by Shana Galen
“Then we have no choice. Find me a bubble.”
She halted. “I beg your pardon.”
“That’s what we call the swell whose pocket we’ll pick.”
Her face reddened with a mixture of shock and horror. “I will not be a party to theft!”
He folded his arms tightly over his chest. “You stole my necklace.”
“It’s not your—that’s not the point! I won’t stoop to thievery.”
He let those words sink in until her face reddened further.
“I mean…I didn’t intend to insult you.” She tugged at her wrap, pulling it like a shield around her.
“We can’t go back to your town house for blunt, and we can’t do the trick. Do I have that about right, princess?”
“I’m not a princess.”
Right. And he wasn’t a thief.
“You will simply have to find another way to obtain the funds we need.” She sniffed.
Of course he would because Princess Strawberry wasn’t about to dirty her fingers. He’d been counting on it.
“There’s one last option.”
The hands fidgeting with the fringe on her wrap stilled, and she gave him her full attention. Easier to hook than a hungry fish. Or so he thought. He’d never been fishing. An oversight he planned to rectify when he was finally away from London and free from the life of Gideon Harrow.
“We see a crony of mine.”
She pulled the wrap to cover her throat. “What sort of…of crony?”
“The sort who can help a man out when he needs shoes and blunt.”
“Can we trust him?”
Of course they couldn’t trust him. Gideon didn’t trust anyone. Strawberry, on the other hand, was far too trusting. Else she wouldn’t be away from her cozy, safe home with him.
“Trust him?” Gideon spread his arms. “I’d trust him with my life.”
The dog woofed, and Gideon gave it a quelling look. Strawberry glanced at her too. “You’ll keep us safe, won’t you, Beauty?”
The dog wagged its tail.
“Shall we?” He made the sweeping bow he’d seen the rum dukes do a time or two. “This way, madam.”
She followed like a little lamb.
The buffer whined but stood rooted in place. “Come, Beauty!” Strawberry called.
With a last plaintive whine, the dog followed.
* * *
Walking the streets of London at night was a vastly different experience from flying along them in a coach and four. For one thing, the city stank. Unwashed bodies, refuse, horse manure, and the stagnant heat of summer combined to make her gag.
The thief laughed at her when she covered her nose with her silk, lavender-scented handkerchief.
“You think this is bad? Just you wait, Strawberry.”
His words filled her with a mixture of dread and excitement. The dread she understood. The dread was the emotion she ought to feel. The excitement was all wrong. Her mother would have been appalled—which only made Susanna want to revel in the adventure even more.
She’d never have a chance at another adventure like this again. Soon she’d be leg-shackled to some stuffy gentleman or elderly lord. She’d spend her days embroidering and receiving callers who wanted to chat about the weather or the latest fashions.
Susanna enjoyed fashion and weather as much as anyone, but there must be more to life. The years stretched before her like an infinite carpet with an unvarying pattern. This foray into disobedience and risk began and ended her life.
Surprising how much she was enjoying this. The handsome rogue was not at all what she’d expected when she’d heard Marlowe speak of her life in Seven Dials. Oh, he was vulgar and ill-mannered, but those eyes and that chest…
When he’d pinned her to the tree, she hadn’t been able to take a deep breath, partly out of fear and partly because he’d stood so close. He’d touched her. Without permission.
The crowds about her thickened, and she clutched her wrap tightly, brandishing her candlestick.
“Where are we?” she asked, grateful for the thief on one side and Beauty on the other. Hard-eyed women and thin children watched her from dirty doorways. Rambunctious men turned to gawk and whistle when she passed. The thief had been right about the gown. She should have worn a sack.
“You never been to St. Giles?” he asked. “Little rookery just on the east side of Mayfair, and I warrant this is the first you’ve seen of your neighbors.”
“Are you certain it’s safe to be here?”
“Safe? No. And if you keep waving that silk wipe in front of your nose, someone will snatch it and might decide to take you with it.”
She shoved the handkerchief back into her glove. The fingers of the once-pristine gloves were black from the dog and whatever else she’d touched. Apparently, there was a market for handkerchiefs, so she’d better keep her gloves close to her as well.
“This is it,” the thief said, stopping abruptly in front of a battered wooden door covered with pamphlets and advertisements for miracle tonics. The owner must not have cared enough to remove them. The thief rapped on the door then glanced back at her over his shoulder. A fire burned nearby, encircled by a group of men who roasted meat on the flame. In the red glow, the thief’s scar looked painfully angry. His eyes glittered like a cat’s.
“Let me talk,” he said.
She nodded, wrapping her fingers in the warm fur at the dog’s neck. Her throat was dry, and her feet throbbed. The thin slipper soles hadn’t protected her tender heels or arches from sharp stones. The slippers had been a miscalculation.
She looked at the thief. Perhaps he’d been a miscalculation as well.
The door creaked open, and one pale blue eye blinked at them.
“Gideon Harrow looking for Mr. Stryker.”
Gideon. A Biblical name. Had his parents—he did have parents, didn’t he?—been devout Christians? Methodists, perhaps. Her own mother attended church only when compelled and spoke of Methodists as though they were the devil incarnate.
