Johnny, you are giving it your all. The pride in your work is really showing. You said you were a crossing sweeper? I can tell. I’ll bet you earned at least a pound a week.” Pause. “Ten pence? Really? Well, I’ll be sure to tip Smitty—he’s the boy on my corner—extra tomorrow.”
Andreas pulled his hand over his face and stared at the heavy oak of the door. It was just this side of stifling in the early July heat, but he couldn’t risk opening the window for a breeze. He’d done that the day before yesterday and had accomplished not a single thing as a result.
He should just open it. It’s not like he couldn’t hear everything she said anyway. His ears seemed specifically attuned to the sound of her voice, like a faulty violin in an otherwise seamless orchestra.
Or more realistically, the perfect violin in their disreputable symphony.
Why wouldn’t she just go away?
“Of course, I will keep bringing biscuits.” Pause. “Do you think so? I will definitely do that.”
A flurry of voices melded together, then stopped talking abruptly. As soon as she probably opened her raspberry bloody lips.
“Oh, yes, I plan to be here for months.”
His hand jerked forward, and his quill broke against the spine of a book on his desk.
Three more days. Two sets of footsteps. One hesitant knock on the door. So it had come to this. Someone had bent under the pressure, acquiescing to large, liquid eyes and succulent lips. Risking death to bring her here. He squeezed his seventh quill in as many days between his fingers. It squeaked under the compression, knowing its life too was close to an end.
He would say nothing. And she would go away.
A knock sounded again. This time he knew it was hers, soft gloves rapping the hard wood.
“Enter.” The damning word slipped from his lips.
He couldn’t even swear profusely at himself, so tight did he grip his physical and emotional responses immediately following the escaped word.
He could smell her as soon as she entered. Ten long paces away, and, without looking, he could pinpoint the exact spot on which she stood by smell alone. Goddamn honey and biscuits.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice was happy and warm. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you again.”
He didn’t look up. He refused to do so. If she had a pistol, he would just have to die, triumphantly oblivious to a last sight of her. “I don’t believe I invited you back,” he replied.
“No, and I waited a period of time for you to do so, but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a good idea to await an invitation from you,” she said cheerfully. He stiffened as she padded over on her slippers and sat in the chair across from his desk. Thick wood threaded with impenetrable steel stood between them, but he would have been more comfortable with half of London betwixt instead. “I have a status report for you if you have a moment.”
He forced himself to keep writing. Long scratches that would likely make as little sense later as the woman seated across from him. “A status report?”
She rustled her bag, and the sound made him stiffen automatically, but he forced his shoulders to relax.
“Yes, I am noting everything here.”
He peered through his lashes just enough to see a large ledger open on her lap.
He said nothing, and as expected, she filled the silence.
“It will take quite a bit, but I believe I will have our debt repaid even sooner than calculated.”
He stopped writing and looked up sharply at those words. The wig looked as ridiculous up close as he’d figured it would, blocking her rich brown hair. How anyone would be taken in by . . .
People were stupid.
She kept speaking. “I have many plans, though I invite you to help me by making requests. I will see what we can accommodate. Working together on this will be nice, don’t you think?”
“What are you babbling about?”
His harsh response didn’t diminish her smile one bit. “Well, we have currently repaid eighty-four pounds, Mr. Merrick. And by the week’s end, I believe that number will be ninety-two.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“The biscuits and treats I make are gifts, of course. But the chickens constituted the bulk of one debt itself.”
“Chickens?”
Of course, he knew they were overrun with fowl now, as even though he had patently defied asking questions about her visits, he had been informed of the chickens’ presence and had heard the birds squawking—who in the neighborhood hadn’t?
“Yes, I thought they would be quite useful as you have many mouths to feed. Your kitchen staff seemed most pleased.”
He stared at her. “You thought chickens would be useful to us, so you brought us enough to feed the entire East End of London?”
She nodded. “Twenty sterlings’ worth.”
“One hundred chickens equals twenty pounds?”
“You do not agree?” She nodded and made a notation. “Fifteen then, and I will do a personal favor for you.”
Dear God. “No, twenty sounds appropriate,” he said, a touch of horror creeping into his voice.
He pinned his darkest look on the large man hovering at the door, who flinched away. After defying a direct order already, the man’s ability to breathe depended solely on his silence concerning this conversation. And they would be having . . . words . . . later. The man vigorously nodded his understanding. Andreas turned his attention back to the current bane of his existence as she continued to speak.
“I scrubbed the alley.” She made a check mark. “That is worth three pounds four pence a day for a total of thirteen-”
“You used my labor.”
What was he doing? Shut up.
She looked up. “I paid them.”
Don’t say a word. “With what?” Goddammit!
“Food.”
“You can’t pay them with food.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He stared at her.
“You look struck by the notion, but of course I can, let me explain,” she continued. “You pay for a meal at an inn or dining hall, do you not?”
Silly?
She tilted her head. “Or do you not pay? Do they let you bribe them?” This was said somewhat cheerfully.
The words of the query were on his tongue, but he swallowed them. He already knew the answer. Her instability was obvious.
“I am sure you then forgive one of their debts,” she said in that perpetually warm voice.
He had seen desperate, starving men eat rat shit on the streets. They usually foamed at the mouth within a week, crazed and infected. That had to be why he was staring at her lips so hard. For evidenc
e.
She leaned forward, conspiratorially, and winked. “I won’t tell.”
Rat-shit-eating insane.
He flicked a finger at the man by the door without looking away from her. “Leave.”
She raised a brow as she turned to watch the man flee, his large frame not hindering his flight, the door slamming behind him. “I say, you are most abusive with that word, Mr. Merrick. Poor Bertrand. Do most people hop to do your bidding?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is not good. It builds character to be told no.”
“You must have a lot of character then.”
“That is kind of you.” Warm smile.
“I was being rude.”
“Well, then at least I can say you are an honest man.”
He stared at her. She smiled back.
He felt like a bow, strung taut in the hands of a warrior who had been holding it in position far too long. “What do you want, Miss Pace?”
What do you want from me? It was the question that had been plaguing him day and night for a quarter cycle of the moon now.
“I aspire to fairness, Mr. Merrick. I appreciate your relief of our debts last week, but truly cannot in good conscience just accept such abject generosity. The Paces are good for their words and debts.”
There was a slight buzzing in his ears. “You are going to deliver chickens and clean alleys for the next decade?”
“Oh, no. Those are just small things. Things I thought would be nice to trade for. It hasn’t fully trickled through the business vines yet that most of our debts have been cleared, so I am still forced to negotiate for things without true wherewithal. That will change soon though, thanks to you.”
Roman would love her. They were both foolishly chipper people. Especially in the face of dire circumstance.
If only Roman were here, Andreas wouldn’t be dealing with this. No one dealt with Andreas when they could deal with Roman. Which was exactly the way he liked it.
“In the meantime, Mr. Merrick, I have begun to list all of the ways that I can help through means other than using currency. For instance, I am quite a good matchmaker. I have a few possibilities for you already in mind. You could certainly use a woman’s sensibilities around here. The boys downstairs are desperate for a mothering influence.”