by Merry Farmer
“It was David, not me.” Lionel’s pale face flushed scarlet.
“Yes, and where is your delightful partner this morning?” Everett asked, full of innuendo, one eyebrow arched.
“David is not—” Lionel huffed through his nose. “We are not—” He crossed his arms, his face going redder, if that were possible. “He’s seeing to arrangements to get Alistair and Joe home as quickly as possible,” he finished, jaw clenched. “So we can locate the man with the lion.”
“I’ve already located the man with the lion.” Everett crossed his arms in imitation of Lionel, trying to make himself taller. Lionel had a good two inches on him, even with the thick-heeled shoes Everett wore, but he could create the illusion of height.
“And, of course, you just assume you are right.” Lionel rolled his eyes.
“What’s this about a man with a lion?” Cristofori rose from his seat and walked around the table to join them. He exchanged a wary look with Wrexham, as if the two of them knew it was their responsibility to prevent any more fur from flying.
Wrexham shifted uneasily—and adorably—checking briefly with Lionel and then Everett, who nodded, before turning to Cristofori. “We have reason to believe that the leader of the child kidnapping ring we’ve been seeking to bring to justice is a man with a lion, possibly a lion tattoo.”
“Barnaby Adler—a man who we already know is involved in the ring—has a tattoo of a lion on his chest,” Everett added. “And I know where to find him.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Lionel muttered.
Cristofori glanced between Everett and Lionel with a frown. In spite of the fact that he and Everett were friends and in the process of collaborating on a future play, Everett had the disappointing feeling that Cristofori was about to side with Lionel. “What makes you think Adler is the man?” he asked.
Everett narrowed his eyes. There was something guarded in the way Cristofori asked the question, as though he knew something but didn’t want to speak up.
“Who else could it be?” he asked.
Lionel shook his head. “Men like Chisolm and Eastleigh would never stoop to take orders from a mere tradesman.”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen sons of the gentry stoop surprisingly low myself.” It was a cheap shot at Lionel, but Everett couldn’t resist. Lionel thought far too much of himself. Though he was certain Lionel thought the same about him.
Lionel’s eyes flared with ire to the point where they practically glowed with it. “I have been insulted enough for one morning,” he said with barely concealed rage. “I have important work to do. Work that does not involve chasing wild geese. Good day.” He nodded to Cristofori, then to Wrexham. “Good luck managing this arsehole.”
He stormed off before anyone else could steal the last word from him.
Everett wanted to groan and rub his eyes, both over Lionel’s pointless theatrics and to ease the throbbing that threatened to split his head open. “Does the club have any headache powder?” he asked Cristofori.
“I’ll get you some.” Cristofori patted his arm, then walked off.
That left Everett alone with Wrexham. He sent the man an apologetic look, then sank into the chair beside the place Wrexham had taken for himself. As Wrexham sat, Everett plucked a piece of bacon from his plate in an attempt to calm his upset stomach. Wrexham’s brow furrowed, and for a moment Everett believed his adorable officer might just punch him in the face.
“How were you possibly planning to eat that much food in one sitting?” Everett asked, letting his exhaustion seep into his voice. “A horse couldn’t eat that much in one go.”
“I—”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll plump up, and then I’ll have to roll you down the street as we search for Adler,” Everett went on.
Wrexham stared at him with a look that defied description. No one had ever looked at Everett that way before. It was equal parts indignation and bewilderment, as if the very idea of eating to the point of growing fat had never occurred to Wrexham. Everett answered Wrexham’s look by taking a spare fork from the place beside him at the table and digging into one of the three fried eggs on Wrexham’s plate.
“Share and share alike,” Everett said with his mouth full.
Wrexham watched him, tension rippling from his muscular body. Everett pretended to ignore it, though he could hardly taste the food for wondering what Wrexham was thinking. Slowly, Wrexham reached for his own fork and tucked into his meal, but that didn’t stop Everett from eating off the same plate. Or from noticing that Wrexham’s hand shook as he lifted a forkful of ham to his shapely mouth.
