by C. J. Archer
"Yes," I said, turning away so he couldn't see my flushed face. "Tell me how you feel later."
Matt's watch was not fixed. He still needed to use it every few hours, instead of every week, like it had once been. He told me in private in the library after dinner.
"I just used it again," he said.
I clasped my brandy tumbler in both hands and stared into the liquid. My vision blurred. I swallowed the entire contents. "I'm sorry, Matt."
He plucked the glass out of my hand. "It's not your fault."
"I know," I said heavily. Yet I felt like I'd failed him. "Do you think my magic is different to Chronos's?"
"I've been considering that, but I honestly don't know. I wonder if your magic is simply raw. Perhaps, with training, you could extend the life of my watch."
But there was no one to train me. And with magic being such a deep secret, we were unlikely to find a magician in the newspaper advertisements. Even worse, we were unlikely to find Chronos himself.
"Perhaps if we discuss this development with the guild—"
"No." He slammed the glass down on the table. "No, India, you are not to mention magic to them. You saw their faces. They already dislike you. This will make it worse for you. Besides, from what Dr. Parsons told me, the authorities are the most fearful of magicians. We don't have guilds in America, but there are committees and other groups that govern trades and crafts. He claimed magicians are not welcome. They're reviled, in fact. You must keep your magic a secret, India. Understand?"
I nodded. "Since Abercrombie and the other members were fearful of me, they must have suspected I possessed magic," I said. "But how? Did they sense it, do you think?"
"Perhaps. Or did they know your father was magic, even though he didn't use it? Perhaps they learned as much when he was dying, since you said it wasn't until around that time that they became fearful of you."
"A little before, when he tried to get them to admit me to the guild," I said, absently. "But Father wasn't a magician. I would have known, or suspected. He was never anything but normal."
He refilled my glass from the decanter on the sideboard and handed it to me. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation."
I sighed. "I suppose there must be." I drank in silence, feeling his intense gaze on me but not daring to meet it. My cheeks were warm enough. "Tell me what you said to Abercrombie to get him to cease accusing me of theft. He claimed you threatened him."
"It was hardly a threat. I merely explained that I work for the police on two continents and am a personal friend to Commissioner Munro. As such, Munro is more likely to believe my account of events over his."
"That's it? There were no threats made to his person?"
"I may have used language and a tone of voice that seems to scare some people easily."
"Ah yes, that voice. I've heard it." I smiled. "Thank you, Matt. I appreciate it."
He waved a hand. "It's nothing."
It didn't feel like nothing, but I let the matter rest. "Do the others know that I tried to fix your watch?"
He nodded. "They've been urging me to ask you." He fished in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "There's another reason I called you in here."
"Oh?"
"This arrived for you while you were out. I wanted to give it to you in private."
It was a telegram, all the way from America. "It says that Dorchester is indeed Patrick McTierney." I read on and gasped. "The reward will be sent to me at this address in gold bullion!" I bit my lip but couldn't stop my smile. I re-read the telegram then looked up at Matt. He smiled. "I am to get the reward?"
"Of course."
"But…he was here because of you."
"You caught him."
"It's your job, and you have all these people to support."
"India, I'm a man of independent means. My father saw to that. He worked hard after he escaped his family here, and built a property empire that spans the globe. I don't need the reward money." His eyes sparkled as he perched on the table next to me. "So what will you do with it?"
"I don't know. How much is two thousand dollars in English money?"
"About four hundred pounds."
"Four hundred!" I downed the rest of my brandy in one gulp.
Matt took the glass off me. "Steady, India, or I'll have to carry you to your room."
I hardly heard him. Four hundred pounds was more than my father earned in a year. Was it enough to buy my own shop and equipment? Was it enough to buy out Eddie?
Perhaps, but I still couldn't be a shopkeeper. The guild would never grant me a license. I could buy myself a small house and rent out a spare room to lodgers. The possibilities were endless and rather exciting. Even better, I didn't have to make a decision yet. For now, I would remain as Miss Glass's companion and live at Park Street.
