"Let 'er pass?" Tim Pitts laughed coarsely. "Now why would I be wantin' to do that? A fine bit o' spice she is, and Oy've a taste for fine things. Like that there frock she's wearin'. Oy'm thinkin' Oy might like to see it come off her. Oy'm wagerin' she's all smooth an' white an' soft an' mighty fine underneath."
While the other men rumbled and chuckled in agreement, China felt Justin slip his hand around her waist and squeeze. At first she thought it was a futile gesture of reassurance, but when he dug his fingers in a second time, she realized he was telling her to get ready to move aside. Once again his face had undergone a transformation. It was all hard planes and sharp angles. His eyes were piercing as they flicked with cobra-like concentration from one man to the next.
"Seven quid n' change," said one of the men standing behind the pie man. He pocketed the coins and tossed the pouch into the wet filth that littered the shadows under the bridge. He was evidently not familiar with the workings of a flintlock pistol, since he held it up and pointed it without bothering to cock it.
What happened next was too fast for China to follow. She heard Justin release a softly hissed breath an instant before she was pushed to one side. He dropped into a crouch and hurled himself through the air, aiming the brunt of his weight just above the pie man's belly. Pitts went down hard, the air leaving his lungs on a painful grunt. Justin rolled clear and came up with the club in his hand, swinging it in the same smooth movement, catching one of the two men on his temple before he had time to see what was happening and brace himself.
He was crashing forward on top of Pitts when Justin swung on the third man, who had the wits to put up his hands to shield his face. At the last instant, the aim of the club dropped and smashed across the man's thigh, resulting in a loud crack and a scream as the leg was broken and he went down hard. Justin plucked his pistol out of the man's hand as he fell and was cocking it as the brute came up behind him, a knife glittering in the huge bear-like fist.
China saw the pistol fly out of Justin's hand again as the paw knocked it aside. The knife slashed out in the gloom and the two shadows moved together, fists flying, bodies grappling, snarled curses spraying spittle in each other's faces. China looked around for help but the street had magically cleared, everyone moving hastily away to mind their own purses and safety. She bent down and retrieved the pistol from where it had slid close to her on the slimy stones, but even though she knew well how to cock it and hold it steady, the two men were fighting in close quarter and she could not take the chance of the shot hitting Justin.
She could, however, aim at the fifth man, who had limped close enough to the fray to pick up one of the clubs and swing it back. Thankfully he had the same dilemma as China and the split second of indecision was all she needed to pull back the trigger and fire the gun. The hammer fell and the flint sparked. The charge exploded in an acrid white cloud, the recoil sending China's shoulder slamming back into the stone wall as the shot was discharged from the barrel. The lead ball caught the skinny man on the hand, taking two fingers off at the knuckle. He screamed and dropped the club, clutching the bloody hand to his chest as he scrabbled away into the darkness.
The boom of the shot distracted the brute long enough for Justin to grab hold of the knife and turn the blade inward on its owner, sinking it hilt-deep between two upper ribs, lodging it there. He heard the bubbling hiss as the steel pierced the lung and shoved himself clear. The brute staggered back and swung his fists again but Justin was not there. He had snatched China by the hand and was already through the underpass and turning into a side alley at a dead run.
He did not allow her to slow down until they had put several twisting lanes and streets behind them. Even then, he kept a brisk pace until they reached the waterfront and there were enough lights and people milling about to afford a semblance of safety. He stopped then, letting her rest and catch her breath against the side of a building.
She was still holding the pistol, which he leaned over and plucked out of her fingers. "That was a fine shot back there," he laughed through a gulp for air, "unless of course you were aiming for his head."
China had a hand to her chest, her own lungs fighting for a clean breath. She failed to see any humor in the situation...even less so when she saw the tear in Justin's sleeve and the dark stain of blood spreading outward from it.
"You're hurt!" she cried.
"No. No, I think he just rattled my brains around a little more than usual. By God he was a big bastard."
"Justin..." she moved closer and touched the wounded arm. "You are hurt. You are bleeding."
He looked down at the blood soaking the torn sleeve. Some of it had seeped down and ran out from beneath the cuff to leave spidery red traces on his hand and between his fingers.
