A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers)

by Alissa Johnson

  “Will who?” She knew she’d made a mistake playing innocent when his jovial facade slipped. “Will Walker, do you mean? I scarcely knew the man.”

  “Ain’t she a pretty liar?” He moved the gun muzzle under the hem of her skirts and lifted. “What’s under here then, lovey?”

  She kicked out at him, but her movements were hampered by the heavy material and fear of his gun.

  Ignoring her struggles, he shoved his hand under her skirts and began pawing at her legs with his free hand. “Where is it? Eh? Where is it? Ah, here we are.” She felt the dagger at her ankle slide free of its sheath.

  Clutching the knife in one hand and the gun in the other, he crawled over her on all fours, then leaned down close and held the dagger up to her face.

  “Got your claws, Kitten.” He grinned at his own joke. “That’s what Walker called you, isn’t it? His kitten? Aye, you bloody well knew him. Me brother told me all about you. Pointed you out a time or two. Told me all about how you and him did work for Gage.” He leaned in even closer, forcing her to turn her head to escape his fetid breath. He didn’t seem to mind. He pressed the flat of her blade to her cheek and whispered into her ear. “So you tell me. You tell me why it were my brother Clarence what swung with Gage, and not Walker. You tell me where the son of a whore is hiding.”

  “Hiding?” Because her voice shook, she covered it with a small laugh. “He’s dead. Will Walker has been dead for years. Gage killed him.”

  “That’s what they says, all right. So how come ain’t no one ever saw a body? How come ain’t one person in London what knows where he’s buried?”

  “The police saw. They know where he’s buried.”

  “And they ain’t talking?” He snorted and pulled back a little. “Peelers see a man like Walker put down, they crow about it. Take credit for it, if they can.”

  Unless Walker were working for those peelers, of course. Then they kept their mouths shut. But she couldn’t tell him that. Because if Walker had been working for the police, then she had been working for the police.

  “I had nothing to do with your brother’s death.” She didn’t even remember a man named Clarence. Gage had dozens of men. “I’m not sure I ever met—”

  “Shut your mouth. You—”

  A door slammed shut somewhere downstairs, and masculine voices floated in through the open door.

  John gained his feet and aimed the gun at her. “Not a word. Not one peep or it’ll be worse for you. You understand?”

  She nodded and expelled a ragged breath of relief when he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Now was her chance.

  She eyed the chair in front of the table, then her parasol. If she could wedge the chair under the door before John returned, it might buy her enough time to get her hands free and possibly escape out of a window. But she’d have to move the chair without making a sound, an unlikely feat with her hands caught behind her back.

  The parasol first, then.

  She scrambled up awkwardly and made her way to the parasol as quickly and quietly as she could. Praying her movements couldn’t be heard downstairs, she pressed her back against the wall and slid down until she could reach the handle of the parasol with her bound hands. Once she had a proper grip, she gave the handle a twist and pulled the hidden dagger inside free of the case.

  The blade was short and thin, but it was sharp. Used well, it could be lethal.

  She maneuvered the blade to cut through the ropes, but it was an awkward business. Her fingers were half-numb already, and the rope was thick. She nicked herself twice just trying to make a notch in the rope.

  Hurry. Hurry.

  Outside, the wind howled. The old house groaned, the windows rattled, and the door popped open a few inches.

  Angry voices floated up the stairs. She strained to listen even as she sawed at the ropes, wincing when the blade sliced her skin.

  “Have you lost your mind, kidnapping Almighty’s woman?”

  She didn’t recognize that voice, but she heard John reply, “I told you, she’s Walker’s girl.”

  “I don’t bloody care. I wouldn’t bloody care if she were made of solid gold. You’ll bring Brass down on us.”

  “You weren’t squalling when we was following them to the park, were you?”

  “I didn’t know who he was then, did I?”

  “Aye.” A third disgruntled voice piped in. “Bit of quick coin, you said. And what’d I get for it? A bleeding knife in me leg.”

  The other men from the park, she realized. Not likely allies, but they were angry with John. There might be a chance…

  “It was her that done that,” John said. “Don’t you want a taste of revenge?”

  “I ain’t beating on a woman. I never agreed to that. I never agreed to a blessed thing ’cept to help with a nob in the park whilst you nicked a lady’s jewelry. You never said it’d be Brass, and you never said a damned thing about beating on a woman. I sure as spit didn’t agree to kidnapping.”

  “You want to take her back to Brass?” John demanded. “You think he won’t know you from the park?”

  “We ain’t needing to bring her to him. Just take her out a ways and let her go.”

  Like an unwanted dog, Esther thought, and she prayed with all her might that her captor would agree to the plan. She was sawing at her bindings as best she could, but she suspected she was doing more damage to her skin than the rope. She could feel the warm trickle of blood sliding down her fingers.

  “I can’t, can I?” John said. “She’s seen me. She knows my name.”

  There was a round of low, vicious cursing.

  “You’re a fucking idiot,” the second man growled. “Give me your gun. You can’t shoot her here where half the bloody street can hear it.”

