An Extraordinary Lord

by Anna Harrington

  The girl shrugged her slender shoulders, as if men with knives were the most ordinary thing in the world. The sun rose in the east, rain fell down, men always carried knives…

  “You have yours with you, of course?” Veronica asked casually, like an older sister making certain her sibling hadn’t forgotten her pelisse against the cold.

  With a nod, the girl lifted her skirt to reveal the sheath she wore strapped to her stocking.

  Merritt blinked. He shouldn’t have been surprised; he knew the everyday dangers faced by people who lived in the rookeries. Yet the sight of an innocent, pretty girl so nonchalantly checking for her knife… Good God.

  “Ivy, this is Mr. Herbert,” Veronica introduced, somehow managing to keep her lips from twitching with laughter at his expense. “He’s going to be moving his family into the Court. His very large family.” At that, she gave up all hope of hiding her amusement and laughed aloud. “Filipe wants you to find a place for them and explain the rules.”

  “Of course. Welcome to the Court of Miracles, Mr. Herbert.”

  The smile the girl gave him was purely angelic. If she were a gentleman’s daughter, men would be fighting to marry her and give her a life of luxury and ease. But here she’d be lucky to live to see her twenty-fifth birthday.

  He cleared his suddenly tight throat. “Thank you.”

  Veronica took Ivy’s upper arms and turned the girl’s attention back to her. “There’s something else.” She cast a quick look around to make certain no one else lurked nearby, watching them or listening in through the sailcloth. Then she reached beneath her leather bodice and withdrew a small bag of coins. She placed it in Ivy’s hand. “For you, for your sister and her baby.”

  Ivy’s face fell at the kindness, and her eyes glistened instantly with unshed tears. “Oh, Roni! You really don’t need to keep—”

  “I want to,” she interjected, cutting her off before Ivy said more than Merritt was obviously meant to hear. She lowered her voice, but he could just make out the words. “It’s to go directly to the rent and for bread and milk for the baby, understand? Your sister’s husband isn’t to touch one farthing of it.” She placed a kiss to her forehead and whispered what Merritt certainly wasn’t meant to hear: “If you or your sister give him even so much as a ha’penny, you’ll never receive more, understand?”

  Ivy nodded and threw her arms around Veronica’s neck. Gratitude beamed on her face.

  “Now put that away in your pocket, and go visit the landlord and baker before it rains again,” Veronica ordered. She released the girl with an affectionate squeeze of her hands. “And make certain you leave well before her husband comes home and finds you there. You know how he can be.”

  The girl’s expression darkened with fear, reminding Merritt of a dog that had been beaten. But only for a moment before she hugged Veronica again and tucked the bag into the hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt, safely out of sight. She gave a parting wave in afterthought to Merritt as she bounced toward the stairs, then down through the warehouse to the street.

  Curiosity pricked at him, and he scrutinized Veronica, taking another assessing look at her. Food, coats and boots, now rent money… She protected the people who lived here as if they truly were her blood family, along with Fernsby, who got half her thief-taking earnings to begin with.

  Merritt would have admired her for her generosity if he didn’t suspect she’d broken at least half a dozen laws to do so.

  She stepped to the end of the makeshift hall and pulled back a curtain of sailcloth used as a door, one that separated off the rear corner of the warehouse. Through the gap in the cloth, he saw her living quarters. The small space was crowded by an old velvet chair, a narrow bed, and a tall armoire with brass locks that were shiny from frequent use. He knew why. Where society ladies kept their accessories, Veronica Chase kept her weapons. Not an armoire but an armory.

  “What next?” he asked when she turned to face him.

  “You’ll return to the Armory and wait for me there.” She shrugged out of his greatcoat that he’d given her earlier and handed it to him, then blocked his way so he couldn’t enter her room. “I’ll come for you tonight.”

  He nearly laughed. Did she think he was that daft? “And I’m supposed to just leave you here, to trust that you won’t decide to renege on our deal and flee London after all?”

  “Yes. You are.” She flung the curtain closed.

  Five

  The waterman’s boat skimmed across the Thames toward a set of cement steps leading up from the river. Unease moved inside Veronica as fast as the river beneath them and swirled like the eddies they were gliding through just west of London Bridge.

  Around them, the city felt alive in the midnight darkness. She could feel it humming like electricity despite the layer of drizzle and fog that continued to press in upon its streets and squares for another night. Something was coming, awakening in the darkness—she could feel it in her bones the way old sailors felt oncoming storms. And not a little part of it had to do with the man sitting beside her, who would certainly love to wash his hands of her as soon as possible. After all, he’d made no attempt to hide his contempt about the thief he thought her to be.

  The boat’s bow scraped against the embankment wall as the waterman expertly guided it to a sideways stop at the base of the steps.

  Merritt hopped out of the boat, then reached down to help her.

  She hesitated. There would be no turning back once she stepped onto the stairs with him. But that was the rub, wasn’t it? In her life, there was never any choice of going back.

  With resolve, she slid her hand into his and allowed him to bring her to her feet in the gently rocking wherry. Then she hitched up her skirt and stepped up onto the stone ledge.

