by Laura London
“And found you couldn’t?” said Katie. “Zack, did you see that? He was trying to kill me.”
“I saw. In fact, I was trying to get a better view but the good seats had been taken. Did you ever try to make your way across a gin shop during a knife fight?” Zack tilted his head to one side. “You’re fortunate I’m too generous a man to remind you that I told you to stay away from Nasty Ned.”
“I couldn’t help it, Zack. Before I knew it, he was smacking me against the wall and trying to drag me outside with him. And then he threw that knife at me.”
They were joined by Winnie, who finally succeeded in elbowing her way through the crowd. “Trouble yer best friend, young’un?” she asked with concern. “Ya jest made yerself an enemy ya don’t need.”
“She did. But she found herself a friend she does need,” Zack replied, cocking his eyebrows and nodding toward the table occupied by Linden and his entourage.
“Lord Lesley?” Winnie cried. “Aye, ‘n where’s ‘e gonna be when Nasty Ned wakes up? Probably ‘avin’ ‘is din wi’ th’ Prince Regent!”
“True,” said Zack. “So it might be a good idea if she went over and thanked him for his trouble. The word might get around if it looked like she was having a chat with him.”
Katie looked at Zack with trepidation. “Zack, I don’t want…”
Winnie clapped a hand over Katie’s mouth. “If ya don’t want, then ya shouldn’t go pickin’ fights wi’ th’ likes o’ Nasty Ned.” She pushed the reluctant Katie firmly in the right direction. “Better get right to it. It ‘pears they’re gettin’ ready ta take their leave.”
The group of young aristocrats had indeed decided that they had exhausted the possibilities of The Merry Maidenhead. There was a general scraping of chairs and commotion; one of their number was raising his glass to the ceiling and draining his last drops of gin, and Lord Linden stood up restlessly, looking around for his hat.
He was shrugging into his immaculately tailored black coat when he felt a light hesitant tugging at his sleeve. “My lord?” said a sweetly musical and very feminine voice. Linden turned to find himself looking down into Katie’s unthinkingly worshipful blue eyes.
“Well?” he inquired, without warmth.
Katie flushed at his tone and hung her head. “I wanted to say thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
“It’s nothing,” he replied. He tapped her chin with his knuckle, reached up to ruffle Katie’s hair and then stopped. Thoughtfully, Linden took one bright thick curl and felt its creamy texture. He let his gaze wander gently over her slender body and then return to Katie’s delicate face. His smile was slow and sensuous.
“What’s your name, child?” he asked, the words stroking Katie like silk.
“Kat… oh,” stumbled Katie, as she remembered too late that she was supposed to be posing as a boy. His hand still played inside her curls and she felt as though her hair had sensation, could feel Linden’s touch.
“I see,” said Linden softly. He released the captured curl and let his hand linger on Katie’s cheek. “Do they make life difficult for you at The Merry Maidenhead, your beaux yeux?”
“My—? Was that French?” she asked, confused.
“Yes, that was French,” he said and then grinned. “How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” he repeated. “Let me give you some advice, little one. If you want to see eighteen, the next time you decide to dump the sewer bucket over someone’s head, make sure he’s smaller than you.”
Katie felt his caressing finger leave her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Chapter Two
It had been a hot day, and the cool breath of night had not yet brought relief. Shadows were lengthening, the rays of the setting sun blocked by the lean tenements packed together like the trees of a giant pine forest; crowds of people scurried beneath like so many busy forest creatures. The streets of St. Giles’ Rookery were decorated with a septic array of decomposing refuse.
“That’s th’ last o’ th’ lot,” said Winnie. She set down the empty paste bucket, pulled a plaid handkerchief from her waist, and wiped her perspiring brow. “Thanks fer carryin’ th’ posters fer me, Katie.”
“The pleasure was mine. Zack won’t let me out alone since Nasty Ned picked that fight with me in the gin shop. Believe me, I’ve had enough of the hermit’s life the past few days. I’d help you carry hot coals with my bare hands to get out for a bit.” Katie stepped back and read the brightly colored rectangle they had affixed to the street-side wall of a skittle alley. “In fact, I believe I have been carrying hot coals. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants,’” she read aloud. She smiled at Winnie. “Did you write that?”
