by Riley Cole
Which was completely untrue, Meena happened to know. She looked up at him.
Edison froze. “Unless you’d prefer I stay.” Clearly, the thought pained him deeply.
“Not at all.” Meena stared at Crane. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Edison lit out for his workshop. “Not sure I can say the same for Crane.” His comment wafted back down the hallway.
Meena stacked her excess toast into a precise little pile, all the while studying Crane as he ate. For all the chirping of birds, and streaming of sunlight outside, one would have thought it was nothing but the loveliest of summer mornings.
Meena set her fork at a precise right angle to her butter plate. “My cousin made an excellent point. How could Ramsay possibly afford you?”
A muscle jumped in the corner of his jaw. “Leave. It. Alone.”
Somehow it pleased her that he was angry too. “I was simply curious about what the Jonquil’s services run these days.”
The redness that crept into his cheeks surprised her. When had he become so sensitive?
Crane’s fingers tightened around his knife and fork. “We’re both just thieves for hire.”
“My cousins and I are not for hire.”
A puzzled frown creased his face.
“I didn’t steal the journal. I retrieved it for the rightful owner.”
Crane looked at her as if she were the oddest creature in the zoo. “You risked Blackborough… you risked hanging… for nothing?”
“Hardly nothing. It’s worth the risk to make up for all that we’ve done.” All the devastation her father had raised them so carefully to create.
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“The consequences are my responsibility.”
“They don’t need to be.” His gaze turned soft, gentle.
Tears —damned, blasted tears— came out of nowhere, pricking hotly at the backs of her eyes. Crane was nothing to her. Why would it matter that he see how important redemption was to her?
How important it should be to him.
“We needed to know we could change.”
Crane stiffened. “Are you implying some of us can’t?”
“I’m simply making an observation.” Meena shrugged and stared past him, out the window. “You’re the one still thieving.”
Crane stood so quickly his chair almost upended. “You always were quick to think the worst of me.”
“You make it far too easy.”
For the space of a breath it seemed he might respond to her taunt, instead he closed his mouth and stomped past her, halting in the doorway. “Please thank Mrs. Hapgood for breakfast. Her hospitality has been most welcome.”
Instead of stalking off, he waited there, filling the doorway, as the seconds ticked past. Each beat of the clock ratcheted her nerves tighter. She wanted him to go. She wanted to forget she’d ever seen him.
He traced a finger along the enameled paint of the door trim. “People can’t change, if you don’t allow it.”
He had no bloody idea. Change she could allow. Redemption as well. What she couldn’t allow —wouldn’t allow— was letting him toy with her feelings.
Never again.
He nodded, more to himself than to her. “You have a lovely home, an interesting family. I hope you meet the man you’re looking for some day, Meena. Have a care not to overlook him when he arrives, won’t you?”
Before she could puzzle out exactly what he meant, the front door had closed softly behind him. In a fog, she walked her untouched plate into the kitchen and scraped the uneaten food into the scrap bucket.
That had not gone at all the way she had intended.
She pulled the bucket out from its place under the sink and headed outside to empty the leavings into the compost bin. Grief was fast melting the rime of anger that had iced over the hurt for so very long. Being angry at him was easier. Easier to feel. Easier to live with.
A likable Spencer Crane was going to leave a far bigger hole in her heart.
5
Usually Spencer enjoyed the docks.
He liked the earnest bustle, and the breathtaking efficiency of the dockworkers flooding out of the holds with their cargo like a swarm of ants. Most of all, he liked knowing there were still places where honest men did an honest day’s work for their money.
The shipping line he was considering as an investment looked far more promising than he’d expected. The ships themselves were newer steamship models, and their upkeep had impressed him. More importantly, the two captains appeared to be intelligent, prudent men.
Given all that, his mood should have been better.
Investments seemed a small issue, though, when Ramsay remained on the loose. Spencer slapped his derby against his thigh. Three days now since the ball, and he’d had no luck in locating the lying pig.
