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Rejecting the Rogue

Page 2

by Riley Cole


  Now, they only stole to save others.

  Mr. Montague sagged as if his knees were buckling. When he lifted his head, she detected the sheen of tears. “Thank you.” His voice was thicker, rougher. “Thank you all.”

  With a deft swish of her skirts, Briar rose as well. “It is our pleasure. Assisting those who have been wronged is something of a calling for us.”

  Edison grunted and moved to help his sister see their client to the door.

  Meena sat back against the firm cushions of their old black sofa, appreciating the way the bright summer sun illuminated the delicate green leaves of the trees lining the street, enjoying the surge of excitement that never failed to set her nerves tingling when they started a new case.

  A safe. A fearsome crime lord. An injustice to be righted. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the very thought made her blood sing.

  “We’ll need a way in,” she noted once her cousins returned.

  Mrs. Hapgood, their housekeeper, cook, and woman of all trades, bustled into the room with a fresh pot of tea. “This Blackborough’s putting on a ball. It’s in the Daily Mail this afternoon.” She answered Edison’s unasked query.

  Briar hurried to take the heavy tray from the older woman. “Isn’t that convenient? We’ll need new dresses. Daring dresses.”

  Meena chose to ignore the pointed look accompanying that pronouncement.

  “A ball would make for easy entry,” Edison pointed out.

  Mrs. Hapgood handed him the last scone from the plate. “According to the Times, Blackborough’s celebrating that cursed Egyptian treasure he’s got. Thinks Society’s going to treat him respectable like since he’s handing it over to the museum after the ball.” She shook her head. “Plenty of ninnies in Society, that’s for certain, but how that horrible man thinks his money will make people forget how he earned it.”

  She snapped up Mr. Montague’s cup and his unfinished scone. “Have you told her?” she whispered as she brushed past Briar.

  Briar avoided looking in Meena’s direction. “Not yet.”

  “No good can come of that,” the older woman muttered on her way back toward the kitchen.

  Meena studied her cousins. Edison was staring up at the chandelier and Briar was studying her reflection in the blade of her dagger. No matter. She’d have their secret out of them soon enough. In the meantime, they had a break-in to plan.

  She grabbed a pen and a stray slip of paper, eager to begin. The potent combination of challenge, intrigue, and danger facing them tingled like a stiff shot of whiskey.

  Edison stretched his arms overhead and winced. Clearly, he wasn’t as unaffected by his recent mishap as he’d let on. “That artifact should bring plenty of interest. Probably be more of our sort there than guests.”

  “Indeed.” Meena tapped the pen against her pursed lips. “It would be convenient to let Blackborough think we’re after it as well.”

  Briar bit her lip and sent her brother a covert glance. “We really do need to…” Her voice trailed off as Mr. Hapgood appeared.

  “Mrs. H says dinner will be at six pm.” The houseman glided toward the door, but stopped in the doorway, turning back toward the group. His mouth was pinched in an uncharacteristically stern line. He folded his long arms over his chest and focussed on her cousins. “You haven’t told her, have you?”

  Both Edison and Briar squirmed as if they’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  “Fine.” Briar threw her hands up. “I’ll tell her.” She turned to Meena. Her mouth was set, as if she were about to swallow a vile potion, or have to relinquish one of her precious throwing stars. “Well, apparently… that is, we’ve become aware that...” Her hands fluttered at her waist.

  “Oh let me.” Edison’s voice seemed edged with impatience, but the concern written so clearly on his face made Meena’s stomach tighten.

  “It’s Crane.” He stared into her eyes. “He’s back in London.”

  The room seemed to expand and contract all at once, bringing tiny details into sharp focus. A child’s laughter filtered in from the street, only to be drowned out by the heavy rattling of a delivery wagon lumbering past, which made the desiccated leaves of the fern in the corner tremble.

  Meena’s heart waited several long seconds before it resumed beating.

  “I see.” She strove for a nonchalant smile. “Is that what you’ve all been fussing about?”

  Both Briar and Edison were watching her intently, but it was the pity in Mr. Hapgood’s expression that punched straight through the icy facade she was attempting to fashion.