"Matt, do you know a man of business here in London who can help me invest the gold for the time being?"
"My father's lawyer will know someone."
"Nothing risky. I don't want to lose it."
"Then perhaps a bank vault for now, until such time as you need it." He lifted his glass in salute. "Congratulations, India, you are now a woman of independent means. You deserve it."
Warmth spread through me at his crooked smile. The brandy must be taking effect.
"Matt!" Duke shouted from just outside the door. "Matt, you in here?" He pushed open the door and grunted. "Good. Go and stop your hare-brained cousin from ruining her life."
Matt glanced at me and sighed. He set his glass down and pushed off from the table. "What's she doing now?"
"Going to meet Lord Travers to try and win back her locket."
"How?" Matt asked. "She hasn't got anything left to gamble with."
"She's wearing a dress."
"Hell." Matt stormed out of the library, leaving me wondering how Willie wearing a dress was a problem.
And then it struck me. She was going to offer herself to Lord Travers as payment.
I picked up my skirts and raced after Duke and Matt. I found them confronting Willie in her room. She'd applied some color to her cheeks and lips, and her hair flowed around her shoulders. She was beautiful.
"You look like a whore!" Duke snarled.
"That's the point," she shot back. She eyed Matt, standing with rigid shoulders, his entire body expanding with his deep breaths. I suspected the deep breathing was an attempt to control his temper, but it wasn't working particularly well. I was glad the hard gleam in his eye wasn't directed at me.
I stepped between them. "I'll lend you the money," I told Willie. "I have some coming to me shortly. Perhaps Lord Travers will accept a promissory for now."
Willie blinked at me, but it didn't stop her eyes filling with tears. "You would do that for me?"
"Of course."
"I can't accept it. This is my predicament, and I'll get myself out of it. Thank you, but I don't want your money. Or yours, Matt."
"I'm not offering you any," he snarled. "I'm going to win the locket back for you. Get your coat." He turned and marched out of the room.
"Is he a good poker player?" I asked when he was out of earshot.
"He's the best there is," Willie said quietly.
"Was," Duke said. "He hasn't played since the gunfight with his grandfather. He gave up all his gambling and drinking ways after that."
"It's not something you forget," Willie told him.
"You better hope not. Come on, let's go."
"I'll get my coat," I said, hurrying to my own room.
Mr. Unger agreed to the private game between Lord Travers and Matt. The hush that had descended upon our entrance lifted as excited voices eagerly placed wagers on who would win. All the games were suspended so everyone could watch. Unger rearranged the furniture and Travers and Matt took their seats.
Lord Dennison wedged himself between me and Duke. The scar on his forehead from the wound inflicted by the clock looked red and raw.
"What a pleasant surprise," he murmur
ed thickly in my ear. "If your friend loses, will you wager yourself this time? I'll be tempted to play—"
He was suddenly ripped away. Matt held him by the collar, pulling it tight and high at Dennison's throat. Dennison's struggles only managed to give him a red face, and score a few laughs from the others at his expense. "Is this the fellow?" Matt growled at me.
I lifted my chin. "If it is, what will you do to him?"
Matt looked to Dennison then to me, then to the table. "Take him for every last penny."
"In that case, yes it is."
Excited whispers rippled through the crowd. They scented a dangerously thrilling game ahead. Matt shoved Dennison down onto a chair. "If you don't play, I'll take you out the back and flog you."
"This is outrageous!" Dennison spluttered. "Do you know who I am?"
"Enlighten me."
Dennison plucked at his collar and stretched his neck. "I'm Lord Dennison! The son of the Earl of Morecombe."
Travers snorted. "He's not important. Come now, let's play." He lit a cigar and leaned back in his chair.
"Stand," Matt ordered.
"Pardon?" Travers chomped on his cigar and didn't move.
"Stand up so I can see that you're not hiding anything."
"Check his pockets," Willie said.
"Bloody hell!" Travers muttered, but he pushed his chair back and heaved himself up. "Never been treated this way by an Englishman.
