“Are you members?” one of the giants asked, and Kit choked back a snort. Surely, they weren’t required to join in order to lose their fortunes at the shady tables inside?
“Marcus Featherstone wanted us to meet him here,” Hero said.
“We don’t allow creditors to bother our patrons,” the other fellow said, studying them through narrowed eyes.
“We’re here to recoup our losses…or perhaps not,” Kit said, adopting a bored tone.
“He must have a private game going on upstairs,” the one fellow said to the other as he ushered them inside.
The interior of the Three Aces was spacious, boasting several salons with high ceilings, chandeliers and mirrors that reflected the scene. Men crowded around the green baize tables of hazard, faro and the decidedly illegal E.O., while servers provided tea or stronger brews. The more serious players wore odd coats or leather protectors upon their sleeves and bizarrely decorated hats in order to conceal their eyes from the light and their thoughts from each other.
When a loud bang erupted from above, Kit wondered what kind of “private games” were to be had there. Some of these places were supposed to be run by famous abbesses, who dealt not only in cards, but in female flesh. The thought that he might have brought Hero into a brothel after all made him wince, and he was all the more eager to complete their business.
“Do you have any idea what Featherstone looks like?” Kit whispered.
“No, but didn’t the man say he might be having a private game upstairs?” she asked, glancing in the direction of the curved staircase.
Kit shook his head. “Oh, no, you’re not going up there.”
But Hero was already moving away from him, toward a drunk stumbling down the steps. “Is Marcus Featherstone up there?” she asked.
“Just blew his head off,” the man said. Then he proceeded to cast up his accounts.
Pulling Hero out of the way, Kit wondered if the fellow’s words were some kind of gaming cant. A servant came to clean up the mess, but most of the players were too sunk in their own dissipation to even notice the disturbance. The turn of a card, the roll of the dice or the spin of the wheel held them enthralled. Surely, this really was a madness, Kit thought as he surveyed the room.
When he glanced back at Hero, she was again moving toward the stairs, where a couple of white-faced fellows were stumbling down. Whatever the Three Aces was serving up there, it must be strong. Or perhaps the party had been imbibing all night, for when questioned by Hero, they simple shook their heads, hurrying for the exit.
Catching up with her, Kit managed to catch her arm before she could bolt upward. And he was grateful for his hold upon her, for the next two men who appeared were not foxed, but sharp-eyed, shifty-looking fellows. At the sound of Hero’s query, they headed straight toward her, frowning and intent.
“I don’t think that’s him,” she managed to say before Kit dragged her away. By the time they reached the exit, Featherstone’s name had traveled from one end of the club to the other, voices rising above the usual din of conversation and gambling. And the men who were following them had stepped up their pace.
The burly fellows at the entrance had abandoned their post, perhaps called to more important duties, so Kit and Hero threw open the doors and began to run, trying to disappear into the throng on the street.
“You there, stop!”
The shout that rang out only fueled Kit’s steps, and he cursed his height, which made him easier to spot. Ducking, he sought a cart that he and Hero could jump on in order to make their escape. But before he found a likely candidate, Hero surged ahead to where a couple of young men stood with Dandy Horses, or whatever such apparatuses were being called. Knocking one of the fellows aside, Hero climbed on the thing and took off.
Kit could do little else but follow her lead, pushing aside the youth who protested the loss of his fellow’s contraption, only to watch himself fall victim. “Excuse me, but I need to borrow this for just a moment,” Kit said, as he hopped into the saddle and pushed off as hard as he could. The wheels sent him careening away from his pursuers, and soon he had left both them and the owner of the machine behind.
Kit had seen such things the last time he was in London and knew that young men liked to race them along the thoroughfares, adding to the congestion and crashing into anything and everything. But viewing the contraptions and propelling one were two entirely different things. Without reins, there was no way to change directions, and the two wheels did not respond to nudges, as did a living, breathing animal.