  Meena braided her fingers together, clenching them to still the trembling. “Well of course he has. I’ve been expecting it.”

  Dreading it, really.

  The muscles in her legs trembled, making her feel as if she were hovering above the floor as she rose and sidled over to the far side of her desk. How silly that the mere mention of his name would be so discombobulating.

  That, she had not expected.

  The white heat of anger, certainly. A healthy dollop of embarrassment, possibly. Even a soupçon of regret, maybe.

  But not heartache. Not after all this time.

  Meena sank down into her desk chair, arranging her skirts so the thick linen wouldn’t crush. “Thank you all for your concern, but it's not necessary. I couldn’t give a rotten fig about Spencer Crane.”

  The lie came out more easily than she would have imagined.

  Edison’s hands flexed, rather as if he were imagining choking someone. “I can’t wait to run into the bastard.”

  That earned a grimace from his sister. “Not helpful,” she scolded, her tone laced with vinegar. She turned toward Meena. “I doubt you’ll see him. It’s not as if he goes about in Society.”

  Edison sat back on the sofa, glaring at no one in particular. “He had better not.”

  Meena wished the buzzing in her ears would cease. She willed her mind to focus on anything but the memory of the last time she’d seen Spencer Crane.

  Unfortunately, it had been a vastly memorable occasion.

  “The useless sneaksman will most likely be in Newgate by the end of the month anyway,” Briar continued. “He’s not half the thief Meena is. Really, it’s a wonder the peelers haven’t caught him yet.”

  Meena closed her eyes, willing away the image of Spencer Crane’s unclothed body wrapped around an equally unclothed actress.

  “… don’t you think? Meena?” Briar’s voice finally worked its way past the ugly memory, recalling Meena to the here and now.

  She forced her attention away from naked limbs and bedclothes tousled by love play. They meant well, her odd family. They loved her, and any one of them would give the earth to mend her heart.

  At the moment, however, she simply wanted to fade into the wallpaper.

  Mr. Hapgood attempted a well-intentioned smile, but he couldn’t seem to keep it from sliding back into a concerned frown. “I’ll just have Mrs. H make up a new plate of scones, then, shall I?” He squeezed her shoulder. “Times like these require extra icing.” He slipped out of the room far more quickly than he’d entered.

  Disembodied as she felt, Meena knew Edison and Briar were watching her, worrying.

  Which she most dreadfully hated.

  She sat up tall, forcing her stiff shoulders back. “Well, then. If it’s to be a ball, I believe I’ll need a new gown.”

  A daring gown. A bewitching gown. A gown designed to remind one Spencer Crane exactly what he’d thrown away.

  “A ball, is it?”

  The barmaid tapped a forefinger on the newspaper Spencer had set on the rough pine table in front of him.

  An instant later, her warm body was pressed against his arm. “I’d give anything to go to a ball.”

  The tang of beer mingled, not unpleasantly, with the smell of something very much female. The heat of her touch sparked an answering grin. Spencer shook his head. “Sorry. No invitation for the likes of me.”

&n
bsp; The dark-haired girl pretended to pout. “That’s all right.” She smoothed a lock of hair back behind his ear. “I’ll give you a better invitation.”

  Her touch put Spencer in mind of other activities—as she clearly intended—but it couldn’t erase the ache in his empty belly. “I'd take a serving of that stew, and a pint, if you’re serving.”

  “Done and done.” The barmaid peeled herself off of his arm. “I’ll be back. Let me know if you’ll be needing anything else.” Her gaze suggested there were items not strictly on the pub’s menu. She threaded her way through the busy lunch crowd toward the bar, hips swaying in invitation.

  Spencer grinned down at the table. There wasn’t much he missed about London, but the city did have its charms. He fully intended to sample them once he made sure the new investments he was considering were on the up and up.

  With the table to himself, he slid aside the newspaper covering the report his financial man had given him on the new rail line planned for the East London docks. Having spent his own early life separating others from their personal possessions, he imagined anyone wanting his money was up to no good themselves.

