The Counterfeit Viscount

by Ginn Hale

  Archie nearly took the first loud crack he heard for a machine misfiring in one of the waterfront factories. But the whistling force that ripped his tall hat from his head was too familiar for him to mistake it for anything but a gunshot. He dived to the ground, taking cover beneath a cherry tree. The second bullet splintered the branch just above him. Pale petals fluttered in the air. A third report tore through the night, and Nimble’s weight fell across him. A wet heat dribbled down the side of Archie’s neck, and the sharp citric tang of Prodigal blood seemed to fill his lungs.

  Nimble had been shot.

  Rage surged through Archie, and he struggled to stand and charge back into the Dee Club. He was going to beat the life out of the bastard who’d harmed Nimble. He’d gut the fucker.

  Nimble jerked him back down and lay over him like a steel beam pinning him against the damp grass. “Stay down, damn it,” Nimble hissed.

  Archie did as ordered, out of reflex more than reason.

  They both lay still, listening. A cacophony of alarmed voices rose from the club. Archie felt certain he heard someone slam a window shut. Had the assassin slipped outside to hunt them on foot? He strained to hear the whisper of steps coming across the grass.

  A ship’s horn sounded. Archie freed one hand enough to wipe the rivulet of Nimble’s blood from his neck. He could feel Nimble’s heart beating as fast as his own, but he didn’t shift a muscle, and Archie couldn’t make out his face in the dark.

  “How badly are you hit, can you tell?” Archie asked in a whisper.

  “A scrape. My lovely tailcoat is likely ruined, though. You?”

  “Lost my hat. Still have my head.”

  Again, voices rose loudly enough to carry through the thick walls of the Dee Club. More windows groaned open, though this time the figures who leaned out held lamps before them and seemed to be searching for anyone moving across the grounds.

  “Half that rabbit warren is up and looking for our sharpshooter now,” Nimble murmured. He lifted himself from off Archie. “The Inquisition will be on their way soon enough.”

  Inquisitors would treat a man like Nimble as a menace and a miscreant even when he was the one bleeding from a bullet wound. Archie wasn’t so naïve as to imagine otherwise. As much as he wanted to return to the Dee Club and hunt down the coward who’d fired on them, he knew Nimble’s safety took priority. They could not afford to stay here. Still, he felt a powerful urge to storm back into the Dee Club and pound the life from his uncle with his own fists, all the more so because it was Nimble whom he’d injured. And in a dim corner of his heart, Archie knew it was his fault. The shots must have been intended for him.

  The doors of the club swung open. A butler and several sturdy footmen held up phosphorous green storm lanterns and peered out. Then Charles shoved them aside and strode to the stairs. He stilled, staring into the dark with a haunted expression. An instant later Lupton followed him and called, “Archibald? Mr. Hobbs? Gentlemen, are you injured?”

  “Not a bit!” Nimble shouted back. Neither he nor Archie made any move to step into the light. In fact, they both crept deeper into the shadows of the cherry trees. “We heard quite the racket in there. Whatever was the matter?” Nimble inquired, and it reminded Archie of the way he had used to shout jokes across to the Nornian infantry at night.

  “It seems…. Well, I’m told someone thought it would be jolly fun to shoot at passing bats from one of the windows,” Lupton replied. He peered intently around him. “You’re certain you’re both all right? Archibald? You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “We’re fine.” Archie forced a cheer he couldn’t possibly feel into his voice.

  He didn’t think he was mistaken when he read relief on both Charles’s and Lupton’s faces. But that didn’t undo the fact that Charles had played some part in arranging this ambush; it only meant that he would have been a little sorry if it had succeeded. But he was clearly not overjoyed that it had failed either.

  “Now, gentlemen, I and the local bats bid you a very good night,” Archie called as he snatched up his battered silk hat.

  Chapter Six: Fever Ship

  “Just calm down,” Nimble said.

  Archie thought it was the fifth time in the last hour. He paced the confines of the clean little room of the Briar Hotel, still too agitated to take the chair Nimble had offered. Instead he glowered at the blue pinstriped wallpaper and then stole another glance to the bed.