They finished half the plate in silence before Wrexham asked, “If you hate Lionel Mercer so much, why are you helping with his investigation?”
“I don’t hate him,” Everett said, continuing to eat without meeting Wrexham’s eyes. “I actually like him, if you can believe it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t bother tweaking his nose.”
Wrexham paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. “You two were lovers.”
Everett shrugged, regretting ever mentioning it. “Ages ago. It didn’t last. We’re both colossal pricks.” At last, he glanced to Wrexham, completely unsurprised to find a measure of envy in the man’s eyes. “One arrogant bastard in a relationship is quite enough. Two, and it becomes a war, not a love story.”
“Does Lionel know that?” Wrexham resumed eating.
Everett put his fork down with a sigh. There were only a few sausages left on the plate at any rate. “I have no idea what Lionel Mercer knows. I suspect that the bee he has up his bum right now has nothing to do with me and everything to do with David.”
Wrexham nodded slowly, as if considering that possibility.
Cristofori returned to the table with a glass of fizzing water. “Sorry. That took longer than I anticipated.” He handed the glass to Everett.
Food and Wrexham’s company had reduced Everett’s headache so much that the quick shot of medicine almost wasn’t needed, but he downed the glass in a few gulps.
“Niall, you are a king among men,” he said with a smile. He plunked the glass on the table, then stood, grabbing Wrexham’s sleeve to tug him to stand as well. “And now, we have a criminal mastermind to catch.”
Wrexham fumbled to his feet, eyeing the remaining sausage on the plate as though it were a lover’s cock that he was loath to leave behind. He hesitated, flinched toward it, hesitated again, then snatched the link up, moving it quickly to the small satchel attached to his belt. As he opened it, Everett caught sight of at least two rolls tucked inside.
He laughed before he could stop himself and clapped a hand on Wrexham’s shoulder. “Good Lord, man. It’s not as though you’re going to starve before luncheon.”
Wrexham looked at him with such offense that it was almost feral, as if he’d yanked his trousers down and exposed his most shameful secret to the entire room. He hid the sausage in his satchel then fastened the cover before turning to march away from the table.
“I’m sorry.” Everett jogged after him, the same sort of panic he’d felt the night before when Wrexham ran out on him nipping at his heels. “I don’t know what I said, but I didn’t mean it. It’s just this headache, and I didn’t sleep last night, and Lionel gets on my last nerve.”
It wasn’t until they were halfway across the room that Everett realized he was chasing after Wrexham. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d chased a man. He couldn’t remember wanting to.
Wrexham stopped in the doorway, turning to Everett with an expression every bit as weary as Everett felt. “It has nothing to do with you,” he mumbled.
For the life of him, Everett couldn’t comprehend why that simple statement wounded him so deeply.
“Come on,” he said, pushing forward and brushing Wrexham’s hand as he did. “Let’s go find Adler.”
Chapter 5
Patrick was certain from the moment he and Jewel alighted from their hired carriage and glanced around the bustling rush
of Batcliff Cross docks that they’d reached a dead end. He’d visited the second-rate dockyard several times in the last few weeks, including with Stephen Siddel a fortnight before. That final trip had revealed the scant evidence Siddel needed to prompt a trip north, to a mill in Leicestershire. Siddel and Lord Hillsboro had discovered dozens of children who had been forced into slavery at the mill and rescued them, but instinctively, Patrick felt that had been luck, and that Batcliff Cross had nothing more to offer.
“He must be lurking around here somewhere.” Jewel planted his hands on his hips and scanned the area as though he were a pirate captain glancing out over a sea full of possibilities. In spite of the wan cast to his face and the dark circles under his eyes that had nothing to do with the kohl painting them, his expression was full of fervent hope. It was a stark contrast to Patrick’s sense of foreboding. “We just have to find someone willing to ferret him out.”