He wove his way between pallets piled high with every manner of cargo, then slipped between the lines of wagons waiting to be loaded, and hurried across the street to hail one of the hansoms lined up to ferry passengers to and from the docks. High overhead, seagulls shrieked and dove toward fishing trawlers. Above them, wisps of clouds scudded across the otherwise blue sky.
A sharp gust wrapped around him, ruffling his hair. Spencer scraped hair out of his eyes and shoved on his hat. Seemed to be a storm brewing. He’d dearly love to get away before the roads out of the city became impassible. He’d rather be stuck home in Bath than have to wait out a summer deluge in the center of London. The crowded streets and the incessant din of millions of people living atop each other had worn him thin.
Knowing Meena Sweet was but a few miles away wore him even thinner. Much as he wished to deny it, her disapproval gnawed at him, unearthing old doubts he’d rather leave buried. The quicker he put the breadth of the English countryside between them, the quicker he could get back to forgetting her.
But first he needed to handle Ramsay. Spencer trotted across the busy road toward the line of boxy black carriages. If Ramsay found him once, he could easily do it again.
He could find Alicia.
A cold sweat spread down his back. There’d be no escape until Ramsay was back in jail, or dead. Spencer didn’t much care which.
A large group of black-suited businessmen tumbled out of the New Amsterdam Mercantile offices. Spencer increased his pace, hoping to grab a hansom before the group got them all. He jumped into the last coach in line ahead of four portly, well-dressed gents.
The driver took off at a smart pace, dodging delivery wagons, pedestrians, and fellow cab drivers with no decrease in speed. Spencer leaned back in the carriage and tapped his index finger on the windowsill as the scenery changed from dockyards and blocky warehouses to smaller, more tightly packed dwellings and shops. The closer the cab moved toward the heart of the city, the more tightly packed the buildings became. What they lacked in width, they made up for in height, growing skyward like spindly flowers desperate to reach the light.
Ramsay had outsmarted him. Spencer had been certain it wouldn’t take much to find him, but the man had disappeared from all of his old haunts.
He was out there, stalking him. Planning some sort of twisted revenge.
Planning to hurt the people Spencer loved.
Damnable hell. He needed to run the man to ground.
The sound of the carriage wheels changed as the driver headed over the old wooden bridge at Putney. They were less than a mile from his lodgings now. He tried to ignore the icy sweat still trickling down his back and struggled to turn his thoughts back to the present.
Where was Ramsay hiding? He didn’t work for Blackborough. Spencer had checked that first thing. Besides inspecting old haunts, it was the only thing. The sad truth was, he had no other ideas.
The cab slowed as it neared his address. Nowhere near any of the fashionable parts of town, his rooms were in a solid neighborhood filled with working folk. A neighborhood where he didn’t have to watch his back, or his wallet.
A woman hurried past the shops, a
bundle of wash overflowing her arms. The Jonquil wouldn’t have bothered with such a neighborhood. Not enough high end merchandise for the taking. The Jonquil had spent his nights prowling neighborhoods like Blackborough’s, plucking jewels and artwork from coves far too rich to notice the loss.
Ramsay was never that good.
He and Spencer started out snatching coins and watches from people no better off than themselves. Ramsay hadn’t seized the opportunities life offered to better himself. He remained a low level rough, content to grab minor items and haggle with local pawnbrokers for pennies on the pound.
Spencer sat up. Pawnbrokers. Wherever Ramsay was hiding, he needed money. There was a shop around the corner from his lodgings. He wrapped on the roof of the hansom. “Forget my lodgings. You can drop me on Fairhope Lane.”
“Aye, sir.” The driver slapped the reins, and the horse sped past Spencer’s lodging house and darted through a small opening between a beer cart and wagon hauling potatoes and cabbages.
