A Dangerous Affair

by Jillian Eaton

  Grant's eyes narrowed. While he did enjoy a good tup – what man didn't? – the extent of his sexual exploits had been greatly exaggerated. And he knew precisely who had been doing the exaggerating.

  "Spencer is a bloody idiot. If you see the captain, tell him I'll be in first thing tomorrow morning."

  Colin's grin widened. "Have a good time, mate."

  "Sod off."

  Grant heard – and smelled – The Lusty Mermaid before he saw it. Supported on either side by decaying masts held together with black tar, the old pirate ship looked as though one stiff breeze would send it rolling back into the Thames.

  Dim light and raucous laughter spilled from the port holes, as did the smell of unwashed bodies and strong ale. It wasn't a place for the faint of heart, and when a gunshot rang out and a bullet came flying through the rotten belly of the hull, leaving a splintered hole in its wake, Grant just stepped to the side and kept on going.

  As he neared the front door it swung open and a drunkard, stripped of all his clothes save a soiled pair of drawers, sailed out with the help of a bald-headed bruiser who could have easily passed for Hawke's brother. One look at Grant and the bruiser stopped in his tracks, fleshy lip curling in a sneer. "Nuffin' here for the likes of ye, runner," he growled. "We ain't after no trouble."

  "That's good, because I'm not after causing any. I'm looking for someone." He angled his head to the side, trying to look into the tavern. "A woman."

  With every day that had passed since the Dashwood Ball, his desire to find Juliet had increased tenfold. He knew the odds of her being in a place like this were slim to none, but he was willing to bet someone inside knew who she was and where she lived. A female thief, particularly one who looked like her, couldn’t go unnoticed.

  "Bar wenches are two shillings an hour, three if ye like it rough."

  "A tempting offer, but I'm after a different sort of woman." Knowing how the game was played, he pulled out another leather pouch nearly identical to the one he'd emptied for Captain Jim and tossed it at the bruiser. "Long hair red as a ruby. Large green eyes, a little tilted in the corners. Full mouth." That tastes like honey. "Small, curvy frame." He could feel his cock begin to swell and harden as he brought up a picture of Juliet in his mind. Her knowing little smirk. The way her breasts pushed against her bodice when she tilted her chin up at him. The hint of wildness in her gaze, like a filly that hadn't yet felt the weight of a bit between its teeth. He adjusted his stance, and hoped the bruiser wouldn't look down. "Have you seen anyone like that?"

  "Aye, runner. In me dreams." The bruiser let out a hard, barking cough as he slipped the pouch into his pocket. "We're lucky if the wenches who come in 'ere have all their bleedin' teef. Wherever your red-haired unicorn is, she ain't here."

  "Mind if I take a look for myself?"

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. "It's your funeral, runner."

  It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but then Grant hadn't been expecting one. Tipping his hat, he walked through the door and into pure bedlam.

  Chapter Twelve

  Juliet could feel the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand straight up even before a hush fell over the boisterous crowd and every head swiveled towards the door. She didn't need to turn around in her chair to know that whoever had just entered The Lusty Mermaid, they were not welcome. Which meant it was either a runner, a peeler, or Old Danny McDougall back from the dead.

  "Please tell me it's McDougall," she whispered, slanting a sideways glance at Bran. They were sharing a small, shadowy table in the back of the tavern next to the bar. It was only the third time Juliet had been in The Lusty Mermaid and it was every bit as awful as she remembered. The smell alone was enough to make a pig retch. But she’d been cooped up for a better part of a week while her ankle healed, and when Bran told her he was going out she’d immediately demanded that he take her with him.

  She’d just neglected to ask where he was going.

  So far tonight she’d seen a drunk piss himself, a sailor shoot his friend in the arm, and half a dozen brawls. In other words, it was just another normal night at the Mermaid. Until everyone fell silent and reached for the closest weapon.

  "I'm afraid not," Bran said out of the corner of his mouth as he tipped back his mug of ale.

  "A peeler?" she said hopefully. London's new metropolitan police force, named for their founder Sir Robert Peel, may have looked smart in their navy blue uniforms and top hats, but the lot of them were as dull as an old rusty nail.