Jewel strode forward as though he owned the place, radiating purpose. Patrick followed, eyeing him warily. It wasn’t just the futility of the search for Adler—or the difficulties of the investigation in general—that gnawed at him. Jewel had caught him at his absolute worst at the club. The man he adored, and would have slept with, if he weren’t such a coward, had laughed at him for stealing a sausage. Patrick was old friends with humiliation, but Jewel teasing him had been a new low. The man must think he was pathetic and common.
“Don’t trail behind me like that, man,” Jewel called over his shoulder, slowing his steps until Patrick caught up and walked by his side. “I don’t need a shadow, I need a—”
Patrick blinked, his brow twitching up as he waited for Jewel to say what he needed. He didn’t. Instead, Jewel pressed his lips tightly together and strode on in silence, his brow knitting. Patrick narrowed his eyes as he studied the man. Was he annoyed or merely tired? Was the flush that suddenly painted his face from exertion, or was he embarrassed to have Patrick with him? The more Patrick watched him, trying to read the man’s mood, the more puzzled he was.
“You there,” Jewel called out in a booming voice to a middle-aged man with a ledger in one hand. The man stood in the doorway of one of the warehouses near the waterfront, issuing orders to several younger dockworkers. “I have a question for you.”
Patrick winced at Jewel’s brash approach, especially when the man glanced his way in irritation. The man was clearly a manager, but that didn’t mean he would take well to being interrupted, particularly by someone dressed in a dark red jacket more suited to Drury Lane than London’s waterfront. It didn’t help that the manager’s expression darkened at the sight of Patrick’s uniform.
“I’ve already paid my dues this month,” the manager said, puffing himself up as Jewel approached, and gesturing for his workers to go about their business. “I won’t let Holcomb squeeze another shilling out of me.”
Patrick filed the name away, wondering if any of his colleagues in Scotland Yard might be able to use it in a racketeering investigation.
Jewel wasn’t so subtle. “What are you talking about, man?” He smiled and extended a hand as though meeting the Prime Minister. “I only have a question for you.”
The manager stared suspiciously at Jewel’s hand without taking it. He peeked at Patrick, then cleared his throat and stood straighter. “What question?” he asked Jewel.
“I’m looking for a man by the name of Barnaby Adler,” Jewel said, turning on his charm. “I’ve been told he’s staying somewhere in this area.”
“Never heard of him.” The manager turned away, stepping into the warehouse door.
“Are you certain?” Jewel hurried after him, his charming façade fading. “I have it on good authority he’s here somewhere.”
The manager shrugged. “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. I don’t have time to keep track of every Tom, Dick, or Harry who waltzes in and out of the place.”
Without so much as a good day, he disappeared into the warehouse.
“Hang on.” Jewel started after him, but Patrick grabbed his sleeve, stopping him from entering the warehouse.
“He isn’t going to tell you anything,” Patrick said.
Jewel scowled at Patrick’s hand on his sleeve. Patrick pulled away, which seemed to puncture whatever ire Jewel was holding onto. For a split-second, Jewel looked downright lost without Patrick’s hand on his arm.
A moment later, Jewel shook himself and stepped away from the warehouse. “How do you know he wouldn’t tell me anything? I’d hardly begun to ask.”
“He doesn’t know.” Patrick squared his shoulders, his years on the police force feeding his certainty. “He didn’t have that look about him.”
Jewel looked as though he would argue. Instead, he let out a breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “All right. Who does know, then?”
It would have been a ridiculous question, but for the fact that Jewel met his eyes as if he had complete faith that Patrick would know, or at least know how to find out. It was an odd sort of endorsement that nudged Patrick’s confidence in a useful direction.
“Never ask the managers,” he said, gesturing for Jewel to continue down the dock with him. “They have no incentive to reveal anything. Never ask the diligent workers either. They’re likely in their manager’s pockets.”
“Who can we ask?” Jewel lowered his voice, a light of conspiracy in his eyes.