"I'll be damned," he muttered. "So I am."
"You need to see a doctor."
"And you need to get away from here, young lady. Enough excitement for one day I should imagine."
"But your arm!"
He raised his good hand and hailed a passing hansom. "I've suffered a lot worse and lived to tell the gruesome tale. Now in you go, not another word."
He helped her into the small coach and issued curt orders to the driver before shutting the door.
"Wait!" Her pale face appeared in the window opening. "What about you? Are you not coming?"
"Now that would take a fine bit of explaining, would it not?" He laughed and tore at his neckcloth as he spoke, wrapping it tightly around his forearm to staunch the bleeding. "As you pointed out, Ranulf is at the limit of his patience and if I were you, I would refrain from telling him anything at all about this little incident. I doubt there is any excuse you could offer that he would find palatable."
"I could tell him the truth," she insisted. "A drastic change from this family's normal behavior, I know, but it might be a refreshing one."
He laughed, slid a hand roughly into the tumble of black curls and drew her head forward into a hard, fast kiss.
"Do as I say, little China Rose," he commanded against her lips. "Tell him nothing of this; it will go far better--for both of us."
While China was still collecting her breath, he shouted up to the driver and the hansom pulled quickly away from the curb. The last she saw of Justin, he was hugging his injured arm to his chest and running the opposite way along the waterfront.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sir Ranulf laid his bare hand on the warm, naked thigh, feeling the flesh quiver as he probed deeper and deeper with each thrust. A layer of moisture coated his brow, trickling down his temples as he strove to gain one more fraction of an inch, one more subtle, deep penetration.
"Ahh." He grunted through a curse and withdrew the bloodied instrument. "I'm afraid I will have to go in again. Can you bring that light closer?"
"Yes, of course Doctor." The nurse angled the lamp closer, turning the metal shield behind it so that all available light was reflected down into the open wound. Ranulf waited until she swabbed away most of the pooled blood before sinking the long-nosed pincers into the gash, determined not to bring it out again without the musket ball gripped in its teeth.
An 'accident' the husband had said, appearing at the hospital calmly and in no apparent rush only minutes before Ranulf was about to leave.
"Accident my foot," he muttered, swearing softly as the pincer stuck lead but slipped off again. "He probably walked in on her and her lover and the bullet struck the wrong body. Or it struck the right one and he wanted rid of her."
Nurse Mallard smiled and dabbed at the smeared blood. Her hand brushed against Sir Ranulf's and their eyes met briefly over the unconscious patient. Prior to discovering Bessy Toone's incredible talents, Nurse Mallard had accounted for the extra long hours Ranulf had stayed at the hospital. She offered intriguing methods of relaxation after a lengthy, tense surgery, and not just for the doctors.
The woman he was operating on groaned and her thigh jerked in a spasm.
"Hold her leg steady. I'm almost there.
Hah! Got it, by God!" The pincers were carefully withdrawn and held up, a dripping, misshapen ball of lead in its grip. He dropped the spent ball into a tray with a metallic plink and smiled. "That's it then. A few stitches should do it and she'll be able enough for the jealous lout to take another shot at her."
Nurse Mallard smiled. "An excellent job, Doctor Cross. No one could have done it better."
"Thank you Nurse." His eyes strayed into her cleavage, which was among her more considerable assets. "A more pleasant assistant I could not have asked for. Unfortunately I have a late appointment tonight or I would be inclined to ask if you would care to join me in a bite of supper. Some other evening, perhaps?"
"Of course, Doctor. It would be my pleasure."
"And mine," he murmured. "Needle and silk, if you please, my dear--damn and blast! Where did all of this blood come from?" He frowned as he glanced down at the spatters on his trouser, showing below the hem of the surgical apron. He shoved at the woman's thigh so that it was not so close to the edge of the table.
"Bitch," he muttered and began to stitch the wound shut.
He finished quickly and left the woman in the care of Nurse Mallard and two sisters of the Order of Divine Mercy. He scrubbed his hands clean and changed the stained trousers for the spare clothing he kept at his office for just such an occasion. His appointment was for eight o'clock sharp on Mayberry Bridge and it was less than an hour to that now.
