BERNADETTE SMILED AND held up a wine-filled crystal glass to Jacob, Mrs. Astor and, of course, Mr. Astor himself, who smugly sat beside her at the dining table. “A very happy and glorious birthday to you, Mr. Astor. I am ever blessed to be part of it and all the more blessed knowing you all came to dine with me tonight. You are all the only family I ever needed.”
Mr. Astor beamed, drumming ungloved hands on the linen table. “Here, here.” He shifted in the upholstered cushion of the chair and intoned majestically, “Tomorrow, we celebrate my being young over on Broadway. Now, enough of this toasting. We eat.”
He snatched up his silver fork, paused and pointed it at his grandson, who sat across from him. “Now that England is eating American Georgia pie, and loving the taste of it, you and I, Jacob, are darting ourselves over to London come February. And we won’t settle for anything less than the daughter of a duke.”
Looking up from his supper plate, Jacob’s young shaven face stilled. He lifted a blond brow and wagged his own fork back at his grandfather. “I’m beginning to think you want that title more than I do.” He glanced over at Bernadette, those green eyes intently holding hers. “You said you had some sort of news. I’d love to hear it as opposed to listening to this old man drone and drone.”
She let out a laugh. “Ah. Yes. That.” Bernadette set her wineglass aside and announced, “In less than a month, I leave for Port Royal and Kingston.” She grinned, glorying that she was finally going to Jamaica. She had found herself not one but three guards. Men who were anything but attractive and would ensure everyone stayed away, be she in Jamaica or not. “Hopefully, my feet will get stuck in the sand and I never return.”
Jacob slowly leaned into the table, adjusting his evening coat about his lean frame. “And how long will you be gone?”
Bernadette shrugged. “I haven’t set a time quite yet. Nor do I plan to.”
He shifted in his seat, glancing toward her. “Hopefully you won’t be gone too long. Because in my opinion—” He froze, his green eyes jerking toward the entranceway behind her, where a noise sounded.
Bernadette paused and turned in her own seat as a large dark-haired man of over six feet, with a thick scar running from his nose to his jaw, stalked into the dining hall. He was followed by five other hefty unshaven men, all dressed in frayed riding clothes. Each pointed a pistol and one of them held a large carving knife. A very large carving knife.
Her heart popped.
Everyone at the dining table froze.
“If you move,” one of the six announced in a low tone, “we spray blood and make you all lick it up. Including those guards and all of the servants we roped up in the back.”
A panicked knot seized her stomach, throat and mind knowing that all three of her guards had been taken down. And without any of them hearing a thing. She tried not to move.
The man with the scar veered in and set a pistol to Mr. Astor’s temple. “And what be your name, old man?”
Mr. Astor’s hands stilled against the table. “John Astor.”
“Astor?” the man echoed, leaning closer. “You mean, that butcher millionaire I read about in the paper?”
Mr. Astor’s grandson slowly stood from his seat and held out an ungloved hand toward the gathered men. “Gentlemen. Tell me how much you want to settle this and it’s done.”
The giant straightened and glared. “Oh, now, you think this here be about money, do you? I see. So in your refined opinion, I look like some vagrant whose intent can be bought. Well, now that just brasses me off. I think a lesson is in order.” With that, the man swung the pistol and aimed at Jacob’s shoulder. A loud resounding click, flare, blast and a plume of sooty powder filled the air.
Jacob staggered, clamping a hand to his shoulder. He stumbled back, collapsing into his chair with a reverberating thud.
Bernadette screamed right along with Mrs. Astor as the elder Mr. Astor yelled something out over their screams.
Tears blurred her ability to see as she scrambled up and out of her chair. “Jacob!”
The giant handed off his pistol to one of the other men and grabbed another loaded pistol. He swung back and pointed the muzzle straight at her.
She froze.
His gruff, round face held a rancid mocking expression. “Well, well. There she be. I hear Milton has a thing for you. Even after all this time.”
She couldn’t believe it. He was referring to...Matthew. Oh, God. She swallowed past tears, but swore not to give in to the fear. “What do you want?”
