An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  Veronica knelt down in front of him to bring her eyes to his level. She gave him a bright smile as she fussed with the lapels of the too-large wool coat that draped over his small frame like a tent. “You are very welcome, William.”

  “And for the boots and gloves, too,” his mother reminded him.

  “Too,” he repeated softly.

  “I’ll find a hat for you next, shall I?” To seal her promise, Veronica tousled his bright red hair. “I think I deserve a hug in reward, don’t you?”

  He hugged her. She wrapped her arms around him, then brought her mouth to his ear and whispered something Merritt couldn’t hear. But William nodded. Satisfied, she let him go.

  “Go see Mr. Thurman in the Burr Street market,” Veronica quietly told William’s mother as she rose back to her feet. “He’s got a bundle of clothes waiting for you.”

  The woman shook her head. “Really, Miss, I can’t accept—”

  “I didn’t.” Veronica nodded toward Merritt. “He did.”

  Clearly, the woman didn’t believe her, yet she told him, “Thank you, sir.”

  “It was nothing,” he admitted, the ironic truth of which made Veronica smile. Apparently, he’d purchased more from the clothing stall in the market than his own set of workman’s clothes.

  When the last of the apples were handed out, the crowd disappeared back behind the makeshift sailcloth walls. Veronica began to walk away, but Merritt stopped her with a tug on her arm.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear so no one could overhear. “You buy clothing for children?”

  “I buy all kinds of things for everyone, when whatever they need can’t be acquired any other way.”

  In other words—stolen. But the defensive way she uttered that explanation and the reminder of who she was didn’t lessen the kindness at the act’s heart. He pressed, “Why would a criminal who pled guilty to theft spend her own money to—”

  “This way,” she interrupted and pulled her arm away from him to move on. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Their conversation was over. For now. But he certainly didn’t plan on letting this go, not when he had so many unanswered questions.

  He followed her through the fluttering sheets and up a set of wide, sturdy steps at the rear of the building. No one they passed paid him any attention. But then, she’d dressed him to fit in.

  When they’d left the Armory that morning, Veronica had kept to her word. She’d taken him shopping, but not to a tailor. Instead, she’d brought him to the local market. There, among its produce stalls and livestock, she’d found a seller of old clothes and searched through the piles of castoff dresses, shirts, trousers… Mostly, the articles were of fine quality, and Merritt recognized the work of some of Bond Street’s best tailors. He wasn’t surprised. Clothes were usually given to servants when their employers no longer wanted them; those servants then sold them to the rag and bone man for whatever pennies they could to supplement their low wages. As was their contracted right. But somewhere in the pile of castoff finery, she’d managed to find a pair of workman’s trousers and a coarse brown waistcoat, stained shirt, and jacket that was slightly too large across his shoulders. Then she’d rubbed them all on the ground to dirty them up and make it look as if he were a manual laborer, like someone who was part of her world.

  They reached the top floor of the old warehouse where two large men stood guard. The men nodded their greeting to Veronica, then coolly stepped in front of Merritt to block his way.

  “I’m taking him to meet Filipe,” she informed them.

  The guards nodded. Then, without warning, they pounced. They grabbed Merritt and shoved him up against the wall. One of the giants held him pinned in place, his face pressed into the boards and his arm twisted behind his back, while the other searched him for weapons. He knew not to fight them.

  The guard found the knife strapped to Merritt’s left forearm, slid it free of its sheath, and tossed it to the floor. It stuck in the wooden plank by its blade with a dull thunk. The guard signaled that Merritt was clean of weapons, and the other man released him.

  The two men stepped back to let them pass.

  They walked on, with Merritt shooting the guards a dark look as Veronica led him past a series of storerooms toward the rear of the building.

  “You could have warned me about that,” he grumbled as he rubbed at his shoulder.

  A sly smile curled her lips. “And miss all the fun?”

  One of the storeroom doors had been left open, and he glanced inside. Barrels, crates, and sacks of all sizes sat stacked inside, all of them sporting different marks and brands from various warehouses.

  “Some of the people who live here are thieves,” she explained quietly, noting where his attention had gone.

  “Like you?” Her criminality grated at him, although he couldn’t say why it should matter. After all, he was around criminals every day, including those who had committed far worse crimes. Except that with her, it did.

  She wisely ignored his baiting question. “They break into warehouses and ships across the city, take whatever goods they can, and bring them here for temporary storage.”

  “That’s what you were sent to Newgate for, wasn’t it?” He matched her low voice. “Stealing from a warehouse.”

  “Any cloth and food are distributed immediately to people in the rookery,” she continued, not answering. “That’s one of the conditions of being allowed to live here in the Court of Miracles—if they’re able, they have to be willing to hand out goods to those who need them.”

  “And face the consequences in court if they’re caught,” he mumbled.

  “It’s a risk they’re willing to accept to have a safe space to live, with a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.”

  Was that why she participated in the thefts, to keep herself off the streets? Or did she do it because she enjoyed the thrill of breaking the law? God knew she’d seemed to enjoy their sparring last night as much as he had.

  “If they don’t want to help, they’re free to leave. No one’s kept here against their will.”

