by Rose Lerner
Thomas yelled in triumph. Closed his hands around Hawker’s neck.
Gunshot exploded. Every sound ceased. Hawker and Bent Thomas stood clasped together. Nobody moved anywhere in the room.
Then the huge man’s body slipped slowly to the ground, sliding down Hawker’s pale skin, leaving an obscene trail of blood and gore. The gun she’d left loaded on the mantelpiece was in Hawker’s hand.
In the hollow valley of silence, low but perfectly clearly, Hawker said, “You shouldn’t ’ave sent Sticks after me. You shouldn’t have done that to ’im.”
Chapter 20
* * *
The day had come to a chill and early dusk. Upstairs, Bent Thomas’s corpse was even now being dragged from the room, never to be seen again. If there were anything the Brotherhood knew how to do, it was clean up after a fight.
Clanking and scraping inhabited every corner of the house. That was the men and women of the Brotherhood packing what they’d take with them to new quarters. The Brotherhood was upping stakes and moving on, this time to an old brewery in Aldgate. They’d hire carts and wagons, or just load a pack on their back. Some hardy souls would leave within the hour to claim the best spaces at the new padding ken. Others would arrive tomorrow and squabble with them.
Lazarus and the most important men and women of the Brotherhood gathered in the kitchen which was warm, quiet, and free of carnage. Aimée had been included as one of these useful people almost from the beginning of her tenure in the Brotherhood. She’d never understood why. She didn’t speak up, except to point out obvious errors in some plan.
It had seemed natural to walk shoulder to shoulder with Gideon through the halls. Ordinary and obvious to speak back and forth with him, low-voiced, about nothing important. Soon she’d slip away with him and find privacy.
The kitchen was a big cluttered place with cavernous ceiling, huge tables, racks for pots, and a hundred drawers and shelves. Sun came in west-facing windows, stark, cutting oddly shaped shadows. If the grand ballroom upstairs could hold thirty couples dancing—that was her estimate—the great echoing space of the kitchen could chop, mix, braise, boil, and roast enough food to feed them.
Hawker had got there before them. He stood at the hearth, scrubbing his hair, his feet in a wide tin basin, wearing nothing whatsoever but his fine nonchalance. No one objected. The Brotherhood was careless of nudity and, as he pointed out loudly, he’d been there first. When he saw Lazarus he finished hastily and rinsed off, lifting a bucket and spilling it down over him.
Lazarus slid behind the long table and sat on the high-backed settle. He did it slowly and carefully, holding his side. Obviously he didn't care who knew he was injured. He let his head rest on the wood behind him. He said, “A job well done,” loud enough for Hawker and everyone else to hear.
The loiterers and children cleared out. Two dozen men and women wandered in to find seats at the table or lean on the cabinets and cupboards, talking about the fight, settling bets. Black John stood by the door, discouraging anyone who might want to linger and listen. A meeting of the inner circle of the Brotherhood was informally convened.
She was about to find some inconspicuous spot for herself, but Lazarus motioned her to sit directly across from him. He wanted to talk to her. This was probably not good news. She was filled with a feeling of chickens coming home to roost.
Gideon was doing what she had come to expect of him. He made a quick round of the room, casually checking windows and doors and who was where. She wouldn’t be the only one here who knew he was considering how to fight in this space if he had to.
All she wanted was peace and silence and time alone with Gideon. She wasn’t going to have any of that apparently. This long and dreadful day wasn’t over yet.
She faced Lazarus and said, “Did you plan to set Hawker against Bent Thomas from the beginning?”
Because Lazarus was capable of constructing exactly that kind of long, complicated, cold-blooded plot. Because she was furious with him if he had.
“Not Hawker.” Lazarus didn't seem surprised at the question. “I wasn’t sure he could beat Bent Thomas.” After a minute he added, “Hawker’s young yet.”
She tucked her skirts in around her on the bench. “You say, ‘Not Hawker.’ Who were you planning to set against Bent Thomas?”
