The dinner jacket he wore was not the same as that expected above the drift, but it was more than I expected of him. The tailored fit of it across those shoulders, snug against his torso and fitted just so at the narrow waist drew my eye with unerring precision.
He had always looked the very personification of tempter in the Menagerie, outfitted in design similar to fashion’s upper echelon but with colors much more vivid than any gentleman’s attire. His role as ringmaster had demanded no less.
The once I’d seen Hawke above the drift, he had sported apparel of a fascinating appearance. He had danced with me at a masquerade—by very nature of the event, the sort of thing one did not wear the usual fashions to.
Yet as he faced me, as the ambient bustle of my household faded around me, I could not help the thought that as ringmaster, Hawke was deviously attractive. As the beast he’d become, there was an instinct that drew me to him.
As a man on the brink of respectability, with his dinner jacket and trousers and thin necktie, he was devastating.
His eyes held mine, such sensation carried on a stare that he could have reached out to capture my face in his palms and I would have barely noted the difference.
He pressed a hand to his chest and sketched for me the most sardonic of bows.
If he did touch me, I would burn—even through the layers forced upon me by fashion’s dictates. I knew this as certainly as I could feel the throbbing pressure of my own hungry thoughts.
He did not speak. Nor did I, for I wasn’t certain what I was meant to say. Were Hawke anyone else, I might have attempted the idle chatter that so punctuated these moments.
Instead, my heart clamored to be released of the vise his presence made of my corseted ribs.
In the faintest acknowledgement of whatever it was he saw within me, a corner of his deeply sculpted mouth turned up. All that he was spoke of menace with every breath; yet this was Hawke, after all, and I expected nothing less.
Even that river of blue in his eye, devilish bright, seemed all the more expressive for his apparent taming.
I forced my feet to carry me across the floor. My throat ached with all the things I could have said—the compliments that sprang to my scattered mind. I did not say them.
I was no fawning miss, to pant for the ringmaster who no longer was.
Instead, as I offered a hand for him to take—a gentlemanly gesture I knew was not beyond him—my lips became a smile, and my voice husky reproach. “You are fooling no one, you know.”
Ah, I was right. As his hand came to rest under mine, his bare fingers grazed my gloved palm and sent a current of electricity through me. “What makes you think I care?”
His lips touched the back of my hand.
It seared. I shuddered. “’Fess up,” I managed, a fair enough attempt at amused bravado. “What wager did you lose to find yourself forced to my company?”
His breath was hot through my glove. His eyes slid up to meet mine from beneath his ever so charming bent head. “Do not flatter yourself.”
“I have no need to subject myself to flattery,” I retorted, withdrawing my hand lest his touch sear it black. I turned my back upon him, a terrible discourtesy, and found Booth waiting at my usual seat.
“Coward.” Hawke’s murmur was not so loud that it might reach any other ears than mine. I hesitated upon my step, wondering what face he would show me if I spun to look.
Amusement?
Reproach?
Or the severe intensity that made me wonder how deeply he hungered, and for what it was he hungered for?
My shoulders squared. “Thank you, Booth,” I said, deliberately cheerful as my butler helped me to sit. Zylphia was so cared for, as well. Hawke remained standing.
I was deucedly aware of his gaze as I engaged Zylphia on the subject of the night’s meal. She had never before tasted it.
Soon enough, Ashmore escorted Fanny into the dining room—unsurprised, I noted, to find Hawke there. With due course, Fanny was seated with similar lack of surprise, and the gentlemen took their places.
So this little gathering had been decided by everyone but me, had it?
Manipulators. The lot of them.
That Fanny was at one end and Ashmore the other was a matter of over-courtesy on my part. I could not bring myself to sit at the head of the table, though my title all but demanded it.
As far as I was concerned, Ashmore was the true guardian of this family, and Fanny the matron who would never cede her role—not if I had anything to say of it.
Unfortunately, that left fairly limited places for guests.
Hawke sat between myself and Fanny. Zylphia occupied the other side, apparently unconcerned with my silent stares—she could have offered Hawke a place beside her, but the woman clearly enjoyed my discomfort. Her amusement all but rippled across the table.
When I was sure none was looking, I stuck my tongue out in childish dismay.
Zylphia’s laughter was as lovely as she was, all melodious bells and husky refrain.
Perhaps it was that, a simple gesture of comfort and joy, that eased some of my tension. Perhaps it helped that Ashmore was a gentleman, and skilled at the art of conversation.
Or perhaps it was, after all, the rightness I felt at that table as Booth came round with cold soup for starter and the bustle of the kitchen peppered the evening.
While Hawke’s intensity did not lessen, the care with which he noted Fanny’s presence plucked at something deep within me—a fragile little feeling that Hawke often engendered.
Not because he went out of his way, but because he didn’t.
Without counseling from me, without any apparent ulterior motive to win my affections—such as they were—I watched the tension carved into his face soften as he spoke with my older companion. He engaged her seriously, over such topics as pleased her—he knew rather more of trivial matters than I thought. She, ever the hostess, responded to his conversation with a warmth that surprised me deeply.
There was civility, and there was sincerity, and something about the once ringmaster evoked the latter.