  “I wasn’t going to toss you into the Thames, you know,” he muttered, misunderstanding her hesitation.

  No, just back into Newgate. But she would never admit to any uncertainty in front of him. Instead, she slyly smiled from behind the voluminous hood of her cape and lied. “I was contemplating tossing you.”

  That he would certainly believe. But when he returned her smile with a grin of his own, its warmth seared through her as much as his hand that still rested at the small of her back. The heat of his palm bled through her cape and dress and into her flesh, and her heart fluttered recklessly.

  “As if I didn’t know that.” He turned back to toss the waterman a coin and ordered the man to wait for them, then took her elbow to guide her up the rough steps. “With every row of the oars from Blackfriars.”

  She pulled in a deep breath of relief. They were back to distrust. Good. Distrust she knew how to handle, knew to expect nothing from it but disappointment. After all, suspicion had kept her alive in the past, and it would keep her alive after she’d received her pardon. And long after Merritt Rivers was gone from her life.

  “This way.” She gestured across the street at the dimly lit tavern.

  Although to call it a tavern was being generous. It was a mix of gambling hell, gin palace, and brothel, all crammed into a small building that had seen better days under the rule of the Stuarts. But its riverside location made it the perfect haunt for criminals, porters, and sailors to stumble into, waste away whatever blunt they’d managed to earn that day, and then stagger back out at dawn, many right into the Thames for an icy-cold dunking. It was also the perfect location for Filipe and his men to keep watch on the wharves. That was how she knew the place.

  In the past eighteen months since leaving Portugal, she had been here only a handful of times. But that was enough to establish her credibility among its clientele, and as the sister of the King of Saffron Hill, she could come and go as she pleased without fear of being accosted. Any man foolish enough to try would find himself spiked on London Bridge. If enough of him remained once Filipe was done with him.

  Yet tonight, inexplicably
, she felt even safer with Merritt.

  As he led her inside, she fanned an assessing look over him. He still wore the workman’s clothes she’d found for him that morning, with all his weapons cleverly hidden from sight. She took comfort in that. The plain dress and cape she wore gave little room for weapons of her own, and she felt vulnerable with only a single knife strapped to her right calf.

  “Welcome to the King’s Arms,” she drawled. She scanned the smoke-filled room around her, searching for anyone who—

  Danker.

  Her eyes narrowed on him as he sat at the card table in the rear of the tavern, his back to the corner so he could see whoever came through the door. So no one could sneak up behind him and slit his throat. Danker had his fingers in every simmering illegal pot in London from prostitution to smuggling to child slavery. If anyone had heard rumblings of who was behind the riots, it would be him.

  Yes, he would do. Nicely.

  She signaled to the bar wench for a glass of whiskey as she moved through the crowded room with Merritt following closely behind. He was so alert and ready to respond to any attack that she could feel the tension dripping from him.

  She stopped at the table. Danker looked up from his cards.

  She gestured at the pile of coins and banknotes. “I hope you’re winning.”

  “Always.” He swept his gaze over Merritt, then turned over one of his cards and tossed another coin into the center of the table. His opponent folded and left. “I see you’ve brought a guard dog.”

  She slid a half-hooded glance over her shoulder at Merritt, her only acknowledgment that he was there. She gestured at the chair across from Danker. “May I?”

  He waved a hand, and she sat. Merritt remained on his feet directly behind her. His right hand held his left wrist, his fingers only inches from the handle of the knife hidden up his sleeve.

  A guard dog indeed.

  “I need information.” She lowered her voice so it wouldn’t drift beyond the table. “Everyone knows you have the best.”

  “I suppose that would depend upon the information.” Danker’s voice was little more than a wheezing, rough rasp. Most likely, that was due to a lifetime of smoking and drinking. And to the scar that circled his neck where the noose that failed to kill him had cut into his throat and crushed his windpipe. “What do you want to know?” He reached for one of the coins and tossed it to the bar wench as she placed a glass of whiskey on the table in front of Veronica. “And how much are you willing to pay for it?”

  She raised the glass in a toast of thanks, then took a sip. “What do you know about the recent riots and who’s behind them?”

  A crocodile smile spread across the man’s face, ghoulishly mirroring the scar at his throat. He leaned back in his chair and nodded at Merritt. “You can’t expect to be given that kind of information in front of a stranger.”

  “He’s not a stranger.” She kept her gaze fixed on Danker, her face impassive. “He’s a barrister in league with the Home Office.” The truth was too ludicrous to resist. “What’s not to trust?”

  Danker laughed. The wicked and hellish sound vibrated at his vocal cords like a rusty blade scraping over a metal file.

  “You know me.” This time, she took a healthy swallow of her drink. “Do you think I’d bring along someone I don’t trust with my life? Someone Filipe wouldn’t trust with me?”

  Danker pinned him beneath an assessing look. “He’s a Miracle Worker?”

