by Riley Cole
“Doesn’t it? I find his characters quite invigorating. They’re planners. Doers. No reason in the world a woman can’t design her own destiny.”
Generally. Unless she was too terrified to allow the man she loved to prove himself. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away with more force than was strictly necessary.
“It’s true, what you said about my brother, isn’t it?” Alicia’s skirts rustled in the dark. “He’ll come for us.”
Meena groped for the younger girl’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Should my plan fail…” She cleared her throat, striving to infuse her words with all the confidence she truly felt. “Should we fail to extricate ourselves, your brother will come for us. He’ll hunt White and his smarmy little men to ground, and he will save us.”
A soft, rhythmic scraping, that could have been a large rodent, or merely the wind blowing debris about the ruined storefront, caught Meena’s attention.
Then she realized it was footsteps, approaching quickly, and far too quietly to be routine.
She sprang to her feet. “Alicia, it’s time.”
By the time the door swung open, she had located both of their handbags in the dark and clutched them to her chest.
The smaller jailer pushed the door wide, but kept his eyes averted. “Hurry up now. Get outta here.”
Meena pushed Alicia through the doorway. Instead of following, she stopped and faced the guard, forcing him to look at her. “Where’s White meeting them?”
The man shook his head. “Don’t know.” He shooed her away as if she were an obstinate house pet. “Go on now.”
A surge of anger lit her up. She shoved the skinny man back into the wall. “Where are they meeting?”
He shrugged, affecting disinterest, but a gratifying spark of fear tinged his eyes.
Meena ground her teeth together. “You must have some idea.” She pressed a finger to his chest. “If he hurts any of our group, you’ll still be up for hanging.”
Now the man danced from foot to foot, his gaze flitting about. “There’s a warehouse down at the docks.” The words tumbled out so quickly, he was difficult to understand. “It’s hard by the river. Boss likes to do his rough business there, is all I know.” The man squirmed away and took off running.
Meena grabbed Alicia by the arm. She cursed herself for not taking the man’s lantern before he scurried off. They moved as quickly as they could, but picking their way through the rubble without a light was slow work.
Meena strove to appear calm and collected, even as every bit of her screamed to run. The larger, stronger, meaner of their guards could happen upon them any moment.
Once they crossed the burned-out threshold, things improved. A scant bit of moonlight illuminated the deserted street, allowing them to increase their pace. It was as she feared, however. Whatever part of town they’d been dragged to was deserted.
“This way.” Meena towed the taller girl toward the closest corner. The quicker they put a few twists and turns between them and the guards the better.
“You did it! You really did it.” Alicia’s breathless praise likely had more to do with their pace than amazement. “Now all we need is—”
“Satan’s balls.” Thick hands grabbed Meena’s collar.
Beside her, Alicia shrieked.
Their jailer lifted Meena in one great fist, raising her up until her toes barely brushed the pavement. Handbag swinging from her arm, she tried to pry his thick fingers away, but it was like trying to bend iron bars.
He shook her so hard her head snapped back. “Thought you could scarper off, did ya?”
She tried to remain limp, to let him think he’d shaken the fight out of her.
He released her, but spread his arms wide, blocking their way. “Here now. Get on back in there. I don’t like to hurt ladies… mostly.”
Damnable bloody hell. Meena tried to blink away the anger surging through her, misting her vision. If that idiot had only let them out a few seconds sooner. She stood as tall as she could, setting her hands on her hips and jutting her chin, making herself as imposing, as commanding, as possible. “Let us pass, or it’ll go badly for you.”
He snorted.
Meena tightened her grip on her handbag, and took a slow, deep breath, hardening the muscles in her core, preparing to strike. “All right then.”
Alicia was frozen to the spot. Excellent.
She was fighting far above her weight class. Taking down the big thug would require all of her concentration. Protecting Alicia at the same time would stretch her limited abilities too thin.
His patience clearly at an end, the man lurched forward, trying to startle them, to make them cower and scuttle back to their cell. “Get a move on.”
Meena flinched, as if he’s scared her. At the same time, she swung her travel bag in a sharp arc, smashing it straight into the oaf’s face. The heavy bag connected with a satisfying thunk that travelled painfully up her shoulder.
The man groaned and staggered back, hands protecting his face.
Meena expelled her breath in a great yell and shot the heel of her other hand upward. It connected with the point of his grizzled jaw, snapping his head back with a vicious jolt.
He dropped like a felled tree.
Meena grinned. Master Tadeoka would be proud. Her fingers were growing numb, and the heel of her hand burned a bit. She flexed her fingers. A fair price to pay for felling a man who outweighed her by three stone at least.
“There now.” Meena took Alisha’s hand and covered the girl’s cold fingers with her other hand. “Let’s find your brother.”
Alicia reared back, pulling away from Meena’s grasp. She bounced up and down on her toes. “That was brilliant! Utterly brilliant! Can you teach me?”
“It requires a great deal of study.” Meena hedged. She wasn’t likely to see much of the girl once they found their way back to their normal lives.