To think that he cared enough to amuse her.
“You are smiling.”
Ashmore’s voice at my right earned me a sudden wash of mortification—I was smiling, wasn’t I? Like a bleeding tart caught mooning over a farmboy.
I wiped it from my face and left instead cool disdain. “I was not.”
Ashmore’s smile claimed he knew otherwise. His fork clinked against his plate, half cleared of the main course Booth had brought in. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Of course,” he agreed amicably.
I barely resisted the urge to pull another face. “Don’t get overly confident just because you think me stumped on lessons.”
“Never,” Ashmore demurred.
Certainly, Caeles-Isiswas among the most complicated of the Trumps I’d attempted so far. Ashmore would not allow me the attempt to call upon it until I had demonstrated a thorough understanding of its symbolism.
Lessons had, of course, been fraught with writing.
At least supper provided cramping fingers a break. We ate leisurely, companionably— and if Hawke and I exchanged only the barest of civilities, I did not care enough to risk the effort for more. I was already unbalanced by his presence. It felt…nice having him here. Right, in an awkward way. He did not fit as a perfect glove, but he suited the odd gathering of friends and family.
A peculiar feeling, by any stretch.
Our home was not so large that we could comfortably ascribe to the notion that gentlemen and ladies part ways after supper. Nor was I inclined to tolerate such malarkey. There was nothing the men could speak of that I couldn’t match, after all.
Yet there were matters we needed to address that could not include Fanny.
For that reason, those of us in the know maintained the façade—or perhaps simply relished the comfort found during that warm supper—until the hall clock chimed six times
and Fanny claimed it was time for her retirement.
Somewhat earlier than usual, but certainly acceptable given our means. If we still lived above, we would both be expected to linger long past midnight, and wake only after noon.
The denizens of the city under those glittering eaves raised so high operated on a completely different schedule.
We bid Fanny goodnight, and I pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sweetest of dreams.”
She touched my face with a delicate hand. “Are you feeling well, my dove?”
“A bit of an ache about the head,” I said, clasping her hand between mine. “Nothing rest won’t cure.”
“Your cheeks are red.” She squeezed my hand. “Be careful,” she added, firm enough that the inner student she had made of me stiffened in acknowledgement of an order sternly given.
To dissemble would only do us both a disservice. She knew as well as I that there were plans afoot tonight. “I promise,” was all I said.
It seemed enough. Though worry did pinch the corners of her mouth, she smiled. Her faded blue eyes crinkled with it, deep furrows carved by age and care. As she made her way upstairs, Mrs. Booth followed her.
I did not know where Booth was offhand, but I suspected he’d be close enough to be of service. Like good butlers of any distinction, he had a near uncanny ability to pop up when he was needed. Levi had returned home shortly before supper, but he ate in the kitchens. He’d find bed soon, for an apprentice’s life started with the dawn.
I rejoined my companions in the parlor to find Ashmore had broken into his good stock. That he’d shared his libations with Hawke might have been something of an agreement between men. I doubted it was overly friendly. The fact they once more occupied opposite sides of the room made that clear enough.
Zylphia sat in her own chair, hands laced over her belly as though the growing swell was something of a burden. I had no doubt it was. Soon enough, we’d have to alter her dresses.
“If you’d be so kind,” I announced, earning the attention of three sets of eyes. “’Tis time we talk of our plans. Shall we go over what it is we know and expect?”
My tutor’s attentiveness was steady. I could always count on him for common sense.
Zylphia’s gaze was a little more tired than I was acclimated to seeing, but I suspected her energies flagged with the child she carried. She had always been clever, and through her, I’d ascertain Communion’s interests.
I was not inclined to anger the Bakers. Though Ishmael and I were mates, the Bakers and I had only managed a thin understanding. We deemed it best to stay out of Baker matters until they could regroup from the Ferrymen attacks that had thinned their ranks.
She would inform me if I strayed too close to the crew’s concerns.
Hawke, watching me like a feline might a particularly juicy rodent, could not be trusted to mind his tongue—not where I was concerned. Where Ashmore was like to understand a certain amount of risk involved in my affairs, Hawke would argue me blue and still manhandle me into obedience.
I had learned—far too late—that he did so for my own protection. It had cost him in standing and freedom, but the fact of his aggression remained.
He would not know compromise if it came at him in bloomers and danced a bloody jig.
I had no choice but to rely on overbearing confidence to see my plans through. “We believe that whatever thief braved the Jewel House, he will take the Koh-i-Noor to the Underground. The ghost market might be housing the wealthy employer of our collector.”
“And if not?” Hawke asked. A blunt enough question.
“Then I have no doubt that someone there will know more,” I replied. “The originator of the demand may not be in residence, but a man intending to facilitate the transaction might. Regardless, someone there will know something.”
Hawke did not argue this for the same reason that Zylphia nodded in simple acceptance. For the right price, near anything could be acquired through the Underground.
“If we’re not dealing with a toff,” I added, bracing against the back of the empty sofa, “and I have some suspicion as to that—”
“Because the Underground strings them up right good,” Zylphia interjected, with slightly more relish than perhaps the subject deserved.
