A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  Her words were reasonable, too reasonable. He could find no fault with her logic and he wanted very much to find fault with her. He considered her, this woman who knew too much and far too little, who in one breath implored him and in the other commanded him, who’d blackmailed him and forced him to her will. Who’d given her word and then broken it. Whose mouth had melted beneath his and then had seemed to forget it. Her gaze locked with his.

  She was, damn it, right. He’d done far more for his sisters than break his word. He’d killed.

  “You will stay where I tell you to stay, come when I say come, stand behind me and, above all, keep quiet.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. Without another word he spurred his horse forward, trotting out from beneath the shadow of the great house onto the alley.

  High above, a pale curtain fell silently back across a darkened window.

  Chapter 15

  Mercy squirmed on the carriage’s cracked leather seat. Across from her Hart was looking out the window. They’d left their mounts at a respectable-looking livery near the edges of Soho where Hart had hired the cab. Since they’d left Acton’s he’d said no more.

  He was still angry with her, probably furious. But after having spent the day walking on eggshells because of his cold-eyed enmity, she’d found herself tired of being frightened. She had never let a threatening posture intimidate her before—even from someone as dangerous-looking as Hart Moreland. If she had, she’d never have survived childhood on the Texas Panhandle.

  She sighed and pulled back the dusty curtain that hid the dingy window. They were well within the city of London, a London she’d not seen in her short month here.

  Tall streetlights spread a sickly sulfurous cast across the wet, black pavement. People, more people than she’d have imagined would be afoot at this late hour, milled beneath the eerie lighting. The men were a diverse lot: workers in thick-soled boots, their jackets straining over layers of shirts and sweaters; tradesmen and clerks hurrying along; toffs in top hats and dark cloaks, their silver-topped canes gleaming with bilious highlights, their eyes scouring the crowded sidewalk.

  There were as many women as men, but there was a harsh commonality about the women that Mercy had, at first, a hard time identifying. It was more than their garb, though they all were dressed in thick layers of clothing: soiled wool skirts, petticoats with patched flounces hiked above sturdy boots and knit stockings. Only the odd bits of ragged lace and bright silk sprouting from incongruously bared throats and bosoms gave a clue as to their profession. Still it was not the manner of their dress that likened them, it was the dead apathy of their expressions, so jarringly at odds with their loud, raucous voices, clamoring for the attention of the prowling toffs.

  “Where are they going? Where do they all live?” Mercy asked.

  “Are you serious?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken until she heard Hart’s sardonic reply. His expression was obscured by the dim interior of the carriage, but she could easily enough read the cynicism of his tone.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve never seen so many people, such sordid surroundings.”

  “This is nothing.”

  She glanced outside again. A group of young men were lounging outside a dilapidated corner building, leaning against a window that proclaimed FINE WHISKEY and sneering at the passersby. They were a dirty and violent-looking lot. A dog slunk by and one of them hurled a bottle at it, laughing when it yelped and limped away into a dark passage.

  She hadn’t realized how menacing a place like this was. She and Hart could be hurt here and no one would interfere. No one would notice.

  She gulped. “You’re packing an iron, aren’t you?”

  He stared at her.

  “An iron, a peacemaker … you know, a revolver,” she said in exasperation.

  “I know what it is. And no, I am not ‘packing an iron.’ This isn’t Texas, Mercy. Men don’t go about carrying guns down here as a matter of course.”

  She gave him a sour look. “More fool they,” she said. “Luckily, I have come prepared.”

  Her words arrested him in the act of switching down the curtain. “What?”

  “I have a revolver in my coat pocket. A Colt .38.”

  “Damn it to hell.”

  “I thought gentlemen didn’t swear,” she said sweetly.

  “I told you. I’m not a gentleman.”

  “So I see.”

  “And you’d be wise not to forget it.”

  “You won’t let me.”

