by Gaelen Foley
“What for?”
Phillip’s chin came up a notch. “Thrashed a bully. Senior. He deserved it.”
He proceeded to tell him the story. Nick listened as he threw, finally nodding to admit he was impressed with the stand the kid had made against the cruel older bully and oppressive authority.
That simple nod seemed to make Phillip grow two inches taller right before his eyes. “So, what’s all this, then?” Phillip nodded at his throwing knives.
“Just practicing a bit.”
“Can I try?”
“Not sure your mother would approve—”
“I’m practically sixteen!” he protested.
Nick shrugged, remembering all the times Virgil had shown patience to him when he was that age. “All right. Here. No, not like that. Hold it here, by the base of the handle . . .”
Phillip threw a few times without much success, but his enthusiasm was undimmed as he ran and collected the knives when they landed.
“Wait. Look at me. Watch,” Nick ordered. “Smooth and steady. Bring it over your shoulder, steady with the left, and release.”
Thwack!
The knife shuddered into the distant bull’s-eye.
“You’re way too good at this.”
“Years of practice.” He smiled. “I was worse than you when I first started. Keep working at it. You’ll get better.”
So he did, and thankfully managed not to slice his own hand off.
“I suppose I ought to ask you your intentions toward my mum,” the pup remarked at length, casting Nick a wary look askance before staring downrange again at the target, then throwing the blade just like Nick had shown him.
“I don’t have any,” he replied, startled. “I’m here to do a job, then I’m going to America.”
“Really? Why?” He stopped and turned to him, his auburn eyebrows arched high in surprise. “Do you have a mission there?”
“Hardly. I want to see the wilderness. Maybe stake out a claim west of the Allegheny Mountains.”
“But that’s Indian territory! Aren’t you worried you’ll get scalped?”
“No,” he answered in amusement.
Phillip pondered this. “But will you come back? You have a title. Don’t you already own some land in England?”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t care about my title. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I think I have the right,” he shot back with startling impertinence, “considering you want to take my mother to London.”
“It’s not like that,” he said with a frown. “She’s the one taking me. Don’t worry, I have no designs on her. She’s far too good for me. I’m only helping her with a case.”
“Helping my mother?” Phillip echoed with a dubious stare. “The woman who never needs any help from anyone, especially from a man?”
Nick laughed. “Apparently, she’s in over her head on this one.”
Phillip instantly sobered. “Should I be worried?”
“I’ll take care of her,” Nick assured him.
The boy was silent for a moment. “Does this have to do with John Carr? She told me he went missing.”
“Yes, her assistant.” Nick looked askance at Phillip when he snorted in disgust.
“That weasel! Sickeningly in love with her. Maybe he finally gave up on her and went and hanged himself.” The boy shook his head. “I never trusted him.”
Nick weighed Phillip’s words uncertainly. “Well, your mother seems very concerned. We’re going to see if we can find out if he’s all right or if something’s happened to him.”
“Maybe I could come along and help—”
“No, I don’t think that would be wise,” he cut him off. It was too dangerous.
Just then, Nick heard Lady Burke call her son’s name.
“Phillip!” she barked at him across the lawn. “Get back inside! Now!”
“Ah, blast it,” the boy muttered under his breath.
She was striding angrily over the lawn, headed their way. “I told you to go to your room!”
“Nice meeting you,” Phillip mumbled.
“Likewise,” Nick answered.
“You know, sir, if you did . . . like my mum, I think I’d give my blessing.”
“Thanks,” Nick replied, bemused.
Then Phillip slunk away toward his mother, who was clearly on the warpath. “How dare you disobey me? First, you are suspended, then you deliberately ignore what I said!”
Nick did not wish to hear the scolding, so, to spare the lad’s pride, he walked off down the range and went to collect his half dozen throwing knives out of the target where he’d sunk them, and out of the ground—Phillip’s work.
Good kid, he thought in amusement, though, at the moment, Phillip’s mother did not seem to think so.
He took care to stay out of earshot. He could not make out specific words, just the blur of an angry woman scolding her headstrong son.
In truth, Nick was deeply touched by his meeting with the cheery redheaded lad. Virgil’s grandson. Fancy that. He shook his head in wonder at this revelation.
He couldn’t wait to tell Beau and Trevor and the rest. This kid might not have a father, but Phillip was soon to find himself surrounded by a dozen doting, stand-in uncles who’d be glad to take an interest in his welfare. Whether his mum approved or not.
A furtive scan of the territory revealed Phillip trudging into the house. Lady Burke had stayed behind, apparently waiting to speak to Nick. Standing near the wrought-iron furniture, she folded her arms across her chest. He noticed her bristling posture, but what startled him as he approached was her cold stare. “A word with you, please.”
Did I do something wrong? he thought as he went to her, his compliments on her boy temporarily forgotten. “What’s the matter?”
