by Shana Galen
“We’d better start moving,” Gideon said. A flash of hope appeared in his eyes. “Unless you’ve had enough and want to go home?”
“Never.”
“I knew you would say that.” He stomped off, and she had to run to follow.
By the time she caught her breath, she was hopelessly lost. He’d led her through a rabbit’s warren of narrow streets and alleys, old buildings, and even a graveyard. The slow plop of rain had become a constant drizzle, and she was damp and cold.
She’d never admit it to the thief, but the thought of going home was growing rather appealing as the thunder grew louder and lightning flashed above them. Then again, she’d made it this far. Vauxhall Gardens couldn’t be much farther, and then all of her questions would be answered.
Unless they weren’t.
There was no guarantee she would learn anything of her mother’s past at the pleasure gardens. In fact, it was entirely unlikely. Knowing that, she still could not convince herself to turn around. She had to make this journey, even if she gained nothing from it.
The next clap of thunder was so loud, she jumped and Beauty whined. The boom was punctuated by a sheet of rain, as though the heavens had been split wide, and an ocean of water drained out. Keeping her hand on Beauty’s neck, she trudged after Gideon, barely able to make out his form in the blinding rain. The streets had already begun to fill with water, soaking her feet through the boots.
“We’d better go inside,” Gideon yelled, “or we’ll find ourselves floating away.”
She nodded and looked about them. The shops were all closed for the night, but there was a public house across the way. Ladies were not supposed to enter public houses, especially not the sort that looked like that one, but she really had little choice. “There?” She pointed to the lighted window.
“No. It’s a gin shop. Too many people who might recognize me.”
“Exactly how many enemies do you have?”
“You don’t want the answer to that. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the ankle-deep water and toward a cluster of buildings. She was glad he held on to her. Between the heavy rain and the rush of water at her feet, she might have stumbled or lost her way. He steered her away from the larger items of refuse floating in the street—a log, a board, a dead animal of some sort.
“Beauty!” Susanna called, although the dog was right on her heels. “Stay close.”
Gideon tried the door of the building, but it was locked. Susanna pushed her back against the frame, trying to find what scant protection she could from the storm. Beauty huddled beside her. Gideon uttered an oath and shoved at the door. It didn’t budge.
“Can’t you pick the lock?” she yelled.
“Not in this weather.” Water sluiced down his face, and his dark hair fell over his forehead and against his cheeks. The hair covered the angry scar on his temple, but he looked more dangerous than handsome at the moment.
He stepped back, turned sideways, and rushed at the door, hitting it with a shoulder. The door shook, but the lock held fast. Gideon rubbed his shoulder and winced.
“Perhaps we should try another building.”
“I didn’t ask for your advice,” he barked. Beauty yipped at him in warning, and Susanna gave the dog a pat of appreciation.
He moved back, farther this time, crouched, and ran full tilt. Susanna closed her eyes and felt the jarring impact when he slammed into the door. Wood creaked and popped, and she opened her eyes. The thief had shoved the upper part of the door inward. It wasn’t a large opening, but if he could squeeze through, he might be able to open the door from the inside. He rotated his shoulder and studied the door. Only problem was, he wouldn’t fit.
“Give me your foot,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re going in. Give me your foot. I’ll boost you.”
“I’m not going in! What if someone is in there?”
“Then say hello and tell them to open the goddamn door next time.”
That was it. She’d had enough. “Do not blaspheme. If we ever needed God’s assistance, the time is now.”
“Sweetheart, God won’t open that door for us. You will. Give me your foot.”
She stared at him, the water pounding down on her head and running into her eyes. He stared right back.
“Fine.”
He bent and cupped his hands to form a stirrup.
“You’d better not try and catch a glimpse of my ankle.”
He slammed a hand against the door. “You think all of this is about peeking under your skirts? Woman, I don’t give a farthing about what’s under your skirts. It’s nothing I haven’t seen.”
He cupped his hands again and shook them. Susanna shoved her foot into the stirrup, grateful the pouring rain obscured her pink face. She was making a fool of herself with him. She couldn’t wait to reach Vauxhall and be done with him.
He hoisted her up, and she grabbed at the door to brace herself. First she dropped her candlestick through the opening. She heard it thud on the floor. With a jump, she pushed her body into the narrow, rectangular hole, wincing as the jagged wood snagged on her dress and tore against her shoulder.
If she’d known it would be like this, she would have given him the damn necklace the first time he’d asked.
And now he had her swearing!
“Wiggle through!” he yelled at her.
She was trying. Her hips seemed to be stuck in the opening. She might have wiggled more vigorously, but the wood dug into her skin through the thin gown. She didn’t want to tear the material.
“I can’t. My gown will rip. Help me down.”
She wasn’t certain what his answer was, but it sounded like, “The hell I will.”
She felt his hands on her bottom and screamed in outrage.
Far from causing him to remove his hands, he pushed harder.
“Take your hands off me this instant!” she yelled. Her voice disappeared into a boom of thunder and the driving rain.