  A little prudence never hurt.

  The table was shoved hard at Spencer’s middle as a tall figure dropped down onto the bench across from him. “Well look here, Spencer Crane.”

  Spencer glared up, prepared to curse the man for his clumsiness. The protest died somewhere between his brain and his mouth. The pale eyes and the sullen, spoiled set to the mouth were sickeningly familiar. His breath caught in his throat. “Jamison Ramsay.”

  The gangly man removed a new silk hat, careful to set it on a clean part of the table. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I expected you’d be long dead by now.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.” Ramsay’s grin belayed his words.

  Spencer kept his gaze on his adversary while sweeping the papers underneath the newsprint. “Not my concern.”

  Ramsay laughed. He dropped his forearms on the table and leaned close. “It will be. I’ll be seeing to that.”

  “Will you?”

  Spencer eyed his old partner in crime. Time—or more likely the gaol—had done Ramsay hard. His once wiry frame had crossed firmly into gaunt territory. And those eyes. Not angry. More like possessed. Haunted.

  The weight of the revolver in Spencer’s pocket was reassuring. The last time he’d seen Jamison Ramsay, the man had been trying to kill him.

  He let his hand drift toward his coat pocket.

  Ramsay caught the move. “I’m not here to finish things. Wish I were.” He glanced around as if to ensure they couldn’t be overheard. “I’m here to give you a job.”

  “Don’t need one.”

  Ramsay’s mouth curled into a nasty smile. “I wasn’t asking.”

  “Then we have nothing to talk about.” Spencer shifted to the side so the barmaid could set his food in front of him. “And my meal has arrived.”

  The girl squeezed Spencer’s arm and leaned in close. “You looked hungry. I made sure he gave you an extra spoonful.”

  “Smells good.” Ramsay pointed at Spencer’s stew. “I’ll have some of that, too.”

  The woman stiffen. Her face closed up, like a flower after sunset. “Dunno what we’ve got left. I’ll see.” She hurried off.

  Ramsay shook his head. “You always did have something special with the ladies.”

  Spencer shrugged and dug into his stew.

  Ramsay leaned closer. Even with the pub’s thick table separating them, Spencer felt the man’s rage. Between bites, he baited the pig. “Still angry, then?”

  “Very.” Ramsay brushed greasy strands of black hair back away from his face. His green eyes glittered. “Newgate was hell. What happened after was...” His Adam’s apple bobbed as if he were swallowing a stone. “Far worse.”

  Spencer stopped, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “I told you not to do the job.”

  “The way I remember it, you left me to do it alone.”

  “It was a terrible idea. I told you not to do it.”

  “You went soft. You fell for that stupid girl, and you went soft.”

  Spencer tossed his spoon down next to his half-eaten stew. “That’s not how it happened.”

  Not exactly. He had refused the job. And he had fallen for the girl.

  And then that had gone to complete bloody hell. Which, damn it to Satan, he couldn’t blame on Ramsay. No, the wreck he’d made of that was his own cross to bear.

  Ramsay jumped up from the bench. “In any case, I’m back, and I’ve got solid partners now. Really solid. We’ll be running this town by Boxing Day.”

  Spencer ignored the ridiculous claim.

  “I had planned to leave you be, but my partner insists you’re the only one for this job we got.” Ramsay stared down his thin nose at Spencer. “It’s an easy thing. I could toss it off on my own but my partner has a thing for the Jonquil.” He shrugged. “Bit of an admirer. Wants to see you at work.”

  “No.”

  “I haven’t told you the particulars.”

  “Don’t care.”

  If anything, Ramsay’s smile grew. “You can’t turn this down.”

  Spencer’s jaw tightened. He stared straight into those haunted eyes. “I have no need of money.”

  “That’s handy, because the job don’t pay.” Ramsay grinned down at him. “No one’s asking, Crane. We’re telling. You do this job, or my partner destroys you. Either way gets my balls aching.”

  Spencer raised an eyebrow. He wanted to laugh at Ramsay’s theatrics, but he sensed a thread of truth in the thug’s threat.