“’Arrow? What do ye want?”
Susanna held her breath. She’d expected a welcome of some sort. Her hand burrowed deeper into Beauty’s fur. The dog seemed to sense trouble, but as yet no low hum of warning rose in her throat.
“Just open the jigger, Stryker. I have a lady with me.” Gideon used his boot to shove the door wider. A gaunt face surrounded by white hair and fuzzed with white bristles stared out at her. Another watery eye fastened on her.
“So ye do.” Stryker’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Ye sure you want to bring ’er in ’ere?”
“No choice.” Gideon shouldered his way inside. “Strawberry?” He jerked his hand at her impatiently.
Susanna lifted one foot, rested it on the first of the three steps leading to the door. Beyond this Stryker, all was darkness. She cut a glance over her shoulder, where the men at the fire near the street watched her with predatory gazes.
“In or out, Strawberry? I’d suggest in, but you can take your chances with them if you want.”
Beauty growled at the men behind her, and Susanna patted her head. She tucked her candlestick under her arm, lifted her skirts, and climbed the rest of the steps. Stryker’s pale eyes shifted to the dog. “That thing stays outside.”
“No.” Susanna pulled Beauty closer.
Gideon closed his eyes as though in pain. “Strawberry, leave the mongrel on the stoop.”
Wordlessly, Susanna shook her head. Where she went, Beauty followed.
“I’m not having that buffer in me place,” Stryker said. “It’s got fleas.”
“Then it should be right at home,” Gideon mumbled.
“Beauty doesn’t have fleas!” Susanna argued, shocked at the vehemence in her voice. “I admit she needs a bath, but I haven’t seen her scratch once.”
/> Beauty jerked, craned her neck, and bit at her hindquarters. Susanna pressed her lips together and, with her eyes, dared the men to argue with her.
“The dog stays in the entry,” Gideon negotiated. “We’ll only be a moment.”
Stryker emitted a growl of his own and jerked his chin. Gideon moved into the darkness, and Susanna shuffled after, keeping Beauty’s warm body against her thigh.
The door closed behind her, and Stryker snapped lock after lock into place. He held a tallow candle in one hand and pointed a bony finger from the other hand at Beauty. “Down.”
Beauty lowered her haunches and settled comfortably against the door.
“Where’s your gang?” Gideon asked.
“Where else?” Stryker asked with a jerk of his shoulder. “Kitchen.” He stroked the fuzz on his chin and narrowed his watery eyes. “Where’d you find her?”
“Long story.”
“I’ve got time.”
“I don’t.”
Gideon lifted the hem of her skirt, and Susanna slapped his hand away.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Showing him your shoes.”
“Them’s shoes?” Stryker asked. He shook his head. “Useless.”
Susanna’s back straightened. The nerve of these men!
“That’s why we want to trade them. She needs a solid pair of boots. Boots that fit so she can walk.”
Stryker scrubbed his cheeks. “Trade ’em? What do I want with ’em slippers? No one in ’er right mind would buy ’em.”
Susanna gasped. “I’ll have you know these slippers were handmade by Madam Durand. If you know anything of fashion, which you obviously do not, you would know she’s one of the finest modistes in London.”
“Mod—what?” Stryker’s face had scrunched into a fuzzy, wrinkled oval.
“Stryker.” Gideon wrapped an arm around the other man’s bony shoulders. “Those slippers are silk.”
They were actually satin, but Susanna didn’t correct him.
Gideon patted the other man familiarly. “The sole is the finest kid leather.”
Susanna saw what he was about now, and slid a slipper out from under her hem so the pretty pink satin was visible. She was loathe to part with the slippers. They matched the gown perfectly, but neither could she traipse across London in them.
“The ribbons are in perfect condition,” she added. “Not frayed or wrinkled.” She had no idea if that was true. They’d been in perfect condition when she’d tied them on. “A lady would pay…” She had no idea what someone would pay for slippers like these. She’d never even seen the bill. “…would pay money for these.”
Stryker stared at the slippers and stroked his jaw. “Problem is we don’t ’ave many ladies round ’ere.”
“Plenty of molls.” Gideon said something low and quiet near the man’s ear, and Stryker laughed.
Susanna’s face grew hot. She didn’t know anything about molls or the sorts of things men whispered when women were not present. Her ignorance now reminded her of when she’d been a child in the country, watching her brothers tromp through meadows while she had to stay close to home.
Stryker opened his bony hand. “Let me ’ave ’em.”
Susanna waited for Gideon to nod. When he did, she looked for a chair to sit upon. “Is there somewhere I might sit to remove these?”
“Might as well come into the kitchen.” Stryker slid deeper into the dark entry. “Ye can wait there while I find real shoes.”
Gideon didn’t move, and Susanna waited beside him. She didn’t know what waited in the kitchen for her, and she dared not find out without Gideon beside her. When her legs trembled and wobbled, she reminded herself Gideon knew Marlowe. Marlowe would never allow anything to happen to her. Maybe Marlowe had sent Gideon. Before Marlowe had married Dane, she’d lost a wager and promised Susanna an adventure.
So far, this had been an adventure.
“Who’s down there?” Gideon asked.
