Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  He stepped back and regarded the scene with a frown, then shook his head and moved Harrington’s glass of wine just next to one outstretched hand. With a fingertip, he gently toppled the glass, sending a spill of wine across the desk.

  Roffe stepped back, turned full circle to take in the entire room, and gave a satisfied nod.

  “Run along home now, Catherine,” he said. “I’ll join you there shortly.”

  Chapter 22

  At first Cat froze as Roffe spoke to her — or, perhaps, she was already frozen in place from the horror of watching him kill Lord Harrington. Then she fled — from being found out, from what she’d seen, and from the chilling implications of what she’d heard.

  She leapt up, flung herself over the balcony rail, and barely felt the stones of the manor wall as she descended. Later she’d remember it almost as a fall, where she’d only grasp a foot or hand hold briefly to slow herself.

  Once on the ground, she ran swiftly for the wall, making no attempt at stealth or concealment. It was by luck, more than design, that she found the tree with the overhanging branch, clambered up it oblivious to the scraping of the bark her haste caused, and dropped to the other side of the wall.

  She paused then, back to the wall, a bit out of breath from her run. The street was deserted, it being so late, but she could hear the clop-clop-clop of a horse in the distance. The fog had thickened, leaving a yellowish globe of light around each streetlamp, but much of the rest in shadows as the mist seemed to eat the lamplight.

  Cat took a moment, trying to think. Roffe was not what he’d said — not a thief at all, but some sort of hired killer.

  It wasn’t the death that bothered her, she’d seen death before. Waking up to a dead beggar on the street outside wasn’t uncommon; she’d seen men and boys beaten to death by her gang and others, even a pair of her own gang, older then, but remembered, taken up and hanged at Newgate — and hadn’t that been the last joke for them to see their old mates picking pockets in the crowd as they were set to do the dance.

  No, it wasn’t the death.

  It was the coldness of it. And, truth to tell, the hiring of it. There was something about that which frightened her far more than the bloodiest brawl she’d ever witnessed.

  The crack of a branch sounded from within the walls and Cat was off again.

  Roffe hadn’t sounded angry, not as he had in the Mechanicals Room, but she didn’t want to see him — not until she’d had time to think, that is. Perhaps not ever again.

  She ran, not really knowing where, until a pain in her side made her come panting to a stop.

  One hand clutching her side, the other bracing herself against the wall of an alley, she felt she’d finally had distance enough, or was exhausted enough, to stop. She looked around, finding something familiar about the place, and realized with a start that she must have run instinctively to someplace she felt safe — the alley behind her old gang’s hidey-hole.

  Some part of her must have been guiding her path, thinking to take her someplace safe. This alley, and their flop in the abandoned building, had been such a place — safe … once. No longer though. She wasn’t safe here or from her former gang — if they recognized her, Brandt had sworn to kill her; if they didn’t, then she was an interloper and they’d deal with that. Either way this was no safe place for her any longer.

  “Told you I heard a noise.”

  The voice behind her made Cat spin around.

  Brandt was there. A year older, and bigger — Cat was surprised he was still part of the gang and hadn’t moved up to run with the older boys. But then Brandt had always liked to be in charge. It wasn’t surprising that he’d hang on to the place where he was the biggest and strongest and could be the leader for as long as possible.

  “Get him,” Brandt said.

  In the shadows of the alley, Brandt must not have recognized her. She was taller now, and with longer hair than she’d kept while in the gang, and she had the skirts of her rooftop garb bound up so that she must appear to be a boy of about Brandt’s age in the darkness.

  The shadows moved all around her. Cat had been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Brandt and the others approach. Now the gang came out of the alley’s shadows — all the little dark places made by the abandoned boxes and barrels and other trash. They surrounded her and hands grabbed at her. She struggled, but she was tired from her run and confused by what she’d seen, so her heart wasn’t in it.

  “Hey!” Osraed called as his hands grasped at something he recognized despite Cat having little of it. “It’s a girl!”

