by Sarah Zettel
“And what’s this, then?” He touched my sleeve, right on the spot where I’d concealed my blade. My mind went terribly clear and perfectly empty at the same time. I was completely aware of every detail of that moment and unaware of any single thing I could do about it. “Not quite without a claw or two, eh?” Leroy chuckled. “Smart girl. Let’s get you out of this.”
With that, he pulled a far more impressive knife from his own belt and set it to my ropes. With a grunt and a sharp jerk, Johnny Leroy sliced my bonds in two.
All at once, I knew him. This was the driver—the one who’d sat atop Lord Lynnfield’s great black coach and used a warning crack of his whip to save me from the attentions of his fellows. He was saving me again.
In answer to this sudden realization, I believe I croaked out my gratitude in a single, elegant syllable. “Wha . . . !”
“I didn’t sign on to kill me any girls,” Leroy said simply. “Come on. I can ’andle Clay, but Pym’s smarter an’ stronger than he looks, more’s the pity. An’ ’e won’t stay gone forever.”
Johnny Leroy stood and held out his hand. I stared at it. Then I took it. It was hard as tanned leather, and he pulled me to my feet as if I weighed nothing at all. Without waiting to see if I’d gotten my balance, Mr. Leroy moved over to the hatchway in his unsettling, light-footed fashion, grabbing the lantern off the table as he passed. I drew out my little blade and followed him.
He held up his hand, signaling for me to stop. I did, instantly. Mr. Leroy went down on one knee beside the hatch and listened. I held my breath and strained my ears, but I could barely hear past the roar of my own blood. Men’s shouts rose up faintly, but they were not the watch. There was also a rhythmic clunk of wood bumping against wood. I couldn’t identify what might make that particular sound, but felt I should have been able to.
Leroy nodded, then softly drew the bolt and lifted the hatch. He lowered the lantern ahead of him to scan the space below. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because he started down what proved to be a broad ladder.
I gritted my teeth, grabbed up my hems, and followed as best I could.
When I joined Mr. Leroy on the ground floor, he was holding the lantern low. It was somewhat brighter down here, because firelight filtered through narrow windows set high in the wooden walls. Massive pyramid piles of casks, sacks, and chests filled a wooden chamber that was easily as large as the princess’s drawing room.
I realized we must be in a warehouse on one of the many Thames docks. That rhythmic wooden thumping I’d heard was boats bumping against piles, and one another. The pervasive stench that hit me when I first came to consciousness was the river itself.
“If I tell you we’re at the ’Owland docks of Rotherhithe, does that mean anything to you?” my rescuer asked. I shook my head, and he cursed. “Too much to ask for. Well, it’s a boat for us, then. I ’ope you don’t turn seasick.”
“Try me,” I said.
“Stout lass,” Mr. Leroy murmured, and the sheer warmth in those words struck me as hard as anything that had happened yet.
There were two ways out of the warehouse that I could see. One was a small door I assumed led to the streets. The other was a large opening, like the great doors of a barn, that looked over the glittering expanse of the river. This was where Mr. Leroy headed. I clutched my hems close and followed with small, dancing steps. I could not become winded. I could not trip or become tangled. We must be quick. We must get away. That was all that mattered now.
But from behind us came the thud of running feet and the clink and creak of metal. I didn’t need the shove Johnny Leroy planted against my shoulder. I was already diving behind the nearest pyramid of barrels. Leroy himself wasn’t fast enough, and as the small door to the street burst open, he whirled about to face the three silhouettes who all trooped in together.
“Well, now. What’s this, Mr. Leroy, what’s this?”
I stuffed my fist in my mouth. Lord Lynnfield strode smartly into the warehouse, with Pym and Clay at his side.
THIRTY
IN WHICH CERTAIN DISCOVERIES ARE MADE, AND THERE IS A SHORT BUT EVENTFUL BOAT RIDE.
I see you’ve taken to playing the cat, Mr. Leroy,” wheezed Lord Lynnfield. “Why else would I find you hunting rats among my stores?”
I held my breath. My fingers curled around the thick ropes that bound the heavy barrels in their pyramid, seeking something, anything, to hold on to. The whole of my concentration was occupied with trying to make myself silent and very, very small.
