by Shana Galen
“Nothing.” But that wasn’t true. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And then she saw it. She saw him. The cub was watching her, marking her. He lounged against a door, looking as though he was waiting for his employer to come out of a shop, but she knew the look of him. He only gave the appearance of being idle. His eyes were as keen as a hawk’s. And she recognized him too. He wasn’t one of Satin’s, but she’d seen him a time or two. He was one of the Fleet Street Cubs.
The Fleet Street Cubs loved nothing better than a public execution. Then half the city would come out to watch the convicts from Newgate or Fleet Prison hanged. While the crowds were watching the spectacle, they weren’t watching their pockets. Easy pickings.
Satin looked down on the Fleet Street Cubs, saying they got rich off the misery of their own kind. After all, who was being hanged up there if not thieves? But Marlowe had never known Satin to turn down a coin, no matter where it came from.
For an instant, her gaze met the cub’s. He looked away quickly, with seeming respect. After all, she was dressed as a lady. Marlowe held her breath, and then his gaze snapped back. He stared at her openly, and she could almost see his mind working, struggling to place her. And then she and Dane passed him, and he was behind her. But she knew she was in trouble. The cub might not know her yet, but his mind would keep working on the riddle of who she was. When he solved it, he’d go to Satin.
When they reached the town house, Dane paused. Marlowe’s thoughts were still back on the cub they’d passed, and she looked over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t followed them. She didn’t see him, but he wouldn’t have been a very good rogue if she did.
“You realize, when we go inside, preparations for the ball will be in full force.”
“The lady said it’s tomorrow.”
“Yes, but my mother will worry about what Susanna is to wear, and Susanna—and my mother—will worry over what you are to wear and how your hair should be styled and whether to bring a wrap or not, a fan or not…” He circled his hand as if to indicate all of this would go on and on.
“It sounds like a nightmare.”
Dane laughed. He seemed to laugh quite often. She’d never met a man who laughed so much—at least not one who wasn’t daft in the head. “The ladies are supposed to like all the fuss.”
“Why?”
“How the devil do I know? In any case, one question may be neglected amid all the primping, and that is perhaps the most important question. Do you dance?”
“Dance? Like a jig?”
“No. I’m not speaking of romping around after you’ve had a few sips of Blue Ruin. I’m speaking of waltzing, the quadrille, a country dance.”
Marlowe had no idea what he was talking about, but she could count on one hand the number of times she’d danced. There simply was little cause for dancing or celebration in her life, and if she had a few coins, she wouldn’t have spent them on gin. She would have bought something to fill her belly. She had danced with Gideon once. He’d twirled her about and showed her some complicated step he said he learned watching the nobs when looking at a place before the crack. She’d fallen all over her feet and tumbled onto her bottom, laughing all the way. Somehow she thought Dane and the duchess would be less than amused.
“I don’t dance.”
“And we won’t attempt to teach you in a day. We’ll say you twisted your ankle, and I will stay by your side to ward off admirers.”
“Admirers? Ha!” She rolled her eyes and waited for Dane to give one of his characteristic laughs. But he wasn’t laughing.
“I am completely serious,” he said. “Men will take notice of you.”
“Because they’ll see I don’t belong.”
“Because they will see that you’re beautiful.”
Marlowe stumbled back, her eyes bulging with shock. Why did he keep calling her beautiful? No one ever said anything more complimentary to her than “You’ll do.” Dane was a handsome man. She tried not to look too directly at him for fear of staring overly long. He was rich and titled. He probably knew hundreds of beautiful women, and he thought her beautiful? “I’m not beautiful,” she said. “I’m…” She gestured to herself to indicate she was—whatever she was.
Dane raised a brow. “You are?”
“Quick, canny, nimble.”
“I am certain you are all of those things, but you are also beautiful. Have you looked in a mirror?”
She had, and she hadn’t even recognized herself. The Marlowe she knew was flat-chested and wore trousers and a perpetual layer of dirt. The Marlowe she knew scowled and swore and spit. She didn’t flutter her lashes or sashay her hips or do any of the things gentlemen seemed to think made a woman a rum blowen. “This”—she gestured to her gown—“this isn’t who I am.”
“Don’t you think it could be?” he asked. She thought he might say more, but at that moment, the butler opened the door and peered out with an expectant look.
“Your mother is asking for you, my lord. Shall I tell her you have taken up residence on the front walk?”
Dane let out a sigh. “No, Crawford. We are returning now.” He gestured to Marlowe, indicating she should lead. Marlowe took one last look behind her. She didn’t spot the cub. Perhaps he hadn’t followed her, after all. She could still walk away. She could turn and head for Seven Dials and the flash ken. And then she thought again of the little boy and his ball, and she looked back at the town house.
Marlowe didn’t know where she belonged, but she would find out.
***
Gideon wasn’t sleeping. Around him the cubs snuffled and snored, sleeping the sleep of the dead. He should be asleep too. He’d been out diving until the wee hours of the morning—at least that’s what he’d told Satin. In reality, he’d been searching for Marlowe. Gideon didn’t understand what had happened to her. One minute she’d been there, and the next she was gone. Joe said he’d seen a jack stop, a man had carried her to the coach, shoved her inside, and driven away.
