“What do you think we do here, Min?” Joaquin cut in before Donaldson could answer, for the older man’s face had turned an apoplectic red at her exclamation. Her brother gestured to the lavish furniture around them, then picked up the silver teapot to refill his chinaware cup. “Crime has paid for all of this. If the blunt didn’t come from the sods at the tables, it came from the jobs pulled by my Kings. This is hardly the time for you to gain a sense of ethics.”
Quickly, for she felt as though it charred her fingers, Mina set the delicate tea cup she held onto the table. She scooted back against the cushions of the settee. That didn’t help – everywhere she looked in this house, there was some piece of finery that they didn’t deserve. A new reminder of the life she’d been born into, where their privilege over everyone else was assumed, because the Masons had continually been willing to step on others to get to the top.
“You always said you don’t allow cheating at your establishments.” How pathetic and weak she sounded, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she could soften the blow of the truth through quiet.
“From the players.” Joaquin arched a brow at her, making it clear she was the worst of fools for not realizing this important distinction before. “The odds are always with the house. I don’t rig every game—what would keep the gulls coming back, if they perpetually lost? I let them win just enough to keep that fire in them.”
Oh, devil take me.
She’d never been allowed into the gaming hells when they were open. Joaquin had always claimed it was for her safety—he didn’t want her exposed to the type of people that frequented the hell. At the time, it hadn’t seemed worth fighting the edict. She had no desire to gamble, and her compliance allowed her freedom in other areas, like her visits to the Three Boars, or when she wanted to go the market with only her maid accompanying her.
But now…now she understood the real reason he hadn’t wanted her around.
Her hand shook as she held onto the arm of the settee. She didn’t dare look Joaquin in the eye, afraid she’d no longer recognize the elder brother she’d loved for nineteen years, despite his controlling impulses.
Again, she thought of Isaac. How battered he’d been. His horrible, hollow cough. The agony across his face as he bent over in that bow to her. She saw it all again, in devastating detail.
God, she should have known what her family was truly capable of.
Maybe she had known, but she’d refused to believe it.
Disgust at her willful ignorance flooded through her. She’d been to overlook the many rumors of sin attached to her family because she’d benefited from their crimes. Her life had been comfortable, so she’d grown complacent, never questioning. She’d justified all of their violence as gang-related and unable to be avoided, wanting to believe that each time they’d used force had been warranted by another’s actions.
No more. She held her chin up higher, looking Joaquin in the eye. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because women have no place in business.” Donaldson removed his spectacles from his coat pocket, placing them on his nose. His rheumy gaze, now too sharp as it focused in upon on her and only her, was a noose around her throat, tightening with each passing second.
She didn’t want to be a Mason anymore. And she sure as hell didn’t want to be a Donaldson.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Mason.” Donaldson paused, as if waiting for her to thank him for the compliment. When she opened her mouth to reply, something darker passed across his square, autocratic face, a hint of malice beneath the polished surface. “But beautiful women need to learn their place, too. Your brother assured me you’d have no problem with that.”
A chill ran down her spine at his tone. She’d been scared when Al McNair had leered at her and threatened to harm her. But McNair had been a foxed brute, defeated by Charlie.
Nigel Donaldson was much scarier—he had wealth, power, and the approval of her brothers.
He would not be punished for hurting her.
Hell, once they were married, in the eyes of the law he’d be right to punish her if she acted out of turn.
She sent an imploring look to Joaquin, even as Donaldson’s gaze beat down upon her. Please, she begged silently. Please don’t make me marry him.
Yet Joaquin’s face remained as impassive as ever as he crossed one long leg over the other, reclining against the settee imperially. It hit Mina, even before he spoke, that he’d never release her from this engagement.
“You’ll find Mina to be very agreeable,” he said, ignoring her quick intake of breath as she tried to no avail to release the knot forming in her throat. “I am certain that once she sees her new home, and the lifestyle afforded to her by your West London Life and Fire Assurance Company, she’ll have no further objections.”
“Very good then.” Donaldson’s gaze roved from the crown of Mina’s head to the tips of her slippers before centering on the décolletage on her bodice. “It is so hard to find a pure, innocent maiden of beauty in these parts.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Her skin stung as if he’d slapped her. Even with McNair bearing down upon her, she’d been able to try and think of how to brazen her way out of the threat.
Now, as dread rose in her throat, she could barely breathe.
Donaldson rose from his chair. “Shall we finalize our negotiations in your office? I have brought the contracts detailing the percentage you shall receive in West London.”
“Absolutely. I’ve received a perfectly aged bottle of Madeira that I think you’d enjoy.” Joaquin stood too, holding up his hand to stop her when she tried to follow.
Donaldson ignored her. He’d made it quite clear where he thought her place was.
The two men left the room, their conversation filtering back to Mina as they strode toward her brother’s office. They’d begun to discuss the pretend meeting reports Donaldson had slipped to the papers to make his company look more legitimate. Soon, the door to Joaquin’s office closed, leaving her alone in silence.