“I can see why.” Alicia’s voice rang with enthusiasm and reverence. “Well worth the work, I’m sure.”
Behind them, the great lump on the pavement groaned. Meena pulled Alicia down the street. “We can discuss this later.”
By which she meant never.
Now that they were free, they were only moments—hours at best—away from parting.
Alicia would go back to being a carefree schoolgirl.
And she could return to nursing her broken heart.
“Wapping Old Stairs. Which way?”
The words burst from Spencer’s mouth the instant he reached the top of the stairs at the far end of the tunnel. What little breath he’d had left by the time he ran the breadth of the Thames, the eighty foot climb back up to the surface had stolen.
The elderly attendant at the Tower Hill entrance twirled around on his stool, his face set in concentration.
“Wapping—” Spencer gasped. He topped the last step and bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing deeply, hoping he could gather enough air to speak. “Which way? Wapping Old Stairs.”
The man pointed a gnarled finger off to the right.
While Spencer’s lungs burned from running, his heart flamed with rage. Gulping in another lungful of air, he lurched off in the direction indicated.
Once Meena and Alicia were free, White was a dead man.
Slowing just enough to keep his legs from collapsing, Spencer jogged down the deserted streets, thankful that even in such a poor district, the gas lights were plentiful enough to provide adequate illumination.
It seemed to take forever, but in reality within a few more blocks, he reached the Town of Ramsgate, the pub that flanked the entrance to the Wapping Old Stairs. He hadn’t seen so much as a mouse since he exited the tunnel. Of course the vast warehouses lining the river wouldn’t be operating at night.
The so-called pub looked dark and uninviting. Even if it was open for business at this time of night, Spencer knew no one who’d frequent such a place would have any interest in coming to his aid.
All of
which worked to White’s advantage.
The pub’s peeling sign drooped from its brackets, still as the thick night air. Just beyond it would be the narrow alley ending in a set of stairs to the riverbank. As he reached the path, he noted a carriage a bit further on, tucked into a shadow beyond the nearest streetlight.
White’s escape plan, no doubt.
The path cut between the tavern and a dusty old curiosity shop. Deserted as the neighborhood was, White could have stashed the women anywhere. A wave of panic, icy and foul as the Thames itself, crashed over him, making his stomach cramp and his hands shake.
Were they cowering behind that broken window? That bolted door? Were they bound? Gagged?
The uncertainty slashed away at his confidence.
He slapped his palm against the wall, relishing the bite of the bricks against his skin. One step at a time. All he had to do now was keep White busy until reinforcements arrived. On their own, each of them beat White for intelligence, bravery and determination.
Together, they would overwhelm him with their superior skills.
All he had to do was keep White dancing a few moments longer. Spencer nodded to himself, branding the thought into his brain.
Keep dancing. Keep dancing. Keep dancing.
He shoved off the wall. Hardly wider than shoulder width, the path was dark and singularly uninviting. All the more so since it ended at the Old Stairs, which simply spilled into the river.
Quite the perfect spot for a trap.
His legs still wobbly as rubber, he set off toward the shadows. The pistol in his waistband bit into the small of his back. He studied the shadows at the far end of the short walkway, imagining White’s men dragging him down the stairs and into the rippling water.
“Mr. Crane.” A voice called out. Oddly, it came from behind.
Hand on the butt of his pistol, he whirled around.
A figure alighted from the coach across the street. A dark cape fluttered behind him as he sauntered forward. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”
White.
The maniacal arrogance alone gave it away.
As the man strolled across the lane, Spencer studied him, searching for anything that might give him an advantage. His unhurried pace suggested confidence. Far too much confidence, given the situation. Overconfidence was good. The man’s size was in Spencer’s favor as well, although he knew better than to think White would confront him alone.
But there was no one but a driver up on the carriage. No men loitering in doorways. No big-shouldered giants bursting from the quiet coach. Until a soft scrape, shoe leather rubbing an uneven cobble, alerted him too late.
Instinct make him jerk sideways, one hand going for the pistol in the waistband of his trousers, but he’d reacted too slowly.
A blow to the side of the head brought blinding pain.
Then blackness.
A wave of nausea—spiked by pulses of pain—dragged him back to consciousness.
Spencer’s head felt like it’d been split in half. He wanted to groan, to press his hands to his head. But he knew better. Anything that signaled he’d regained consciousness would give his attackers an upper hand. He forced himself to remain limp. Any information he could gather before they realized he was awake could make the difference.
He was lying face first on a hard floor, hands bound behind his back. No, not a hard floor, a carriage. The telltale sway and the scent of horses gave it away.
He sensed at least one other presence. Turning his head a few inches brought two pairs of boots into view inches from his face. White had to be the owner of the highly polished pair.
He closed his eyes against a fresh pulse of pain. Little could be accomplished in such tight confines, especially when both White and his man were likely armed. Nothing for it now but to let the scene play out.
“We’re almost there.” White’s voice cut through the silence. “Get him up.”
The next instant Spencer was dragged up by the back of his neck and thrown on the seat across from White. Unprepared as he was, his head smacked the side of the coach.