As the hansom rattled past his boarding house, Spencer caught sight of a constable across the street, but when he looked back, the man had vanished. If he’d existed at all. Spencer rubbed a hand over his face. This entire business with Ramsay was wearing him thin, making him jump at shadows.
He paid the driver and stepped out of the cab before the wheels even stopped. The old junk shop had been in business buying ill-gotten items from desperate souls long before he picked his first pocket. He’d brought in a bit of business himself, before the Jonquil learned to move in higher circles. Perhaps the proprietor would recall him. Might make getting information easier.
But for a gray, stoop-shouldered fellow behind the counter, the shop was empty. Spencer opened the door and wound his way between tables piled high with dusty merchandise, all of it junk. Old Mr. Gabbs, the owner in Spencer’s time, was no fool. The better merchandise was never on display. Only those who knew what to ask for would find what they sought.
“Help you, sir?” The new proprietor didn’t even bother to look up from the chipped, dusty pieces of china he was rearranging in the display cabinet. At twice the height, half the weight, and half the old man’s age, he was no Gabbs.
So how to play it?
Spencer hunched his shoulders, and averted his gaze, the way he’d seen men do when they’d walked out of prison. Eying the proprietor to make sure he was still being ignored, Spencer tugged up on the cuffs of his jacket to make it appear more ill-fitting. He ran a hand through his hair, back to front, hoping to suggest he’d slept out on the hard.
Appearance altered, he shuffled toward the counter, as if he were utterly spent. “Looking for a friend, guv.”
“Oh?” The question held no real interest.
Spencer inched closer. “Owes me a goodly bit, he does.”
Old sweat and linseed oil mingled with the general dust, making his nose itch. But close up, he could watch the man’s face. None but the very best could fool the Jonquil when it came to spotting a liar. “I was thinking you might know ‘im. Name’s Ramsay.”
The man set a worn tea cup and saucer in the cabinet below him. No interest, no concern, no curiosity altered his placid expression. “Don’t believe so.”
Frustration made Spencer’s belly clench. He wanted to ball his fists, but he forced himself to splay his fingers on the counter, to appear eager, diffident, desperate. “Maybe you’ve heard of his gang. Used to run with that Irishman, Jonah Kearney, and the Jonquil. He was quite good—”
“The Jonquil.” The shopkeeper’s face brightened. He set a cracked tea cup on the counter and leaned on his arms. “Now there’s a thief’s thief. Wasn’t a necklace, a fob—Hell’s doorknob—a statue, the man couldn’t steal.” The man’s eyes sparkled. “Heard tell he relieved a marquess of every diamond in the mansion and the marchioness, all before the supper buffet.”
Spencer feigned interest, but inside he sighed. If the Jonquil had done half the things his legend suggested, he could have bought an entire railway.
“Sorry, guv.” The man’s expression clouded over. “Didn’t know you was a friend of the Jonquil. Wish I knew of this Ramsay, but I don’t.” He reached into a drawer on the back wall and pulled out a battered leather pouch. “You look like you could use a pint. Here.” He poured out a few coins and held them out toward Spencer. “Get yourself some ale and a helping of supper down at the Dog and Bull.”
Spencer blinked, surprised his small attempt at a disguise had worked so well. He gave the man a small bow. “Thank you kindly.”
He curled his hands around the tuppence with great care, as if it meant the difference between filling his belly and not, and shuffled his way out the door.
Once away from the shop windows, he waved at a dirty street urchin hunting for a mark from the crowded sidewalk. “Here, boy.”
The boy sidled a bit closer, careful to stay just out of reach.
Spencer held out the coins. “Have some supper.”
After the slightest blink of indecision, the boy snatched the money and disappeared back through the crowd faster than a mouse with a prized crumb of cheese. Spencer smiled. The Jonquil might be firmly retired, but if his investments didn’t cooperate, apparently he could seek work on the stage.