Keeping his balance as best he could, Kit tried to remain upright and propel himself forward, but eventually, he hit a bump in the road and tilted sideways. Although he managed to stop himself by using one leg, he ended up on his side on the ground, his body bruised and battered. Rising to his feet, Kit counted himself lucky not to have caused worse damage.
Kit had been too busy hanging on for dear life to notice what was going on about him, but now he looked frantically for Hero. Although he saw no sign of her, the other Dandy Horse was propped against a shopfront up ahead. Kit put his own beside it, for retrieval by the owner, and looked inside the small shop, but Hero was not there. Stepping outside again, he scanned the crowd to no avail, his worst fears realized at last.
She was gone.
Kit hurried to the inn, afraid of what he might—or might not—find there. Just in case their meeting with Featherstone could not be conducted at once, they had taken a room on the outskirts of the city. It was genteel enough to pass as long-term accommodations for visitors, but out of the way in order to avoid any acquaintances. Although it didn’t sound like Hero had many.
Kit amended that thought. Hero didn’t have the experiences of a typical young woman in society, so she could not count upon such friends for help. But such friends probably would be of little help anyway, especially if she made an afternoon call while wearing boy’s clothing.
But Hero might well have contacts throughout town, collectors, book dealers and even seamier sorts that might serve her better. Kit only hoped she was somewhere safe and hadn’t been snatched off the streets. No matter how capable she seemed, she was still a woman alone in a dangerous city, harried by at least two villains.
Kit went up the stairs of the inn as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself. Upon reaching the door, caution made him knock softly before opening it. But there was no answer to his summons, and the room, when he entered, was empty.
Cursing under his breath, Kit walked the length and breadth of the space, as though Hero might be hidden behind the curtains or beneath the bed. Unable to face the emptiness, he left as quickly as he had come, hurrying out to check the common room and the courtyard for signs of her low-slung cap. But soon it became evident that Hero was not skulking anywhere around the inn under any guise, male or female.
Kit considered returning to the area where he’d last seen her, but he guessed she hadn’t stayed around there any longer than he had. He could go looking for her at Raven Hill, but she appeared extremely wary of returning home, and Kit had no desire to explain to Augustus Raven how he had allowed her to go missing.
The inn was the only meeting place that they had agreed upon, and there was little sense in heading back out to comb the city. Finally, Kit was forced to accept that he had only one choice.
So he sat down to wait.
Hero didn’t pause to look behind her. When her velocipede crashed into the rear of a moving cart, she dropped it to the ground and clambered into the load of hay in front of her. Hoping someone would retrieve the abandoned apparatus, she burrowed deep and leaned against the rear panel. It was only after she’d finally caught her breath that she realized Kit had not joined her.
Frantically pushing aside some of the hay that cushioned her, Hero peeked through a crack in the wood, but she could not see him. Even the buildings looked different, and she realized the cart must have turned, its different route taking her farther away from Kit.
/> A sharp stab of panic nearly sent her leaping from her berth, but the wariness that had served her well in the past kept Hero from moving. If she left her hiding place, there was no guarantee that she would locate Kit, who might have traveled past her in the traffic or fallen behind. But there was a very real danger that she might be found by those who had chased them from the Three Aces.
She could not go back.
With a map of the city in her pocket, Hero could take a sedan chair or some other conveyance back to the inn. But she needed to get her bearings, and the next time the cart slowed, Hero climbed out, slipping into the shadow of the nearest building.
Her first thought was to hurry to the inn, if only to make certain Kit was all right. The fear that he wasn’t created a knot in her chest to match the one in her throat. But she needed information, and returning to their room would do little to aid her cause, especially when time was of the essence.
For the first time in years beyond count, Hero felt hope, a fluttering, glimmering glimpse of something beyond the walls of Raven Hill. It was that hope, and the plan it depended upon, that gave her strength of purpose. Hailing a passing boy, she gave him a coin to find out what had happened at the Three Aces in St James’s, promising him another coin upon his return.