  Nimble stretched out on the duvet, stripped to his flimsy undergarments and holding Archie’s dove gray hat in his right hand. Silk bandages, which Archie had ripped from two clean dress shirts, swathed his left shoulder and his chest. His bloodstained coat, waistcoat, and shirt lay in a heap alongside the wet washcloths Archie had used to clean the long, shallow wound, then staunch the flow of all that hot scarlet blood. A powerful citric tang still scented the air.

  Archie looked away from the stained masses of cloth. He’d witnessed far worse and endured far worse, but the fact that it was Nimble’s blood drying to sour brown stains somehow shook him beyond reason.

  “The shots came from a very steep angle. Possibly the roof….” Nimble studied the hole torn through the brim of Archie’s hat. “Or the third floor, maybe?”

  Archie stilled. For the first time, he noticed that several petals still clung to the black curls of Nimble’s hair. They lent him the look of one of those paintings of some half-dressed, carefree demigod lounging in a woodland meadow.

  “The third floor is Agatha Wedmoor’s private rooms and salon,” Archie said.

  “Your girl’s a good shot if it was her,” Nimble responded.

  “We both know it was Silas.” Archie returned to pacing. Something had to be done about his uncle. Something more immediate than watching him slowly lose all his possessions and power. Archie should have damn well just shot him years ago when he’d first sauntered up to Archibald’s casket at the funeral service.

  “It might have been done on his orders, but he couldn’t have come so near his mark, shooting in the dark. Unless he’s got Prodigal eyes, he’d never have been able to see you or me.”

  “Neither would Agatha Wedmoor,” Archie replied offhand. “Though my uncle definitely has a hold over her and her brother. I’m pretty certain that he’s blackmailing them using that girl Phebe. It would ruin Agatha if it was disclosed that she’d had an illegitimate daughter by a Prodigal lover.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. What I’m not convinced of is that we should assume those shots in the dark were your uncle’s doing. Or even at his behest. There were plenty of other people in that club.”

  “I don’t think I could’ve made another enemy at the club so quickly,” Archie objected.

  “Not you, my bantling. Me,” Nimble responded, and again he ran his thumb over the brim of Archie’s silk hat. “I’d been poking around the perimeter of the Dee Club’s activities for a good nine months before Thom came to me. And I just spent the last ten days slapping a veritable hornet’s nest, asking directly after people who someone in that club wants gone and forgotten.”

  “Yes, but to shoot….” Archie considered Nimble’s suggestion and reasoning. Someone who’d already committed a dozen murders wasn’t likely to shy away from one or two more.

  The relief he felt at the thought that he’d not brought this down on Nimble dissipated with the realization that someone completely unknown to them could be plotting Nimble’s death right now.

  “You really believe they were firing at you?” Archie asked.

  “I’m not certain one way or the other.” Nimble tossed Archie’s hat to the foot of the bed. “But it strikes me as telling that this didn’t happen until I showed my face. You came and went from the club for a full week without provoking as much as a warning shot, yeah?”

  “Well, Silas did try to give me the heave that once.”

  “On the sly, sure. But he’s not exactly bold. And that was bold as balls, opening fire in a building with a good hundred witnesses wandering all
around.”

  “True.” Archie’s gaze again fell on Nimble’s beautiful, ruined coat. “But I don’t think he realized until now how completely I’ve cornered his assets. He’s got to be desperate.”

  “No doubt about that.” Nimble frowned. “If I’d known that he was a member, I wouldn’t have asked you to get me into the Dee Club. I’m sorry for putting you there.”

  “Don’t be, old boot. It’s none of it your fault.” Archie stilled beside the chair. He was exhausted but didn’t feel like sitting. “I’m actually glad to be doing something for you. Relieved to have a purpose in my life that isn’t just propping up a facade of Archibald.”

  “Well, if you truly wish to do me a favor, come lay with me and keep me warm, yeah?” Nimble extended his empty right hand. Archie went to him, took his hand, and carefully lay down at Nimble’s side. Nimble sighed and closed his eyes. Archie felt the tight cords of Nimble’s body relax against him. He wasn’t asleep—Archie knew as much from the many other nights he’d lain with Nimble. He was thinking and listening.

