Pierce was caught off guard by that. “Really? Even before the books?”
“Long before. Nomads everywhere have told stories of you and your brother—the Gypsy Orphans.”
“It would be an honor to hear you tell your own story,” a Swedish woman spoke up.
The group appeared very excited and anxious to hear him speak. Pierce reckoned that since they were risking themselves to help him, the very least he could do was tell them a few stories.
“Erm, sure,” he accepted. “Where do you want me to start?”
Their faces lit up.
“From the beginning, Mr. Landcross,” the Turk answered.
Pierce nodded.
He took a seat on the tree stump and the troupe gathered around him. “Right,” he began. “First things first. Could I trouble you for some wine?”
* * *
The morning air brought a fresh, crisp, clean feel to the nation. For a brief moment, the old country felt reborn, opening its eyes once more to the autumn sun.
Prince Albert was unaffected by such splendor. His skin crawled. He felt worse when inside his own bedchambers where that dirty dog, Pierce Landcross, had broken in twice. Other than some critics condemning his and Victoria’s decision to pardon the outlaw, it had been blissfully quiet with him gone.
Not a peep had been reported from anywhere in England—or any other European country—about the luckiest thief in the whole bloody world! Then the novels began surfacing. Victoria informed him that Clover Norwich was the author and that she had allowed the girl to release them so long as she agreed to use a pen name. At first, Albert regarded the books as trivial nonsense, but then, they became an unexpected success. Pierce Landcross became a centerpiece of conversation at many tables across the land—even last year, on Victoria’s birthday, when the Imperial Regent, the Archduke John of Austria and his wife, came to visit. In the archduke’s own poised manner, he had called Albert’s display of mercy for the man who’d “attacked” his wife a weakness. Albert dismissed the archduke’s disproval. He realized it stemmed from his contempt of Landcross after the man escaped Germany years ago. Regardless, the bastard had returned, causing damage to the United Kingdom once again and spitting in the faces of those who once showed him mercy.
“Darling,” said Victoria, stepping into his changing room. “Are you going hunting?”
“Yes,” he answered, buttoning up his red jacket and straightening his cravat.
“Do not forget we have a meeting with Viscount Palmerston this afternoon.”
Having a council with Palmerston was not a task Albert was looking forward to. He and Victoria had never seen eye to eye with that man on the subject of an independent foreign policy. Now, with the revolutionary wave washing over most of Europe, the pressure to keep it from spilling over onto British soil was weighing heavy on him. Shortly after the birth of their daughter, Louise, the royal family had stayed for a while in Osborne for safety. So far, however, Britain had done well in staying clear of the violence by using words instead of fists. Still, that could change at any moment. Having Pierce Landcross in England was certainly not helping with Albert’s stress level.
“I know. I shall only be gone a few hours. The hounds are hungry.”
“I see,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I understand you are distressed about Landcross. Believe me, I am just as upset.”
“Are you, my dear?” he challenged, his tone edging toward irritation.
“I am,” she answered with gravity. “I decided to pardon him, after all. How do you think this reflects on me?”
“On both of us,” Albert pointed out, taking a seat to pull on his boots. “It was our decision, and now we’re a joke.”
“That’s a bit overdramatic, Albert. We are not viewed as a joke.”
“It feels as such.”
She folded her hands in front of her and tilted her chin high. “When Landcross is in custody and is put on trial, we shall prove we deal with lawbreakers very seriously.”
“Unless you offer him another pardon,” he retorted.
“Why would I do such a thing?”
What he was about to say next was something he had wanted to ask since the day she confessed to him and Javan about the bet she’d made with Landcross. “Are you taken in by him?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you?” he repeated icily. “Was that the reason why you let him go that night when he invaded our bedroom for the second time?”
“No!” she returned angrily. “I felt sympathy toward him when he came offering his life for his parents’ freedom.”
