Earls Just Want to Have Fun

by Shana Galen

  Satin looked at them. “You said you had business to discuss.”

  Dane nodded. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I told you,” Marlowe said. “If you want the job done, there’s no one better.”

  “And how do I know he won’t take all the loot for himself?” Dane didn’t miss the way Satin’s eyes widened at the use of loot.

  “This some sort of better-racket?” Satin asked. “There’s no one who can pull off a better-racket like me.”

  Dane nodded. Satin was interested now, probably far more interested than he allowed them to see. Dane made a show of looking about for eavesdroppers, then he lowered his voice. “I’m the youngest son of the Duke of Yorkshire. You know of him?”

  “Course,” Satin said, which was a blatant lie.

  “Then you know he’s one of the wealthiest men in England. Been known to loan the king a few thousand pounds when His Majesty is running low, if you know what I mean.”

  “A topping fellow,” Satin said with a nod. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I am the youngest son. I have eight older brothers, as well as assorted sisters. My share of the fortune will be very, very small.”

  “Some fortune is better than none.”

  “True, but I have never been good at economy, and I do enjoy a night at the faro tables.”

  A smug smile crossed Satin’s face. Dane had to keep from smiling himself, because he knew now that he had the crime lord.

  “So ye’ve given out yer vowels.”

  “And I haven’t the funds to back them,” Dane said.

  “Not very gentleman-like,” Satin said with a look at Marlowe. “But then you don’t strike me as a loggerhead.” Satin’s gaze was still on Marlowe, and Dane glanced over at her. He clenched his hands on his knees under the table, because to his eye—and most certainly to Satin’s—Marlowe looked thoroughly debauched. Her lips were swollen and red, her cheeks high with color, and her throat was blotchy and red from the stubble on his chin. There was little doubt what they’d been doing before Satin arrived. If Dane had not already vowed to take her out of this place, he would have vowed it now. No telling what ideas Satin was forming as he looked at her.

  “My father refuses to help me, and I’ve always believed God helps those who help themselves.”

  Satin looked back at him. “That He does. But what’s all this to do with me?”

  Dane looked at Marlowe, acting as though he did not want to speak of such a sordid business. Marlowe leaned forward. “Lord Maxwell has learned that the duke has some plum items waiting at a warehouse on the river.”

  “What sort of items?”

  “Priceless antiquities,” Dane added. “Coins, jewels, art from the Continent. They arrived on a merchant ship a few days ago.”

  “Why are they sitting in a warehouse on the docks?”

  That was a good question, and one he and Marlowe had not discussed. He shot her a look, and she said, “Because the duke is not in London to claim them.”

  Satin frowned. “Why not? Isn’t this the time of year when all the swells dress up and parade before the king and queen?”

  Marlowe opened her mouth to respond, but Dane interrupted before she sank them further. “It is the height of the Season, but none of my sisters are debutantes this year, and my father has gone to”—he remembered Lord and Lady Lyndon—“hunt in Scotland. He won’t be back for another few days.”

  “And what am I supposed to do with jewels and art? Sell ’em to a rag-and-bones shop?”

  “I know where to sell them, if you can lay hands on the items.”

  “This warehouse guarded?”

  Dane shrugged. “Nothing you cannot handle, if what Miss Marlowe says is true.”

  Satin crossed his arms. “What’s my cargo?”

  Dane pretended to consider. “I’m prepared to give you thirty percent.”

  “Fifty. I’m the one risking my hide. I should get half.”

  “Forty, and that’s my final offer. Forty percent is a fortune, I assure you.”

  Satin stuck out his hand, and Dane looked at it curiously. It was dark with dirt and grime, the nails long, yellow, and ragged. Keeping his gloves on, Dane shook the criminal’s hand. “We act tonight,” he said, standing.

  “Why the hurry?” Satin asked.

  “I have debts to pay. If you don’t think you can be ready, I can find—”

  “He’ll be ready,” Marlowe interjected.

  “Good.” Dane looked at her, waiting for her to rise, and belatedly realized she hadn’t moved. Satin had a hand on her pale wrist, keeping her in place. Dane stared at that hand for a long moment, wanting to rip it off, but he gritted his teeth and lifted his eyes instead. “I’ll meet you there.” He gave the address. “Say midnight?”

  Satin nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”

  ***

  Marlowe watched Dane walk away and wished she too could escape. Instead, she tolerated Satin’s touch until Dane passed through the door, returning to Barbara’s room. Then she snatched her hand away.

  “Ye’re a prickly one. I’m not good enough to touch the likes of you?”

  “I brought you game. What more do you want?”

  Satin nodded. “I always knew you would make me rich. That’s why I tolerated all your sniveling when you were a brat. I could have taken in a hundred brats. Streets were full of them, but I always had a good feeling about you.”

  Marlowe wondered if she was supposed to thank him for abducting her. Of course, he didn’t know she’d potentially uncovered the truth about who she was. And he wouldn’t know until she saw him dangle in front of Newgate.

  “I should have put you in skirts more often. First you bring me an earl, now the son of a duke.”

  “After those rackets, I’m done. I want out.”