I waved it away with a rueful smile. “You’ve been spending too much time with Maddie Ruth.”
She didn’t deny it.
“However,” I said with care, “although the Underground typically loathe when toffs muck about in their business, they do make quite a lot of money from them wealthy enough to send agents to do their dickering for them. That means we can’t discount a well-heeled thumb upon the problem.”
“Wise,” Ashmore said. “’Tis likely we shall find an informant who can at least point us in the right direction.”
“We will need trade for it,” Hawke said flatly. “Pound for pound, flesh or coin.”
“Or even favor,” Ashmore added.
“We will be forced to negotiate, ’tis true,” I said. “But we won’t know for what until we know what exactly we’re looking for. A diamond is one matter, the thief another, and the motive a third. Each might very well lead us in a different direction. So let’s start by finding a guide, shall we?”
Hawke studied me over the rim of his snifter. “And the dogs?”
There was a challenge if I’d ever heard one.
I straightened. “Of course, we believe the Ferrymen dogs have gone Underground.”
“That alone makes this endeavor a dangerous one,” Zylphia pointed out.
“Not alone,” Ashmore corrected.
“Near enough as to make no difference,” she sniffed. “The Underground’s got fists and shanks, but the dogs have tooth and claw and a madness runs deep. Don’t count on people around to save you from one if they get your scent.”
Of course, we didn’t expect the dogs to know we were coming. As a rule, the gangs stayed out of the Underground—nasty as the Ferrymen were, even without the serum that had twisted them, there were them Underground what made a gang’s shankers look like children playing with sticks.
I nodded solemnly. “And that’s something to consider,” I said. Ashmore’s gaze sharpened on me. “If the gangs usually stay out of the Underground, then who among them is sheltering the Ferrymen? Are they hoping none will take note?”
“A good question,” Hawke acknowledged. Damn my internals for shivering all delighted at what I heard as a compliment.
“What’s to keep them from turning against you?” Zylphia asked.
I assumed she meant the general populace of the Underground. “Ashmore will have to refrain from his ever so educated dialect,” I replied, smiling when his gaze turned to the ceiling in a display of exasperation. “But all in all, collectors come and go when they’ve guides and reason.” I patted my hands together, as though I’d done a job well. True enough that I had, even though it were done in years past. “I’ve never been accosted once, coming or going. If we obey the parlance of the Underground, little should change.”
“Nevertheless,” Hawke cut in, “we’ll go prepared for a fight.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “How else does one enter the Underground?”
“Dead,” Zylphia volunteered.
A muscle jumped in Hawke’s jaw; surprising me, for I’d done nothing to get his goat this time.
“Or snatched,” Ashmore added.
Hawke drained the last of his glass. “Or lured to a trap,” he finished, a harsh rasp. Well. Not even I could argue with that.
Chapter Eight
The entrance to the Thames Tunnel was a dual arch carved into a leveled facing, with stairs leading down to the shafts. According to the schedule, the Wapping train had already left for Rotherhithe. We would be free to traverse the tunnel for some time.
Come evening, the trains ferrying passengers rather than stock slowed. It was as good a time to brave the tunnel as any.
So it was that four souls stole into the Thames Tunne
l, not much more to make of us than a hunched guide with a blackened smile, two taller blokes of confident stride and the shorter urchin that was all I passed for. While there was no real reason for Ashmore and Hawke to hide their features, we all agreed to go with as little overt distinction as possible.
I’d once more taken my hair black with a thick coating of soot from the fireplace, and pinned it into a crown I could fit under my street boy’s cap. My togs were plain and patchy, and the bit of chill to the spring night seemed oddly heavy when caught by the fog that swirled around us.
Strapped to my thighs, out in the open where any might see, I carried two blades. Ashmore was not quite so obvious, but I knew his coat masked a brace of pistols.
If Hawke carried any weapons, he did not share that knowledge with me.
Given the strength with which I had seen him act, I doubted that he would need any. Still, the fine tenets of control he exerted over the thing within him could not possibly respond well to violence. A weapon—a pistol, perhaps—might be better for him than any acts of physical prowess.
It was too late to consider this now.
Our guide went by the name of Saltlick Sims—a moniker earned whilst manning a sailing ship in his youth. He’d developed a habit of licking blocks of the stuff, as though it were sugar.
Of my three guides, he was the only who still lingered about. As I’d expected, one of my past guides had gone toes-up. The other had not been at her usuals.
He strode into the yawning mouth of the Thames River Tunnel without halt or hitch. He was a hunched figure of a man, with stringy black hair gone gray from age or coating of heavens knew what, and eyes so pale as to look nearly diamond white in the dark.
When he laughed—and he laughed often—it was as dull knives scraped over rusted iron.
He chuckled now as the coal-black smoke pouring out of the tunnel swallowed him. The sound carried back in muffled echoes.
Sweat dampened my face. No doubt it turned the skin along my forehead and cheeks into a blackened smear. I had not developed the resistance to the fog that them what had been born and bred within it had, and so I often struggled not to clear my throat. Such a sound was as like as declaring one’s self ripe for plucking.
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