  Miracle Workers…the nickname that had been bestowed upon Filipe’s men. She’d expected that question, which was why she’d taken Merritt to the Court of Miracles that morning to introduce him to Filipe and why she hadn’t warned him to leave his knife behind. She’d needed the guards to remember him, and they’d never forget a man with enough spine to carry a weapon to pay homage to the King. She’d carefully constructed that incident so if Danker asked around about Merritt after they left the tavern, any suspicions about his true identity would be quashed.

  “Mr. Herbert is a new recruit.” There—she’d worked in the name. Another way for Danker to place Merritt in the Court. And as a bonus, another chance to irritate Merritt. “He’s helping with a matter for Fernsby.”

  Danker knew she’d taken up work as a thief-taker, as did most of the men around Filipe. The idea of honor among thieves was a myth, and they were willing to overlook what she was doing as long as she went after the petty criminals who existed on the fringes of their world. As long as she left them alone and didn’t interfere in their business.

  But if she ever crossed that line, she would be a dead thief-taker.

  “Fernsby! That old bastard?” Danker let out another rasping laugh. “Still paying him off for that favor, are you?”

  Her spine stiffened. For the first time, she wished Merritt had waited outside. She didn’t want him to know anything about that. “You mean like the way you have yet to repay me for the favor I did for you?”

  That silenced Danker. If the tavern weren’t so dark, she might have seen steam roll off his bald head.

  “I stumbled across a couple of rioters the other night and took one of them,” she explained, falling easily into her story and suffering no guilt at lying to Danker. “When Fernsby delivered him to the watchhouse, the constable offered twice the reward if we could provide the names of the men who instigated the riot. Money’s not so common in the Court these days that I’m willing to pass up easy blunt. So what can you tell me about them? What have you heard?”

  Danker twirled a coin between his stained fingers. “Only rumors. Nothing specific, mind you.”

  “Of course not,” she drawled, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

  “But there’s talk of a man named Smathers who’s been paying former soldiers to attack the city. He’s the one you and Fernsby need to take for the reward.”

  “Why soldiers?” Merritt interrupted.

  “Why not soldiers?” Danker’s gaze darted over her head to Merritt. “They need the money and can’t find work, yet they’re physically strong and loyal and follow orders without question.” He sneered pointedly. “And they know how to keep their silence.”

  “What do you know about Smathers?” Veronica pressed, drawing his attention back to her when she felt Merritt’s irritation begin to simmer.

  “Nothing much.” He dropped the coin onto the table. “An old soldier himself recruiting men down at the east wharves.”

  “Where?”

  “The Ship’s Bell.”

  She knew that tavern. It made this place look like a Mayfair garden club in comparison.

  “He pays the men to meet at a specific place and time—ten o’clock at Paternoster, midnight at All Hallows.”

  Times and places where two of the recent riots had started. Her heartbeat spiked. They’d found their connection to the riots’ leaders.

  “Once the signal’s given, the men move forward through the city wherever they want to go and stop at an agreed upon time.” He gave a toothless grin of admiration. “Destruction by appointment.”

  Yet none of it made sense. “Why would he pay men to riot? What is he gaining by it?”

  Danker shrugged a crooked shoulder that had taken the brunt of too many lost fights. “Don’t know.”

  “What are they told to attack?” Some kind of pattern or target might give her a clue about why. And who.

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.” He formed the coins into small stacks in front of him, preparing for the next round of cards. “That’s all I can tell you.” He leaned back in his chair and fixed a deadly stare on her. “I trust this means my favor’s been repaid.”

  “Only if it proves valuable, Danker. I would hate to think you’ve sent me on a wild goose chase.” She enjoyed one last gasping swallow of whiskey before she stood, then smiled coldly at him. “Or what it would mean about the way I’d collect from you then.”
>
  With that threat still lingering in the smoke-filled air between them, Merritt escorted her from the tavern.

  Six

  Merritt stopped Veronica at the top of the river steps with a touch to her arm. Below in the watery shadows, the waterman waited with his wherry to return them upriver.

  They had a name now for one of the men connected to the riots, had a location where he’d been recruiting rioters. But details about that conversation with Danker pricked at him. He wanted to be able to trust her, yet there was too much she was keeping hidden.

  He leaned down to bring his mouth close to her ear. “Danker said you’d repaid a favor. What favor?”

  “There’s more currency in the rookeries than blunt, especially among those who don’t have ready access to pounds and pence. We also have a barter system of sorts.” She paused to fuss with her cloak as if to bundle up against the cold for the boat ride. “If I do a favor for someone, I can call for one in return.” She tugged at her kid gloves. “I did a favor for Danker last year. His horse was stolen from its stable, and I found it and returned it. Tonight, he paid me back.”

  “Not that favor,” Merritt clarified. “The one Fernsby did for you.”

  She stiffened. “It was nothing important.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  She arched a brow at him over her shoulder. “Because you possess an overdeveloped sense of suspicion and mistrust?”

  “Or because you’re hiding the truth. What favor?” He had no intention of continuing toward the wherry until she provided answers. “Newgate is nice at night, don’t you think?”

  His threat was clear. So was the aggravation in her voice as she grudgingly admitted, “Fernsby helped me during my trial, so now I’m obligated to help him.”