  “Including you?”

  She didn’t answer. Her gaze remained straight ahead.

  “And the goods that aren’t cloth and food?” He pivoted the conversation. “What do you do with those?”

  “They’re scattered across stalls at the local markets and sold, and the profits are handed out to people in the rookeries to pay for rent or to buy bread and milk.” They stopped in front of the last door. “The men only target those merchants and lords who can afford to lose a few goods, and they never take the entire lot.”

  “Taking from the rich to give to the poor?” he muttered. “Who are you trying to be—Robin Hood’s merry men?”

  “Yes.” She knocked on the last door. “And now I’m going to introduce you to Robin Hood.”

  She shoved it open.

  Like the rest of the warehouse, the whitewashed room was flooded in sunlight. Pieces of old but serviceable furniture sat scattered throughout, including an old stove in the corner with its pipe snaking up through a hole in the side wall. The same sailcloth that served below as walls hung here as drapes on the windows, although unlike the rest of the windows in the warehouse, these were protected by sets of iron bars. The same bars Merritt had glimpsed on the windows in the storage room.

  But it was the man who stood in front of the windows who dominated the space. Tall and solidly built, with a Mediterranean complexion and curly dark-brown hair, he gave rapid-fire orders to the two men who were with him, men just as large as the two who guarded the stairs.

  He looked up when they entered, his expression freezing for a beat before he smiled at Veronica. Then he slid an assessing look over Merritt from head to boots.

  “Filipe,” Veronica called out to him as she came forward, “am I interrupting business?�
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  “You are never an interruption.” He took her hands and kissed both her cheeks in greeting. His mouth lingered at her ear as his eyes narrowed on Merritt over her shoulder. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

  Merritt tensed. The protective way the man said that…was he jealous? Was that why Veronica lived here, because the man was her lover?

  He released Veronica and strode toward Merritt. His hand was outstretched, although certainly more to check that Merritt wasn’t palming a weapon than in greeting.

  “Filipe Navarre,” the man introduced himself.

  “The King of Saffron Hill,” Veronica added in explanation to Merritt. “You’d said you’d heard of him last night when we met.”

  He’d said no such thing. Apprehension tightened his gut. What game was she forcing him into? Yet he played along and confirmed, “I did.”

  Filipe smiled, although not with pride but chagrin. “Being known is not a benefit in my business.” His tight smile turned icy. “And who are you?”

  Merritt’s mind blanked. Damnation, he really needed to work on that secret identity.

  “This is Mr. Herbert,” Veronica piped up, saving him. In a way. “First name Fitz.”

  He clenched his jaw. Damn that little minx.

  “He’s a porter on the docks. I ran into him last night when I was stalking for Fernsby. That’s why I was late returning this morning. We had a long talk, and I couldn’t get away.” Her eyes gleamed with private amusement at his expense. “It was almost as if he were holding me prisoner.”

  He wanted to throttle her.

  “So why did you bring him to me?” Filipe asked. “I don’t need a porter.”

  “But you do need a porter who has information about what goods will be arriving to the warehouses and when,” she answered. “That information could prove valuable.”

  Filipe flicked a glance at Veronica as he considered her explanation. “We don’t pay for services, Herbert. We expect honor among thieves here.” In his voice, Merritt caught the same accent that faintly colored Veronica’s. So familiar…yet he couldn’t place it. “I’m certain Roni told you that. So why would you want to help us?”

  He glanced at Veronica, waiting for her to jump into the conversation and once more prod him along in the direction she wanted him to go in this dangerous game she was playing.

  But she didn’t. She simply waited silently with Filipe for his answer.

  Cold realization poured over him like a bucket of ice water. Not a game—a test. And if he didn’t pass it, he wouldn’t walk out of this place in one piece. Most likely the two guards at the stairs would slit his throat with his own knife.

  Lesson learned the hard way. He’d never underestimate her again.

  “I have a big family and little pay.” He spun the story, drawing on the setup she’d given him and careful to make his pride sound wounded at having to ask for help. “At the docks, the companies don’t give a damn whether your family starves or not, but they still expect you to break your back moving their goods.” And just the right amount of bitterness. “I’m tired of having to choose between bread and rent.”

  He didn’t glance at Veronica directly and kept his focus on Navarre. But from the corner of his eye, he could see her lips twitch. The infuriating little hellcat was enjoying this.

  “My wife grew ill and can’t take in mending or washing now,” he explained. “The loss of that blunt hit us hard.”

  “I’m certain it did,” Navarre mumbled, his face too inscrutable to tell if he believed the story, while beside him, Veronica’s eyes danced with amusement. “How many children do you have?”

  “Eight.”

  She cleared her throat to hide a laugh.

  His voice cracked just a bit as he added, “And two wee ones already in the churchyard.”

  Her laugh strangled in her throat. Merritt knew that part of the story would prove too close to reality for her comfort, as most children born in the rookeries and slums didn’t live to see their fourth birthday.

  “I can’t find the means to feed and clothe them, and I don’t want them out on the streets, fending for themselves. I don’t want to sell my boys into apprenticeships or the girls into service, of any kind.”