She pointed to herself. “I, the Queen of England, decided to do what I did.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he grunted indignantly.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You are being ridiculous and uncouth. I believe I shall attend the play alone tomorrow night.”
She stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard, it caused him to jump.
He slapped his hands on his knees and stood to check himself in the mirror. He was ready for the foxhunt ahead.
After all, the hounds were hungry.
Chapter Three
The Search
Pierce found it difficult to move. The homemade wine, which he suspected had added ingredients in it, had certainly put him in his place.
After drinking half a bottle, he’d talked nonstop about anything his small audience wanted to learn about him. When he believed they’d had enough of listening to him, someone would ask something else, stoking another tale. Talking about all he’d done turned out to be fun, and being half drunk also helped, but he’d enjoyed how people were seemingly engrossed by it all. It got to the point where his throat hurt after spouting off so much. He eventually went to sleep and dreamt strange dreams.
After he managed to sit up from where he’d fallen asleep near the bonfire, he pulled off blades of grass that were stuck in the fake facial hair. As he did, he saw the boy who had found him the day before inside the barn. He was sitting cross-legged nearby.
“What are films?” the boy asked.
Groggy and still trying to escape the seduction of sleep, Pierce eyed him oddly. “Eh?”
“You talked in your sleep. You mumbled about motion pictures and films.”
He had no earthly idea what the lad was talking about. He reckoned he was having a dream about the Teller of Forgotten Tales and his moving images.
He noticed what the boy was wearing. “Is that my hat?”
The lad raised his eyes to the brim sitting below his brows. “Aye.”
Pierce realized the little tosser had gone through his rucksack. “Did you take anything else?”
“No,” the child said, but Pierce doubted he was being truthful. “You want it back?”
After a brief thought, Pierce slowly shook his head. “No, lad. The hat is yours now, eh?”
Pierce sat up while the boy darted off to show off his new top hat.
Clover approached him. “Pierce.”
“Aye?” He rubbed his aching forehead.
“Here.”
He turned squinty eyes up to her and saw her handing him a bowl of cornmeal and a cup of what he hoped was water.
“Ah, cheers,” he said, accepting it.
Beside her always was Kolt. “When you are finished eating, can you teach me some shooting lessons?”
Pierce had completely forgotten about the promise he’d made Kolt on the train about teaching him to shoot.
He scanned the campsite. It would take some time for everyone to get everything they owned together and be ready to push on.
“Sure, lad.”
* * *
Kolt had no idea what to make of Pierce Landcross. As a child, he heard the story about Landcross trying to steal Queen Victoria’s necklace. Then, some weeks after that incident, he broke his parents out of Newgate Prison. There wasn’t a lot of news about him afterward. It wasn’t until last month that his mother sat him down and admitted she’d had a brief love affai
r with Landcross. She went on to say that she and Kolt were going to England to meet with the author of The Adventures of Pierce Landcross series.
Although his mother had boasted about Landcross, Kolt had doubts about trusting him. He used to be a thief, after all. In fact, he’d spotted Landcross trying to take coins off the wall inside Locksley’s house before the vampire caught him.
It hadn’t quenched Kolt’s curiosity to see what next would happen around the man, and when Clover decided to tag along with Landcross to London, it prompted his own decision to do the same. Clover had admitted to him by the bonfire that she didn’t just want to gather more material for her new book. She’d wanted to make sure he was safe. Despite the rogue’s shady past, Kolt was intrigued enough to follow him and find out if the stories were true or if they had been greatly exaggerated.
Kolt stood perfectly straight with his arms outstretched, holding Landcross’s old Oak Leaf revolver. He aimed at the tin can sitting atop a stone wall.
“All right, lad,” Landcross instructed, “once you have the target in your sights, ease back on the trigger.”
He pulled it and felt the kick when the weapon fired. The bullet hit a rock, but not the target.
“Scheiße!” he cursed. “Your gun is too old.”
“It’s not the gun,” Landcross stated. “You’ve got to steady your aim, is all.”