“This one.” Lazarus indicated Gideon. “He’d have made cats’ meat of Bent Thomas. I knew that as soon as I laid eyes on him. I was going to set them fighting over you but I didn't have time to make it work.”
Gideon said, “I avoid fighting.”
Hawker pulled breeches on, hopping awkwardly on one leg. “He has a warehouse full of weaponry to avoid it with.”
“Sometimes rifles are part of the negotiation.” Gideon slid along the bench to join her, facing Lazarus. He took up her hand and held it.
His skin was warm to her touch, dry, the long fingers callused in ridges, the palms hardened to leather. Strange how hands fit together like this, left and right. Right and left.
“You’re cold,” Gideon said quietly. The deep bass of his voice rumbled through her body, they were so closely side to side. “You’ve seen too many deaths today.”
“So have you.”
“I’m a soldier. After most battles soldiers are just glad to be alive. Glad their friends are.”
She said, “Hawker’s still breathing. That seems unlikely on the face of it.”
“I would have bet against it an hour ago,” Gideon said.
She had a feeling Gideon had assessed exact odds for that fight. He’d see the world in the grim mathematics of battle, of wins and losses, and the price paid for both. Oddly, the leaders of the Brotherhood thought in the same terms. It was familiar.
Hawker came by with his shirt still untucked, clattering plates and forks down the table. “You’d ’uv lost your money, guv’nor. I had everything under control.”
The Bishop brought a skilletful of eggs, helped himself to three, and dealt out others up and down the table. He forked one onto her plate where it sat, staring up at her, single-eyed. She felt no hunger. What a horrible thing eggs were. Maybe she’d never eat eggs again.
Lazarus had turned away to talk about furniture to cart across town and furniture to leave behind. Benedict Miles dished the last stew out of the pot that always simmered at the back of the fire. They’d start a new pot bubbling at the Brewery.
Gideon kept her hand between both of his. It was probably a mistake to feel safer because he was beside her, but she did anyway.
Very, very softly, she said, “I’m glad I kissed you in the apothecary shop. I’m glad you kissed me back.”
“We’ll do that again if you like.”
“Yes.” Probably no one heard them say these things to each other.
In a part of her mind where she was not actually watching herself think, she might be planning stratagems that would let them share a bed for an hour or two. She’d offer to see him out and they could go by way of an empty room and lock the door. Or she’d arrange to see him tomorrow. The city was full of inns with soft beds and clean white sheets. Tomorrow, in the confusion of moving household, no one would notice where she went and what she did.
The Bishop stepped over the bench to sit at her right. He arranged knife and fork tidily and took out a napkin he’d found somewhere and began eating.
Hawker came down mugs of ale along the table, gave one to her, and took the last one for himself. They’d left space at the end of the bench for him, beside Gideon. Hawker shook himself, scattering water everywhere, and sat. He said, “Aimée me luv, you was wrong about that pistol. It didn't misfire.”
“We all noticed,” she said dryly. “It’s still not a gun I’d rely on.”
“I was going to clean it for you, but somebody’s run off with the thing.” Hawker reached past Gideon and hooked her plate out from in front of her and started eating her egg. “I don’t suppose you want it back anyway.”
“No.”
Lazarus picked
a slice of ham from the plate that had been filled in front of him. He tore it apart with his fingers and ate one small piece, then pushed the plate away.
He said, “Have you been stealing from me, Aimée?”
Every voice died out, starting with the close ones and spreading.
She shook her head.
The money. Her hidden banknotes. It must look very bad.
Lazarus considered her with the same prosaic, ruthless brown eyes she’d first seen when she was dropped on the ground in front of him three years ago. She felt a brush of the same fear she’d felt then.
She should have run a month ago. She’d waited till the end of the storm season on the Atlantic. Then she hadn’t liked the looks of the next ship to sail and the next.
Those were only excuses. In truth, she’d been afraid. She’d stayed with the Brotherhood and hoarded her store of money and been afraid to leave.