  “Ye’re done when I say ye’re done,” Satin said, leaning close and grabbing her by the back of the neck so she couldn’t pull back. “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  He released her, pushing her head down against the table first. While she rubbed her aching forehead, he rose. She caught a flash of gold when his coat opened to reveal his shabby waistcoat. Inside, a gold chain hung from the outer pocket. Susanna’s necklace. He hadn’t pawned it yet. Marlowe stood, but Satin shook his head. “Where do you think ye’re going?”

  “To see the cubs. I figured you’d want Gideon, Beezle, and Gap working on this.”

  “Oh, no. Ye’re not going anywhere. And if a word of this gets out, I’ll make sure to personally slit your throat.” He leaned close, and she tried not to breathe in the scent of stale onions. “This is me and you. That’s it. You bring in Gideon or Gap, and I’ll make sure this racket is their last.”

  Marlowe stared at him, allowing her hatred to show. How many other times had Satin cut her and the other cubs out? How many times had she gone hungry when he’d had a full belly? If she’d thought she could beat him, could kill him with her hands, she would have done it then and there. But she’d never win that way. Dane and Brook were her only hope.

  “I’ll see you at midnight.”

  Marlowe nodded and started away.

  “One more thing.”

  She paused but didn’t look back.

  “If anything don’t feel right, I’ll gut you and leave you for dead.” She heard his footsteps as he clomped out of the room, and she stood for a long moment alone, attempting to stifle the hatred coursing through her. She had to leash it for a few more hours, and then he’d be gone.

  ***

  Gideon looked around the small room, counting up the profit he’d have if he filched the glim-sticks, the ink blotter, and the peacock-quill pen. The rug was worth something too, but damned if he knew how to get a rug out from under the noses of the Bow Street Runners.

  “Are you done w
ith your inventory?” Sir Brook asked from behind the desk, where he sat with his feet propped on the polished surface. The desk was worth something too, but it would have taken three of the cubs to lift it, and then even if they could have maneuvered it down the stairs, what would they do with it? No one had a cart sitting around.

  “For the moment,” Gideon said.

  “Your name?”

  “Gideon.”

  “Do you have a surname?”

  Gideon looked down. It had been so long since he’d used it. It was the last vestige of his parents he carried. “Harrow,” he said then looked up. “Gideon Harrow.”

  “Mr. Harrow, downstairs you mentioned an interesting name. Can you repeat it now, where there aren’t a dozen ears to hear?”

  “I said, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Derring steepled his hands. “Why?”

  “She sent me. Course I know her by another name, Marlowe.” Gideon peered at Derring from under his lashes. “Maybe you know her by that name too.”

  “And what do you know of Lady Elizabeth?”

  Gideon shrugged. “Nothing. But I know a hell of a lot about Marlowe. I know a lot about your nob brother too, and the both of them in a public house together in Seven Dials.”

  Derring’s feet dropped to the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  “She said to make sure you got the letter. You didn’t get it?”

  “What let—” He waved a hand, rose, and went to the door leading outside, where a thin clerk, much like the one Gideon had held a knife to, sat.

  “Mr. Bowker, did you receive a letter from my brother? The Earl of Dane.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Gideon figured the man must have held it aloft, because Derring stormed out. He could hear their muffled voices, something about nonessential mail. A moment later, Derring strode back into the room, went to his desk, and unearthed a letter opener, breaking the seal. Gideon tilted his head. The letter opener had to be worth a fiver, at least.

  “Goddamn it!” Derring swore. “What the devil is he thinking?” He looked up at Gideon. “Do you know what this says?”

  “Something about a plan to nab Satin.”

  Derring placed the letter opener back in the drawer and closed it with a warning look at Gideon. “Do you know who Satin is?”

  “I might.”

  “Exactly what is your association with Lady—with Marlowe?”

  “I couldn’t rightly say.”

  “You must be a friend to risk coming here in search of me.”

  Gideon shrugged. “I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Derring laughed. “Oh, I doubt that very much. You should know, Mr. Harrow, that I don’t work with criminals.”

  “And I don’t work with Runners.” He put the same distasteful emphasis on the title as Derring had put on the word criminal. “I see you have the letter. I’ll tell Marlowe you got it.” He started to walk out then thought better of it. “Will you help her?”

  “Do I have a choice? God knows, if I don’t save my brother, I’ll have to take on the earldom, and I can’t imagine a worse fate.”

  “Good.” Gideon made it to the door before Derring spoke again.

  “And what about you? Will you help?”

  “I did my part.”

  “But you’ll do more. If we’re both to be lurking about, perhaps we could…coordinate.”

  Gideon crossed his arms. “Isn’t that like working together?”

  “Not at all. It’s much more aloof. Sit down, have a drink, and I’ll explain.”

  Sixteen

  Marlowe hated this time. She hated the lull before the storm. She hated knowing the rain would pour, the streets would become muddy and impassable, and the best-laid plans would have to be set aside. The skies might be clear, but it would rain tonight, and she didn’t have the luxury of setting her plans aside. She’d set the trap, and she’d have to spring it.