  “Now, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, the revolver apparently forgotten.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk, worse and worse,” she said, aware that this was like yanking on the chain of a leg-trapped cougar but unable to help herself. She would, she realized, rather have his anger than his coldness. “It means that I am perfectly aware of what you think of me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She didn’t deign to reply to that incomprehensible statement. Her courage built, becoming, she suspected, folly. “And you needn’t go reminding me again that you’re a dangerous man. It doesn’t wash.”

  His beautiful eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”

  “Danger is a flash flood, or a herd of stampeding cattle, or a tornado, or a grass fire. Danger is being caught on a flat prairie in an electrical storm or coming upon five hundred Apaches in warrior’s paint,” she said haughtily.

  “Your point?” he asked.

  “I know danger, Perth. And it doesn’t have an English accent.”

  Impossibly, he burst out laughing, that rich but all-too-rare sound. The corners of his eyes crinkled up, his teeth gleamed in the dim lighting of the carriage. His humor was irresistible, much more dangerous than his ire.

  “Touché,” he said. “I won’t bore you any longer with my qualifications as a threat.”

  She settled back and smiled. “And perhaps I needn’t curse.”

  The carriage slowed and the driver called down to them, “Cambridge Circus in a minute.”

  “Grand,” Hart muttered. “Now where?”

  “You mean,” she said slowly, “you don’t know where the Peacock’s Tail is?”

  He sighed. “No.”

  “But, surely you’ve been … I mean, a man … you said that young men sow wild … I assumed …” She stuttered to a halt.

  “I really do hate to disabuse you of your interesting notions concerning me, Mercy, but as I have tried to explain, I have spent the last six years avoiding any association with places like the Peacock’s Tail.”

  “You have?”

  “I have lived a monotonously virtuous life since I left Texas.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Again, he laughed. “For your mistake or my virtue?”

  Heat poured up her neck into her cheeks. The amused light died in his eyes, his mask of cold indifference returning just as the carriage lurched to a halt. Hart kicked open the door and jumped out, leaving her. He tossed the driver some coins as Mercy poked her head through the doorway, looking for the steps. Before she realized what was happening, his big hands encircled her waist. He lifted her with effortless, smooth strength. For a timeless second he held her aloft, captured above him, his gaze searching hers.

  Her heart beat dully. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. His lips parted as though he would speak and then her feet touched the ground and he was backing away from her, his eyes averted, looking down the street.

  “Over there,” he muttered, motioning toward a dimly lit doorway set deep in a bricked alcove. A stained-glass window in the shape of peacock’s tail was set high up in the heavy-looking door.

  He pulled her forward, close to him. He smelled of masculine musk and warm, dusty leather but his breath was fresh and clean. “Remember. You don’t talk. You don’t ask questions. You don’t do anything but stay close to me.”

  She nodded and he led the way to the door. It swung open as soon as he knocked. A thick-necked bull of a man with improbable black ring
lets and stained teeth answered.

  “How much?” Hart asked.

  “Depends on what yer want,” the man answered in a thick cockney accent, his small eyes traveling over them in a bored fashion. “A room fer you and the kid’ll go two quid. The smokin’ room’ll cost you one. Just ter get in is a crown.”

  Wordlessly, Hart gave the man two crowns. The man shrugged and stepped back, allowing Hart and her to pass. “Whatever. Yer can always change yer mind.”

  Inside, a pungent haze cast a bluish pall over the narrow, unfurnished hallway. Closed doors lined its length. At the end a steep staircase descended into a black rectangle. Occasional laughter drifted up from its depths.

  “I can’t believe Will would be here. There has to be some other Peacock’s Tail,” Mercy protested.

  “You promised silence.” Hart grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. His face was set and hard, the deep nostrils of his aggressive nose flaring. “Don’t say another word,” he whispered harshly. “Not one.”

  Abruptly, he released her and stalked down the hall, anger in every lithe, whipcord inch of him, leaving her to scramble after him. He pulled the first door open and pushed her ahead of him.