  “Don’t want to shoot her, do I? Bitch can’t talk from the grave.” There was a dull thud of metal against wood. “Take it then. You can have her little blade too.” Another thud, softer this time. “There’s your quick coin, Danny. You’ll get a pretty penny for that.”

  “It ain’t bad.”

  “Aye. She’s been living like a damned duchess all these years. All these years. You think about that… Now, are you with me or not?”

  There was a short pause.

  Say not. Please, please say not.

  “Ain’t never been against you,” Danny grumbled. “Thick and thin, right? As always.”

  The glimmer of hope she’d had of gaining allies died. She hacked at the ropes like a mad woman.

  Hurry.

  “Aye,” she heard John say. “As always.”

  Seconds later, the stairs creaked under the weight of John’s boots.

  Momentarily forced to still her blade, she hurried back to her spot in the middle of the room. By the time John stepped back inside, she was sitting just where he left her.

  He closed the door behind him without taking his eyes off of her. His eager gaze slid over her from head to toe. She didn’t bother hiding her shiver of revulsion.

  “Ready to play, Kitten?”

  She scooted away from him, letting her movements disguise her renewed struggles with the rope. Was she leaving a trail of blood on the floor? She was afraid to look, terrified he might follow her gaze and figure out what she was about. “Don’t do this, John.”

  He crept toward her slowly, like a predator toying with his prey. He didn’t actually draw any closer to her, but neither did he let her get farther away. “Where you running to? Ain’t nowhere for you to go.”

  When she hit the far wall, she leveraged herself up to her feet. Couldn’t he hear her sawing at the ropes behind her back? It seemed so loud to her. Too loud. But she couldn’t stop. She was so close. She felt the bindings loosen, but it wasn’t enough to pull herself free.

  John began to close the distance betwee
n them. Six feet… Five feet…

  “No point in fighting me, Kitten. All I want is Walker. Just tell me where he is.”

  “He’s dead.”

  His gaping grin returned. His hands fisted at his side. “I was hoping you’d make this difficult.”

  Four feet…

  Too late. It was too late. She’d failed to get through the ropes in time. There was only one option left.

  She stepped forward from the wall to give herself room to maneuver, then turned the knife in her hands to face the blade out. At the last second, just as John reached for her, she lunged left and spun at the same time, drawing the blade in a broad, awkward arc behind her back.

  John stumbled back with a grunt of pain. The injury was minimal, just a small gash in his hip, but it held him off long enough for her to dash away to the other end of the room.

  With an oath, he lunged forward a half step, then came to an abrupt stop, seeming to think better of charging her again. “What was that? What the bleeding hell do you have?!”

  “Why don’t you come over here and I’ll oblige you with a proper look,” she suggested. She took two threatening steps toward him.

  He stepped back, which was immensely gratifying. But then he reached under his coat and pulled out an enormous knife of his own, destroying her brief boost of confidence.

  She turned her own blade again and sawed at the ropes.

  Eyes narrowed, John looked her over from head to toe. “You think to fight me with your hands behind your back? Are you mad?”

  “Oh, quite,” she assured him with as much menace as she could muster around the ball of terror in her throat. “There’s something you might have considered before taking me on. Ever fought a madwoman before, John?”

  “They bleed, same as others.”

  “Not if they’re quick.”

  She was nowhere near that quick. His reach was longer, his blade was bigger, and she no longer had the element of surprise on her side. If he rushed her now, he’d have her.

  If only the ropes would give. She was so close. So close.

  John gave the knife in his hand a quick twirl. “You think you’re quicker’n this?”

  Her rope slipped away. At last.

  “No.” She held up her free hands and the blade, ignoring the coating of blood over both. “Just quicker than you. Put your weapon down, John.”

  His features twisted in anger. “Right.” He twirled the blade again, licked his lips, and widened his stance. “Right. A proper fight, then.”

  “I am not going to fight you.” She used her skirts to quickly scrub the blood from the fingers of her right hand, then gripped the knife by the tip of the blade and brought it up to throw. “You take one step toward me. One step, and I will kill you. If you call for your friends, I will kill you.”

  “You won’t throw it. What if you miss? Then you got nothing.”

  She gave him a cold smile. “I don’t miss.”

  Please, please don’t make me throw it. Don’t take that step.

  He took a step, but not toward her. He moved to the side. She did the same. They began a slow, silent circling of each other.

  She let him lead, only moving when he did, giving him no reason to start the attack.

  When she reached the side of the room where her parasol lay against the wall, she bent down and scooped it up, never taking her eyes off of her opponent.

  John’s brow furrowed in confusion, then lifted as he gave a short bark of mocking laughter. He gestured with the tip of his blade. “What do you mean to do with that?”

  “Where do you imagine I hid the blade?” She gave the parasol a little shake. “Can you guess what else might be inside?”

  Not a damned thing. The parasol base was hollow. But it was sturdy enough to fend off a few swings of his knife if need be. And the possibility of an additional weapon worried him. He stopped laughing, and his eyes darted back and forth between her knife and the parasol. A film of sweat formed on his brow.