  Marlowe stood outside the room she and Dane shared, reluctant to go inside. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see him. She knew he could distract her in ways that were new and altogether quite delicious. But at the moment, she could not imagine being caged in the tiny, dark room. She was tense and edgy and needed to move. Dane must have heard her outside or begun to worry at her absence, because just as she was about to reach for the door handle, the door opened, and he stared down at her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is Satin—”

  “He’s gone,” she reassured him. “I just…I need to walk.”

  His brows rose. “You want to walk?”

  She smiled. “You have corrupted me.”

  “I’m coming with you.” He closed the door behind him.

  She took a surprised step back. “No, you’re not.” She shook her head vehemently. “You have to stay here.”

  “Not a chance. Where you go, I go.”

  “You’ll be going straight to hell when you end up with a knife in your back, lying facedown in a rank alley.”

  “Lovely image, but I can hold my own.”

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine. If you want to get yourself killed, then come along.” She gave him her back, muttering to herself about idiot gentry coves.

  “After you!” he called, following her. She passed through the public room, which had managed to fill up again rather quickly, considering Satin and she had been talking alone no more than a quarter hour before. Now she nodded to people she knew and eyed others warily, keenly aware that Dane was at her heels, and every man, woman, and child in the place was marking him and hoping for the chance to see exactly how deep his pockets were.

  Finally, she pushed her way out into the street and squinted at the daylight. It wasn’t a particularly sunny day, rather blustery and gray, but the Rouge Unicorn Cellar was so dark inside, any light took a moment to adjust to. Dane, no fool apparently, was right behind her. “I’d like to take a breath of fresh air, but I don’t think it’s much better out here.”

  “Breathe at your own risk,” she advised, moving around a large pile of rubbish just outside the public house. Her gaze was drawn to the shabby building across the street where the Covent Garden Cubs made their home. It looked like nothing other than a falling down structure, but anyone who tried to step foot inside would find out it was well guarded. Her gaze moved to the doorway, and she caught a pair of eyes peering out at her. Beezle, no doubt. He was always down. She wondered if Gap was sleeping inside and whether Joe was about.

  “Do you have a flat?” Dane asked. “Family you want to visit?

  “No.” She nodded back at the decrepit flash ken. “The gang lives there, but they’re hardly family.”

  Dane studied the structure for a moment. She tried to see it through his eyes, and felt her cheeks burn with shame. His home was so lovely and clean, and the flash ken was an eyesore. It listed to one side, was dark, and surrounded by rubbish. What had once been windows were now covered with haphazardly nailed boards. She felt small and ugly and unrefined showing it to him.

  “I admire you,” he said.

  She blinked at the unexpected response. “Why?”

  “Because you survived here. It couldn’t have been easy. I couldn’t have done it.” He looked at her. “I don’t think I have what it takes.”

  “You don’t know what you can do until you have to,” she said. She began to walk, wanting to be away from the flash ken and the beady eyes watching her. Watching them. Dane came after her, his long legs easily eating up the distance between them.

  “So many children,” he said as they passed a maimed little boy holding his hand out. Another few steps, and a girl of perhaps seven cradled a squalling infant. The mother was nowhere to be seen. Several boys about Gap’s age stood with their hands in their pockets, watching her pass. She gave them a hard stare, and they quieted as she moved past them. “Wh
ere are the parents?” he asked, seemingly unaware of the boys they passed. Probably didn’t see them as a threat.

  “Parents? We don’t have governesses and nannies here. Brats learn to survive on their own, or they don’t survive.”

  “But surely the mother of that infant back there—”

  “Probably a bawd.”

  “Oh.” His tone was tinged with distaste.

  “You can turn up your nose and give me more of your words about how the lower classes deserve their fate, but you can’t tell me that innocent baby deserves to live like this.” She paused and looked up at him. His gaze on her was intent, and she was surprised that he was actually listening to her. She’d thought his prejudice too deep. “I don’t know that babe’s mother, but I can guess her story. She was an orphan, or her family fell on hard times, and she ended up here. She met a man who bought her a meal, maybe a ribbon, maybe a glass of gin. Maybe they married. Maybe not. He took care of her for awhile, until one night he didn’t come home. Or maybe he beat her, and she ran off. Now she has two or three brats to feed. The only way she can make any money is on her back.”

  “That can’t be the only way.”

  Marlowe raised a brow. “Can she take that baby to a workhouse?”

  Dane shook his head.

  “Will you hire her to clean your fancy house? Take care of your brats? She can’t speak French or play piano. She can’t even read. How would she teach? Maybe she can sew a little, but with her background, what respectable shopkeeper would hire her?”

  “She made a mistake,” Dane said. “And now she pays the price.”

  “Now we all pay the price.” Marlowe pointed to the children who seemed to be everywhere. “All of these children pay the price, and then you pay the price, and the city pays it too, because there’s nothing for them to do but thieve and whore. While you sit in”—she changed her voice to mimic his accent—“Parliament and discuss the problem of the lower classes, the lower classes are just trying to survive.”

  He looked at the children, and she prayed he saw their hollow eyes, their dirty faces, their thin bodies.