  She blinked as smoke stung her eyes. Her throat closed against the cloying perfumed air and she squinted. Though richly furnished, the room was seedy and unclean. The red-plush-and-gilt furniture had a neglected air. The thick Oriental carpets were dusted with cigar ash and the dull, sticky-looking tables were scarred and burned.

  The few men present were all tricked out in some manner of evening dress. Starched white shirts and high collars, black cutaway jackets and expensive silk cravats. A few of them glanced over before going back to their drinks.

  They looked a reasonably well-to-do lot. But they all wore the same dazed quality about them, an air of sightless preoccupation.

  She glanced over at Hart. His cold demeanor had abandoned him. He looked absolutely furious, hard eyed and tight jawed. He pushed her in front of him toward a small raised counter behind which stood a smiling young man with gleaming black hair and acne-pitted cheeks.

  “Brandy,” he said.

  The young man scanned Hart’s lean figure from his battered boots up over his heavy, rumpled coat.

  “Pay first,” he said.

  Wordlessly, Hart slapped a five-pound note on the table. The young man grinned and filled two glasses. His thin white hand snaked out toward the note. Hart caught his wrist in an iron clasp. “It’s yours for some information.”

  The young man sighed. “Can’t. Against house policy. Never ask a name, never give a name. ’Cept my own. Ned,” he said, carefully enunciating each word.

  Hart slapped another five-pound note down. “I don’t want a name.”

  Ned licked his lips, his gaze darting toward the door. “What do you want to know?”

  “An American has been in here. His name is William Coltrane. Young, well spoken. Is he here?”

  Mercy held her breath. The man responded with slight negative shake of his oiled dark head.

  Relief coursed through her. She should have known Will would not come to a place like this—

  “Was he here?”

  A nod. Her stomach coiled tightly.

  “When?”

  “Couple months. He was a regular until then. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “A regular?” Mercy asked.

  Hart cast her a furious glare but she couldn’t have held her tongue, not to save her soul. What in God’s name had Will gotten himself into?

  For the first time Ned looked directly at her. A slow, ingratiating smile exposed little yellow teeth.

  “Yeah, sonny,” he said. “A regular customer. A hophead.” He winked and Mercy recoiled against Hart’s side. He was solid and warm and he ignored her completely. Only the veins cording beneath the copper-stained skin of his throat gave a clue he was feeling any emotion.

  “Do you know where he went? Where he stays?”

  “No,” Ned answered, his eyes on the two notes. “I never asked.”

  “We can pay you more. Lots more,” Mercy put in. “We have the money.” With lightning speed Hart’s arm snaked around her, crushing her to his side and robbing her of breath.

  Ned pursed his lips. “Say, now,” he said, “you ain’t no boy. You’re a dollymo—”

  “That’s none of your concern,” Hart cut in. “Do you know anything more?”

  Ned shrugged, still apparently eager to help, but for an instant his gaze skittered behind them. Just a small twist of his lips, something hard flashing in his eyes, and he was smiling at them again. “He was taking up with some swells of late. Maybe he’s gra-dur-ated, if you knows what I mean,” he said, suddenly loquacious. “You could try some of the houses up by Red Lion’s Square. Nice houses up there. You pays for what you get. Or”—he paused a fraction of a second and his glance flickered behind them again.

  Abruptly, Hart swung around. He grabbed her hand and strode toward the door, hauling her after him into the dim, narrow hallway. He stopped, looking around.

  A giggle bubbled up from the black rectangle at the one end. He started forward again, his aqua gaze raking the closed doors.

  She stumbled after him, panting. His grip on her was painful. Suddenly the bullish doorman appeared in front of them, blocking their way, a smile of evil intent on his oily face.

  “Damn, he’s big,” she heard Hart say.

  “Too big?” she breathed anxiously.

  “Far too big,” he muttered, backing slowly up and hauling her with him.

  “That’s right, trapped like rats,” Ned said from behind them, the careful middle-class accents wiped from his voice. “Now, mates, gets the girl and I’ll gets the ready.”