“We’ll get to that.” He rounded the table and pointed the muzzle at Mrs. Astor’s head on an angle. “Old woman. I know you’re worried. Tend to the boy.”
Mrs. Astor let out a wrenching sob. Scrambling out of her chair, she gathered the napkins from the table to use them for the wound, and leaned in toward Jacob. She tried to remove his evening coat between sobs but her shaky hands fumbled.
Mr. Astor jumped to his feet, his features twisting.
One of the men approached and shoved him back down into the seat. “Let her tend to it.”
Bernadette swallowed hard, unable to stop tears from spilling down her cheeks.
The large man paused before her, the smell of snuff and whiskey permeating the air. His brown eyes hardened to lethal. “Are you Lady Burton?”
He knew her name. He’d come to specifically hunt her down. She only prayed that Matthew hadn’t been hurt or was dead. Trying to keep her voice steady, she bit out in riled disbelief, “Does it matter? You just shot a boy.”
He fingered the pistol he held. “A boy? That there be a man. And I grazed his arm, is all. He’ll be fine.”
He leaned over and yelled across the table to Jacob, “Take off the coat and show the woman what a graze looks like, before I shoot you the right way.”
Jacob leaned forward in his chair, away from Mrs. Astor, and pushed away her napkins and hands. Holding Bernadette’s gaze, he lowered his evening coat from his lean, broad shoulder to reveal the sleeve of his white linen shirt beneath. “I’m fine. It’s just a graze. It doesn’t even hurt.” A small spatter of blood stained his shirt, but it did not appear to be spreading.
Her breath caught, relief frilling her.
“You see,” the giant insisted. “That was a wee warning.”
Bernadette eyed the man, not knowing what to make of him or this. There was a twisted sense of mercy laced into lack of mercy. What was this? “What do you want?”
He leaned in, stale sweat choking the air between them. “Are you the infamous Lady Burton or not? Because this loyal Irishman whose da is from Cork needs to know.”
He appeared to be some crazed Irishman out to shoot himself a few British. “You haven’t earned the right to hear my name.”
He scrubbed his oily head with the hand that wasn’t holding the pistol and swung the pistol to the elder Astor. He cocked it. “Name.”
A shaky breath escaped her. “I am indeed Lady Burton.”
He lowered the pistol. “I thought so.” He set his mutton shoulders, his massive frame blocking her view of the dining hall, and smugly searched her face. “I want you to prance on over to the hero of the night. Go on over to Nancy-boy over there.”
She hesitated and slowly rounded the table toward Jacob. She paused beside his chair, reached down and grabbed his hand, squeezing it to give herself and him the assurance that they were going to survive. No matter what.
He glanced up at her, squeezing her hand in turn, those green eyes reflecting her own unspoken fear.
The giant waved the pistol toward them. “Now unbutton his trousers and swallow whatever comes out. He’s earned it and you’re easy like that, right?”
Dread and nausea seized her.
Jacob’s hand savagely bit into hers.
“How dare you!” Mr. Astor roared, jumping to his feet.
Every man with a pistol pointed it at Mr. Astor, who sat back down.
Bernadette couldn’t breathe. This was personal. Matthew had warned
her. He had warned her against this and she had refused to listen. She hadn’t accepted protection from him and the guards she had hired had been dismantled within mere moments. And now she and the Astors were paying for it.
The giant with the scar shifted closer, tauntingly swinging the pistol from her to Jacob and back again to let her know who was in charge. “Click, click. I haven’t all night.”
Jacob’s gaze held hers. He was as terrified as she was.
Bernadette leaned down toward where he sat and cupped that face with trembling hands. Kissing his forehead, she whispered, “I’m not going to dishonor either of us. If he shoots me, and I die, I want you to find a man by the name of Matthew Joseph Milton and have him avenge this and me.” She only prayed that Matthew was still alive. And that Jacob would remain so, as well.
Jacob fiercely removed her hands from his face. “I’ll die before you ever will.” Bumping her away, he rose from his chair to his full lean height of almost six feet and stared the intruder down. “Shoot me. Go on. Only, this time, aim, you son of a bitch, because I’m not impressed.”