He’d run after the jack, in the direction Joe had indicated, but there had been too many coaches. He didn’t know which one or the direction it had gone. He’d returned empty-handed to the house they’d marked. The noise had alerted the residents, and Gideon had called off the racket. Satin had been furious, not only to lose the cargo from the racket, but also one of his rogues. And not just any cub—his best filching mort.
Why the hell would someone in a jack take Marlowe? Had she dived in the wrong bubble’s pocket? Had a Brother of the Gussit seen her and decided she’d make a good addition to his bawdy house? Gideon hoped not. Marlowe didn’t have the first idea how to play pretty and coy. She’d never survive a brothel.
It didn’t make sense, and the more Gideon searched for Marlowe, the less sense it made. He’d even considered that Satin might be behind the abduction. Gideon knew the upright man had plans for Marlowe. Was this one of them?
Gideon had been one of the first cubs in Satin’s gang. He’d been about ten when he’d joined, and he’d joined willingly—unlike Marlowe, who Satin had brought in a year or so later. Gideon was old enough to remember his parents. He could remember the shabby room where he’d lived with them and his grandmother. His mother and his father worked, and his grandmother kept watch over him. There wasn’t money for school, but she’d taught him how to read and write. She used to tell Gideon stories of when she’d been a girl, and how she once saw a parade where the king waved to her from his coach.
Gideon had been hungry sometimes, but he was well cared for. He didn’t see his mother or father often. They worked too much, but he knew they loved him, though his father cuffed him a bit more than Gideon liked. And then there’d been a fever, and it had taken his mother and grandmother. Gideon’s father had not dealt with the loss well, and he started drinking heavily. The cuffing grew more frequent, turning into beatings.
And then one night his
father hadn’t come home. One of the men his father drank with knocked on the door and told him his father had been killed in a fight in a public house. Gideon was an orphan at seven. He’d gone to an orphanage, but life there had been unbearable. The food was disgusting, and he’d been hungry all the time. He’d been tall for his age, and he’d learned to fight by defending himself from his father, so Gideon held his own against the bullies who ran the place.
But when he’d run away, for the sixth or seventh time, and he met Satin, he didn’t hesitate to join the gang, even though his mother had always taught him filching was wrong. It had to be better than life in the orphanage. And in some ways it had been. Satin was a cruel man, but he was generally predictable. He didn’t attack without cause or warning. Gideon could live with that.
He’d been thinking of how to accuse Satin of taking Marlowe without sounding like he was accusing Satin, when he remembered what Marlowe had told him about the bubble she’d seen on Piccadilly, the one who’d called her Elizabeth. The one who worked for Bow Street. Now Gideon knew Bow Street Runners. Most were corrupt, or at the very least, worked exclusively for the swells, who could pay for their services. He’d worked with a few Runners. He’d steal a few valuables and then negotiate with the Runners to set a high ransom. When the nob paid the ransom, he’d give a portion of it to the Runners. They were getting the better end of the deal, because they’d collect not only a portion of the ransom but also the fee from the nobs for “finding” the stolen items.
Gideon had also seen other gangs decimated when Runners convinced a few fool cubs to attempt a better-racket, then caught the cubs in the act, thereby collecting the reward. The cubs went to the stone pitcher and hanged.
Gideon didn’t trust Runners, and for good reason. He’d taught Marlowe not to trust them either. She wouldn’t have willingly gone with a thief-taker, and Joe had said she’d been kicking and screaming…
Someone tapped on the door to the flash ken, and Gideon’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t move or give any other indication he was awake, though. Satin and Beezle had been murmuring for the last half hour, planning something Gideon would have to carry out, no doubt. He’d tried to listen, but their voices were pitched too low. Now both men ceased speaking, and Beezle went to the door. So it wasn’t anyone Satin was expecting. If it had been one of the cubs, he would have given the code word, then knocked and come in.
Beezle reached the door, then peered back at the sleeping cubs. Gideon closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep, though he doubted Beezle could see much in the dark of the flash ken. Slowly, he opened his eyes again and watched as Beezle opened the door, his knife at the ready. Whoever was outside said something Beezle thought Satin needed to hear, and the cub returned and motioned for Satin to step outside.
Gideon waited until the door closed behind Beezle and Satin, then rose and made his way silently and deftly around the sleeping figures. He crouched beside it and put his ear to the wall. The walls of the flash ken were so thin, the building so poorly constructed, he could easily hear the conversation taking place outside.
“You saw her where?” Satin asked.
“Mayfair,” the cub said. “I was out for a walk—”
“Sure you were,” Beezle said with a laugh.
“Hey, if Dagget finds out I came to see you, he’ll slit my throat. Do ye want to know or not?”
“Shut it, Beezle,” Satin growled.
Gideon swallowed. Dagget was the arch rogue of a crew of rogues in Fleet Street. Gideon had seen the man a time or two. As far as he could tell, the cubs in Fleet Street didn’t have it any better than the Covent Garden Cubs. Their boys had to have spines of steel to bilk right in the shadow of the gallows. It was like seeing yourself hanging there if you made one wrong move.