He pushed again, and the floor rushed up at her face. She thrust her hands out quickly, catching herself. Her forehead smacked the floor, despite her efforts, and she groaned in pain when her elbow struck. She rolled over and whimpered, tugging her torn gloves off, finger by finger.
She stared at the dark ceiling, her ears ringing, her head pounding. Her leg burned, though she would have expected her forehead to be the most damaged.
“Strawberry!”
She snarled. It was the thief. He’d pushed her through that opening and tried to kill her. Now he wanted her to open the door to him.
“Open the bloody door.”
She wanted to tell him to open the bloody door himself, but she remembered Beauty was out there. She couldn’t let the dog shiver in the rain, and she couldn’t trust the thief to take care of the animal.
“Strawberry!” he bellowed.
“I heard you!” she bellowed back. Her mother would have fainted dead away had she heard her daughter. Susanna sounded like a fishwife.
With a groan, she rose and stumbled to the door. She felt the wooden surface with both hands until she found the thick bar across the center. No wonder the thief hadn’t been able to break it down. He wouldn’t have been able to pick this lock either.
She shoved at the wooden bar, but it didn’t shift. She pushed up again, straining her muscles. Leaning her head against the door, Susanna blinked tears away. She would not cry. She’d faced six terrifying men in that kitchen just an hour before. She was strong. She didn’t cry.
Her leg throbbed terribly, and she reached down and pressed a hand against it. Her hand came away slick with something thicker than water.
Blood.
No wonder it hurt so badly.
“Susanna?”
He’d used her name. He must have been quite concerned she would leave
him out there. She would have too, if not for Beauty.
“There’s a bar across the door,” she called. “I’m trying to lift it.”
“Use your shoulder for leverage,” he answered. “It’s probably stuck.”
“Use my shoulder,” she grumbled. Her shoulder hurt because he’d shoved her through the jagged opening, and she’d cut it on the splintered wood. But she bent down and situated her shoulder under the beam anyway. She pushed up, using her legs, ignoring the pain slicing through her shin. She blew out a breath, ready to give up, when the beam moved.
“I’ve got it!” she called, excitement pulsing through her.
She didn’t feel the pain now as she pushed up and up, lifting the bar then catching it in her hands and tossing it on the ground. The door swung open, and a flash of lightning illuminated the shapes of Gideon and Beauty dripping in the downpour.
“I did it!” she said. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. The summer shower had brought cooler temperatures. She shivered and stumbled.
Gideon lunged forward, and he caught her in his arms. “What the bloody hell happened to you?”
“Nothing. I—”
She glanced down, saw the blood on her skirts, and swayed. Gideon’s arms stayed around her, holding her up.
From somewhere she heard a dog bark, and then she was falling, falling, falling.
Six
“Oh no you don’t.”
Strawberry’s eyes closed, and her limbs slackened. But he wasn’t having it. Gideon didn’t allow fainting. He carried her inside the building and lowered her against a wall, propping her upright. The rookeries always flooded with a hard rain, and anyone without lodging or who rented a room in a cellar would seek shelter.
The dog went to her and whined as it licked her face. He liked the mongrel a little better for that.
Gideon shoved the door closed and lowered the heavy bar over it. The splintered wood at the top left a gap. There wasn’t much to do about that. But he wanted the outside door closed as much as possible to keep the rain—and any unwelcome visitors—out.
The dog was still whining, but in the darkness, Gideon could make out Strawberry’s raised hand keeping the dog at arm’s length to prevent any more licking.
“Almost lost you for a moment.”
“The blood…” Her teeth chattered so much he had to lean close to understand her.
“I’m not used to seeing so much blood.”
“Blood?” Gideon grabbed her arm and felt the chilled skin. The flesh was wet but not slick with blood. He knew the difference.
“Take your hands off me,” she demanded.
“Where are you hurt?” He ignored the way her small hands pushed ineffectually at his larger ones. When he touched her leg, she stiffened and cried out. Gideon pushed layers of sodden silk out of the way until he touched the bare flesh above her ankle.
“Unhand me.”
“Shut your gob for a minute.”
The dog growled. Gideon growled back.
“And I was just starting to like you,” he said.
Blood ran down her leg, thicker and heavier than the rainwater, but it might have been mixed with mud. He sure as hell hoped she wasn’t bleeding as heavily as it seemed. What he wouldn’t give for a candle or a lamp or a warm blanket.
Beneath his hands, she shivered violently, and Gideon cursed under his breath. This was another reason he didn’t want to be saddled with this girl. She might be a fair-roe-buck, but she was the sort to catch a chill and roll over dead. Then his feet would dangle in the breeze for murder.
“Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour.”
“You’re leaving me?” She sounded almost panicked.
“Can’t bear to be without me, can you?”
“I’d be happy never to see you again!” she spat.
He was glad to hear the warmth in her voice. She had fight left in her.
“But you will. I’m for the gin shop. We need supplies.”
“The gin shop! I thought you said you had too many enemies there.”
“I do.”
She started to argue further, but he was done listening. “Keep the dog beside you. I don’t think anyone is fool enough to be out in this weather, but don’t take chances.”
“You can’t leave me!”
