by A. W. Exley
“I spoke to Harry.” Her gaze darted back and forth, a woman living life in a constant state of unease.
He investigated the assault against her cousin, the man sliced in full view of hundreds of people. Lyons’ actions hidden in plain sight by the surge of the crowd. Fraser spent days with Connor canvassing people who saw the procession that night. Many recalled a conversation between a Knight Templar and a pirate, but not a single one noticed anything untoward as they left for home. People pushed, and jostled as they slipped on the ice and crashed into one another. Harry Brandt was another potential witness, another nail in Lyons’ coffin. Fraser tried to rein in his enthusiasm, to keep his tone neutral as he asked the most pressing question. “Will he testify about what Lyons did on the ice?”
She shook her head. “Harry’s still not good. I’ll keep at him, he might come round, depends how much you’re offering.”
A ripple of indignation shot down his spine and he swallowed to keep his face neutral. Justice should be about what was the right course of action, not the right price. The flutter of elation in his gut was shot out of the sky and plummeted to earth. He would not be deterred; he built his case around Fanny and what she saw, but he drew the line at handing out coins for testimony. Justice would prevail, he simply had to keep digging and soon he would have enough evidence to petition the Superintendent to arrest Lyons. He had only to bide his time a little longer. He could wait.
She looked up and down the street. Any set of eyes could be spying for Lyons. There was no way of knowing who saw or overheard their exchange. If word circulated that she traded testimony for free range in the Rookery, she may find herself with first-hand experience of Lyons’ skill with a knife.
“His sort shouldn’t be nosing around in the Rookery. That’s my home. Da ran it for years without complaint; it should be back in the hands of a Londoner not some toff and an Irish bastard.” She sniffed and wiped her nose on the sleeve of the coat.
“Soon, Fanny, soon.” He smiled weakly, unable to work up the enthusiasm for a genuine one. What remained of his conscience gnawed at him, for perhaps the Rookery was better under Lyons. “Let me know if Harry changes his mind, otherwise I will make my case without him.” He doffed his hat and carried on his way, imaging how he would celebrate when Lyons finally swung. Perhaps he would relate the sight to Faith, at her graveside. Then he would take his final dose of laudanum and lay down with her.
ince Cara’s initial visit to St Giles Rookery some months earlier, Nate’s men had commandeered a disused building and turned it into a school. The roof and windows were repaired, while in the basement, an enormous boiler chewed through coal to puff steam through heating ducts in the upper storeys. School became a lot more popular among the children when the temperature tumbled outside and the classrooms stayed toasty warm.
Over several weeks, and with the help of Amy, they employed four teachers. Aside from the three Rs of reading, writing, and arithmetic, they also taught science, history, and languages. Children came and went as they pleased or according to the dictates of their parents. Many were suspicious of book learning and held their children back. Others preferred the easy money of slipping a hand in the trouser pocket of the unwary to labouring over books. The keen were on the doorstep each morning, little sponges eager to soak everything on offer.
Education gave the city’s poorest new options. Nate’s initiatives threatened to turn London’s social order upside down by giving the lowest amongst them a head start with guttersnipes who could read and curse in two languages. The standard of living of those within the Rookery overtook that of those beyond its boundary and people noticed and grumbled. As Nate said, they looked after their own and in the Rookery micro-economy, he did things no politician could do nationwide.
Cara stood in the doorway and surveyed the bowed heads, engrossed in their lessons. Girls and boys came to learn to read and write and books opened up new worlds and possibilities for them. They split the classes by rough age group and interest. This room was used for physical sciences. Against the wall, ran a workbench holding microscopes, Bunsen burners and glass dishes.
One student pulled her gaze. At first, Rachel dismissed the microscope as boring, until she took her first peek at the hidden world it revealed. Now they could barely tear her away. Outside of the classroom, she spent hours finding things to place on the small glass slides. Foetid water from the drains fascinated her with the myriad of life invisible to the naked eye.
She walked over and laid a hand on the child’s messy hair and tried to tame the frizzle. “Hi, Rachel.”
“Cara!” The girl’s head whipped around, her eyes wide and shinning and a huge grin on her freckled face. “Come see what I have found.” She pointed to the slide with her only hand. “This is from the drain by the pub. Look at all the tiny things crawling through the ooze.”
Rachel leaned out of the way so Cara could squint into the eyepiece. Underneath, in the dense brown sludge, critters wandered back and forth with multiple legs and waving antenna. “What are they?”
“I don’t know, neither does teacher. We’re trying to find them in a book.” She chewed her lip between over large adult front teeth, at odds in the small face.
“Let me know what you find, I never knew the world contained such… things.” The child possessed an enquiring mind, she constantly wanted to know why, how, and what of her constantly expanding universe. There was only one thing she never questioned, how her parents could take an axe and strike off her lower arm just to make her a more pathetic beggar.
Cara wanted to wrap the child in all the good things the world had to offer to make up for the brutality she suffered. Or perhaps, in saving Rachel, she saw a way to rescue herself.