“Go on,” Satin said.
“She were dressed all fancy-like, and her hair were all…” He must have made some gesture, because Satin grunted in response. The cub had to be speaking of Marlowe. But why would she be dressed like a rum mort and walking in Mayfair? And if she was, why wouldn’t Satin know about it? She didn’t have something on the side. Gideon would have been in on it.
“She looked like a right proper lady, and she were walking with a swell.”
“Tell me about him,” Satin said.
“Looked like any other swell. Fancy dress, nose in the air.”
“Did you find out his name?”
“No.”
“Useless,” Satin said. “How am I supposed to find her?”
“I know where he lives.”
Silence descended. Gideon held his breath.
“Where?”
Silence again. Finally, “That information will cost ye.”
Gideon shook his head. The cub’s information better prove useful, or Satin would go after him personally.
“Beezle, give the man a shilling.”
“Two,” the cub said. “This is good information.”
“If it’s not…” Satin said. He didn’t need to finish. The threat was clear.
Gideon heard the clink of the shillings, and held his breath.
“Tell me,” Satin said.
The cub rattled off the number and name of a street in Mayfair. Gideon wasn’t as familiar with the area as he was with St. Giles, but Berkeley Street had to be near Berkeley Square. What the devil would Marlowe be doing in Berkeley Square?
“And you’re certain I’ll find her at this house?”
“I saw her go inside meself.”
Gideon didn’t wait to hear the rest. He crept back to his spot on the floor and lay down again, closing his eyes just as the door opened, admitting Beezle and Satin. They went back to murmuring, and now Gideon knew what they planned. He had to find a way to reach Marlowe first.
Nine
Marlowe drew back her fist, ready to strike. If Lady Dane made one more insulting remark, she would bash her so hard she landed on her arse and slid out the door. Something of her intent must have shown on her face, because Lady Susanna threw her a worried look. Marlowe lowered her fist and took a deep breath. She gave Susanna a tight smile and returned to listening half-heartedly as Lady Dane enumerated all of the myriad rules she must follow at the ball.
Marlowe had already heard it three times. Did the countess think she was an idiot? Satin told her something once, and she was expected to remember it. She did not need to be told three times how to address a duchess, or that she should ask for the ladies’ retiring room instead of saying “Where can I take a—”
“Are you attending me, Miss Marlowe?”
Marlowe ground her teeth. “Yes.”
The countess raised her brows.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Good.” The countess clasped her hands behind her back and began another circuit of the room. Marlowe’s room. It wasn’t her room, in truth. It was the room Mrs. Barstowe had given her when she and Dane returned from their walk the day before. Marlowe had never had a room to herself. She had never had a space to call her own. A family of six could have lived in the room where she alone had slept last night. At least she’d tried to sleep.
All of her life she had dreamed of having a full belly and a warm bed. She’d had both last night, and yet sleep eluded her. She’d lain on the soft bed, the soft covers pulled to her chin, dressed in a soft night rail, and stared at the ceiling. She was used to the sounds of the flash ken, and this room—this house—was too quiet. The fire crackled, and she had propped herself on her elbows to catch a glimpse of it. She was not used to the sound of a fire crackling in a hearth. After what had seemed like days, she rose, pushed her feet into the slippers Lady Susanna had given her—what an extravagance—and strolled about the room.
She’d had a look at it earlier, tallying the worth of every little bauble and trinket. She could count pretty high, but she didn’t think she could count as high as the blunt she’d
make if she fenced all of these goods. She stopped at the door and tested the handle. The door opened easily, and Marlowe peered into the dark corridor. The house was chilly away from the fire, and she hastily closed the door again. But it was still unlocked. She could leave at any time. She could walk right out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. No one would stop her.
One of the slaveys kept guard at night, but Marlowe did not think he would or could stop her. She could handle one man.
But she hadn’t left. She’d stayed all night, and she’d even fallen asleep at some point on the soft bed.
Something inside her had to know who she really was. Marlowe or Lady Elizabeth? She wanted the truth. She wanted to know her parents. She wanted to have a choice about the life she would live. A choice—that was the true gift. She’d never had a choice about anything in her life. She did the jobs Satin gave her. She ate what was put in front of her. She slept where she was kicked. She wore whatever clothes she could find.
Now Marlowe glanced at the bed and the lovely ball gown that had been placed there. It was the most amazing shade of violet. Marlowe had never seen anyone wear such a color. The fabric was the finest satin. When she’d tried it on earlier, it had glided across her body. The underskirt was lavender, which was also quite lovely. Marlowe did not know how she dared wear the dress. It had been made for Susanna, but the girl assured her she’d never worn it.
“It didn’t suit my coloring,” she’d said earlier. Marlowe had gaped. Did people actually choose clothing based on color? And they didn’t wear clothing simply because the color didn’t flatter them? At times she really wanted to knock these swells down for their selfishness.
“Miss Marlowe!”
Marlowe snapped her gaze from the gown and scowled at Lady Dane.