“No, some bloke from th’ colonies. Zack is doin’ th’ cautious thing not lettin’ ya out alone. Best ta be wary.”
“Do you think we still have to be wary? Ned hasn’t been back in two days,” said Katie. “Maybe he’s forgotten about it.”
“Oh, ‘ell,” said Winnie, grabbing Katie’s arm and pulling her into the shadows. “ ‘At was bad luck, sayin’ ‘at. Look over there.” She pointed.
Katie blinked and looked twice, squinting her eyes into the late afternoon shadows. Her heart sank. There, across the busy street, leaning against the black brick wall of the tenement opposite, were Nasty Ned and a gang of four other persons of the ruffian persuasion, lounging false-casually, their arms folded menacingly across their chests. There was no mistaking Ned’s loutish, thick head and his muscular shoulders, even in the fading light. It was remarkable how well-acquainted she felt with him, even though they hadn’t been properly introduced. She briefly considered walking out into the street, hailing him, and asking him how his head felt this fine day, but rejected the possibility for fear he would give her an overly detailed explanation. Winnie chuckled fatalistically.
“Our gentleman friend, Sweet Ned, is ‘ere, ‘n oi don’t think ‘e’s payin’ us a social call.”
“What should we do?” Katie said.
“Well, oi’ll tell ya,” said Winnie, biting her nail. “Oi don’t think they’ve seen us, ‘n there’s a chance ‘at they ain’t even after ya. But we don’t want ta take ‘at chance.” She paused. “There’s a cock pit around th’ corner. Rather than try ta make it back ta the Maidenhead, it gettin’ dark ‘n all, oi think we should walk ta th’ cock pit ‘n if they follows us, we kin lose ‘em in th’ crowd. ‘Ow does ‘at sound?”
Katie nodded dumbly.
“Let’s start walkin’,” said Winnie. They stepped together into the street. Katie threw a nervous glance over her shoulder, and saw Ned and company leave their place of rest and come after them at a fast walk.
“We better cut ‘n run,” said Winnie. “Follow me. It’s right around th’ corner.”
Directly in front of them a large crowd was surrounding swinging double doors, their faces illuminated from a subdued light inside the building. Clouds of clay pipe smoke were billowing out of the doors, which were in constant swinging motion as patrons made frequent entries and exits. Loud hurrahs and contentious arguments came floating into the night air. This was the cock pit. Katie had been in one as a child. Her father, experiencing a rare spasm of paternal attention, took her to one of these brutal places where she had sat rigidly, eyes averted while beautiful fighting cocks sliced each other to ribbons for the entertainment of sweating, smoking, profane onlookers.
Katie and Winnie were jostled by the crowd, then suddenly they were separated. Katie looked frantically for her companion. She could hear Winnie calling her name, but it was impossible for her to make a reconnoiter in the crush. She could see that she was near the swinging doors and ducked into them.
Katie found herself in a large pavilion. Gray smoke swirled and eddied near the low ceiling, which was held up by rough wooden pillars. The place was packed with spectators, their cheers sending a hollow roar reverberating ag
ainst the dirty wooden walls. The floor was scattered with grimy sawdust. She elbowed her way toward an area which seemed not quite so congested, past young apprentices, butchers, tradesmen, sporting young bloods, pimps, and a prostitute or two. She turned and craned her neck in time to see Ned and his group breaking through the crowd, Ned’s red face scanning it—for her.
There was a door behind her. She wrenched it open and slid through it in the frantic hope that it would lead to the alley. Instead, Katie found herself in a stuffy room, its corners mysteriously veiled in regular lumpy shadows. The only available light was a subdued streak from a shuttered lamp beside the door. Katie stood still, trapped. Outside, the crowd was shouting excitedly, but much more real was the sound of her own ragged breathing. She became aware of muffled murmurs and rufflings coming from one side of the room.
“Who’s there?” whispered Katie. “Please say.” No response.