  “Put your weapon down, John.” If he would just put it down, she could tie him up, bolt the door, and climb out the window, or call for help at least.

  He shook his head. “I ain’t letting you go.” He gripped his blade with both hands. “I didn’t come this far to swing for kidnapping. And I want Walker.”

  “You don’t have to swing. Just put the—”

  “Bugger this.” He charged her.

  She hurled the knife and hit her mark. The blade sunk into John’s chest just below the collarbone.

  Howling, he stumbled back into the corner of the table. Its spindly legs buckled beneath his weight, and man and wood crashed to the ground.

  Even before the wreckage settled, she heard the sound of boots charging up the stairs.

  She lunged for the chair with the vague idea of using it to wedge the door shut, but she hadn’t made it more than two steps before a giant of a man barreled into the room.

  Standing half a foot taller than John, his chest was as broad as a blacksmith’s. He had two black eyes, a swollen nose, and his right arm was bound against his chest. In his left hand, he carried a thick wooden club that was scarred and stained from use.

  The man she’d stabbed in the leg in the park was only seconds behind. He was notably smaller than his friend. She might have had a chance to fight him off long enough to get away, if he hadn’t been holding John’s gun.

  The parasol suddenly felt as flimsy and useless in her hands as a handkerchief. What good would it do against a club? Against a bullet?

  The small man stumbled to John, who, somehow, was still alive, still conscious, and writhing on the ground. He’d retained his grip on his knife, the other hand wrapped around the dagger in his chest.

  “What the bloody…” The limping man gasped. “Jesus God, John.”

  The giant’s head swung from his fallen friend to Esther. “I’ll kill you meself.”

  “She’s mine!” John’s voice was thick with pain and rage. “Help me up. Help me up, damn you.”

  With the aid of his friend, John gained his feet. His face was ashen, his shirt soaked with blood. Her dagger remained in his chest, and Esther realized that she had killed him—it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the injury. She just hadn’t killed him fast enough.

  Shoving away from his friend, John stumbled toward her.

  Her eyes darted to the door and windows. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, but she backed away out of reflex and swung the parasol at him when he closed in. She made a desperate grab for the dagger sticking out of his chest.

  John pivoted, took the hit on his shoulder, and snatched the parasol out of her hand. He turned it about and swung it back at her. The base caught her on the side of the head, in the same spot where he’d hit her in the kitchen.

  She stumbled sideways, then felt the hard impact of the floor against her knees.

  His fingers dug into her shoulder, grabbing fabric and skin alike. He hauled her back to her feet, and the world revolved as it had before, in a long, sick roll.

  She swayed, then tensed for the next blow, but John backed away.

  “Give me that.” John snatched the gun out of the smaller man’s hands and aimed at her.

  The small man, Esther thought, trying to focus around the pain and dizziness. The one who didn’t want to beat on a woman. He was her one chance. What was his name? What had John called him downstairs?

  “Danny!” That was it! “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to—”

  “Shut up.” All three men spoke in unison.

  Danny flicked her a glance, then turned away. “Make it quick, then.”

  John lifted the gun an inch higher, aiming for her chest. “Can’t have Walker,” he spat, a bubble of blood forming at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take you.”

  Oh, God. Oh,
God. She was going to die.

  The world seemed to shrink and narrow, growing smaller and smaller until it was only a pinprick of light stretching between her and the barrel of the gun. She wanted to face her death with dignity, with her chin up and her eyes open, but her shoulders curved in involuntarily as if she could make herself a smaller target. Her skin felt oversensitive, crawling in horrible anticipation of the tear of the bullet. She squeezed her eyes shut when John cocked the gun. She couldn’t help it.

  I’m sorry, Samuel. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…

  The blast reverberated off the walls. She dropped back down to her knees with a cry, waiting for an explosion of pain that didn’t come.

  There was a thud, a grunt, a pounding and scraping of feet, a clattering of metal against wood.

  Her eyes flew open.

  “Samuel.” She whispered his name, or thought she did. Dizzy, she blinked and tried to focus again, tried to make sense of the chaos around her.

  Samuel had come. He was fighting the men. John was on the ground, his eyes open and unblinking at the ceiling. That was the shot. Samuel had shot him.

  She saw two guns. One at John’s side. Another lying on the ground by the open door. She didn’t understand how it had come to be there.

  Her eyes tracked back to Samuel.

  It had been too dark to see him fight their attackers in the park. She’d thought him a graceful man before, but she saw now that there was nothing elegant in the way Samuel fought. He was simply…efficient. Blunt and brutal. He wasted no movements and gave no quarter.

  She watched in a kind of mesmerized stupor as he wrested the giant’s club away and swung it in a powerful arc. It connected with the side of the big man’s head with a sick crack that made her flinch.

  Danny launched himself onto Samuel’s back.

  She should help, she thought. She needed to help. She could sneak past them and reach one of the guns.

  She pushed off the floor, her bloodied hands slipping out from under her twice before she managed to gain her feet. But she’d not taken a step before Samuel flicked Danny off his back like a gnat, then threw a punch that sent the man flying into the wall. Danny slid down to the floor and stayed there.