The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “We'll drink to her.” Riphook slid a stout glass of gin over the table to Nash. “To her memory.”

  “To Leah, boss.” Nash held up the drink.

  “To Leah.”

  They drained the drinks – Riphook with the look of a well-practiced drinker – and slammed the glasses down with a resounding thud.

  “Now there was a bit of talk about a reward there, weren't there?” Riphook mumbled, shewing another handful of grapes.

  “Yeah boss.” Nash grinned ear to ear. “Yeah there were a reward.”

  “I thought as much.” Riphook laughed, kicking his boots off the table and swinging his body forwards from his comfortable lean. “You still down in the cistern? Got a whole gaggle of critters down there don't yer? I noticed that cut you sending me getting' juicier.”

  “Yeah we're down there.” Nash felt his face getting hot from the gin. It was a larger portion than he was used to, and he could feel it welling up excitement within him. “Got some orphans I'm lookin' after.”

  “Orphans! Smart!” Riphook began rooting around in one of the many desk drawers. “Give an orphan a bed and they'll kill a priest for you in six years. Well done boy! A doctor and a horde of orphans!” Riphook was cracking himself up as he pulled out a heavy sack of coins and lumped it on the table beside his plate of food.

  Nash found Riphook's logic a bit foul, but he took the compliment nonetheless.

  “Thank you, boss.” His eyes were fastened to the heaping purse of wealth before him. It was far more money than he had ever seen.

  “Yes, go on, that's for you and your orphans.” Riphook gestured to the coin purse as he resumed pulling apart the roasted duck.

  “Thank you, boss, really, this is–”

  “It's nothin'.” Riphook spat out a tiny bone. “I can be nice too, ya see? Now go on and take it.”

  Nash picked up the coin purse and nearly fainted from excitement. He was astounded by its weight, and his arm buckled when he slid it from the desktop.

  “Ha! Careful now! Don't lose a shilling!” Riphook began making himself laugh again and turned back to his bottle of gin.

  Nash found himself laughing along with the wretched man as he turned to make his way out of the office. Nash gave a friendly nod to the doorman, who scowled back with a mean, unflinching face.

  “Nash.” Riphook called to him as he reached the door.

  “Yeah boss?” Nash looked back, sliding the coin purse into his ragged jacket folds.

  “Don't you ever make me look like a bleedin' idiot like she did, or you'll wish you were in the ground.”

  “I won't boss.” Nash said sternly, feeling the oppressive fear that Riphook radiated sinking back into his bolstered atmosphere.

  “Good.” Riphook spat out another bone. “Now go and buy some new clothes, you look awful.”

  “I will boss.” Nash grinned again, skipped his nod to the doorman, and left Riphook's office. He met Digby outside, and the two began maneuvering their way out of the Devil's Acre.

  “How'd we do, boss?” Digby grunted, keeping a wary eye all around him.

  “We did good, Digby, we did bleedin' good.”

  The two friends shared a delighted smile and made a fast getaway from the labyrinth of squalor that they navigated.

  “We're eating good tonight my friend!” Nash exclaimed as they burst into the bustling street beside Westminster Abby.

  “How good, boss? You mean everybody?”

  “Yeah Digby, everybody.” Nash flashed the coin purse in the cover of his tunic, and Digby sprouted a gargantuan smile to match his stature. “But let's get ourselves some new clothes, huh?”

  “Whatever you say, boss, I never bought new clothes before.” Digby was grinning like the court jester.

  “Neither have I, let's get to it.” Nash laughed, and the two of them began to traverse the garment markets, much to many vendor's disgust.

  Everywhere they went, they were shooed away until Nash flashed a crown, and then a great effort would suddenly be made to accommodate them.

  Together they crafted a narrative in which they were sailors, bound for Canada, but a shipwreck tossed them to the coast of Wales. They had then walked the countryside to return home, accounting for their filthy appearance and smell. It wouldn't be proper, they argued, to return home in such a state.

  While their gutter-bred accents worked against them, it was a fun enough time for the pair as they tried the patience of merchant after merchant.

  When all was said and done, the two of them were quite a sight to behold. Freshly adorned in embroidered shirts and trousers, they were practically unrecognizable from their former selves.

  Stepping out into the street again, they both carried with them a tremendous sense of confidence about their station in life, and in their appearance.

  Of course, the clothes that they picked out did not all entirely match in the fashion sense of the word, and so they collected a good deal of curious looks while they worked over to the Smithfield Meat Market.

  “You know how to carve up half a hog?” Nash asked Digby as they approached one of the hundreds of butcher counters.

  “Sure, I learned all about butcherin' hogs three years ago, you remember those scruffs from across the river?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Nash pointed out half of a pig hanging by for purchase. “I'll take that, there.”

  It was a triumphant return to the cistern. The whole pack gathered round in wonder to see Digby hoist the half a hog off his shoulder and unwrap it from the butcher's paper. He went about portioning the meat while Nash got the cook fire going in the normal place.