“’Eard a noise,” Johnny Leroy answered. I could only just see his back from around the edge of my barrel palisade. Light and shadows swung as he gestured with the hand that held the lantern. “Wanted to make sure it wasn’t soldiers. That girl up there’s not some poor street kit. She’ll ’ave someone out looking for ’er.”
“Very conscientious of you. Just how I like my men to think,” said Lord Lynnfield. “I was concerned about that very possibility myself. So was Mr. Pym, especially once he found Clay here taking a bit of a stroll on the dock.”
This was bad. This was very bad. I eased myself and my treacherous shimmery skirts back into the shadows. I tried to think what I could possibly do. I glanced in the other direction, toward the little door to the street that Lord Lynnfield and his men had entered. Yards of open floor stretched between me and it, as they did between me and the great door that opened onto the waters.
“Now, Mr. Pym told me that not only had you failed to kill the girl, but you’d authorized an entire new program of entertainments for her.” I heard the thump of Lord Lynnfield’s walking stick being planted on the floor.
A cold breeze touched my back, and I glanced quickly behind in case some new danger was creeping up. What I saw instead made me stare. It was a dark and jagged hole in the wall. This warehouse was little more than board and timber, and one of those boards had rotted away, leaving an irregular gap for the cold, foul wind off the river to worm its way through.
Could I get through there? Maybe, if I was quick, if I didn’t care about scrapes and tears.
If I didn’t care about leaving Mr. Leroy to Lord Lynnfield and his creatures.
I looked at the pile of great, strong barrels in front of me that rose two or three times my own height. I saw how they were lashed together with stout hemp rope. I felt the pain in my bleeding wrists, which had been so recently freed by Johnny Leroy. I thought how those men out there wanted me dead, or worse than dead.
“Clay, you go make sure our gel’s still safe asleep,” said Lord Lynnfield.
“Very good, your lordship.” Clay touched a knuckle to his forehead and stumped past the shadowed place where I crouched. I pulled out my slender blade. I prayed that Monsieur Janvier had gotten value for his money, set the edge to the nearest rope, and began to saw. I bit my lips hard enough to add a fresh item to my collection of pains. The hemp was dry and stretched tight, and might as well have been iron under my tiny knife. In my mind, I cursed and cried and screamed. But my hands kept working.
Johnny Leroy was out of my field of view, but he must have done something, because Lord Lynnfield said, “Whatever you’re thinking, Mr. Leroy, don’t.”
Without ceasing my frantic sawing, I risked another glance around the edge of the barrels. I couldn’t see Mr. Leroy now, but I could see Lord Lynnfield, and his pistol. “You think I don’t know how to deal with bastards like you?” his lordship growled. “Even if that damn girl is all safe and sound, I’ll still be giving you a proper lashing. It’ll teach the others not to play loosey-goosey with my property.”
The barrel rope parted a fraction of an inch. I almost forgot myself and cried aloud for triumph. But the rope was thick as my thumb, and my knife was in no way meant for this work. If the blade bent, if it broke, I was not the only one done for. I twisted it, trying to dig deeper into the rope’s fibers. I sawed harder. The rope parted just a little bit more.
“Well, then,” drawled Johnny Leroy. ’Ow about I save your lordship the trouble? You�
�re too late. She’s already gone.”
“’S the truth.” Clay came stumping down the ladder. “She’s gone.”
I’d cut almost halfway through the rope. Tears streamed hot and silent down my cheeks. The wind at my back tormented me. There’s a way out, said the cold crawling across my skin. All you have to do is leave him here. Go. Get away.
The news of my disappearance did not seem to be discommoding his lordship in the least. I began to understand where Julius Sandford got his sangfroid.
“I thought she might be.” I saw Lord Lynnfield straighten his arm. The rope parted just a bit further. “But how far has she gone? That’s the question. She’s a girl alone, in a rich dress out on the docks. I don’t think our gallant knight here let her go wandering about without escort. Have a look round the warehouse, Mr. Pym, while I deal with this one.”
I heard the long, slow sound of a pistol being cocked. My time was up.
With every ounce of strength in me, I hurled myself against the nearest barrel.
I also screamed.
I heard cursing. There may have been an order. I do not know for sure. I was too busy slamming my shoulder against the barrels again. It hurt, and I screamed some more, and threw all my weight against the barrel one last time.