The sun would be setting soon, so Hero urged him to hurry. And just in case he should be waylaid, she glanced across the street for a place to wait and watch for his return. As fate would have it, there stood a bookshop, William Strong’s, and Hero headed toward it.
These days the retail book trade was centred in Pica-dilly, Pall Mall and St James’s, with new shops springing up to cater to the customers living in the most fashionable new sections of London. But Hero rarely did business in such public places, so she did not know them all.
Still, the moment she entered, she was assailed by the familiar smells of ink and paper and leather bindings, as though being welcomed home. Inhaling deeply, Hero wandered the premises, looking over the newest publications, as well as the many reprints of older titles, while glancing periodically out of the bow windows for the boy.
William Strong’s had nothing for the serious collector, unless such offerings were kept behind the counter, and Hero resisted the temptation to ask. The less contact she had with others while in her current guise, the better. Such thoughts set her nerves on edge, and at the sound of a door opening, Hero flinched. Since she heard no corresponding tinkle of the bell, she glanced up warily.
The front of the shop was still and quiet, so she looked over her shoulder. Behind the long counter, a door had opened, perhaps leading to a storage area or select stock. The latter was probably likely because the man who exited clutched a wrapped parcel to his breast. He was short, with dark, stringy hair and shifty eyes, and Hero was struck by the sensation she had seen him before.
Quickly, she turned her head and hunched over a book to avoid notice. Was he one of Raven’s minions, or just a fellow buyer she had glimpsed during some past encounter? Either way, he should not recognize her, dressed in her boy’s costume.
Yet, somehow Hero felt his gaze upon her. Refusing to look up, she ducked her head and tugged on her cap, pulling it down over her face. Hardly daring to breath, she waited for the sound of footsteps to go past her, but they did not, and suddenly she was nearly knocked down by a hard jolt.
“Excuse me…sir.” The man’s voice sounded odd, and Hero did not respond, but crouched to retrieve the volume she had been holding, her eyes focused on a pair of worn boots.
“How clumsy of me,” the fellow said. “I hope you are not hurt.”
Shaking her head, Hero cursed herself for stepping into the shop. She should have known better, for the book world was an insular one where most serious players knew each other by name, by reputation, and perhaps even by face.
When the man finally shuffled away, Hero still kept her head low, refusing to lift it until she heard the tinkle of the bell over the door. Only then did she surreptitiously peek around the cover of the volume she held to her face. She was in time to see the back of the shifty-eyed man’s coat as he stepped outside, confirming her suspicions that he was the one who had run into her. But was the action deliberate?
Putting aside the book, Hero walked to the bow windows, but the man had already disappeared into the street. Had theirs been a random encounter, or was he even now hurrying to alert Raven to her presence in town? Hero knew only that she could not afford to linger here where she had been marked.
Slipping from the shop, she glanced up and down the street, taking special note of any shadowy corners where shifty eyes might be watching. Although she did not see him, she saw the boy she had paid approaching their meeting place. Again, Hero scanned the area for any signs that he might be accompanied or followed, then hurried across the roadway to meet him.
“Sorry I’m late, sir, but I’m not used to finding out the news, just handing it out. I’d sold all my gazettes when you saw me. But now, I’m thinking I might just become a reporter someday.”
“Maybe,” Hero answered, too nervous to smile at the boy’s bravado. “What did you find out?”
“It was a shooting,” he said. “A gentleman killed himself right in one of the gambling places, not one of the fancier establishments, mind you, but still, the kind where they aren’t used to that sort of thing. It’s called the Three Aces. He’d lost his fortune, they said.”
Hero felt a stab of panic. “Killed himself? Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Saw him for myself, sir,” the boy said. “Or what was left of him as they carried him out. I guess his brains are splattered all over the salon where he did it. And on some of the patrons, too, I’ll warrant.”