His good humor vanished quicker than a thick wallet at the Mayfair market. There was no telling how many pawnshops he’d have to hit before he got a lead on Ramsay. He picked up his pace. It had to be close to dinner time. He could stop by his boarding house. Mrs. Finnian’s cooking was fair—at best—but it was quick and convenient. He could eat, change into a proper disguise, and be back on the streets well before dark.
He’d just passed the bank a block from his building when he saw them. Three constables. One straight across the street, staring intently at his rooms. The other two minding the corners at either end.
Spencer changed course without the slightest pause.
He didn’t believe in coincidence. Hands stuffed in his pockets, he crossed the busy street and plunged into the park across from his lodgings. He needed an inconspicuous place to watch from, but at this hour of the afternoon, the park was all but deserted.
Maids, cooks, and the occasional housewife stood shoulder to shoulder along the greengrocer’s stall across from his building. No men to speak of, but Spencer supposed it was the best he could do. He angled back through the park and over to the vegetable stalls, blending in with the surrounding crowd, keeping his face away from the constables’ gazes. Once he reached the stalls, he feigned interest in the creamy white rutabagas piled high beside bulging sacks of potatoes. He hefted a dirt-smeared globe, lifting it to his nose. It smelled of earth and grass and the odd bitterness of root vegetable.
“The wife will have a fit, you bring those nasty old things home.” A high-pitched voice came from somewhere around his elbow.
Spencer looked down. A small blonde girl with a pinched face blinked up at him. “Those bruised ones, they ain’t no good. The greengrocer puts the good ones in the back. Like these.” She held up two well-shaped globes in her dirty hands. “Saves ‘em for his best customers. The rich ones.”
On second glance, she was older than he first surmised. Probably more of a young woman than a child. Not much younger than Alicia.
“Is that so?” Spencer smiled down at her. “Thank you for the lesson.”
She cocked her head to the side, studying him. “You don’t look like the food buying sort.”
Over her head, Spencer eyed the three constables. They remained in place, eying the doors, the crowds. “Oh don’t I?”
She squinted up at him, considering. “Seems to me you’re waiting for something.”
Spencer studied her back. What a curious little thing. And observant. Too observant.
And then he had an idea, one of those instinctive, spur-of-the-moment ideas that used to drive Meena insane.
“Care to earn a shilling?” he asked the girl.
The girl dropped the vegetables and jumped back. She folded her
thin arms across her chest and sent him a glare hot enough to melt steel. “I ain’t that sort.”
“It’s nothing like that.” He pointed discreetly at the Constable pacing back-and-forth across from his lodging. “See that crusher?”
The girl nodded, clearly still wary.
“And those others across the way?”
She nodded again.
“My employer set them on me.” Spencer shook his head sadly. “The man was stealing money from the company, and I caught him out. Now he’s got it in for me.”
The girl narrowed her eyes, considering. “What sort of company?”
Spencer wondered what sort of businessman she might trust. “I’m a sea captain.”
“What’s your ship called?”
“The Jonquil.”
She scrunched up her mouth. “That’s an odd one. Jonquil’s a flower, in’it?”
“It is. My wife’s favorite. That’s why the name.”
The girl considered him. “So what do ya need? If I don’t get these rutabagas back to Cook right quick, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“I need to know what they’re saying.”
“They’re looking for you aren’t they?”
Spencer nodded. “They are. The boss wants to blame me for stealing the money. If I’m in jail, he’ll get away with the whole lot.”
The girl studied him. She evaluated his shoes, the cut of his trousers, his shirt, his jacket. Her gaze lingered longest on his face.
All but buzzing with the need to hurry, Spencer forced himself to remain calm, still, trustworthy.
“I’ll do it.” She set the rutabagas back onto the pile and scurried off through the crowd. A moment later her dirty blonde head popped up behind the constable staring up at his room.
While Spencer waited, the front door of the building opened. Mrs. Finnian hurried out, followed by the dark-haired inspector from Blackborough’s ball.
Bollocks. No question now. Ramsay’s hand was in this.