  That evening they brought it up to a rolling heat, not minding how much coal they fed into the small, haphazardly-assembled cooking area. Then on a large pan – the only pan they had – they cooked large strips of pork five at a time.

  They cooked and ate and laughed until every one of them was enormously full of succulent pork. Everyone lay around with bloated bellies, bathing in the warmth the grilled fat provided their stomachs.

  The grease from all the pork steaks sizzled lazily on the battered cook top, and the popping of its bubbles were the only sounds that seemed to disturb them all as they digested like a giant snake that had eaten a monkey.

  “You think we bought too much meat, boss?” Digby sighed with the effort it took him to swing him torso about. He gestured to the remaining meat, and it was an astounding amount.

  “I thought we could eat more.” Nash chuckled.

  “People used to starvin' don't make for the best feasting.” Digby laughed back. “What do we do with all of it?”

  “Give it to the crew a few tunnels down.” Nash collapsed onto his back, looking up absently at the night's sky through the cistern's grate.

  “You sure, boss?”

  “Yeah, they won't moan about it.”

  Nash slept that night in complete bliss. His stomach was full, his friends were safe, and he didn't have to worry about what he would eat the next day. As he drifted away, he knew that night would be the best sleep he would have ever had.

  His trance was broken by a boot that came down hard and fast into his chin.

  The pain broke through the walls of his dreams and he shot up, only to be kicked again. His head cracked back down against the cistern floor, and he saw stars.

  The only light fell from the ceiling drain, and the lingering embers beneath the cook top. In the blackness and the blurriness of his vision, Nash couldn't make out what was happening.

  All he knew is that another blow struck him over the chin, and a pair of muscle-bound arms hauled him to his feet. They slammed him against the wall and finally the room was still for a moment.

  He could see Digby, lying motionless on the cistern floor. There were the orphans, all corralled up on the far side by some hulking thugs. How could I be so foolish? I should have been awake!

  “Nash, Nash, Nash.” Riphook's dark cackle came out of the blackness.

  “Boss?” Nas
h was dizzy, his vision was spinning, and yet he clearly saw the face of the same man who only an evening ago was praising him and paying him.

  “You lied to me, Nash, why did you do that?” Riphook walked up close to him.

  “I didn't lie.” Nash pleaded, rolling his head from side to side. He was terribly disorientated.

  “Look me in the eye when I speak to you.”

  The faceless arms holding him aloft raised him up so that his feet left the ground, and Riphook took hold of Nash's face. He held it steady in front of his, staring into his eyes.

  “Leah's not dead, Nash. Did you know that?”

  “No.” Nash squeaked between Riphook's iron grip on his jaw.

  “I suppose this doctor wasn't so trustworthy after all, hmm?”

  “Boss, I–” Nash was struggling to keep his head right. He had been hit hard; his jaw was beginning to swell, and speaking was difficult.

  “I don't want your bloody excuses.” Riphook spat in his face. “You don't got what it takes, sorry there, chap.”

  Riphook pulled back his fist and struck Nash square in the nose. The two men dropped him, and Nash fell to the floor in a crumpled puddle.

  “This outfit is over.” Riphook snarled into the room. “You lot work for me now, not him, you understand?”

  The orphans were terrified, yet Nash knew they understood the pecking order of things. They would do what they had to for survival. They all nodded along to Riphook's announcement.

  “Now get out of here.” he snapped, and a few thugs escorted the gaggle of orphans out of Nash's sight. “Oh, Nash, I was so hopeful just then, so hopeful.” He paced around Nash on the floor.

  Nash cracked one of his eyes open and flailed towards Digby, trying to call out to him.

  “Don't worry, he's only sleeping.” Riphook sighed. “What did I tell you Nash? Hmm? Don't make me look like a bleedin' idiot. And that's what you did. With the first thing I gave you.”

  Riphook crouched down and yanked the coin purse from Nash's rags.

  “No reward for nothing done.” Riphook chuckled. “Feels a bit lighter though, don't it? How much did you spend? No matter, I'll count it and send you an invoice,” Riphook began cracking himself up again. “Here's the skinny there, lad. Now you ain't nothin' again. Now you owe me. Now you're going to find me that doctor so that he and I can have a bit of a chat, you hear?”

  “Boss, please–” Nash grunted, struggling to sit up in his hazy, concussed state.

  “I said I don't want your excuses!” Riphook kicked the cook top clear through the room, sending the still smoldering grease splashing over Nash's face. The burn of the grease was worse than the sting of his nose, and he wailed out with pain. “Now bring me that doctor!”

  Nash cried as Riphook stalked away into the night. He sobbed as he endured the lingering pain of the burn and the blows, huddled in a ball deep beneath the streets of London.

  He had imagined that nothing like this would ever happen to him again, that he had finally risen above all this suffering, at least for a single day of his life.