Laughter rumbled out from the giant. “You’re crazy. I like it.” He eyed Bernadette and scraped his chin with the side of the pistol. “You don’t want me shooting Mr. Crazy. He’s entertaining. All I really want is you. There’s no need to turn this into a bigger mess. So are you going to leave quietly with me? Or do we need to spray a whole lot of blood for you to cooperate?”
Her heart pounded as she eyed Mr. Astor.
Mr. Astor shook his head and mouthed something.
It was her or their lives. And it was more than obvious this man was deranged enough to use every last loaded pistol in the room if she so much as resisted.
She swallowed and half nodded, trying not to think about what was going to happen to her. All that mattered was that no one died because of her. “All I ask is that you not hurt them.”
“This ain’t about them. So as long as you cooperate, they’ll be fine.” He searched her face, the scar marring his own stretching with a smirk. “And you really needn’t worry about all the men that’ll be riding you in the name of Ireland. Because once we get a good barrel of gin in you, Miss Brit, you won’t remember a goddamn thing.”
Her eyes widened.
Jacob jumped toward the table, snatched up a carving knife and rounded the table. “She isn’t going anywhere.”
The man’s pistol swung to Jacob’s head, that carving knife looking like a toothpick in comparison.
Jacob’s gaze narrowed rebelliously against the pistol. “Go on. Do it. Shoot me!”
“Jacob!” Bernadette choked out in disbelief. “Drop the knife. Drop it before he turns that graze into the real thing.”
Jacob shook his head, his lean body tensing as if ready to jump. “Let him kill me. Because I’m not about to—”
“Drop it!” she yelled in a panic, trying to reason with him. “For heaven’s sake, if he had wanted me dead, he would have done it already. I need you to stay alive. Otherwise, what will become of me if you are not there to find me?”
Jacob hesitated. Heatedly holding her gaze, as if to announce he was doing it only because she wanted him to, he tossed the knife, sending it clattering to the floor.
“Rope these three up.” The man set a large hand on her lower back and gestured toward the direction of his gathered men. “Follow these here gents. Two are going to stay behind with your friends to ensure the marshals don’t get in on this until we’re done.”
Her heart kicked up a frantic rhythm and tears stung her eyes. Why, oh, why hadn’t she listened to Matthew?
* * *
MATTHEW COULD PRACTICALLY taste the sooty dampness of the cold, thick fog on his lips. It hovered all around, dimming the yellow glow of the lone gas lamp that lingered at the end of the narrow muddy road. He drew his coat tighter around himself to keep out the chill and quickened his stride.
He kept a firm focus, listening and watching for anything that threatened to wander too close. Though the street remained dark and desolate, it didn’t mean he was alone. He never was. Anyone could be watching and waiting.
He paused before the abandoned building where he and the boys kept additional weapons stashed beneath boards and released a breath, wondering why Smock wasn’t waiting for him. They had a routine street patrol to do. Glancing around, he could make out nothing more than the looming shadows of wooden time-worn buildings. Dogs barked in the far distance as the wooden sign of the shop creaked on its rusted hinges just above his head.
The echo of running boots made him stiffen. Through the thickness of the fog, Smock sprinted toward him from the other side of the street.
“Where were you?” Matthew called out. “You’re never late.”
Smock skidded to a halt, blowing out heaving breaths and removed the wool cap from his head with a huff. He rushed into the doorway of the shop. “There’s somethin’ nasty goin’ down.”
“What? What is it?”
Unlocking the bolt, Smock shoved the door open. “We shouldn’t talk out here.”
Looking toward the street behind them, Matthew hurried into the dank-smelling confines of the abandoned shop and closed the door. They stood in complete darkness, the boarded-up windows protecting them from the eyes of the night.
“What is it?” Matthew demanded.
Sparks streaked the darkness as the flint and match jumped to life, illuminating the faded wallpaper around them. “Cassidy done lost his mind.” Smock covered the flame with a dark-skinned hand and quickly lit a waiting candle on a crate.