  Subdued noises of the city night drifted around them. A few drunks, not too far away, sang about distant islands, dangerous waters, and wanton mermaids. Their voices faded, and Archie guessed they were stumbling home together.

  Archie gazed at Nimble’s profile and felt foolish that a face he’d seen countless times could still hold him enrapt. There were more handsome men in the world, even ones Archie had bedded. But simply lying beside any one of them never brought him this feeling of happiness and fascination. Of course none of them ever owned his soul either, Archie reminded himself.

  “You have cherry blossoms in your hair,” Archie said.

  Nimble smiled and cracked his eyes open. “So do you,” he replied. “They’re rather fetching. You really should wear more color.” But his attention wasn’t focused on Archie. He studied the ceiling above them. White plaster rosettes dotted a robin’s-egg blue expanse like clouds filling an afternoon sky. Archie remembered the skylight in the library at the Dee Club. That must have cost a fortune.

  “I bet that nurse Fuggas can see well enough in the dark,” Nimble said. “You mentioned that she was three years in the war, so it’s not too hard to imagine her learning to handle a pistol as well as a scalpel.”

  “It does beg the question of why she’d take the chance, though,” Archie added.

  “That it does.”

  Archie pondered what little he knew of the nurse, Pugg and that mysterious sister who’d died. He took a moment to tell Nimble what he’d discovered of the connection between Nurse Fuggas and Pugg. While they both found it all suspicious, the information didn’t lead them to any new conclusions. Archie found himself considering the accusation Thom had made.

  “Any truth to Thom’s idea of illicit potions brewed from Prodigal blood?” Archie asked. It seemed a far reach.

  “Not in that quarter. The Butcher Street Crone has the business pretty well sewn up,” Nimble answered without any sign of alarm. “They’re mostly rat blood and chicken bits. Occasionally someone who crosses the Crone ends up bottled, but not too often.”

  “Remind me not to cross her, then.”

  “You and me too.”

  A quiet spread between them. Archie lightly rested his hand on Nimble’s abdomen. His skin felt hot, but his gaze remained focused above them. Archie wondered just how devastating it had to feel to have marched under open blue skies, only to be returned to the dank, dripping caverns of Hells Below.

  “If you could do whatever you pleased, go wherever you wanted, what would you do?” Archie asked.

  Nimble looked to him and held his gaze for a few moments, but then he shook his head and gave a dry laugh. “That’s too big a question for me to even think on, Archie.” Nimble sighed heavily. “No Prodigal can afford to dream like that. It would just break our hearts, because in the end, we ain’t going anywhere and we don’t have no choices, do we?”

  “The painter Sykes got out of the city,” Archie replied. “There have to have been others.”

  “Sure. The pets of noblemen, but that’s not freedom. It’s just peddling your ass for a bigger cage.”

  “I have a hard time imagining old Lord Foster going in for any ass, much less the aged Prodigal variety that Sykes might offer.”

  Nimble laughed at the thought as well. Not only were both men silver-haired ancients, but Foster had famously served as an upright captain in the Inquisition. His support of Prodigal equality obviously sprang from devout humanitarianism.

  “All right, it’s not always literally whoring, but you know what I mean. If a Proddie’s right to come or go depends on keeping some toff placated, then that ain’t freedom.” Nimble scowled. “You always gotta watch where you step, mind what you say, and never forget your place.”

  He was correct. Archie had seen as much, living in the city. He’d experienced it as a serving boy and a soldier.

  “I’m sorry,” Archie said. The words felt worthless.

  “Not your doing, is it?” Nimble replied.

  Archie sighed and wished he hadn’t asked. It hadn’t been his intention to irritate Nimble, much less remind him of the injustices he knew too well. He’d just wondered if Nimble possessed answers he didn’t. Archie had no idea what he would do if ever his life were truly his own. What would there be left of him after he’d destroyed Silas and avenged Archibald? Stripped of his anger and obligation, who would he even be?

  Who was he now, other than the man who impersonated Archibald?