A soft moan escaped his lips before he could stop it.
“I’m sure you must be crazed with worry about your young sister and Miss Sweet, of course.” White’s plummy voice hammered at Spencer’s brain. “You’ll be pleased to know you’ll be joining them.”
If the words didn’t worry him, the sickening laugh did.
Spencer remained crumpled against the side of the coach. Now that he was fully conscious, he noticed the slow trickle of blood down his temple. “You won’t get the recordings now.”
“How good of you to point out the obvious.” White’s voice rang with laughter, as if he were enjoying some private joke. “I don’t need them.”
Too tired to make sense of the information, Spencer stared at the hulking form across from him. White’s hired muscle stared back, his gaze flat and disinterested.
“I can have those ridiculous things destroyed anytime I like.” White giggled. “What I do need is for you to disappear.”
“Sweet will only make more. You’ll never be sure you’ve got them all.”
White snorted. “Edison Sweet won’t be making any more recordings. Trust me when I say that’ll be taken care of directly.”
White leaned across the small distance between them. Close enough for Spencer to smell the brandy on his breath. “What I can’t do—thanks to you—is repair my reputation.”
White threw himself back into the seat cushions. “This was business. Simple business. I would’ve thought you understood that.” White exhaled. “But you had to make it personal. You’ve destroyed my reputation in society. Had you agreed to go along at the beginning, none of this would’ve happened. You’ve ruined everything.” The longer the man rambled, the higher his voice rose.
White was losing control.
Spencer sat quietly, trying to ignore the sick sense of dread vibrating through his very bones, trying to think through the blasted pain in his head.
“So it’s only fitting I ruin you.” White giggled, louder and longer than before.
The coach slowed, then ground to a halt. The wheels had barely stopped turning before White jumped out the door. “Bring him,” he commanded his silent companion.
The man spoke for the first time. “Get out.” He kicked Spencer in the ankle and shoved him out onto the pavement.
Arms still pinned behind his back, Spencer allowed himself to be manhandled. Fighting back would only encourage more blows. The bigger man shoved him into the burned-out guts of an old building. Though there was a lantern at the far end, Spencer stumbled over splintered wood, piles of molding trash, and broken glass.
“Where the hell are the guards?” White held up a small lantern. He whirled about, clearly searching for something. Spencer was pleased to see that he looked distressed. “Where’s the fucking key?” The lantern wavered wildly now, as did White’s voice. “Find the fucking key!”
Spencer was beginning to understand. The steel door there, the one with the business-looking lock. Alicia and Meena were behind it. Relief flooded him, stealing all strength from his legs. He grinned. Grinned and grinned and grinned.
They were alive.
There’d be no need of guards, no reason to lock the door, if they weren’t capable of escape. He couldn’t wait to see them. To hold them. Kiss them. Scold them.
“Here, sir.” A steady voice called out. A faint jingling told him White’s man had located the key.
Spencer tried to shake off the euphoria pumping blood through his body so fast his cheeks tingled. Any second might provide the opportunity for escape. He reached out to Meena in his mind, willing her to be ready to strike once the door opened.
Damnation, if his hands had only been in front of him. But he had his legs. And Meena.
White kicked the door. “Open it.”
The big man sent Spencer a warning look, then took his eyes off him long enough to work the lock. He shoved the d
oor open, only to stop short. “I need the light.” He gestured to White. Holding the lantern high, he pushed the door wide.
Spencer watched them, waiting for his moment. He’d rush White, barrel straight into the lighter man and knock him straight off his feet. Then Meena would spring into action. If she could distract the big tough for a few seconds, Spencer could launch himself on the giant as well, and then—
“What the hell!”
“What?” White grabbed Spencer by the elbow and threw him into the small storeroom.
It was empty.
Nothing but a few crates piled against the back wall. He squinted at a small pile of rags near the tumbled crates. He only caught a glimpse, but it was enough to make him faint with relief. Purple gloves. Those silly purple gloves he’d won at the fair.
The women had been there. And Meena had gotten them to safety.
Relief, thanks, joy, lifted him so high, he wondered that his feet still touched the filthy floor.
It made the rest of this business irrelevant. They were safe. Nothing White could do to him mattered now.
“Find them.” White’s command held only the merest thread of sanity.
He shoved Spencer so hard he stumbled the length of the small room until his shoulder smashed into the far wall. The steel door slammed shut.
Still shaking with relief, he allowed himself to slide slowly down the wall.
They were safe.
Whatever happened now, Meena and Alicia would live. Relief flooded him, draining the last of his strength.
He leaned his head back against the wall of his cell and stretched out his legs. Cold from the rough stone floor quickly seeped through the thin wool of his trousers.
White could scarper off to any continent he chose. The man would come to an ugly end one way or another. It needn’t be by his hand. Although he couldn’t deny he’d gain a certain satisfaction from squeezing the life from the worthless sot.
He twisted sideways, trailed his fingers over the cold floor, searching for the gloves. He had to stretch a good bit to reach them, but once he snagged them, he squeezed them tight.