The rope snapped. Someone shouted. The whole mountain of barrels thundered down like the wrath of God remade in wood and iron.
Men bellowed and cursed and scrambled away from the rolling, thundering mass. Clay wasn’t fast enough. A barrel caught him hard at the knees and he went down, screaming. Another smashed against the wall and burst its staves, spilling a pale avalanche of grain across the floor. Lord Lynnfield I couldn’t see. I was too busy pressing myself against the wall to avoid the tumult I’d set off, while still trying to scramble toward the door. Johnny Leroy leapt sideways, dragging Mr. Pym with him. They both fetched up against the wall, and Mr. Leroy dealt Pym a hard, precise blow to the head.
Clay was still screaming. I still couldn’t see Lord Lynnfield. The barrels had mostly come to rest. I grabbed up my skirts in one hand and my tiny, blessed, wonderful knife in the other. I meant to run straight for the door, but a flash caught my eye and I skidded to a halt. Because in the middle of all that spilled grain, something metallic sparkled in the lantern light.
I turned, and I stared, and I stooped.
“Come on, girl!” shouted Mr. Leroy, who had, most sensibly, not stopped running for the door.
But with my shaking hand I plucked a silver coin out of the grain.
“Oatmeal,” I said to Mr. Leroy, holding the coin up for him to see. “He was supposed to find seven thousand pounds of oatmeal. Silver will flow into the coffers of the north.”
“God’s lousy beard, Peggy! Now’s not the time!” Mr. Leroy changed direction and grabbed my wrist. My whole arm burned like fire as he jerked me into a run.
He’d also called me Peggy. He knew my familiar name. How did this man know my name?
Before I could further contemplate this tantalizing question, he’d pulled me into the street. I opened my mouth to ask where we were going. But I never did.
There was a flash of white fire and an explosion, quite loud and quite close. Something slammed into my stomach. I fell on my back with a scream. My head banged hard against the muddy ground, and I saw stars.
“PEGGY!” roared Mr. Leroy.
The next thing I knew, Johnny Leroy had caught me up in his arms. Still roaring, he bolted forward at a mad run, jolting and jarring me with every step. I couldn’t breathe. I hurt, right in the middle of my ribs. I couldn’t see anything but a blur of motion. I was dropped on my back again, and this time I landed with a splash. The world rocked hard, and the pain all but blinded me.
The world was moving again. I struggled to find some way past my pain, my lack of breath, and my more than usually confining stays in order to sit up. In this, I failed. My head spun badly as I collapsed back down into the water, but at least I now understood I was on a boat. Specifically, I was on my back in the bilge at the bottom of a rowboat. Mr. Leroy had hold of one of the oars and was using it to shove us away from the dock. Men were shouting. Mr. Leroy was cursing. I was cold and sopping wet.
The current caught us. The tide must have been on the turn, because the boat bounced up and smacked down hard as it lurched forward. There was another flash and another explosion, and I screamed and covered my head.
“Hold still!” Mr. Leroy crouched beside me. “God curse me. God forgive me. Say something, Peg! Where are you hurt?”
Johnny Leroy’s voice had changed. The edge was gone from it. He had acquired a batch of h’s from somewhere, and even knew how to use them properly. He was also pawing me about the waist.
“What . . . what . . .” I gasped.
“You’ve been shot,” he said. “But I can’t see the blood. Christ and God and Devil take it! Why can’t I see the blood!”
I laid my hand down against my stomacher, where he was groping. There was a hole there, right above the place the pain burned most strongly. Several points became perfectly clear, and I began to laugh. My rescuer jerked backwards. But my hand scrabbled at the hole and the pain underneath it.
Then I plucked the lead ball from where it had lodged against my corset stay and held it up for Mr. Leroy to see.
Johnny Leroy fell back onto his rump in the bilge, causing the boat to rock sharply, and buried his head in his hands. “Christ. Christ, I thought . . .” He stopped. “Never mind that. Can you breathe? Can you see right?”
“Enough.” This time I was able to push myself upright, shedding a quantity of stinking water as I did.
“Then keep down! We’ll have trouble enough soon.” Evidently forgetting he’d feared for my life a moment before, Mr. Leroy clambered past me to take the rower’s bench in the middle of our tiny boat and seize both oars.