He patted the bulky money belt he had worn around his waist all afternoon. His banker, Reginald Leewort, had been suitably shocked and dismayed to hear of the theft of the ten thousand pounds. Not enough, however, to stop him from increasing the rate of interest on a new loan by four percentage points. He was a thief in his own right and the rate was outrageous, but Ranulf had no choice but to agree to it. Leewort knew Ranulf's financial situation. He also knew he could charge and receive one hundred percent interest if he dared.
Ranulf scowled as ran twin brushes through his hair to smooth it back into a dark, neat slick. He had heard from the blackmailer again. This very morning a letter had arrived at the hospital detailing the time and place for the meeting and indeed, Ranulf intended to keep the appointment, but not exactly according to plan this time.
He opened a cabinet in his desk and removed a tooled leather case bearing the Cross coat of arms embossed on the lid. Inside was a matched brace of dueling pistols. He lifted one out of it's felt bed and smiled briefly to himself over the gleaming, deadly beauty of the gun. It was solid brass with a cherrywood grip inlaid with filigree polished to a golden hue. He took care to load both pistols with powder and shot, tamping the charges solidly so that there was no possibility of a misfire. A second cabinet revealed a contraption of straps and buckles which he fit snuggly in place over his linen shirt. Into the wide pockets of leather on either side, he seated the guns, pleased to see he could move his arms without encumbrance.
He donned his jacket, cape, and hat, and, after a final glance around the office, pulled on his gloves and tucked his new walking stick under his arm. Taking no chances, this new cane had a small release catch under the carved ivory lion's head that would release a lethally sharp sword from the ebony sheath.
A groomsman was waiting outside the hospital doors with his horse.
The late night traffic did nothing to ease the tension Sir Ranulf was feeling as set out for his clandestine meeting with Fate. At eight o'clock, there was still a good deal of to-ing and fro-ing as couples embarked for the theater or dinner engagements. As Ranulf rode further from the heart of Portsmouth proper, there were fewer coaches, fewer pedestrians, which he was pleased to see. What he wanted to do required darkness and privacy.
As in the past, his blackmailer had chosen the rendezvous. Mayberry Bridge was isolated and in such dilapidated state of repair, rarely used. The stinking river that flowed beneath the rotted planking blurred the air with a sour, clammy mist that shifted in small white whorls as Ranulf rode through it. The only light that penetrated the shadows and mist came from the blurred circle of the moon overhead.
Ranulf reigned his horse to a cautious walk. When the broken, crumbled arch of the bridge came into view, he stopped and dismounted. After tethering the stallion loosely to a nearby tree, he repositioned the hard snouts of the pistols and forced himself to relax. He was by no means an accomplished marksman, but in close quarters, with both pistols charged and ready, he could hardly miss.
The blackmailer had chosen well this time. There were no houses, no lights, no sounds other than the river moving sluggishly beneath the bridge. A body could lie in the brush for weeks before being discovered.
Ranulf adjusted his gloves, flexing his fingers to ensure the leather did not hamper his movements in any way. On a further thought, he removed his cape and slung it across the saddle, hoping to mislead the brigand into thinking he had nothing to hide. He felt confident, in the darkness and mist, that the slight bulges from his pistols would not be glaringly visible.
He unhooked the walking stick from its saddle strap and started walking toward the bridge. The stink from the rancid water burned his nose and throat as he drew closer and he knew why this bridge had been left to rot in disrepair; the flow carried a good deal of the sewage and waste from Portsmouth down to the sea.
Ten minutes of eight, by his new watch. Was the bastard already there, waiting and watching? Would he make Ranulf sweat out every last minute until the proscribed time? Probably. Damn and blast the bastard, probably.
Sir Ranulf produced a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and swabbed at his forehead and at the dewy beads of mist that clung to his moustache. He wished he could control the icy sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, but there was only one end to that: a triumph over his enemy.
A twig snapped off to the left and Ranulf cursed his own nerves as he heard the rustling scramble of four furry legs through the brush.