Duke checked Travers's pockets and the chair itself, and declared he'd found nothing untoward.
Travers snorted as he sat. "I'm not a cheat."
I elbowed Willie when she opened her mouth to protest. She shut it with a grumble.
"Deal," Matt ordered the dealer. "What have you got to stake?" he asked Dennison.
"Nothing," Dennison said. "Lost it all at hazard."
"Did you come in a conveyance?"
"Of course."
"Then I accept that."
Lord Dennison lost his conveyance on the first hand. He slunk away from the table, his head low, muttering how his father was going to rake him over hot coals when he learned what he'd lost.
"Stay where I can see you," Matt ordered Dennison, pointing to a spot well away from me.
Travers was a little harder to beat, but Matt did it with only a pair of eights after a mere ten hands were played. Travers could have won with his pair of jacks but he folded too soon. He handed over the locket.
Willie swooped on it and slipped it around her neck. Matt rose and nodded at the dealer and Unger.
"Wait!" Travers cried when he realized Matt was leaving. "Another game. Give me a chance to learn from you. Your skill is sublime. I couldn't get your measure at all, not even a little." He grabbed Matt's arm as he went to walk off, but missed and almost toppled off his chair. "Come now, sir, we can make it as interesting as you like. I'm a bloody rich man. Ask anyone here."
Matt gave him a look of utter contempt. "Good evening to you." To Dennison he said, "Come and point out your carriage and tell your driver he's no longer required."
Dennison followed us down the stairs, past the porters, his head low and shoulders stooped. Outside, a carriage came forward when one of the drivers recognized his master. Dennison gave him the bad news. The driver looked crestfallen.
"But I have a family! How will I feed them?"
"Work for me," Matt said. "I live at sixteen Park Street. Duke, go with him."
"I'll go too," Willie said quickly, eyeing Matt. She must have suspected she'd be on the receiving end of his temper for some time and wanted to ward it off for as long as possible.
"May I humbly request a ride back home?" Dennison asked.
"Walk," Matt growled.
He held the door of his own carriage open for me and assisted me inside. He followed me and closed the door. Cyclops drove off, the other conveyance behind us.
"You play well," I ventured after two minutes of taut silence.
He grunted.
"You won, Matt. So why are you angry?"
He'd been looking out the window, but he now turned to me. Some of the frostiness had already vanished from his eyes, but they were still cool. "I'm not angry."
I barked a laugh.
He rubbed his eyes and I felt awful for mocking him. The poor man was exhausted. "I possessed a lot of vices in my youth," he said. "Gambling was one of them, as was drinking to excess, usually both at the same time."
"You don't have to explain," I said.
"I want to. I want you to know that I stopped because I didn't like the man I became when I gambled and drank like that. I gave up after I was shot. Things tend to fall into perspective when your life hangs in the balance."
Neither of us spoke. The hissing of the carriage lamps and the clip clop of the hooves and rumble of wheels were the only sounds. The night air wasn't cold, but it was dense, confining. My corset felt too tight. "I'm sorry," I said finally.
"For what? None of this is your fault."
"For misjudging you. I see now that it's not anger but tension. You wanted to get out of there quickly."
"I didn't even want to be in there," he said quietly. "Sometimes…" He removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair. "Sometimes I find it tempting."
"Yet you manage to have a drink or two without going to excess now. Why not a game of poker here and there?"
He shrugged. "I didn't want to risk falling into old ways. I haven't played in years."
"We could play at home. That might satisfy Willie too, and keep her from going out to find opponents. We don't have to play for money, but for something else. Matches or tokens."
His mouth hooked up at the corner, all mischief again. His tension vanished entirely. "You want to learn to play poker, India?"
"If you'll teach me, yes."
His smile turned positively wicked. "You'd better not wager anything you can't afford to lose."
I smiled back, even though my heart fluttered madly. "Nor had you."
His eyes turned smoky. "For the first time in my life, I think I'd like to lose."