She looked from the door to the window and back, panic clawing at her throat. If she fled, how long would it take before they noticed she was gone? At this hour, probably not long. She’d thought herself confined before, but at least she’d believed in her family. She’d been able to see the outside world through the gaps in the bars of her cage.
But if she married Donaldson, she might as well be in Newgate. It did not matter how nice and expensive the prison was—it was still prison.
This life is about power and retribution.
She’d heard Joaquin say that so many, many times. But she’d never thought about the full meaning of the words—about the sheer ruthlessness with which he set down his enemies. To her, he was the brother who had taught her how to shoot a flintlock pistol; the brother who’d made sure she received proper schooling after their father passed.
None of that mattered now. Not if it meant she’d have to become Mrs. Donaldson, an accomplice to a fiend so eagerly stripping away people’s wealth with false promises of security. She had enough blood on her hands already.
How could she possibly save herself? She had no money of her own, and no marketable skills. And if she did try to run, Joaquin would surely find her. He wouldn’t risk the payday that Donaldson’s business promised.
Unless…
Unless Donaldson no longer wanted to marry her. His words echoed in her mind as an idea began to form. It is so hard to find an innocent maid. If she was no longer a virgin, she wouldn’t be a prize to him any longer. She’d be spoiled, sullied by another man. Not a suitable trophy at all.
And there was only one man she’d trust to ruin her.
She’d have to convince Charlie to help her, even if he wouldn’t offer for her afterward. If it meant she faced life as a spinster, then so be it. At least she’d have the memories of one night with Charlie to content her.
Chapter 8
It was not the first time Mina had sneaked out of the house, but
it was the first time she’d done so wearing clothes filched from Cyrus’s valet’s closet. Desperate times, she thought, called for desperate measures—like stuffing newspapers into the valet’s boots so that she could walk, and binding her breasts with a ream of cotton. The valet was a few inches taller than her, and about her weight, so she appeared like a lean, rather short, boy.
As long as no one looked too closely at her, and she didn’t stand under any gas lamps.
She threw the boots out the window first, watching to make sure no one came to investigate the sound. When no one did, she swung her leg over the window ledge in her bedroom. As she climbed down the great oak tree outside, she said a silent prayer of thanks for whatever gardener had originally installed this convenient escape.
She swung down off the last branch, landing hard on the street below and almost falling forward into a pile of excrement left by one of the many stray dogs roaming Stepney Green. Joaquin claimed the dogs kept the property safe, so he’d never made any attempts to remove them. Such was his benevolence—extending only to animals, and not willful sisters who didn’t want any part in his criminal enterprises.
Mina checked that her hair was still bound up underneath the jaunty hat she’d stolen from the valet and tugged on the brim. Pulled low over her eyes, the hat hid the feminine lines of her face, scrubbed free of any trace of cosmetics.
But one thing remained before her disguise was complete: dirt, and lots of it. Her clothes were too clean; her flesh too pasty for her to look like a young cub searching the streets for his next mark. Bending down, she scooped up some mud and sniffed it—one could never be too careful, as the streets of London were lined with all sorts of refuse. She patted the mud on her cheeks, then her coat and breeches. She shook off the excess dirt, leaving only the stubbornest mud clinging to her. Turning around, she eyed herself in the first floor conservatory window, satisfied with the results.
Now to get through the back gate without being identified by one of Joaquin’s guards. When she was younger, she’d bribed them with an apple or a tuppence to look the other way as she met Charlie in the courtyard behind the house. Back then, when the truce had been in full effect, Joaquin had not amassed such power—and Charlie hadn’t been a threat. He’d been a boy, with no wealth or stature of his own, too trivial to be considered by her brothers. If only she could go back in time to those days, when she’d felt the tiniest taste of freedom and acceptance.
But no amount of wishing would change reality rearing its ugly, horned head. Only action could change her future. She’d always preferred that to leaving someone else in control of her fate, anyhow.
With a determined nod, Mina set off toward the gate, her pace slow due to the cumbersome boots. This was not ideal, but it did give her some time to review her plan. She knew the exact moment the guards would change shifts. As she crossed under the cover of the trees in the south garden, their thick boughs keeping her shadowed from view, she watched the gate intently, waiting for the right moment. She’d have to keep track of the passing time by counting, because she couldn’t risk stepping out into the moonlight too soon. She pulled off the boots, knowing they’d be a hindrance to her flight.
She’d counted to one hundred when the guard pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He turned to say something to his companion. A moment later, another set of guards appeared to confer about the shift before taking over. With the guards distracted, Mina sprinted toward the gate, boots in hand.
She made it within a hair’s breadth, for as she darted out the gate and underneath the awning of the nearby chandler’s shop, the first set of guards turned to leave. She stayed still, until they pivoted to face the south garden.
Mina leaned back against the shop window, catching her breath. A beggar sprawled out in the doorway of the dolly shop across the street regarded with her open curiosity as she slid her feet back into the boots. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and he could barely hold up his head long enough to follow her motions. Figuring he wouldn’t remember her—or anything else—in the morning, she tipped her hat to him. He tried to respond before remembering he didn’t have a hat on. Instead, with a lopsided grin, he raised his empty bottle of blue ruin in salute to her. She stifled a laugh and set off down the road.