Hero felt sick. Perhaps men, even boys such as this one, could handle such frank talk, but her stomach churned and bile filled her throat.
“You all right, sir?” the boy asked.
Hero nodded, trying to fight off the nausea that threatened, along with the emotions that Raven claimed she didn’t possess. He was wrong, of course. She simply had learned to keep her feelings to herself, and now she used that skill to dismiss visions of Marcus Featherstone, a young man in the prime of life, reduced to debris on the mirrors of the Three Aces. She had never met him, but he was a lover of books, a collector, someone’s friend, someone’s relative, and Hero felt the loss.
Fighting against the thickness in her throat, Hero managed to catch her breath only when her own loss became glaringly apparent. Without Featherstone, how was she to follow the trail of the Mallory? Her sorrow over his death twisted into despair, as all the hopes and plans she had so recently devised were dashed.
Was she doomed to resume her old life, hunting and fetching at Raven’s beck and call, prey to his increasingly bizarre whims? Hero’s heart thudded at the thought of returning to that world of darkness and gloom, greed and deception. Helpless. Hopeless. After her brief escape, it would only be that much harder to endure.
As would Raven’s displeasure at her failure.
Perhaps Kit was right about the Mallory. It certainly had a history of bringing misfortune to all those who owned it—from the murdered author through to poor Featherstone, dead by his own hand. In that case, Raven would be a fitting owner for the calamitous volume, Hero thought, though she instantly regretted it. Despite all, she did not wish Raven ill, just that she might be free of him.
If only there was a way to satisfy him without actually proffering the book, but how? If the Mallory had been among Featherstone’s possessions, it would eventually make an appearance. Unless, if Kit was correct, and there was no copy to be found, then…
Suddenly, Hero thought of Thomas Laytham, a respected bookseller and collector whom Raven dismissed with contempt. Although Laytham hadn’t a hint of scandal to his name, Raven didn’t trust him or the hundred-year-old pamphlets that he was famous for procuring for his wealthy clients.
“He’s a clever one, I’ll give him that,” Raven had told her. “And as long as he does me no ill
, I’ll keep my suspicions to myself. But it takes one to recognize one, my dear, and I think someday the truth will come out when it comes to the revered Mr Laytham.”
The idea that came to Hero now was so audacious, her breath caught. Surely nothing could come of her wild notion, yet the urge to pursue it was so strong that she could not easily dismiss it.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Absorbed in her own thoughts, Hero had nearly forgotten the boy standing before her until he spoke. “Yes,” Hero answered, handing him the coin she had promised.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
Glancing at the waning day, Hero was filled with a sudden urgency. “Yes, you may fetch me a hackney coach.”
While Hero watched the boy set off with a nod, she realized she wouldn’t have time to return to the inn. But perhaps that was just as well, for she suspected that Kit would not approve over her plan. It was not the act of a gentleman.
But Kit could not understand what this opportunity meant to her. He’d never been desperate, for even stripped of his property, he had opportunities. He could join the military, take up a trade, cast himself in with friends or relatives. Hero could do none of that. Still, she did not want him to think poorly of her—or see her for what she was: what Raven had made her.
In an instant, Hero decided to pursue this scheme alone, though her pulse pounded at the thought. Raven’s presence in her life had been omnipresent and stifling, but the realization that she had no one, not a chaperone or footman or companion of any sort at her side, was more alarming than freeing.
The wisest course would be to send a message to Mr Laytham, but Hero could not risk anyone learning of her interest. Nor did she have the time to wait for an appointment. If the shifty-eyed patron at William Strong’s recognized her and reported her presence to Raven, it wouldn’t be long before his minions were out looking for her.
Her heart hammering, Hero hesitated, but the stakes were too high to give in to personal fears. When the hackney coach arrived, she straightened her spine, stood tall, and gave the driver the address of Thomas Laytham, Bookseller.
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