The sky had cleared, and the moon was out. The cold wind bit hard against all my pains and bruises. I could just make out the hulking shadows of London and Westminster that lined the banks. Larger boats with brightly shining lanterns passed us, all unconcerned as Johnny Leroy struggled to get ahead of the current so the rocking boat could be steered.
None of this mattered as I crept, shaking, into the stern. What mattered was the long, low boat gaining on us from the port side. A crooked silhouette stood in its bows and raised a lantern high. It was Lord Lynnfield. I was sure of it.
So, apparently, was Mr. Leroy. “What’re they doing?” he cried.
“He’s put the lantern down,” I reported. “He . . .” He’d grabbed up something, and at first I couldn’t tell what he’d done. Then, as he whirled the rope over his head, I did see. “He’s got a hook!” He meant to grapple our boat, like a pirate on the high seas. I hoped I’d live long enough to tell Olivia this one.
“Get down!” cried Mr. Leroy. This time I obeyed, throwing myself flat in the stern among the miscellaneous ropes and gear. My hand landed on a long pole meant for fishing. Lord Lynnfield let the rope with its grappling hook fly toward us. I rolled onto my back, swinging my pole up high, hard, and badly. The hook smacked against it and ripped the staff from my hands. The boat rocked again, and hook and pole together splashed into the rushing river. Thames water erupted over the gunwales. My skirts were soaked, and I couldn’t breathe around my corsets. Lord Lynnfield was coiling his rope in fast. He’d try again, and I was out of countermeasures.
Mr. Leroy was cursing hard and throwing all his strength against the oars, trying for speed and distance. Lord Lynnfield had the hook in his hands again. But then something caught his eye, and he froze in the act of swinging the rope. I twisted to look, my heart in my mouth, hoping for rescue.
But it wasn’t any form of rescue that rushed toward us as fast as the Thames current and strong oars could move. It was the great mass of London Bridge. The roaring I heard this time was not the blood in my ears. It was the thunder of the Thames boiling and crashing through the bridge’s stone arches.
I’d he
ard about those arches. Certain young bloods thought it a great game to try to ride the roiling waters and shoot their boats through the narrow passages. They died with disconcerting frequency.
And Johnny Leroy was rowing straight toward those same arches.
“Turn!” I screamed. “We’ll hit!”
“Not yet!” he cried, and I swear upon my life, I heard a note of exhilaration beneath his fury. “The bastards won’t follow!”
But the bastards apparently would. Lord Lynnfield had turned to yell at his oarsmen. He swung the rope again and let his grappling hook fly. It hit our boat with a resounding THUNK! I scrabbled with both hands, but the hook had already bitten into the wood: Lord Lynnfield and one of his roughs hauled hand-over-hand on the rope to pull us toward them.
“Fools!” hollered Mr. Leroy. “Cut the line! You’ll kill us all!”
The boats were dipping and rocking wildly. Waves splashed over the gunwales, and there was no way to tell whether they were getting higher or our boat was riding lower, but the water was up around my ankles and my hems were swimming. The roaring was louder, and Lord Lynnfield and his toughs were heaving on the rope.
“Peggy, get my knife!”
Scrabbling at the trouser belt of a strange man is never a pleasant activity, but needs must when the devil drives, and I soon had a long, blessedly stout knife in my hands. I stabbed ineffectually at the sodden rope that tied us to Lord Lynnfield’s boat, gasping out my own curses. The ruffians hauled. The boat bobbed and tipped. The gunwale went under the Thames, came up, and went down again. Kneeling, the water halfway up my thighs, I hacked desperately at this new rope. We were sinking. Only a few feet separated us from Lord Lynnfield’s boat. The river tossed us harder.
I hated ropes. All of them. I would order them banned as soon as I could have a word with Her Royal Highness. Except I’d never have a word with her. We were going to drown. We were going to die.
“Duck!” bellowed Mr. Leroy.
I ducked. The boat listed sideways and something heavy whistled over my head, followed by a shout and the crunch of bone being shattered. I got my face up just in time to see Lord Lynnfield topple into the rushing river and disappear. For a single moment, Mr. Leroy towered over me, one oar hefted in both hands.