In his old man disguise, Landcross looked ancient. Kolt couldn’t see the famous scar across his throat. Granted, the Russian woman, Lada, had needed to touch it up this morning, but she had done a good job, for even in the light of day, he was unrecognizable.
Landcross took the pistol from him. “Watch.” He took aim. “You gotta lined the target with the barrel. Train your eye to match up the two and soon, it’ll be second nature.”
Landcross fired and with a ding, the tin can bounced off the wall. He twirled the gun over his finger and handed it over, handle first. “Try again.”
Kolt grabbed the weapon and studied it as Landcross went over to the wall.
“Maybe after this, you’ll show me that trick you pulled on ol’ Volker?” Landcross said from over his shoulder. “The chop to the throat bit?”
“All right,” Kolt promised, admiring the revolver’s craftsmanship. He had to admit the weapon’s intricate decorations were beautiful. “It isn’t a trick, though.”
“Pardon?” Landcross asked, placing the tin can upon the stone wall.
“It’s not a trick. It is a pressure point system.”
“Is that so?” he said, approaching.
“Ja. The human body has numerous pressure points, many of which can render someone defenseless.”
Landcross raised his hand to eye level to study it. “Eh? The hand also?”
Kolt grabbed it and pinched his thumb deep into his palm. Kolt knew it hurt tremendously, for his own instructor had once displayed the technique upon him. Landcross hollered and clutched his forearm, struggling against the hot electrical currents shooting through his entire arm. Kolt only held on a few moments, enough to give him an idea, and then let go. Landcross jumped away, hissing and cursing while holding his wrist, which Kolt knew was throbbing.
“Where I pinched is known as the stomach of your hand, the most sensitive area,” Kolt explained while Landcross frantically shook his hand. “If I had applied a little more pressure, I could have temporarily paralyzed your arm.”
The makeup could not disguise his anger. Landcross’s gritted teeth and overall expression suggested he wanted to murder Kolt. Kolt tapped his throat. “When you hit someone here in the thyroid cartilage, as I did Jäger, you will have complete advantage over your opponent.”
He re-aimed the gun. “Let me try again, yes?”
This time, he aimed with the barrel. He eased pressure onto the trigger, and when the can sprang off the stone wall from the impact of his bullet, a rush of exuberance washed over him.
“You were right.”
Kolt tried to twirl the gun on his finger as Landcross had but dropped it instead.
Landcross laughed and crouched at his rucksack on the ground to bring out more ammo. “Save the fancy tricks for the ladies, eh? And stop being so damn cocky. It’ll get you in trouble quicker than you think.”
They spent a half hour more practicing before heading back.
“Did Clover really have feelings for you?” Kolt threw out while walking beside Landcross.
“Sorry?”
“She told me last night that when you both first met, she was taken in by you.”
“She mentioned that, eh?” Landcross sounded confused. “You didn’t read it from of one the novels she wrote?”
“Nein. I must be about the only person who hasn’t read any of them. Mother wouldn’t allow it. She was afraid it would encourage me to do bad things.”
“Is that so? Good on your mum, and mighty wise, considering how you enjoy exploring different territories and such.”
“I dabble in many subjects, true, but never will I fall out of favor with the law.”
“Ah,” Landcross said with indulgence. “High marks for you then, boyo.”
“Please don’t call me boy,” he grunted politely. “I shall be seventeen next fall.”
Landcross gave him a cynical look. “Aye. Fine. I don’t particularly care to be called boy, either.”
Kolt wondered why he had saved Landcross on the train. He figured the drink had prompted him to act in the man’s defense. Landcross was a scoundrel, but in the end, the printed word celebrated his exploits. There was nothing noble or heroic about him.
“I mean it. I have no intentions of breaking the law,” Kolt stated again.
“I never implied it.”
“You led a wicked life of thievery, lying, smuggling, backstabbing, and—”
“Oi! Oi. Oi.” He stopped Kolt with a hand up. “Hold up now.”