He wiped his brow again.
"Over here."
It was just a whisper in the darkness and could as easily have been a trick of the wind or a hum from the river. Ranulf's eyes had become accustomed to the dark and he searched the shadows, alert to any movement.
"Straight ahead, mate. On the bridge." The voice was low and raspy, drifting out of the mist.
Ranulf hesitated, then walked slowly forward. There were enormous stone pillars marking the approach to the bridge and the source of the voice was from behind one of them. He moistened his lips, thinking it odd his mouth could be so dry when the rest of his body was drowning, and took several more measured steps toward the pillars.
"Ye have the money?"
"I have it."
"Glad to 'ear it. Toss it over 'ere then back away."
Ranulf did as instructed and unbuttoned his coat as he leaned over to make the throw. He now had a fix on the origin of the voice and saw a darker blot amidst the shadows.
"Many thanks Lord Cross. Ye've no idea the pleasure it brings me each time we meet."
"I'm glad you have appreciated my generosity thus far. I'm sorry to say, however, this will be the last time I agree to your spurious demands."
"It will, will it? Then I'm guessin' it won't bother ye none if I send the rest of yer father's papers along to the admiralty?"
"A ship's manifest proves nothing."
"Aye, but personal letters might. Letters pointing to the fact yer father was in the employ of the Frenchies and was helpin' Boney make plans to invade England. Letters proving he were the one who stole three chests of English gold from the treasury."
"Anthony Cross was a coward and a traitor. That was his condemnation, not mine. I believe my reputation far exceeds any damage you could do to his now."
"Aye, and the reputation of yer brother? Justin Cross ain't exactly an upright citizen himself. Sailing with a pirate and slaver. Folks might come to wonder about the sins of the father...?"
A dry chuckle finished the sentence and sent Ranulf's rage surging through his temples. He reached under his coat an
d withdrew one of the pistols. It was cocked, aimed, and fired before the shadow could dodge out of the way. The ball struck the stone pillar and zinged off into the bushes, leaving a chunk of raw mortar to show for the effort.
The second shot did not miss, however. The figure had recovered his shock enough to snatch up the packet of money and leap over the side of the bridge. Ranulf squeezed the trigger just as the mist parted enough for the moon to outline the man's shoulders. He heard the distinct thud as the lead struck flesh, and the cry as the blackmailer dropped the ten feet into the brambles below. In the time it took Ranulf to unsheath the cane sword and make his way down the embankment, the blackmailer had splashed his way across the river and been swallowed into the mist on the other side.
"God damn it! God damn it!" Fury curdled his voice as he shouted into the darkness. "But I got you! I got you, you ruddy bastard!"
Seething, his blood still pounding, Ranulf re-sheathed his sword and fought his way through the underbrush back to the road. He collected his pistols from where he dropped them and hurried back to his horse. Mounting, jerking the reins around, he gave the oozing mist a final hard stare.
"What the bullet doesn't finish," he muttered, spitting out the taste of the foul air, "the rot from the river will. God should grant you should come knocking on the door of my surgery, with gangrene eating away at your flesh."
~~
Bessy Toone opened the door to her apartments a crack.
"An' 'oo might yer be, knockin' on a girl's door this late of a night?"
"Forgive the intrusion, madam. My name is Cross. I am--"
"Justin Cross?" Bessy flung the door wide and her frown vanished. "Well whyever didn't yer say so right off? Cap'n Savage boasts about yer as if yer was 'is own kin."
"I am flattered, but I--"
"Cor, luv," Bessy's eyes widened and she saw the bloodied sleeve of his coat. "Wot's all this then? Come in, come in, an' be quick about it afore one o' them jealous prunes down the 'all sees yer an' makes a fuss ter Miss Emmeline. Ooo-la! Sit down 'ere and let Bessy 'ave a look-see. It ain't been so long as I've 'ad ter sew up an 'ole or two in my time." She stopped and her face drained. "Jay! 'Ee's all right, ain't 'ee? Yer didn't get mixed up in sum'mit tergether, did yer? I know'd 'ee were up to sum'mit! I just know'd it!"
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