Trembling, Katie bent down to lift the shutter from the lamp. Suddenly the room’s cramped contours were rent with a shrill, earpiercing clamor that sounded as though Katie had loosed fifty screaming devils. This was the resting area for the fighting roosters of the cock pit. Along the walls were lined a score or more wooden cages, housing game cocks from every corner of the British Isles. Pirchin Ducks, Dark Grays, Spangles, Shropshire Reds, and Red Duns, indignant at this invasion of their private domain, gave shrill vent to their wrath in a manner that poor Katie was convinced could be heard as far away as Holland. And certainly as far away as the cock pit in the next room.
“Oh, don’t, don’t squawk so,” cried Katie, lifting one shaking finger to her lips. “You stupid creatures, you’re giving me away…” Katie’s voice died into the gaunt melody of angry cackles. Given away. For there, stepping into the fetid little room, were Nasty Ned and his entourage. Katie’s heart plummeted to her feet.
“Well, well. Fancy meetin’ you ‘ere wi’ all th’ other scrawny chickens,” said Ned, a menacing grin on the thick rufous face. “You ‘n me’s got ta talk, maggot. Me blackjack ‘ere’s got somethin’ real private ta say ta th’ side o’ yer ‘ead.”
Katie fearfully backed several steps and stopped. It was no good. Ned’s friends were blocking the only escape. In a pitiful little gesture, Katie dropped her hands to her sides and closed her eyes to await the blow that would bring darkness. But the blow never came. Instead, incredibly, Katie heard the casual, accented drawl of Lesley Byrne, Lord Linden.
“Turn around, toadface. I want to see if I made any improvement in your appearance two nights ago.” Nasty Ned wheeled and Katie opened her disbelieving eyes to look toward the voice.
Lord Linden was lounging by the door, negligently tossing a small box-lock pistol up and down in the palm of his hand. His head was tilted slightly to one side, his dark hair painted with the flickering lamplight. Ned looked warily at the bright steel of the gun and spoke, his voice cracking nervously.
“Now look ‘ere, guv, this ain’t yer fight. Oi was drunk ‘at night or oi wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad ‘at set-to wi’ ya ‘n ‘at’s a fact. Oi don’t want no trouble wi’ th’ likes of you. Your Lordship could go on now ‘n leave this ‘ere maggot ta me.”
Linden’s pure teak eyes were unreadable as he shifted his gaze to Katie’s disheveled form. He studied her lovely blue eyes, filled with fatigue and fear, the sculptured lips pale in contrast to her flushed cheeks. Then he looked back at Ned.
“To be honest, mon ami,” said Linden calmly. “I’m thinking of killing you.” Ned’s mouth opened perceptibly and he swallowed.
Linden sneered. “Yes, I can see I am gaining a reputation with you, n’est-ce pas? Good.” He caught up the gun and pointed it at Ned’s chest. “Listen to me, my hideous friend. I don’t care for the style of your attentions to this young person. It’s bad form, you understand? If you continue them,” he said, without emotion, “I will kill you.”
Ned nodded, a hunted look on his face. “As ya say, guv. Never meant anyone no ‘arm, oi didn’t. Jest a bit o’ fun, ya might say.”
“Bien. So get out, baboon, and take your canaille with you,” Linden stated flatly. Ned availed himself of this invitation with a coward’s haste. The door swung shut behind the last of the thugs and Katie found herself alone with Lord Linden and the twenty-odd fighting cocks.
Chapter Three
Lord Linden redeposited the pistol into a small pocket in the lining of his jacket and smiled at Katie.
“So. Now what, child?” he asked.
Katie returned the smile shyly. “Now I make another inadequate thank you.” She lifted her palms, spreading her hands expressively. “You are goodness itself, my lord.”
“What a trusting little creature you are. And a very bad judge of character,” said Linden, amused. A high wooden platform ran across one wall, and Linden leaned back with his elbows resting on its ledge, his eyes glittering strangely in the lamplight. “You travel in dangerous company, petite.”
Katie sank down on the edge of an empty cage. The cocks were quiet now, peacefully pawing, stretching and rustling their feathers. “Not always, my lord. I grew up in the country, in Essex mostly, and there aren’t any dangerous people there. Except when there’s a fair in Colchester and some of the farmers have too much ale and get into fights.” Katie passed a hand abstractedly over her eyes. “London, I think, is a whole different pot of potatoes. Do you think that Nasty Ned will be frightened and decide to leave me alone?”