  "Seems like The Wolf is out hunting. Don't move a bleedin’ muscle," Bran warned, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to the table when she instinctively started to push back her chair. "You don't want to draw attention to yourself."

  "Is he looking over here?" she hissed, her nails digging into the scarred wood as she struggled not to glance back over her shoulder.

  What the devil was Grant Hargrave doing at The Lusty Mermaid? Runners never came this far east. It was too dangerous, even for them. Yet here he was. Had he come for her? Had he known somehow, someway, that she would be here tonight? Impossible, she scoffed.

  "What is he doing? Is he coming this way? Is he–"

  "Shut yer trap," Bran gritted out between his teeth.

  The floorboards creaked beneath Grant's boots as he walked further into the tavern. The tension radiating around the room could have been sliced with a knife, and when he walked up to the bar everyone drew a collective breath, including Juliet.

  "A round of pints for everyone," he shouted, and the Mermaid erupted in cheers.

  As the pressure eased and the music and shouting resumed, Juliet dared to take a quick peek at the bar. She saw Grant leaning casually against it, looking as comfortable in the tavern as he had in the ballroom. He was wearing a heavy black coat that dropped past his knees and tall leather boots splattered with mud. As she watched he drew off his hat and raked a hand through his hair, combing the thick inky tresses back to reveal a sharp profile and flashing grin. The grin was directed at a serving wench who giggled and batted her lashes when he leaned over the bar and whispered something in her ear.

  "What is he doing here?" She wrenched her gaze away to glare at Bran.

  "How the bollocks should I know? I didn't send him a bloody invitation!"

  No, but someone clearly had. Which meant she needed to find the nearest exit.

  Fast.

  "I need you to watch my back," she said tersely.

  Bran's eyes narrowed. "Why do I suddenly ‘ave the impression yer about to do something stupid?"

  "I'm not doing anything except for getting the hell out of here." She adjusted her floppy brown hat, making sure her hair was still tucked up inside before dragging the brim down to conceal as much of her face as possible. Dressed as she was in an oversized jacket and bulky trousers she hoped Grant wouldn't recognize her, but she wasn't going to take any chances.

  "Is he looking this way?"

  "No, but–"

  She didn't wait for Bran to finish. The legs of her chair scraped against the floor as she stood up, but the small sound was swallowed up by all of the deafening noise. Keeping her head low, she skirted around the edge of the table and walked as quickly as she could towards the back door.

  She was so intent on getting out of the tavern that she didn't see the barmaid carrying a tray of pints until it was too late. They collided as if in slow motion. The barmaid's arms jerked in surprise and the pints went sailing into the air, tumbling end over end until they crashed to the ground in a splintering of glass and frothy ale.

  "Oy!" yelled a red-faced sailor, jabbing a finger at Juliet from across the room. "One of those were mine, ye clumsy bastard!"

  Every head turned, including Grant's. For a moment there was only confusion in the depths of his green eyes, and then recognition dawned.

  Oh shite, Juliet thought silently when his jaw clenched and he began to fight his way through the crowd, tossing full grown men out of his way as if they weighed nothing.

&nb
sp; "Run, Jules!" Bran shouted, his chair toppling as he sprang to his feet and drew out his pistol. His first shot went into the ceiling and sent bits of wood and plaster raining down on her head as she hurdled over a table. Someone else fired their gun, hitting one of the portholes. Within a matter of seconds the entire tavern erupted in violence as angry shouts filled the air and fists began flying left and right.

  A hairy arm came sailing in front of her face. She dropped to her knees, head falling back as the arm passed over her nose with a hair's breadth to spare and plowed into a man's ribcage with a sickening crunch.

  As she scrambled to her feet she saw a barmaid being dragged up the stairs by two laughing sailors. For an instant their gazes met, and the helpless misery in the maid's tear drenched eyes struck Juliet like a knife to the heart. But for a lucky twist of fate – and good timing on Bran’s part – that could have been her being dragged up the stairs.

  She looked at the door, less than two feet away.

  She looked up at the stairs.

  Back at the door.