Beside her, Gideon was motionless. She had no idea what he intended to do.
Whatever happened, Gideon must not be part of it. She said, “We should talk about this when there’s no outsider here.”
“Not quite an outsider. Today he killed to protect Hawker.” Lazarus shifted position, wincing. “He held a weapon during the challenge, keeping it fair.”
“He still has the gun on him, by the way.” Hawker lifted his mug and drank. “An argument for leaving ’im alone, if you ask my opinion.”
Lazarus said, “Mr. Gage?”
“As long as Aimée’s here, I’ll stay.” Gideon slowly reached out and put his arm around her, heavy across her shoulders, strong as stones.
It was the position of a man who wasn’t about to attack anybody. It also said he’d protect her. It was possessive. Lots of eyes watched him and understood what he was saying.
“As you wish.” Lazarus glanced in Hawker’s direction. “Fetch me this money of hers.” Hawker curled from the bench and took off running, bare feet slapping on the tiles.
“You’ve made plans, Aimée, without consulting me.” Lazarus turned mild, inquisitive eyes on her. “Why New Orleans? Why not Rome or Oslo or the outer reaches of Mongolia?”
“It seemed sufficiently distant.” She’d asked about ships along the docks. That was how he’d found out she was leaving. There were no secrets in London.
“So is China,” Lazarus said.
“They speak French in New Orleans.” And operated under Spanish law that would let a woman operate a business. The city was full of sugar merchants with money ready to buy expensive, pretty things. Emigrés had fled the Revolution with family treasures to sell. She had a dozen good, practical reasons, but she gave only one. “It’s warm in New Orleans.”
Lazarus made a sound of impatience. “It’s warm in Hell.”
Gideon stirred. “To make matters clear,” he said. “When I leave here I take Aimée with me, if she wants to go. I’ll buy her passage anywhere she chooses.”
“Even to the Americas. Alone?” Lazarus said silkily.
“We’ll discuss that.”
Hawker’s feet slapped down the stairs and into the room. “I been asking about New Orleans. You know what they tell me? Crocodiles. Also pirates and cholera.” He dropped a book on the table in front of her, an old tattered copy of Le Paysan Parvenu.
“Alligators,” the Bishop corrected. He placed knife and fork neatly parallel on the edge of his plate.
“What?”
“It’s alligators in New Orleans. Not crocodiles.”
“Alligators. Useful to know.” Hawker sat down beside Gideon and began cleaning up the last of the egg on his plate with a piece of toast. “They also got snakes fatter than aldermen and bugs the size of the ravens at the Tower. You can meet some ’orrible fate right here in London if that’s yer ambition. You don’t ’ave to go doing it in a bloody swamp in the goddamn Americas.”
“How much money do you have, Aimée?” Lazarus said, ignoring all this.
She’d hollowed out a space inside this book to hold banknotes. She took the stack out and set it on the table. Not so much money in the great scheme of things. She handled more than this every week, paying bills and buying supplies. But it was a huge amount for her to have when she’d started with nothing. It was damning.
The banknotes were neat, edges smooth, piled in order of denomination. She hadn’t allowed herself to take them out again and again to recount, but she’d thought about them so often they felt familiar to her hands.
When she was certain her voice would be steady she said, “This is one hundred and forty-two pounds. There’s two shillings sixpence in a pouch I’m carrying.”
“We will not forget the extra two and six,” Lazarus said gravely.
“I paid two hundred guineas for my sister. You don’t need Aimée’s money,” Gideon said. “And it is hers. Does anyone say it isn’t?”
The Brotherhood would see Gideon at ease. But body to body with him, held this close, she could read the readiness in his muscle. He was like a cat, still and alert, a hair trigger away from leaping into motion.
He didn't expect to fight, though. The tension she felt in him was from planning and scheming. From thinking furiously. He and Lazarus were already in the middle of bargaining. She hadn’t realized.
Lazarus lifted a finger and caught her attention. “Explain to us how you got this money.”