“No,” said Linden, who was not a man given to pretty untruths. “I think that he’s probably waiting around the next dark corner for you.”
Katie sighed, unsurprised. “That’s what I was afraid of. ‘Twould be quite in keeping with my luck lately, what with the man with the gold tooth and the butcher’s bill. But how did you know I was in here?”
“I saw you run into this room from where I sat by the pit, and I saw that you were followed. Did you drop another slop bucket over his head?”
“No,” said Katie despondently. “I suppose he is still angry about the last one. He seems to be more of a subscriber to ‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,’ than to ‘turning the other cheek.’ I daresay you will think me sadly lacking in spirit, but I very much wish that it might be otherwise. I’m not much of a fighter,” Katie pondered this statement and then added, “at least not in the physical sense.”
The orange lamplight had spun a soft halo around Linden’s hair and etched clear shadows about his smiling lips. “No,” he said, “but then, that would be too much to expect, don’t you think?”
“Oh,” said Katie, wrinkling her nose slightly in perplexity. “I think that means… well, that you may have guessed that I am not a boy? Was it because when you asked me my name at The Merry Maidenhead, I said Kat and it sounded like Kate?”
“That,” he said, “and your long eyelashes. Where do you live? I’ll take you home.”
“Would you really?” said Katie gratefully. “I-it would be a great relief to me if you would, though I hate to have you thinking I am a barnacle.”
“My dear child, don’t waste your energy worrying about what I think of you. I don’t think anything about you, except perhaps that you’re too damned beautiful for your own good.” He dropped his hand to Katie’s cheek, feeling the heat from her blush warm against his fingers. “Cheer up, little flower, life will get easier for you once you learn the right way to use those… long eyelashes of yours. And you will learn.”
Far from cheering Katie up, Linden’s calm statement made her feel more depressed, as it came chillingly close to Zack’s uncomfortable remarks on her first night at The Merry Maidenhead. Katie swallowed and put her palms on her knees, rising numbly to her feet.
“Come then, child,” said Linden, removing his fingers from her cheek. “I think our feathery friends would like to be left to their rest.” He opened the door into the cock pit and Katie bent conscientiously to reshutter the lantern.
As they made their way through the crowded room, Katie trotted at Linden’s
heels in a manner that reminded him of the way his springer spaniels had followed him through the lush woods and fragrant meadows on his estate when he was a child. The thought made him feel vaguely uncomfortable and he put it firmly from his mind as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
When they stepped outside, the air had cooled with night. Linden summoned a hack with an imperious movement of his hand and assisted Katie in, asking her where she lived. He followed her, directed the jarvey, pulled the carriage door shut after him, and then leaned back at his ease, his arm resting on the carriage seat.
“Why The Merry Maidenhead?” he asked.
“Do you mean why do I want to go there now or why did I ever go there in the first place?” inquired Katie.
“Both.”
“Well, I live there in a bedroom upstairs, or I have since I came to London. You see, Zack is the owner—oh, and he lives upstairs too—and he is my good friend,” said Katie. “Though he has some odd ways of showing it sometimes.”
“I believe it,” said Linden, without expression. “And your wearing boys clothes… ?”
“Because Zack doesn’t hire women.”
Linden tilted his bicorne to the back of his head. “I see. You put on boy’s clothes and instantly become a boy. Hocus pocus. What fun it must be to be seventeen.” There was mockery in his voice, but a trace of seductively sympathetic amusement, as well. Katie felt as though she had been stroked. She leaned her bent elbow on the smooth cool edge of the hack window and rested her head wearily on her arm.
The carriage moved forward at a slow trot through twisting streets thronged with pedestrians, carts, and carriages. The air reeked with a thousand urgencies of sight and sound. Rows of colorless tenements marched shoulder to shoulder like platoons of an ill-fed army. Once they passed a ragged group of men lounging idly beneath the marbling glow of a streetlamp, and Katie imagined for one frightened moment that she could see Nasty Ned’s lumbering form among them. It was not he, though, and Katie blinked, shuddered, and shifted her head slightly, glad for Lord Linden’s presence beside her as the horses’ hooves clicked on the brick street. She felt the light touch of a finger on her cheek and then, briefly, on her lips.