THE END
Coming soon:
THE MAPMAKER’S APPRENTICE
The 2nd book in the Glass And Steele series by C.J. Archer
When a youth apprenticed to a mapmaker disappears, Matt is asked to investigate. But when he uncovers lies and magic, he realizes he needs India's help. Meanwhile, time is running out to find his watchmaker.
Sign up to C.J.'s newsletter through her website to be notified when she releases THE MAPMAKER’S APPRENTICE.
In the mean time, have you read THE LAST NECROMANCER? Read on for an excerpt of the 1st book in the bestselling Ministry of Curiosities series from C.J. Archer.
Excerpt of THE LAST NECROMANCER (Ministry of Curiosities, Book #1)
by C.J. Archer
About THE LAST NECROMANCER
For five years, Charlotte (Charlie) Holloway has lived as a boy in the slums. But when one theft too many gets her arrested, her only means of escape lies with a dead man. Charlie hasn't raised a spirit since she first discovered she could do so five years ago. That time, her father banished her. This time, she brings even more trouble upon herself.
People are now hunting Charlie all over London, but only one man succeeds in capturing her.
Lincoln Fitzroy is the mysterious head of a secret organization on the trail of a madman who needs a necromancer to control his newly "made" creatures. There was only one known necromancer in the world - Charlotte - but now there appears to be two. Lincoln captures the willful Charlie in the hopes the boy will lead him to Charlotte. But what happens when he discovers the boy is in fact the young woman he's been searching for all along? And will she agree to work for the man who held her against her will, and for an organization she doesn't trust?
Because Lincoln and his ministry might be just as dangerous as the madman they're hunting.
CHAPTER 1
London, summer 1889
The other prisoners eyed me as if I were a piece of
tender meat. I was someone new to distract them from their boredom, and small enough that I couldn't stop one—let alone four—from doing what they wanted. It was only a matter of who would be the first to enjoy me.
"He's mine." The prisoner's tongue darted out through his tangled beard and licked what I supposed were lips, hidden beneath all that wiry black hair. "Come here, boy."
I shuffled away from him but instead of the brick wall of the cell, I smacked into a soft body. "Looks like he wants me, Dobby. Don't ye, lad?" Large hands clamped around my arms, and thick fingers dug into my flesh through my jacket and shirt. The man spun me round and I gaped up at the brute grinning toothlessly at me. My heart rose and dove, rose and dove, and cold sweat trickled down my spine. He was massive. He wore no jacket or waistcoat, only a shirt stained with blood, sweat and grime. The top buttons had popped open, most likely from the strain of containing his enormous chest, and a thatch of gray hair sprouted through the gap and crept up to his neck rolls. Hot, foul breath assaulted my nostrils.
I tried to turn my face away but he grasped my jaw. The wrenching motion caused my hair to slide off my forehead and eyes, revealing more of my face than I had in a long time. A new fear spread through me, as sickening as the man I faced. Only two prisoners seemed interested in a boy, but if they realized I was a girl, the others would likely want me too.
"Anyone ever tell you you're too pretty for a boy?" My tormentor chuckled, but he didn't seem like he'd discovered my secret. "Pretty boys can get themselves into trouble."
Girls even more so. It was just my ill luck to get caught stealing an apple from the costermonger's cart outside the cemetery and wind up in the overcrowded holding cell at Highgate Police Station. The irony wasn't lost on me, but it wasn't in the least amusing. As an eighteen year-old girl, I should be separated from the men, but I'd been passing myself off as a thirteen year-old boy for so long it hadn't even occurred to me to tell the policemen. With my half-starved body, and mop of hair covering most of my face, nobody had questioned my gender or age.
The big brute jerked me forward, slamming me against his body. My nose smacked into a particularly filthy patch of his shirt and I gagged at the combined stenches of sweat, vomit, excrement and gin. I wasn't too clean myself, but this fellow's odor was overpowering. Bile burned my throat but I swallowed it quickly. Showing weakness would only make it worse for me. I knew that from experience.