  "Oh bugger it," she cursed under her breath as she changed direction and began to thread her way through the brawling crowd.

  An elbow glanced off the side of her head. A heavy boot stomped on her foot. Biting back a hiss of pain, she put all her weight behind a punch that sent a drunkard sprawling back on his arse. Leaping over him, she reached the stairs and took the creaky wooden steps two at a time. Halfway up she stopped short, her gaze sweeping over the railing as if drawn by a magnetic force. A magnetic force with an iron jaw, firm lips, piercing eyes, and the thickest, silkiest hair she’d ever run her fingers through.

  She saw Grant by the bar fighting off two men armed with broken bottles. He feinted to the side when one of them tried to stab him in the face, moving with such effortless speed and grace it looked as if his attackers were standing still. Two quick uppercuts to the jaw, a fist to the belly, and they both went down like a pile of rocks. Flexing his fingers, Grant turned around suddenly, his eyes traveling up the stairs to where she stood poised like a deer in the bow line of a hunter.

  Then their gazes met and suddenly all of the noise, all of the mayhem and madness, simply...faded away.

  For the span of one thunderous heartbeat she saw him not as a runner or an adversary, but as a man. A strong, virile man who she desired beyond all reasoning. Then he blinked, and the spell was broken, and they were enemies once again.

  "JULIET!" His furious shout rose above the clamor and commotion. "STOP RIGHT THERE."

  "Feck you," she called out, borrowing one of Bran's favorite slurs. Touching her fingers to her lips she blew him a kiss. Not waiting to see his response, she scrambled up the rest of the stairs and yanked open the first door she came to.

  The small room was dimly lit with a single flickering candle, but there was enough light for her to see one sailor holding the struggling barmaid pinned to an old mattress while the other shoved up her skirts and positioned himself between her flailing legs.

  "Hold 'er still," the man at the foot of the bed grunted. Short and heavyset with a bushy black beard, he licked his lips in anticipation as he unbuttoned his trousers and yanked them down to his knees.

  "The wench is slippery as a damn eel!" The sailor lifted his hand to strike her, but the loud click of Juliet's flintlock pistol as she cocked back the hammer gave him pause.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you." Aiming the pistol at Bushy Beard, she sauntered into the room and arched a brow. "Why don't you blokes find something else to twist your fancy? I don't think the lady's interested in those tiny little knobs between your legs."

  "Who the 'ell are you?" Bushy Beard demanded, his face flushing a dull, mottled red as he grabbed his trousers and yanked them back up to his waist. "This ain't none of yer concern!"

  "He ain't gonna shoot us," the other sailor said confidently. "Look at 'em. He's a green lad who ain't seen 'is first whisker yet." He grinned, revealing a blackened row of rotten teeth. "Don't worry, boy. This one's got plenty of fight in 'er. Ye can have yer turn when we're done."

  Juliet's head tilted. "I am going to count to three, and then I am going to start shooting. One..."

  "Go on," the sailor urged Bushy Beard. "He ain't gonna do nuffin'."

  "Two." Squinting her right eye, she moved the barrel a few inches to the left and pulled the trigger.

  "Ahh!" Bushy Beard yelled as acrid black smoke filled the air. Clutching his shoulder, he fell back against the wall. Dark red blood spurted between his fingers. "What the 'ell happened to three?"

  "Sorry," Juliet said sweetly. "I guess I forgot."

  "No wench is worth this shite." His face contorted into a grimace of pain, Bushy Beard gave her a wide berth as he stumbled out the door. After a moment's hesitation his companion followed.

  "This isn't over," he hissed, his beady black eyes flashing with contempt as he backed slowly out into the hall. "Ye are gonna pay for that, lad. Ye are gonna pay dearly."

  It wasn't the first threat Juliet had received, nor would it be the last. Waiting until their footsteps faded away, she rushed to the bed and helped the barmaid sit up.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "I - I think so." Appearing pale but otherwise unharmed, the barmaid looked gratefully up at Juliet. She was a tiny slip of a thing with delicate features, wispy blonde hair, and luminous violet eyes damp with tears. By Juliet's estimation the poor girl couldn't have been older than sixteen, seventeen at the most.