To us. She was confessing to the Brotherhood, then. To the aristocracy of the brothers, gathered here. It was a trial of sorts and Lazarus had brought her in front of them—and only them—for judgment.
She swallowed. She spoke loudly enough that everyone in the room could hear. “When you send me out to work, sometimes they give me tips. Or they ask me to look at something else they have questions about and pay me for that.” Her mouth was dry as ashes. “You give me money to spend and I save some.”
“Did you lift valuables from the spoils table? Steal coin when I sent you to carry money? Fix prices with a fence? Inform on a brother for the reward? Steal from someone in the padding ken?”
“No! Never. I wouldn’t—”
Gideon’s arm was heavy around her or she would have been on her feet. He whispered, “Wait.”
Because Lazarus was no longer talking to her. He was saying, “Does anyone here make an accusation?” to the whole room.
Murmurs crisscrossed the kitchen. Not unfriendly. No one accused her.
“Bishop,” Lazarus said. “Does she owe me the tips she received? Does she owe me the pence on any of this?”
“The short answer is ‘no.’” The Bishop repositioned his fork a hair further left on the plate. “Your chattel, which is what she is, does not pay the pence on gifts you give her because she is subsumed in your legal person. In effect, you are giving the gift to yourself.”
“Well, that’s clear,” Hawker said cheerfully.
The Bishop touched fingertips to fingertips. “When she receives a tip for performing services we have a slightly more complex situation. If the tip is considered part of the commission paid to you though her, your agent, but specifically intended for—”
“What you’re saying is, she pays no pence.”
The Bishop picked up his knife and fork. “In a nutshell. It is her money, quite legitimately. Square and upright, as my colleagues would say.”
She couldn’t see the faces of the Brotherhood around the room, but the murmur behind her back was approving. Even amused.
Lazarus dropped the banknotes in front of her. “Yours. Legitimate earnings.”
“Mine.” But everything around her felt strange. She took a deep breath and let go of some huge weight of fear. She knew what came next. It only remained to do it.
“Pack that in your trunk. You leave for the Brewery in an hour. There’s a cubbyhole on the second floor you’ll probably want.” He’d already turned away. “Bishop, burn the papers we don’t need, take the rest across town, under your eye. You know the drill. Hawker, go ahead and make sure I have somewhere to sleep. I hurt and it’s making me irr
itable.”
Her hands closed around the stack of banknotes. Quite a lot of money, really. For the last year she’d felt safe knowing she had this hidden away. One could build a whole new life with a hundred and forty pounds.
Or free herself from an old one. She pulled the little pile of banknotes close.
Gideon must have sensed some of what she was thinking. He said, “You can walk out of here. He won’t stop us. I can protect you from him.”
Gideon said that knowing what it meant to be at odds with Lazarus and do business in the city of London. Other men might court her with roses and jewels. Gideon gave her his willingness to risk the trading business he had come to London to found. To risk it for her.
She shook her head. “It’s not that simple.” She took a deep breath and turned to Lazarus. “I want to buy something, Lazarus.”
It was a very old formula. Men had come to the King of Thieves and said that since the days of Elizabeth. Maybe longer.
“What do you want to buy?”
“Myself.”
Lazarus showed his teeth when he smiled. “You’re a valuable commodity, Aimée, but I’ll let you buy yourself for fifty pounds.”
She waited. There’d be more to it.
He finished with, “Plus interest, of course. Thirty-five percent interest, compounded for three years.”
She said, “It may take a while to calculate that.”
“I already have the numbers,” Lazarus said.
Chapter 21
* * *
She was happy to escape the kitchen and the curious eyes of the Brotherhood. The house was full of people collecting their belongings and picking out a few last valuables to steal. None of them showed any interest in her or in Gideon.
The knots in her stomach untied with every step. For better or worse, she was on her own now. Free, after a fashion. With many problems, but free.
“Are you going to ask me to be your mistress?” She glanced sideways at Gideon. “I won’t take it as an insult but I will say ‘no.’”