He crossed to the door and lifted the damn bar again. The rain still poured down in sheets. More rain made no difference to his dripping clothes, but he pulled the collar of his coat up and over his head anyway. It might not keep him dry, but it would hide his face.
Gideon navigated his way through the flooding streets. Debris floated past him, everything from a child’s doll to a broken bowl to a dresser drawer. In his zeal to avoid the trash threatening to knock him over, he almost missed the entrance to the gin shop. He doubled back, climbed the two short steps to the entrance, and stepped inside.
He almost preferred the muddy, rank streets. The smell of unwashed bodies, vomit, and gin struck him like a fist. He struck back, plowing forward with Herculean force of will. Keeping his collar up and his head down, Gideon made his way to the bar.
He didn’t care for Blue Ruin. He’d drunk it often enough, especially when he’d given up on Marlowe, but he always regretted it in the morning. A sour stomach and a pounding head weren’t worth a few hours’ oblivion.
No one paid him much attention. He was one of two dozen wet, dirty men huddled inside. Some of the men had drunk so much gin, they were past caring. Gideon shoved one unconscious ragamuffin out of his way and placed a croker on the bar. It was all he had. He’d better get that necklace back. In the meantime, he’d steal what he couldn’t buy.
The dash behind the bar slid his hand over the coins. “What?”
“Bottle of gin, slice of bread.”
“This ain’t no inn. Don’t have no bread.”
Gideon held his hand out. “Then I want my chink back.”
The dash snorted. His jowls shook when he laughed. He jingled the coins in his fist. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He slammed a small bottle of gin on the bar, and Gideon rolled it between his palms, darting his gaze surreptitiously to his right.
Damn. Jack Gipson was at the table to Gideon’s right. He owed Gipson money. Gideon ducked his chin into the coat collar and looked to the left.
Perfect. There was Dagget. The arch rogue of the Fleet Street Cubs hated Gideon almost as much as Gideon had hated Satin. It was an old dispute over territory—which the Covent Garden Cubs had won. Dagget had never forgotten, and his gang regularly abused Satin’s boys when they had the chance. Of course, Satin was in the stone jug now, thanks to Marlowe. That left Gideon to spur Dagget’s wrath.
Gideon looked past Dagget toward the steps leading to the upstairs rooms. He wanted light to get a look at Strawberry’s wounds. The gin would warm her and the bread feed them, but he needed light. He could steal a lamp or a tinderbox, but both would be drenched and useless before he made it back to the vacant building. But if he could acquire a piece of hot coal, he could light a fire from the dry printed bills lining the floors of their temporary shelter.
Gideon had no idea if the shop had coal. Coal was a luxury in the rookeries, but the gin shop was doing brisk business. If he sidled up the steps—
“Here.”
A brick thumped on the bar before him.
“What’s that?” Gideon asked.
“Bread.” The dash grabbed another bottle of gin and slid it to a man on the far side of the bar.
“Is it fresh?”
The dash’s jowls jiggled right before he swiped a paw at Gideon. Once again, Gideon’s quick reflexes saved him. He snatched the bread and jumped back, feeling the thick tips of the dash’s fingers brush his chin. Gideon flashed the man a triumphant grin right before he stumbled over a large foot. Gideon s
prawled on his arse, the bread clunking him in the cheek.
“That will leave a bruise,” he muttered and looked up and into Dagget’s ugly mug.
Dagget’s bulbous eyes widened with pleasure, and his wide nostrils flared. “Gideon Harrow,” Dagget said in his coarse, grainy voice. Rumor was Dagget had once escaped the noose, but not before it had all but crushed his throat. He certainly sounded like a man who’d been half-strangled to death.
“Well, well, well,” Dagget snarled. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“It was a dog, actually,” Gideon said, using his palms to back away in an imitation of a beached crab. “Speaking of which, the pup is hungry. Have to go.” He jumped up and arrowed for the stairs. He still needed that coal.
“Harrow!” Dagget hollered.
Gideon winced. Who would have thought the rogue could make so much noise?
“Harrow?” another voice chorused.
Gideon would have bet ten pounds, if he had it, the voice belonged to Jack Gipson. He didn’t dare pause to look over his shoulder, because he could smell Dagget’s foul breath on the back of his neck. Gideon bolted.
“You ain’t allowed up there!” the dash called.
Gideon took the rest of the steps two at a time and shot into the first open door he found. He slammed the door shut, slid a rickety chair that wouldn’t hold worth shit in front of it, and skidded into the next room. A large woman, naked but for her shoes, sat astride a man in a small bed in one corner. She rode him vigorously, sweat pouring down her back.
“Don’t mind me,” Gideon said.
The woman screamed and threw one of her shoes. Gideon ducked and slid toward the coal stove. The door in the adjoining room splintered as Gideon grabbed a white slip of fabric from the floor—the woman’s cap—and used it to protect his hand as he reached inside for a piece of coal.
“Got it.”
The other shoe hit him in the temple, and he stumbled back with a curse. Hand to his temple, Gideon shook off the pain and searched for an escape. Dagget blocked the door he’d come through, and the large naked woman yelled at him in front of the other door.