Kolt faced him with a huff.
“I may have done those things,” Landcross confessed, “and I offer no excuses, but never have I backstabbed anyone who didn’t bloody well deserve it in the first place. I led the life I did, and that’s just the way of it. I don’t need to justify myself to the likes of you.”
“You regret none of it? Even when you left my mother?”
Landcross sucked in a deep breath. “I had to leave, and she knew it. If I hadn’t, I would have ended up dead in some German prison and most likely, so would she for hiding me. She would’ve lost her career and the chance to marry Oskar. In turn, you wouldn’t have been born.” Then he added sardonically, “More’s the pity.” Landcross tapped his own temple a couple of times. “And if you think about it, you have broken the law.”
“How do you presume?” Kolt challenged.
“You bloody well assisted in the escape of a fugitive, lad. You lied to the Royal guards, remember? And not just any fugitive, but the most infamous one in the entire fuckin’ British nation.”
Kolt found himself utterly lost for words. “I . . . I merely went along with the plan.”
“Aye, Clover’s plan, eh? She’s the reason you so blindly crossed that line, isn’t it?”
It was and there was no denying it.
“There are different reasons why people do the things they do, Kolt. Those who live in bloody glass houses shouldn’t throw their high and mighty stones.” He began walking off. “To answer your question, yes. Clover once expressed her feelings for me, but she was merely a child—rather like how you’re acting right now, I might add. If this little spat is coming from some form of jealousy, then you’re a hell of a lot weaker than I thought.”
“That’s not it!” Kolt bellowed angrily.
His voice echoed for miles over the flat plain.
Landcross turned to him. “Really?” A shrug. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“My father.”
Landcross tilted his head sideways. “Oskar? What about him?”
Kolt’s true reason for his disapproval bubbled to the surface. “My father. He was murdered.”
“Murdered? Frederica said it was a hunting accident.”
Kolt shook his head. “He was killed by a group of highwaymen who robbed the coach he was in. The coach he and I were in. They shot him and then robbed him.”
“Jesus,” gasped Landcross.
“The reason Mother tells people it was a hunting accident is because I witnessed the whole thing. She has been trying to convince me that his death was really just an accident.” Kolt explained all this with a thick lump in his throat, making it difficult to speak. “It was a dreadful effort to try and force me to forget the sight of my father’s brains being blown out when he was protecting his four-year-old son against the robber who went to hit me for crying. I think Mother believes the lie the more she tells it, though. It is why I do not dispute her.”
Landcross breathed in another long breath. “I understand. I am truly sorry, lad. I understand where your loathing stems from. C’mon, we ought to crack on and get to London so you can be reunited with your mum before she goes mad with worry.”
* * *
When they reached the encampment, they learned that everyone was packed and ready to move on. Pierce was passing Diana’s family wagon on his way to Lada and her grandson, Abram’s, wagon when something odd caught his eye.
Diana sat on the steps behind the wagon, twisting a tiny screw into a strange metal insect with a turn screw. Beside her was a tool bag. Diana held the metal insect close to her face as she tightened the screw on the front leg. Once it was secure, she returned her turn screw to the tool bag. She then cupped the insect in both hands and drew it close to her lips as though she were giving it a kiss. Her mouth moved, but her eyes were closed.
Pierce couldn’t help but be highly curious.
Then she opened her hands. Pierce nearly fell over when its legs twitched. Soon, it began scrambling about. After getting to its tiny feet, it positioned itself with front legs folded as if in prayer, its little noggin cocking from side to side as it glanced about with glass eyes.
The insect was constructed from different metal parts, such as severed key shafts bolted together to make the front legs, tin from a can cut out for the wings, brass metal for the rest of the legs and the perfectly sculpted pate, and a bullet for the body. It was certainly the most elaborate toy Pierce had ever seen, even by Indigo Peachtree’s standards.
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