Her mouth was pursed, her gaze flinty. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she clipped out, pausing only briefly, “but stay away from my son.”
Nick went motionless, taken off guard by the ice-cold rejection packed into her words.
The hurt made his mind go blank for a second. Then he dropped his gaze and understood why she had said it.
He couldn’t really blame her, considering she had just got him out of prison. He was not quite the knight in shining armor Phillip seemed to think and not at all what a good parent would probably consider a positive influence on her child. How many men had he killed, after all?
Still, he had not been braced for this particular ice pick in the heart. He looked away, filled with a breathtaking surge of shame. He turned away with a nod and managed a taut, “Of course.”
She stood there a moment longer for some reason, staring at him, but with his heart knotted up and stuck in his throat, Nick refused to look at her.
He couldn’t.
Any hope he had felt about the connection between this woman and himself dissolved like the morning mist—even though he understood. The lioness was merely protecting her young. It didn’t matter whose head she bit off in the process. Still, he’d had gunshot wounds that hurt less than this succinct condemnation.
So that was how she saw him. Not even worthy to speak to her son.
All right, then. Foolish thoughts away.
He made himself busy wiping the mud off his fine blades that her kid had thrown into the ground.
“We leave for Town in an hour,” she informed him.
“Fine.”
She hesitated a moment longer, perhaps realizing how she’d hurt him. But it did not signify. She was a pain in the arse, anyway. The wilderness waited.
He’d get her blasted game piece to the Bacchus Bazaar, then he’d be on his way, just like they had agreed.
He shut her out that simply.
He was very good at that. Nobody got close enough to make him feel that kind
of pain. Not anymore. It had been folly to let her start to get under his skin, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. She was Virgil’s daughter. That was all. That had given her an extraordinary advantage, bypassing many layers of his usual distrust.
Perhaps noticing that she had just ceased to exist, at least for him, the baroness pivoted abruptly and marched back into her sprawling house, and Nick went back to practicing, hurling his knives with a newfound vengeance.
God knew, they were not as sharp as her tongue.
What a fool he was, thinking anyone would ever want to get close to him, care for him. Not even his own mother had done that.
This woman, like all the others, had a purpose for him. That was all. She was using him, and he, as usual, had agreed to let himself be used.
He cursed under his breath as he suddenly nicked his thumb with a careless angle of his blade, thanks to his angry distraction.
A small line of crimson appeared at once, but the pain, though small, served to focus his mind and him back to himself . . . the dismal facts of who he was.
An assassin and spy who had let the darkness in which he moved get inside him and slowly destroy all sense of meaning, until nothing mattered anymore. Not his once-shining crusade, not even his blood-proved love for his brother warriors. Indeed, now and then over the years, he had hated them all for tying him to that mysterious shadow-life that no one was ever allowed to leave.
They needed him, and so he had been there, year after year after year, while the shadow slowly hollowed out his soul.
If only he could have kept believing that all their sacrifices were not ultimately in vain.
He had tried, pathetically—illogically—to prove to himself that there was indeed an order to the universe by his own particular usage of mathematics, continuously defying the odds, testing God by taking on deeds that should have killed him, and tempting fate at games of chance when he was at his leisure.
All he ever wanted was a sign that any of it mattered.
Clenching his jaw, Nick put his knives back neatly into their case. As he closed it, he wondered if he might truly find the purpose of his life someday in the wilds of America.
In his heart of hearts, he had to admit it seemed unlikely.
But at this point, it was the only place left on earth where he hadn’t looked for whatever the hell it was he was trying to find. If it wasn’t there, it was nowhere.
And if so, then there was truly nothing left for him.
Chapter 7
When they set out for London at two o’clock that afternoon, it did not take long for Gin to notice that the wind had most definitely shifted between her and Nick.
Rather, a cold front had swept down from the arctic.
And in this bitter chill, oh, joy, the two of them were stuck together, confined inside her traveling chaise, for a journey of twenty-four interminable hours.
It was the longest, uneasiest carriage ride of her life.
As the golden day faded into autumn’s early night, Nick remained as silent as the distant planets in the black sky, brooding out on the edges of cold space like Jupiter or Saturn. The bright crescent moon in all its haunting beauty was cheerful by comparison as it watched them traveling on through the night.
She tried to sleep. The cushioned squabs were comfortable. The company was not.
After another hour, Gin wasn’t sure what to think.
She felt guilty and apprehensive, aware that she had truly hurt this man, though she hadn’t really meant to. Damn it, she should have known he’d take it wrong—her warning about Phillip—sensitive soul that he was behind the warrior’s stony exterior.
Once more, Nick seemed like a different person. Gone was the hard-edged, cynical bravado of the prisoner she had transported from Scotland. Gone also was the more playful, seductive side of him that she had experienced on the lawn.
With one sentence, she had turned the fragile intimacy that had been born between into a desolate canyon.