  Ramsay loomed over the table, gaze on Spencer’s face. Clearly, he didn’t miss what was about to come. “You do this job or Miss Philomena Sweet’ll wish she’d never been born.”

  Before he could blink, Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. Only sheer will stopped him from flattening Ramsay’s missish nose.

  “I heard that bit of business soured a long time ago,” Ramsay taunted him, “but you’re a soft man, Crane. I’m betting you wouldn’t wish the girl any harm.”

  Spencer pretended he was listening, but his mind was working furiously, calculating possible solutions. At least Ramsay didn’t know about Alicia. Precisely why he’d stashed his young sister out of London. Away from men like Jamison Ramsay.

  Meena he could watch over. But not both of them. Not in two different places.

  Spencer feigned a yawn, pretending complete indifference to Ramsay’s threat. “Philomena Sweet’s been ancient history for as long as you have.” He forced himself to shrug. “Besides, if memory serves, the lady’s always been capable of looking out for herself.”

  Red blotches bloomed in Ramsay’s gaunt cheeks. His chin tipped up, jaw set tight enough to crack teeth. “Refuse this job and see what happens, if you’re still a betting man.”

  He wasn’t. Never had been. He was a calculating man, who took only calculated risks. And calculating risk required information.

  Spencer shoved the cooling stew away from him. “What’s the job, then?”

  Ramsay’s grin was evil itself. “You’re to attend a ball after all, Crane.” He tapped the forgotten newspaper. “Reginald Blackborough’s gala.”

  Spencer snorted. “Taking that statue in the middle of a ball would be suicide. If you want me in jail, there’re easier ways to go about it.”

  Ramsay shook his head. “We don’t want the artifact.” He leaned close. “We want a book. A journal, actually.”

  “All this over some toff’s diary? Are you all mad?”

  “Not mad. Brilliant is more like it.” Ramsay splayed his skeletal fingers on the tabletop. “It’s in Blackborough’s safe. Bring us the journal, and Miss Philomena Sweet can go on cursing your hide for the rest of her long life.”

  2

  Meena fidgeted next to the glass case protecting Reginald Blackborough’s precious Egyptian antiquity and pretended to admire the slender statuette as if she we
re planning to bundle her home in her purse.

  Feigning an unholy interest in the crime lord’s property would have been much easier if her daring new gown weren’t itching like the very devil.

  The gathered lace edging the low neckline was lovely, but it tickled her skin every time she breathed. Which irritated her far less than the thought that Spencer Crane was quite likely to show himself. Every fingersmith, cutpurse, and jewel thief of any notoriety whatsoever was already present. Surely a man with an ego the size of Crane’s wouldn’t pass up the chance to have a go at Blackborough’s treasure.

  She ran a gloved finger beneath the neckline of her dress, trying to ease the tickling as discretely as possible. At least the gala itself was highly entertaining. The ball was a bizarre mix of London society and the worst of the criminal underworld.

  Each appeared to be vastly thrilled to be in such exotic company.

  Beneath the Parisienne perfumes, the pomade, and the acrid tang from the gas lamps glowing along the walls, the ballroom smelled of excitement. It was not precisely the happy kind, she decided. Rather it seemed the sort of giddy fear the fashionable set often craved.

  She must take care not to allow it to infect her.

  The night’s job required the utmost care, precision, and timing. If her plan went to perfection, Blackborough wouldn’t suspect they’d lifted the journal until he was days past his post-gala champagne headache.

  She shifted from one leg to the other. As she moved, the stiff lace edging her gown tickled the bare skin above her chemise, making her wince. The unfamiliar weight of their client’s faux journal swung gently in its clever hiding place in the pocket Briar had stitched into the gown’s immense bustle. Silly as the size of fashionable apparel had become, in Meena’s opinion, at least she could put the yards of fabric to good use. There was plenty of room for both the small brown book and Bowles and Company’s finest bi-aural stethoscope.

  Habit made her survey the exits one last time. She knew precisely how many steps it took to traverse the grand hall to the study, and she had several excuses at the ready, should she encounter any of the staff on her way to Blackborough’s private study.

 

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