  All of the confidence that he had built in the warmth of Riphook's praise had gone. It had dissipated in the wind like the scent of a pie on a swift summer breeze. In one brutal moment he had become alone again, crushingly alone, and nothing he could do would reverse it.

  Years of trust, of being in the right place at the right time, of knowing when to say what to whom, of not stepping on the wrong person's toes, all of it had amounted suddenly to nothing.

  Nash knew this moment could be coming for a long while. He had reached the age at which, among the London gutters, young men either died a violent death, joined the army, or prospered into a facet of the underground.

  For years now, Nash had been looking over his shoulder, knowing that any moment, this moment could come. Yet earlier, in Riphook's office, he had been given the encouragement he needed to push forward through the cloud of doubt. For one glorious afternoon and evening, he had made it; he was safe, and he was going to live a successful life.

  In the space of four minutes, Nash's self being was utterly shattered.

  “Boss?” He could hear Digby's frightened voice calling out in the night. “Boss are you there?”

  “Here.” Nash croaked, still silently sobbing on the floor.

  “Nash!” Digby sprung over to him, taking him carefully up in his arms. “You're fine enough now, alright? I'm sorry, boss, they got me in the back, I couldn't do nothin', it's all my fault.” Digby began to tear up while he used the sleeve of his new shirt to wipe the blood from Nash's nose.

  “It ain't your fault.” Nash gingerly touched his jaw while he spoke. “It's mine.”

  “It's that doctor's, who's it is, dirty double-crossin' snake he is.” Digby was growing visibly hot in the face. No doubt he was looking for a target to take out his anger upon.

  “It ain't the doc's fault for not killin' a woman.” Nash spat blood from his mouth. “And it ain't your fault for gettin' jumped in the dark. It's my fault for believing in all this sorry shit, and it's Riphook's fault for keeping it alive.”

  “What are you saying, boss?” Digby looked perplexed.

  “I'm saying to hell with Riphook.” Nash spat again. The tears running down his cheek stung the burns across his jaw, and he clenched his teeth, which in turn hurt his jaw. “Let's find the doc before he does.”

  Chapter 19

  Francis knew he had botched it and properly. After his first encounter with Nash, he had thought himself safe from the entire situation. He had gone home to his wife, stayed away from the gambling houses, and not once looked in the direction of a brothel.

  For two scarce hours, Francis thought that the cruelty of his adventure was behind him. As the evening was getting ready to set down upon London, a surprise visitor had come to his door.

  And who should it be but the distinguished Lord Wilson, uncle to the Duke of Worthington. They had made the most stale of small talk as Francis's wife showed them to the study.

  There, behind closed doors, it took only a few sharp words from Lord Wilson concerning the improperness of collusion with the lower classes, and the immorality of gambling, for Francis to spill all of his secrets.

  When all was said and done with, Lord Wilson had thanked him for his honestly. He then slipped him a bank note for a surprisingly large sum and asked if Francis “Wouldn't mind keeping this fluke between the Duke of Worthington and a street rat out of the common ear. Just as I wouldn't mind not sharing the details of your life with your wife.”

  Dr. Fowler, to his shame, had taken the money and remained silent. Then, after Lord Wilson had gone, he despaired.

  If Nash knows I didn't kill her, then he'll do me in! I'll be finished! I must get away, but my wife! How can I convince her that we must leave?

  Francis sweated over these thoughts while he ingested half a bottle of wine, sitting nervously by the fire in his study. Eventually he dozed off there, as he was apt to do, and so his wife left him to sleep when the house hunkered down for its slumber.

  Francis let out a hearty snore that shook himself awake. He leapt forward in his seat, gasping out for air. Looking around, he saw that he was safely sat in his study, and so be began to relax again.

  Then he heard it. Tap, tap, tap. Francis wheeled his head about, springing out of his chair.

  “Who's there?” he hissed, afraid to wake his wife.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  Francis looked around scared in the darkness. The moonlight was hidden by heavy drapes across the windows.

  Tap, tap.

  It was coming from the window, Francis was sure of it. Terrified, he moved towards the heavy drapes, clutching the wine bottle in his hand like a makeshift weapon.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Oh, get on with it!” Francis uttered to himself through gritted teeth. He flung the drapes aside to see Nash's hunched frame before him, perched on the wide window ledge.

  Francis fell back, startled and afraid.
His will to fight had vanished as soon as he had been confronted by true danger.

  Nash rolled his eyes through the window, and expertly slid a knife between the wooden edges. With an upward motion, he moved clear the latch that held the windows closed.

  Nash stepped calmly down from the window and into Francis's study. He looked around, and the moonlight caught the side of his face.

  Francis was mortified; Nash's face had been badly burned and his jaw was swollen to the size of a plump apple. He looked like a tortured soul dragged forth from Hell, and he was standing above Francis in his own study.