  The shine in her eyes dulled, and all her amusement at testing him vanished. The grim truth behind what he was saying hit her visibly. That was the real lot of most poor families in London—their children forced into becoming chimney sweeps, washerwomen, scullery maids, night soil men…prostitutes.

  “Miss Chase told me about the Court of Miracles, how you help those who are willing to help others.” When Merritt saw Navarre’s gaze flick to Veronica, he knew the man believed him. “So I want to negotiate a trade. I’ll share with you what I learn about ships’ manifests and warehouse contents, and you’ll let me move my family here. All of them. They’re young and small yet. They won’t take up much space.” When Navarre seemed to waver, Merritt added, “They won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

  “I’m certain they won’t be.” Navarre hesitated, and fear burst through Merritt that his story hadn’t been believable enough—then the man gave a decisive nod. “We’ll give it a try. Settle your family here first, then we’ll meet and talk. You’ll have no worries about your decision.” He slapped Merritt on the back as he walked away to rejoin the other man and resume their interrupted conversation. He sent Veronica a smile over his shoulder. “As long as Roni guarantees your character, that is.”

  Merritt sliced her a glare angry enough to scald.

  But the little minx simply smiled. “I do. Thank you, Filipe.”

  “Yes,” Merritt seconded, “thank you.”

  “No need. Give your gratitude to Roni.” He turned his attention back to the previous conversation.

  “Oh, I’m certain I will,” he muttered, which only widened her smile.

  She gestured for him to follow her from the room. “I’ll introduce him to Ivy,” she called out to Navarre, “let her find a place for his family and explain to them how everything works here.”

  Navarre distractedly grunted his agreement. He’d already dismissed Merritt from his mind in favor of more important business.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Merritt grabbed her elbow and pulled her to a stop. “Is that why you brought me here?” he seethed, lowering his mouth to her ear so his anger wouldn’t be overhead by the two giants guarding the stairs. “To test me?”

  “Oh no. That was merely a delightful bonus.”

  When the two guards glanced down the hall at them, she smiled and slid her arm away. She walked on and made him fall into step beside her.

  “If you’re going to infiltrate this world, then you have to do it from within. What we just did creates a history for you and a set of people you can point to here who are willing to swear to your identity. You have to have that before anyone will trust you.”

  “But you said there was no trust in your world.”

  “Exactly.”

  He stopped her at the top of the stairs. Turning to the nearest guard, he gestured at the floor. “May I?”

  The man nodded.

  With a grimace, Merritt yanked his knife out of the floorboard. He sheathed it in his sleeve as he followed her downstairs.

  “But you trust Navarre,” he said quietly over her shoulder.

  “With my life.”

  Dark irritation corkscrewed through him. Yet it wasn’t jealousy. Couldn’t possibly have been, not for someone like her. He’d spent his adult life fighting criminals and upholding the law. Still, a bitter heat grated unexpectedly at his gut at the thought of any intimacies between her and Filipe Navarre, and it compelled him to ask, “Are you and he…?”

  “Like brother and sister?” An inscrutable expression slipped across her face as easily as the clouds gathering once more over the city, blocking out th
e sunlight and turning the warehouse gray. “Yes. We grew up together in Portugal.”

  Portugal…so that was the accent he heard coloring her voice.

  “I consider him to be my brother. Just as I consider everyone here to be my family.”

  That was why she hadn’t fled London when she escaped from Newgate, he realized. She couldn’t leave her family here, just as he could never leave his father or the men of the Armory.

  She stepped off the stairs onto the first floor and called out through the sea of gently moving sailcloth, “Ivy!”

  A soft voice answered. Veronica smiled with affection as she followed it through the sailcloth maze, with Merritt trailing after her.

  A young woman of no more than fifteen or sixteen pulled back one of the sheets and stepped out to greet Veronica with a big hug that broadcasted her worry.

  “Where have you been?” the blond girl scolded. She possessed a grace and regal bearing that belied the threadbare clothes she wore, although she’d done her best to alter them to resemble the current fashions donned by society women, right down to the ribbon at the high waist of her dress. “When you didn’t return on time, I was worried something had happened to you.”

  Something had happened, but Merritt knew Veronica wouldn’t divulge where she’d been. Or why. Instead, she eased Ivy’s worry by tenderly brushing a stray curl from the girl’s forehead.

  “I met someone last night.” She nodded toward Merritt and sent Ivy’s attention to him.

  Big brown eyes slid curiously over him. Then her face lit up, and dread spiraled through Merritt to his boots. He knew that look—she wore that same expression as marriage-minded mamas who were looking to add a barrister to their families.

  “He’s very handsome,” Ivy tried to whisper privately to Veronica. “I think he likes you.”

  But Merritt heard every matchmaking word and fought back a sardonic smile. Like? What he felt for Veronica Chase was raw lust flavored with disdain, irritation, frustration—nothing anywhere close to like.

  “He’s married,” Veronica corrected. To Merritt’s relief, she’d fallen easily into playing along with his fabricated tale. “And he likes everyone. He’s a nice man.” His chest warmed at the compliment, although that sentiment was undercut when she added, “But he carries a knife.”