Blowing out the match, he swung toward him. “He’s gettin’ some woman scuttered over at The Divin’ Bell and he’s publicly invitin’ every man to ride her. And this be Cassidy. Our own!”
Matthew sucked in a savage breath. Aside from the poor woman herself, this was going to slaughter the name of the Forty Thieves before the ward and the marshals who offered him assistance whenever he needed it most. Marshals who always seized and prosecuted men who tried to kill him.
They’d never support him again.
They’d let him get torn to shreds.
Matthew gritted his teeth. “I’m taking him down.”
“There’s crowds. Riled ones. I wouldn’t go in alone.”
“Gather as many of our boys as you can. Tell them I’m going in. With or without them.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Let your will be constant, obedient and ready.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
WHEN MATTHEW CAME to a sprinting halt less than a few feet from The Diving Bell, instead of the usual deserted street of a God-loving Sunday night, an obscenely large crowd of men gathered outside the doors of that sooty squat building. It looked like ants infesting a molehill, as men of all ages pushed to get inside the narrow door, resulting in a mass of bodies and shouts that echoed up into the misty night air.
Shite. It was one of the biggest crowds he’d seen in these parts outside of riots and protests during political campaigns. Jogging into the crush, he weaved through the commotion. Oily heads, filthy hats and wool-clad backs bobbed before him, as they all attempted to get into the building.
Setting his jaw, he shoved through, the stench of perspiration, whiskey and burnt tobacco and its lingering smoke choking the air. He pushed until he was well inside the tight, dim quarters of the gin joint.
The Diving Bell drummed with countless deep voices.
Since his return from London, Cassidy, one of his best, had taken on goddamn airs, mouthing off more than usual and refusing to take orders. Even though he’d spoken to the man about it several times, and it lulled and faded, it was obvious there was a much bigger problem.
Cracked lanterns hung from the low timber ceiling, bathing the dank establishment in a blanket of yellow, flickering light. He squinted, and peered past heads around him, but couldn’t make anything out.
The shrill sound of wood scraping against wood added to the deafening noise of t
ables and chairs being shoved toward the stone walls to accommodate the growing crowd around him.
He shoved his way toward the back, where the commotion appeared to be. Men stared and moved out of the way, some of them inclining their heads in greeting.
Oh, yes. They all knew he was here to clean it up. As always. Matthew pressed on, elbowing and shoving his way past those who wouldn’t move. “Move! All of you! I can’t believe you rum holes are standing around watching this shite, instead of doing something.”
He jerked to a halt well before he could even make it to the edge of the crowd. Beyond the heads before him, and there, across from the rough oak bar was a woman seated on a wooden ale cask, holding a tankard of gin. Cassidy tapped her cheek with a pistol, signaling her to drink.
She guzzled it down, gin trickling from her chin. Long, jet-black hair fell in cascading sweeps and sways around her shoulders, past her corseted waist as she struggled to finish. When she did, she shoved the tankard back toward Cassidy. Cassidy reached in and tossed off the black velvet cloak that draped her slim shoulders, revealing a ravishing moonstone evening gown that swept to the uneven planks of the floor. Not the type of dress you would ever see in the Five Points.
Matthew choked. It was...Bernadette!
Cassidy slung a long arm around her, grazing the pistol against her cheek. “I’d say about one more ought to do it. Then we let every last man have a go with all things British.” He gestured toward the tankard. “Someone fill that up to its rim!”
Matthew’s throat tightened and he honestly didn’t know what kept him from lunging across the expanse and ripping Cassidy’s throat out with his own goddamn teeth. Given the crowds, however, he knew he had to go about this the right way or he’d end up going under before he could even get to her.
“In my opinion, she’s still wearing too much!” someone hollered. “I say take everything off. Even those hairpins!”
There was a roar of laughter.
It was officially him against the entire ward who was about to rip off Bernadette’s clothes in the name of Ireland. Jesus fecking Christ. He couldn’t shoot them all. He had only two shots and a razor.
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