The twenty-minute walk from Kings territory in Stepney Green to Chapman-owned Ratcliffe passed without incident. Mina kept to the heaviest trafficked streets, blending in with the crowd. She kept her head down, her fingers curled around the handle of the knife she’d taken from Cyrus’s cadre of weapons. She knew how to use it—Cyrus had taught her that early on, in case she ever needed to defend herself—but she’d never had cause to do so.
These back alleys had looked so vibrant and alive when she’d been with Charlie or one of Joaquin’s guards. Now, as she slunk along the darkened path to the Three Boars, every shadow seemed like an attacker, eager to finish what McNair had started. She forced herself to keep moving, mentally replaying that conversation with Donaldson to remind her of her purpose.
The Three Boars shone brightly in the distance, candlelight streaming from the windows as a steady influx of people streamed from the public house. At three in the morning, the bar had just closed. Charlie would be inside, cleaning up after the night’s rowdiest patrons.
Mina rechecked her cap, yanked the brim down lower, and joined the flow of people heading toward the rear of the building. She parted from them at the rickety stairs going up the side of the building. With rusted railings and narrow steps, it appeared to be standing through only the grace of God. Yet she’d seen Charlie use the stairs before, and he was twice her size.
She’d have to have faith.
Swallowing down her doubts, Mina put one foot on the step, then the other. She didn’t want to take her boots off and attract more attention, so she made slow but noiseless progress. Until her foot slipped and banged against the iron stair. The clamor carried down to the alley below, and a few people looked up with mild interest, but when there was no repetition of the sound they returned back to their conversations.
Mina let out a sigh of relief, pressing her hand to her heart. She climbed the rest of the way to Charlie’s second-story room, hoping he hadn’t locked his window. She didn’t want to stand out there half the night, waiting for him to arrive.
Luck was with her. The window slid open with ease. She levered herself onto the sill, swinging one leg onto the floor.
She was about to swing her other leg over when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, pulling her over the edge and into the room. Her scream fell short as the cold blade of a knife pressed into her throat. Any thought of defending herself with Cyrus’s blade shorted as she stood there in the man’s hold, praying he didn’t dig the knife in.
Charlie had been expecting something like this. Zacharias had granted him a second chance, but the rest of the gang viewed him as a traitor, which they’d made perfectly clear in the last week with their sharp remarks and glares. He’d managed to avoid fisticuffs so far, but he’d known—like he knew that Mina was safer without him in her life, no matter how fiercely her absence twisted up his insides—he couldn’t avoid the beatings forever.
But he’d be damned if he went down without a fight.
He was up and out of his chair the second he heard the clatter on the stairs, pulling his knife from the sheath at his side. There was another in the lining of his boot, just in case. A man could never be too careful in Ratcliffe.
In four paces, he was across the room, hidden against the wall beside the window, waiting for the attacker to make an appearance. Time ticked by slowly, his breath held, knife poised.
Then sure enough, a man poked his head in through the window. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie placed him as short and thin—an adolescent, most likely, trying to win favor with the other gang members by taking him out.
Fool cub, to think those men wouldn’t turn on him as they had Charlie.
The boy threw one spindly leg over the window-
frame, teetering on the edge, half in and half out. Seizing this moment of imbalance, Charlie lunged for him, grabbing his coat and lugging him fully into the room. He thrust the kid against the wall, using his superior height and weight to hold him there. Before the boy could get his bearings, Charlie had the knife positioned against his throat.
Fright made the boy’s bottom lip tremble. His eyes were probably wide with terror too, but his hat had fallen down low across his brow during the scuffle so Charlie couldn’t be certain.
“What were you thinkin’, you colt-bowler?” He hissed, the tip of his blade right above the assailant’s jugular. “I was gonna lie down and let you take me?”
The boy kept still underneath his grip, not willing to move lest the knife come into contact with his tender skin. Good. Let the cub worry what he’d do next. They both knew he’d been bested, and why he’d come there. It was unbecoming for a man to beg for leniency.
So when the boy opened his mouth to speak, Charlie’s eyes narrowed. And when he heard “Charlie, please—” from a voice he’d recognize in a crowd of dozens, he sprung back from the boy in shock.
No, not a boy.
Mina.
Now free to move, she swept her hat off, her black hair tumbling down her shoulders. His breath caught in his throat, not just from the magnificent sight of her hair unbound and wild, but from sheer disbelief that she was here. In his flat. Dressed as a boy.
He stood there for a solid minute, his mouth agape, staring at her. The candlelight silhouetted her pretty features, smudged with dirt. The clothes she wore were too large for her, hanging slack off her svelte curves—curves he’d felt pressed up against every inch of him, curves he damn well should have recognized.
“Minnie,” he managed to rasp out, sheathing his knife. “What in the bloody blue blazes are you doin’ here?”
She stepped away from the wall, coming to take a seat on the straw pallet he used as a bed. His bed. Where she had no business being.
When a Rogue Falls Page 18