Patrick glanced around, taking in the various strata of workers and hangers-on in the area. It was clear who was gainfully employed and who was there for less than savory activity. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to pick out the kind of sly loafer who would be willing to spill all manner of information if it meant a few coins or the coppers looking the other way at some point in the future by the way they stared at him. The trouble with having Jewel by his side was that everyone stared at them.
“Oy! I know you.” A woman who was probably far younger than her haggard appearance suggested pushed forward from the edge of an ally. She wore her skirt tucked up on one side, and her blouse was cut low enough to give away her profession. She approached Jewel with a rapt smile. “You’re that actor.”
As if by rote, Jewel stopped to flash a beaming smile at the woman, in spite of what she was. “Madam, I’m flattered to be recognized.” He strode toward her, taking her hand and raising it to his lips as though she were a duchess.
The whore giggled and blushed. “Blimey!”
Several other women of similar profession took notice and left their spots to come closer, eyes bright with recognition.
“I saw you in that musical review a couple years back,” one of them with ginger hair said. “You were lovely.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Jewel lit up at the praise. He moved from whore to whore, kissing their hands and treating them to lewd winks that had them all blushing like schoolgirls.
The more he fawned over them, the more attention he got—from passersby on the dock as well as from the whores. It was enough to send Patrick retreating to the shadows by the side of the building, as eager to observe where Jewel was going with his flattery as he was loath to have any attention drawn to himself.
“Ooh, I wish I had that broadside with me,” one of the older whores sighed as she clung to Jewel’s hand. “Nicked it from that theater where you did that Shakespeare play last year,” she admitted boldly. “I’d have you sign it, and then it’d be worth a pretty penny.”
“I wish you did have it.” Jewel smiled back at her. “I’d sign it in a heartbeat.”
The whores cooed and laughed over his generosity.
“My darlings,” Jewel went on, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”
“I’ll do you any favor you want, love,” the ginger whore said, rubbing his arm suggestively.
“No thanks, love. I like men.”
Patrick nearly choked at Jewel’s blunt statement, delivered so casually. He snapped straight, jerking his head this way and that to see if anyone had overheard. His pulse shot up so hard that it
left him sweating and breathless.
The whores merely hummed and grinned, surprised, but as if they couldn’t have cared less. “Me too, sweetheart,” the older one said.
Everybody laughed, even Jewel. Patrick could only stand there, gaping. It didn’t matter that they were at the docks, surrounded by the dregs of society. Any admission as bold as the one Jewel had just made could get men like them arrested and tossed in a cell to be forgotten. Jewel was either ballsy or an idiot.
“I’m looking for Barnaby Adler,” Jewel went on, leaning closer to the whores, as though they all shared in a conspiracy.
“Uff. What do you want a snake like him for?” the first whore asked.
“If it’s your cock you want sucked, it’s that sweet soul, Garrett, you want,” the older whore said.
“Oh, yes, Garrett.” The others all seemed to agree. They smiled and nodded to each other.
“He’s got such a lovely arse,” the ginger whore said fondly.
“No thanks, darling,” Jewel told her with a grin. “I never pay for cock. Too many bad memories, if you know what I mean.”
The whores answered him with another round of sympathetic coos and looks of adoration and sympathy. And knowing. Patrick’s gut knotted at the exchange—so seemingly gentle and friendly, but barely hiding a truth so dark it made him sick. His life had been bad enough, but the more time he spent with Jewel, the more he could see what lay beneath the layers of greasepaint and kohl.
Jewel reached into his pocket, taking out a large coin. “Give that to your Garrett for me.” He handed the coin to the oldest whore. “Tell him that if he wants out of the game, come to the Concord Theater and tell a Mr. Rice that Everett Jewel said to hire him as a sweeper.”
“Will do, love,” the older whore said, then patted Jewel on the cheek. “I knew you was a good ’un.”
Jewel rewarded her with a smile. “Now, about Adler,” he went on.
“That bastard ain’t here anymore,” the ginger whore said, her face pinching with hate. “Not since his lot raided the Nightingale.” She gestured to Patrick with her thumb.