  The night seemed to close around them. The bedside lamp flickered low.

  Nimble squeezed his hand and shifted very slowly so that his head rested against Archie’s. He smelled of blood, smoke, and flowers.

  It had been a damnably long day. Who knew what tomorrow would bring. Archie closed his eyes. For a few moments, he thought of nothing as he drifted toward sleep.

  “That account you put in my name,” Nimble murmured. “There’s too much money in there. No one would believe I came by it honestly.”

  “And yet, there it is, legal as the Queen’s wedding.” Archie had made very certain of that, because that account was only one of many that would assure that no matter what happened to Archie, Silas would not see a penny of profit. “If you ever need anything, I want it to be there for you, old boot.”

  Nimble drew a breath as if preparing to offer up an argument, but then he simply sighed and relaxed. Again a long quiet stretched between them. Nimble’s breathing turned slow and deep. Then he said, “Maybe I’ll pick up a new blue tailcoat.”

  “Two if you wish.” Archie nodded.

  “Or I’ll buy us a gold dust ship, and we can sail to the wild, red-wind islands like in those adventure novels.” Nimble’s voice was soft.

  “You want to sail the ocean?” Archie couldn’t help his incredulity. Nimble wouldn’t last more than a minute in the water. Not even salt water would be dense enough to keep his heavy bones afloat. For just an instant, Archie remembered struggling against the intense weight as he’d dragged Nimble’s bleeding body from ice-cold waters.

  “Sure. So long as you’re there to pull me up from the waves.” Nimble laughed softly. “We could set up shop as pearl divers. Me, sinking to the bottom—you, hauling me out with a winch.”

  Nimble sounded delirious now, and Archie suspected he’d be asleep in a few minutes. He snuffed the lamp flame. Then he waited as Nimble’s breathing deepened into the rhythm of slumber. At last, in the dark, Archie pressed a kiss to Nimble’s cheek. He started to rise slowly, so as not to jostle Nimble. Hot fingers clenched around his hand.

  “Don’t leave me, Archie.” Nimble sounded so strained that Archie knew at once he was running a fever.

  “I’m still here, old boot.” Archie leaned back over him and pressed his free hand against Nimble’s brow. He felt warm but not dangerously hot.

  “It’s not that I don’t…. I do care, my bantling. I do… but I just can’t go on like this.”

  “I know.�
� Archie was glad for the dark then. He wouldn’t have wanted Nimble to see the hope or hurt in his face.

  “If we’re ever going to make something real, something true between us, then it’s got to be on an even standing. It’s got to be as equals….”

  It half broke Archie’s heart hearing those words, but not because he didn’t believe Nimble. Love—even one as hopeless and unrequited as Archie’s—required more than lust and shared secrets. It demanded respect and equality, otherwise it was nothing more than usury dressed up with pet names and bound by the dependency of one upon the power of another.

  But Archie had always imagined himself and Nimble as equals, regardless of their races or ranks. If that wasn’t how Nimble pictured them, then what could Archie do? The enormity of the social divide between them spread like a chasm of inequity splitting through law and culture at every level. Archie could fight it in the Lords’ court, he could resist it in his own life, but he couldn’t drive injustice from the world. More than that, he couldn’t make Nimble feel something that he didn’t feel—that was beyond his power and outside his rights.

  “I know,” Archie repeated quietly. He felt certain that Nimble had fallen asleep again.

  He remained at Nimble’s side for another half hour. When Nimble’s fever didn’t relent, Archie changed into his tramping clothes, hired a handsome cab, and raced to Hells Bellow. There he hunted down one of the few physicians who specialized in treating Prodigals and convinced the old fellow to accompany him back to Nimble through the assiduous application of gold coins.

  Archie remained at Nimble’s side while the spindly physician stitched Nimble’s wound and lectured him on the subject of veterans practicing battlefield medicine when they were living in a peaceable city. Then the old doctor instructed Archie in mixing the proper dosage of fever powder, changing bandages, and getting some sleep himself. As dawn light crept through the window shutters, the physician took his leave, his mood much lightened after receiving another generous payment and thanks for his discretion and his discourse.