“The usual.” Stryker’s voice came from the murky blackness.
“Maybe I’d better wait here then.”
Susanna gave him a sharp look. Did this Gideon have so many enemies?
“Coward,” the voice in the darkness hissed. “If I know Gideon ’Arrow, ye want more than a pair of shoes. Better go down if you think to swindle me out of the rest.”
“I never swindle,” Gideon said, looking very much like offended royalty.
“Right.”
Susanna heard a shuffling sound. Somehow she knew Stryker was gone. She stared into the black corridor then turned in a circle to study the entry. Not a chair in sight. She might be able to hold one wall and balance to remove the slippers, but it wouldn’t be very ladylike.
Her throat was still dry. She desperately wanted a splash of tea.
“You have enemies in the kitchen?” she asked.
“I have enemies everywhere. You?” His green eyes assessed her with an unfamiliar look. Cynicism?
“None that I know of.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. You haven’t lived enough life to make any enemies.”
Susanna was unexpectedly offended by the remark. She couldn’t have said why. It seemed like not having enemies should be a good thing, but Gideon acted as though it, once again, proved her immaturity.
He moved around the entryway, peering into the adjoining room, looking for God knew what. How he could see anything was beyond her. The place had no lamps or candles. Even Stryker’s tallow candle emitted only a weak, pale light.
“I don’t want to live a life that will make enemies.”
“That’s a sad fact.” He moved from one corner to the next, inspecting the empty room. “The only people who don’t have enemies are the ones who don’t have any opinions. The ones who duck their heads and close their mouths to ensure they don’t offend anyone. Them’s the real cowards.”
Susanna did not think she’d ever been more offended in her life. She gawked at him with her mouth hanging open. Beauty growled briefly.
Susanna crossed her arms. “If I’m the coward, why are we hiding up here?”
He paused in his search and crossed to her. “You want to see why we’re hiding up here?”
When he put it that way, she didn’t want to see at all. She almost shook her head no, but he’d only look down on her more. And she’d had quite enough of that.
“Take me to the kitchens,” she said firmly. “Unless you’re too afraid.” Please, please be too afraid.
Gideon took her gloved hand and pulled her into the blackness.
* * *
The moment he tugged her into the darkness, he regretted it. He’d never known a woman so innocent of the world. She was right to be frightened. She’d be even more frightened if she knew how completely vulnerable she actually was. She’d see now, when he took her to the kitchen. He’d protect her as best as he was able, but she’d wanted this adventure. Better before they went on that she knew the risks.
If she took one look at those risks and decided to run home, then his night was that much shorter.
He negotiated the dark floor of the house, leading her toward the steps down to the kitchen more from memory than sight. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now, but the house was still damn dark.
The first sounds of the men below floated up from the kitchen, and her fingers tightened on his hand. Gideon pushed down the urge to squeeze her hand back in reassurance. He wanted her afraid, wanted her to give up this quest to travel to Vauxhall Gardens.
“I’d like to be able to use this hand later,” he muttered, shoving the tender part of him down. “Loosen your claws, madam.”
“I beg your pardon.” She attempted to snatch her hand away, but he wouldn’t allow it.
Another part of him wanted to take her in his arms and tell her she was
safe. That he’d protect her. He’d slit his own throat before he said something so asinine. He blamed her for his confusion. The gentry mort looked as though a strong breeze would blow her over. She was slim and delicate, her skin pale and almost translucent. She was a doll who belonged in a toy shop, not in St. Giles.
She even had doll-like eyes. They were as wide as an owl’s but a thousand times more beautiful—deep brown with a thick fringe of lashes that swept down and over her cheek when she was embarrassed.
“Careful here,” Gideon said when they reached the staircase. “Take the steps slowly.”
Dim light filtered through the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. The men in the kitchen had heard them coming and quieted. Gideon glanced over his shoulder at her and almost lost his own damn footing. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes dark brown, and her hair…
It looked more copper than strawberry blond in the dim light. She’d pinned it—or one of her slaveys had—in some twisted, coiled, plaited arrangement on the back of her head. The mass had stayed firmly in place, much to his disappointment. He wondered what it would look like down around her shoulders. Was it straight or curly? Soft or coarse? If he buried his nose in the tresses, would the scent match the light, clean fragrance that had tantalized his senses when the breeze blew the right way?
He caught his balance again and led her to the bottom of the steps. The men would take one look at her and eat her alive.
Five
“Well, if it isn’t the cove what bit the cole.”
Gideon bowed to the half-dozen men standing around a scarred wooden table with one broken chair. A low fire burned in a hearth, where a large black pot hung over the flame. A dozen dirty bowls littered the floor and table as well as several empty jugs of ale. In one corner, a cat tore at a bone, seeking any morsel of meat remaining.
Dim light from two dirty lamps danced on the kitchen walls in eerie patterns. The glow illuminated the men’s faces, making them look more like devils than men.
Gideon’s gut clenched. The company couldn’t have been much worse—Rum, Lighter, Jonesy, Dab, Corker, and Mill. Six devils of the underworld.
“Gentlemen,” Gideon said with forced gallantry. “A pleasure as always.”