And why should she be surprised? She knew full well she could be a bit of a hard-nosed bitch. Still, she hadn’t expected this. His demeanor toward her was so distant that she was afraid he was done with her as a person. And she was shocked by how much this possibility alarmed her.
Then it made her angry at herself.
Hadn’t she vowed never to let a man get the best of her? She despised the urge to explain herself to him. She refused to wheedle or cajole. Ever.
If he wanted to sulk, then let him, she thought. She had bigger things to worry about than a man and his moods.
As the carriage rumbled on toward Town, she wondered if he was disgusted enough to abandon her along the way and try to escape. Despite this possibility, she had dared not put the manacles back on him for the journey.
In this state, it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge, and she was well aware that, if he really wanted to, he could easily overpower her and her driver and grooms and get away. He could do it in seconds.
Yet, he stayed, even though he seemed to hate her at the moment.
She wanted to believe he was angry at a great deal more than only at her. At fate, at life, at everything.
All the same, she wished she would’ve weighed her angry words a bit more carefully before she had spoken them. Or at least had modified her tone.
Blinded by the fiery wrath of a mother’s protective instinct, she had lashed out and hurt a man who was already in too much pain.
Unfortunately, she knew just as certainly that she could not apologize. Not if she wanted to keep any control over the situation.
He was a warrior; he’d read any offering of the olive branch as groveling or weakness. Then he might even try to exploit such a show of vulnerability, just like he was trained to do.
She did not dare give him the chance to take the upper hand. She’d been warned not to trust him overmuch.
Indeed, it was important to keep it in the forefront of her mind exactly who and what he was, not to be taken in by the ex-spy’s occasional glints of charm. He was skilled in manipulation, trained to lie. A hardened prisoner who had been remanded into her custody to carry out a particular task.
Apologize? Be a stupid, soppy female?
No.
Why hand him the keys to the castle? The Order was counting on her to keep him under control.
So she held her silence hour after hour, while the carriage glided along behind the team of trotting horses.
Seven hours and three changes of horses into the journey, boredom set in.
She looked at her fob watch and sighed with vexation to find it was only 9:00 P.M. She considered attempting conversation by telling him about her son’s act of valor, since in truth, she was secretly bursting with pride in Phillip for sticking up for a weaker boy, even against the school authorities.
Virgil would have been so proud.
She had a feeling Nick would have appreciated the tale, too; but considering that it was over her son that she had cut him with her words, on second thought, maybe it was better to keep her maternal pride to herself.
Stifling a sigh, she went on ignoring him back and busied herself in reviewing her case files on the missing girls. She squinted at her papers, then turned up the light on the tiny oil lamp whose glass sconce was built into the side of the carriage interior.
Even so, its dim illumination was enough to give her eye strain. The shaking of the carriage did not help, with the result that she shut the file a few minutes after starting and turned to Nick.
Of course, he’d be happy that she was the first to break, but restless boredom was driving her out of her mind. “So.”
She gazed at him for a moment where he sat across the carriage from her. He stared back at her, his eyes wintry black.
She refused to be unnerved, but the small space of the chaise suddenl
y seemed much too close and intimate in the lamp’s flickering glow.
“So what?” he rather growled at her, barely audibly.
“Tell me about the owner of the Topaz Room,” she ordered in a businesslike voice.
He sat up slightly straighter, his change in posture signaling a wary willingness to engage, at least on the relatively safe topic of their shared mission. “There are only two gambling hells in England through which interested parties can obtain the game pieces that serve as tickets to the Bacchus Bazaar. The Caravel in Brighton, and the Topaz Room in Southwark.”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I got the first game piece at The Caravel. That’s why I can’t go back there. It took me weeks to establish myself with the owner and win his trust enough even to broach the subject of a game piece. I understand, however, that you are on friendly-enough terms with Hugh Lowell, the owner of the Topaz Room.”
“Lost more money there than I care to remember,” he said dryly.
“What can you tell me about Lowell?”
“He knows his business. And he reminds me of a giant, bloodsucking tick. What else would you like to know?”
She grimaced with distaste.
“Describe the layout of his establishment.”
“Three floors. Gambling hell on the first. Bordello upstairs. He keeps a stable of about a dozen girls. Calls them his Jewels, given the title of the place. Diamond, Ruby, Sapphire, and so on.”
Gin nodded.
“Downstairs,” Nick continued, “there’s a Jerusalem Chamber that handles the debts his guests incur, as well as the kitchens and service areas, and a labyrinth of tunnels under the building where his office is hidden. Highly secure. He keeps an army of henchman on hand for security, of course.”
“I see.”
“My preferred approach is by the river. The casino has its own private dock with ferryboats to shuttle passengers back to the respectable side of the Thames after they’ve had their fun. Place opens at six and closes at dawn. I’d like to go during open hours. Such meetings are always simpler with a crowd of people on hand to witness any unpleasantness.”
“How much, er, unpleasantness do you expect?”