  Hart lunged for the nearest door and grabbed the handle. He heaved it open just as Ned and two other men started down from the hall. He shoved Mercy inside, leaping in after her and slamming the door shut. The lumbering beat of footsteps increased as the men outside started running. He snatched a ladder-back chair and rammed it under the handle.

  Mercy ran to the closed window on the far side of the room and tugged at it. It didn’t budge. In a trice Hart was beside her. With a grunt he jerked it open and glanced outside. Still looking angry enough to chew rocks, he scooped her up and stuck her feet-first out the window. The sound of splintering wood crashed around her ears.

  He pushed. She fell.

  She landed awkwardly, collapsing on the gravel, tearing her breeches and skinning her palms. Panting, she was clambering to her knees when a heavy body careened into her shoulder, knocking her back down onto the pavement. She turned her head. Hart.

  “Damn it,” he growled, his hand beneath her arm, “get the hell up and run!”

  “I’m trying!” She staggered, stumbling twice more before he managed to snatch her upright, an epithet forming on her lips.

  “Run where, guv?” Ned asked, his breathless voice echoing hollowly in the cramped, wet alley.

  Low snickers met his query. She looked up. Four men stood outlined in the bilious yellow glow at the end of the alley. She swung around and her heart missed its beat. There was nowhere to run. The other end of the alley was a blank brick wall.

  Chapter 16

  “I said run!” Hart shouted angrily.

  “Right,” Mercy shot back. “Do you suggest I run to that big ox or would you rather I ran to our smiling friend with the oily hair?”

  “This isn’t any time for sarcasm,” he returned.

  “Right again,” she said sarcastically. “Once more and we’ll have to see about a trophy.”

  “Look,” he said, shoving a finger under her nose, “if you hadn’t been so damn eager to inform everyone in Soho that we were carrying cash, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  He was right—yet again—but it only made her angrier. She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he’d tried to land on her when he jumped out the window.

  “If you had asked the right questions in the f
irst place—”

  “ ’Ere now,” the hulking figure of the doorman said in a confused voice. “You two off yer blinkin’ rockers?”

  “Daft as two-headed dogs,” one of his cohorts said.

  “Bickerin’ like me an’ me old lady and them but one jump away from Old Nick’s trident,” another added.

  “Oh, do shut up,” Hart flung out.

  “You stupid buggers!” Ned spat, shouldering his way past the men and advancing toward them. “They’re just playin’ fer time, ’oping the coppers’ll show. Well, ain’t no copper goin’ to show ’ere, laddy,” he sneered, pulling a short, stout cudgel from his rear pocket and dancing its heavy-looking head up and down in his palm.

  “God, I hate fisticuffs,” Hart muttered, shooting her a condemning glare. “And this time you’d damn well better run when I say run,” he added.

  The men prowled forward, their faces intent, splitting into two factions and flanking Hart and Mercy. Ned swaggered ahead of them, quickly closing the gap between them.

  “Don’t move!” Mercy shouted, fumbling in her coat pocket. She made certain her voice carried, each word distinct. It was the tone she’d used when shouting “git” at a coyote scouting the henhouse. It had the same effect.

  Or maybe it was the sight of the Colt revolver she pulled from her coat pocket that brought the group—including Ned—skittering to a halt. It didn’t really matter. Their mouths dropped open, eyes widening with uncertainty. Even Hart was staring at her.

  “Forgot I had it, didn’t you?” she asked him.

  “Yes. I must admit I did.” She could have sworn that he gave a short, rueful smile.

  “And”—she continued to address him, her eyes fixed on the shuffling, scowling ruffians a few yards before them—“I suppose we can safely be said to have rethought our stand on it not being necessary to ‘pack an iron’ in London?”

  “Hm.”

  The men looked to Ned for some clue as to how to go on. Ned was otherwise occupied. He was staring at the gun four inches from his forehead so intently his eyes were crossed.