“It’s nearly lunch time, children,” the teacher said from the front of class. “If you are upstairs this afternoon, please pack up your work.”
Rachel fingered the slide. “I have history upstairs after lunch.” With great care, she pulled the slide free and packed it away in a small wooden box crammed full with other glass slides.
Another incentive for the students, the kitchen in the basement provided a substantial midday meal to keep their energy and minds on course.
“I need to attend a chore of my own.” Cara looked outside for any sign of Brick.
“What do you and Viscount Lyons do?” Rachel asked as she draped a cloth over the delicate microscope.
How to explain to an eight-year-old that she found dangerous items that could destroy England? “We find valuable old objects for the queen and keep them safe.”
A frown scrunched up her forehead. “My da says there’s only two jobs for a woman, either on her back or in the kitchen. That’s why he only took one of my hands, he said I’d need the other one later.”
Cara plastered a smile on her face while inside she vowed to disembowel the child’s ignorant father and feed him his own kidney. That was a job that would lure her into a kitchen. “Your da is wrong. Women can do whatever they want.”
The frown didn’t budge except to grow deeper. “But men would stop us.”
Cara looked around the room, leaned in close, and whispered in her ear. “Do you think a man can stop us if we put our minds to something? Do the boys ever succeed in stopping you?”
Rachel giggled. “No, because they’re not as clever as us.”
Cara winked. “Exactly.”
A cough sounded behind, and Cara flicked her gaze to her bodyguard.
“Your delivery is here.”
“Excellent.” She patted Rachel’s knee. “I have to go, I have something for the women, but I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise.” On impulse, she kissed Rachel’s cheek.
Outside, they moved farther down the street to a house where a number of women gathered. Just as their men conducted a meeting outside, they held theirs inside. Parked on the cobbles sat a large wagon and men began to unload the calico wrapped cargo in the back.
The women regarded her with suspicion from the wi
ndows. She represented a different world where words were cheap and poor women cheaper still. Trust would take time to bloom between them, but she did what she could. She listened to their chatter and knew keeping their families warm was the main problem in the prolonged winter. She walked a fine line between simply giving them what they needed but without compromising their dignity. To let them solve their own issues without feeling like charity cases.
“Ladies.” She waited for the chatter to die down. “I was wondering if you could do me a great service. Lyons Cargo had a cancelled order from a department store and as a result, has numerous left over bolts of wool. I was hoping you could take them off our hands and perhaps find something to do with all the fabric?”
Men carried in the bolts of soft wool in muted tones of green and blue. Eyes lit up as the women mentally cut patterns and sewed late into the night, making warm coats, vests, and skirts. She gave them the means to help themselves without spoon feeding them premade items.
They glanced among themselves, an unspoken conversation flying between long gazes. Then an older woman stepped forward.
“We’ll put it to good use.” She nodded in Cara’s direction and issued instructions to the other women. Shears were fetched, the bolts laid on the large table, and lengths measured out by the yard. Once cut and folded, the material was divvied up.
Smiles replaced frowns, and mentally she notched up a mark in her trust column with the tough Rookery-bred women.
Cara stood in the warmth among the other women, their chatter washed over her as she gazed out the window. Despite the freezing temperature, Nate conducted business outside, visible to all. He stood beside Liam, the two surrounded by men, perhaps a hundred in total. Voices rose and fell, but not in argument. Everyday issues concerning the Rookery were discussed and settled. They laid out the plan of roofs to fix, the location of a new kitchen, drains to be cleared or repaired. Then more personal issues, disputes between neighbours were aired and judged after each side was given a chance to talk. This was street justice in action, Nate always conversing with Liam before making a final decree. Before leaving, they reaffirmed their fealty to the villainous viscount by either shaking his hand or nodding.
This is what Fraser could not understand. He thought Nate took over the Rookery in order to take a cut from its criminal activity. He never dreamed that by giving the men a purpose and bettering their lives, he gained something far more valuable than coin. He held their respect and loyalty.
A shiver ran down Cara’s spine. So many men. How far would they go to support him?
She watched and waited for him to return to her side. As the last men dispersed back to their homes, she stepped down to the street. Nate wore his poker face, emotions held in tight control deep inside. Liam’s face sported the devil’s grin, wide and enticing.
“Liam,” she said. “Business all done?”
“Business is never finished, but it’s definitely settled for today.” He doffed his hat to her, shook Nate’s hand, and then disappeared to talk to the women.
Nate ran a hand along the back of her neck. “Shall we go home?”
She nodded and they walked the pavement to the carriage. The knot refused to budge from her gut.
Nate pulled her to a halt. “Will you tell me what is eating you? I can feel it.”
“There’s a small part of you that scares me, the piece standing in the dark that I can see but rarely touch.”
A frown settled between his brows. “I would never scare you.”
She took his hand. “Not of you, but for you.” What would he do if he ever lost his way?
“I can look after myself.” He kissed her chilled knuckles. “How go our students?”