  "Thank ye," she whispered, managing a watery smile. "Ye - ye didn't have to do that."

  "Of course I did. We women need to stick together."

  "Women?" Her soft brows knit together in bewilderment. "But aren't ye a..."

  "A hat and a bit of extra cloth," Juliet said, patting her chest where she'd bound her breasts flat. "They leave you alone if they think you're like them. For the most part," she added, thinking of Grant. Speaking of which...

  "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

  "Wait! Don’t go. Take me with you."

  "Oh, I really don't think-"

  "Please," the barmaid begged. "I - I don't want to be here anymore. I can't. Please, please take me with you."

  Juliet frowned. "You don't even know where I'm going."

  The maid laughed bleakly as she gestured around the room with a sweep of her hand. "Anywhere is better than here."

  Juliet wasn't in the habit of picking up strays, but there was something about the girl that made her want to help. Maybe because that for a different decision, she might have ended up right where the barmaid was now. Or maybe she was just getting soft. Either way, she couldn't resist her desperate plea. "Find somewhere to hide tonight and go to Ginny’s Antiquities on Fleet and West Broad first thing tomorrow morning. Ask for Yeti, and tell him Juliet sent you. He'll see that you are taken care of."

  "Thank you," the barmaid cried, clasping her hands together beneath her chin as tears flooded her eyes. "Thank you so much."

  "What's your name?"

  "Lilly." She dashed at her wet cheeks. "My name is Lilly."

  "And mine is Juliet. I'll see you again soon, Lilly."

  If I don’t end up in Newgate first.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Grant managed to fight his way to the top of the stairs, Juliet was nowhere to be seen. Cursing under his breath, he slammed open the first door he came to and scared the dickens out of a tiny blonde barmaid.

  With a shriek she ran across the room and cowered beside the bed. "Please don't 'urt me," she pleaded, looking up at him out of blue eyes glassy with fear.

  "I'm not going to hurt you." Forcing his expression to soften, Grant held up his arms and backed towards the door. "I promise. I'm just looking for someone. A woman - a young man," he corrected himself, for that was how Juliet would appear to anyone in the tavern. "He would have come by this way just a few minutes ago. Thin, wearing a brown hat and a bulky overcoat. About this tall." He moved one of his hands midway up his chest. "Have
you seen anyone like that?"

  The barmaid slowly stood up. "I - I might 'ave. Why are you looking for her - I mean ‘im."

  It was a quick slip of the tongue. Hardly noticeable, really. But then it was a runner's job to notice what others missed.

  "So you have seen her," he said.

  "Maybe I 'ave and maybe I 'aven't. What - what's it to ye?"

  "She's stolen something. Quite a few somethings, actually. I'm a runner."

  "Ye are going to arrest 'er?" the barmaid cried. "But ye can't do that! She saved me life, she did! Two sailors were trying to...trying to..."

  "I understand," he said gently when her bottom lip began to wobble. "Are you all right?"

  "I am now, thanks to 'er. She came bargin' in like she owned the place. Then she shot the one with the beard. Right in the shoulder, like she's done it a 'undred times before. Didn't even blink."

  "That sounds like Juliet," he said with a sardonic twist of his mouth. For all her countless faults – being a thief, liar, and manipulator principle among them – the woman was absolutely fearless. "Did you see where she went?"

  "No." The barmaid crossed her arms. Lifted her chin. "An' I wouldn't tell ye even if I did."

  "She's a criminal," he said flatly.

  "Not to me."

  A flash of movement behind the barmaid caught his eye. Crossing the room in three long strides, he drew back the rough square of burlap covering the window and looked out through the dingy glass.

  On this side of town there were no gaslights to speak of, but the clouds had parted just enough to release a sliver of moonlight that allowed him to see Juliet's narrow slip of a silhouette as she hurried down the alley. Her hat obscured her brilliant red hair and from this angle he couldn't see her face, but he knew it was her. He felt it, deep in his bones.

  "There you are." Mouth setting in a grim line, he bolted out of the room so fast that Lilly's hair whipped across her cheek.