“They are so eager to learn, Nate. The girls especially bloom with the chance we offer. And Rachel—” She trailed off. The eight-year-old seemed smarter than the others, quicker and keener. Or was it just her impression? She saw the freckled face, worrying over the fate of women. Lord, she wanted time alone with the girl’s father.
Nate squeezed her hand. “Before you consider murder, Liam has spoken to Rachel’s parents. They are agreeable if you wish to take a keener interest in her upbringing. She could come live at Lowestoft and travel with us, if you wish.”
Cara gasped. “They would simply hand over their child?”
One dark brow shot up. “No, but a sale is acceptable. We are just haggling over price.”
Her stomach roiled. They would sell a child. Her mind flew to more scenarios of educating a certain father about how special his little girl was, but then his loss was her gain. The child had wormed her way into her heart. She tried not to show favouritism when she visited, always spending time with each child who wanted to share a project or a special object. But little Rachel with her maimed arm pulled at her. A tear ran down her cheek and Nate wiped it away.
She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. “I could throttle her father. She’s a special girl. I can never give her back her arm, but I want to show her a world where she can excel and be celebrated for who she is.”
A brief smile touched Nate’s lips. “Another one of your injured birds?”
She shook her head. “Rachel is no injured bird; she just needs a chance to discover she has wings.”
ara walked into Nate’s study to a highly unusual sight; he was smiling. He lounged in his chair with hands laced behind his head and an enormous, and devastating, grin on his face.
Her stomach fluttered as she drank in the vision of her dark angel for a moment. Then curiosity won out. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
“Because I have triumphed over stupidity.” He picked up a book from his desk. “In here I have the collective knowledge about thirty two operatives. We can now plan our world trip.” He pushed his chair back and opened his arms in invitation.
Cara settled on his lap and took the journal. The leather cover smelt new and she ran a hand over the surface. The velvety softness reminded her of another book she had caressed recently. “It’s not human skin, is it?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting idea, but no. Why?”
“Malachi has an old book from Hungary and it’s bound in human skin. The donor had the cover text tattooed on his body while alive.” She flipped through the pages at random, each one filled with Nate’s neat script in some code.
Laughter rumbled through his chest. “Maybe I’ll do that for the sequel, we could use the more useless agents.”
She soaked up his good mood. She loved seeing him like this. It chased away the fears over the monster he kept hidden. Perhaps, it too was happier today. She tapped on a page. “What’s the code?” Letters, numbers, and symbols swam in an unfamiliar pattern.
His grin remained in place and pure trouble sparkled in the depths of his blue eyes. “I might tell you if you ask me very nicely.”
She sucked in a breath. Mischievous schoolboy Nate was as devastating as deadly pirate Nate. Was this was a glimpse of the real him, the man he would have been if his life played out a different way, one more open and playful? Quicker to see the joy in life. She placed a hand on the side of his face and met his gaze. No, as much as she loved happy Nate, she needed the dark. The beast within him understood her and kept her demons at bay.
He turned and kissed her palm. “Why so serious? Don’t you want to know my code?”
She managed a weak smile. “Sorry, lost in thought. I’m still buried in my old books.”
“No closer?” He tossed the journal onto the desk, giving her his full attention.
“I’m making headway. I know Csenger’s history, thanks to Malachi and Helene.” Her mind chased the strands she wove around the Curator. She needed to make them into a strong net if they were to catch him.
He laughed. “Helene? Is she talking through the veil again with his long dead ancestors?”
She rested her head on his shoulder and let their shared life force pulse through her. “Yes, she has a painting of Csenger’s brother, Imrus, ha
nging in her house. Apparently, he’s quite chatty. Now I need to figure out what artifact he has and if it is one or two.”
“No easy task.” He made a noise in his throat as he thought. “He has collected them for a hundred and fifty years. How do we find what he has hidden away over such a time period?”
She spent long days with the old books, scrolls and anything that mentioned or hinted at items of power. While she now had a good idea of the enormity of the task Queen Victoria expected in rounding up the objects and securing them, she still couldn’t find anything to account for the unnatural winter.
Nate stroked her hair. “We could raid his house? See what makes you tingle?”
That made her smile. “His whole house sets me off. He probably has hundreds stashed away in his riverside fort. Plus, I bet he has it laid with traps, I don’t fancy ending up stuck in his basement if we triggered one.” The Curator would have an enormous collection from his decades of scouring the earth. How to narrow it down? Like finding his name in a book, she needed a hint, some clue to give her search direction. Malachi thought there might be two artifacts at play, but a warning tingle told her that one powerful item froze the Thames and held him in stasis. The younger Csenger shimmering under the surface, like looking through a pond.
She jumped in Nate’s lap as an idea slammed into her brain.
“Water, it’s all connected to water.” Being in the Curator’s presence made cold damp wash over her like spray from a dreary ocean. The same lethargy encased London, except with the addition of freezing winter temperatures in the middle of spring.
“You think it’s a water based artifact, like a boat?” Nate released her as she stood.
She shook her head as she paced back and forth by his desk, her runaway mind needing physical activity to burn off the burst of energy. “It would explain why his house is situated right on the Thames.”