  Cat’s mind focused then and she struggled for real. She’d seen what happened to girls caught out by one of the gangs, even her own. The younger members wouldn’t take part, but those who’d gotten older — Brandt, Dome, and even Osraed — would.

  “Hold her!” Dome yelled.

  She almost broke free of Osraed, but Dome’s grip on her other arm tightened and he jerked her about. Other boys from the gang rushed in and grasped at her as well. There were simply too many of them for her to break their grip and escape.

  “Brandt, it’s me!” she tried, hoping that the surprise of seeing their old mate once again might get her freed. “It’s Cat, don’t do this!”

  “Cat?” Brandt stepped in front of her, squinting at her face in the dim light.

  Osraed and Dome held her arms tightly, not letting go at all, and someone had a hold of her from behind, his arm snaked around her neck. Even with what Clanton had taught her of rough and tumble fighting and what Roffe had shown her of his own methods, they were too many and had too tight a grip for her to break free.

  “Runt?” Brandt asked, looking closer. His face grew puzzled, then he reached out to grasp her chest, probing and squeezing cruelly. “Why you —” His hand moved to between her legs, grasping there, but finding nothing.

  “A girl all them years?” he asked. He lashed out to slap her across the face. “You lying bitch.”

  “Cat?” Osraed murmured.

  “It’s me, Osraed,” Cat whispered back. “Please don’t do this, I can explain. I —”

  “Thievin’ and lyin’?” Osraed’s voice was soft and full of hurt. “All them years you were a girl and lyin’ to your mates like that?”

  “Put her on the ground, lads. She lied and kept me from havin’ a taste while she ran with us, I’ll have it now,” Brandt said, stepping back. His hands went to his breeches. “On the ground now.”

  Hands pawed at her, feet kicked her legs out from under her, and she went to the hard cobbles of the alleyway. Then there were more hands pulling at her clothes, exposing her to the chill, damp air. She struggled and might have got in a few good blows, but there were too many for her to fight off. There was pain everywhere as they struck at her in return — a blow to her head that dazed her, the sharp piecing of a bit of glass underneath her.

  She screamed — not that she thought anyone would come to help, that sort of thing didn’t happen in this neighborhood, but because she had to.

  A hand covered her mouth and she managed to bite it, but then it was replaced with a bit of cloth, stuffed in and held in place.

  Brandt’s weight came on top of her, his face near hers and his breath rank and hot against her cheek.

  He grunted, shifting atop her as she struggled. His knees forced her legs apart and she felt the slimy water of the alley’s floor on her bare skin.

  “Stay still, damn you!”

  Brandt rose up and struck her in the face, knocking her head back against the cobbles and dazing her.

  Cat struggled against the haze to open her eyes, struggled against leaden limbs to strike out at her attackers, struggled to twist herself away from his probing weight, but her vision blurred and her eyelids drooped. She forced them open, saw Brandt smile as she stilled, then saw him look up, past her down the alleyway, and frown.

  Chapter 23

  Cat jerked awake, heart pounding in her chest. She flung herself from her bed to
put her back to the wall, eyes taking in the room — her room. Her room at the townhouse.

  She took a deep breath, calming herself. Memories of the night before coming back in fits and jerks. Her head pounded and ached, and her body was bruised and battered, but she did remember bits of it after Brandt’s last blow.

  Brandt looking up and then something striking him and knocking him away. The other boys, as well, scrambling to their feet. They released her, but she could do no more than roll to her side and try to crawl through the chill muck of the alley toward the nearest wall and some sort of shelter.

  Then there were new hands on her and she batted them away, but they persisted. Lifted her, flung her over a shoulder with less care than would be given a sack of potatoes, and carried her away.

  It must have been Clanton, she decided. Followed me and came to rescue.

  That made sense.

  She was still dressed in the clothes from last night, her roof-running garb of green and grey. The trousers were pulled up, but loosely tied. They’d slid down to her hips as she left the bed, so she pulled them up and tied them tighter, then straightened from the half-crouch she’d taken in her initial fright.

  Another deep breath calmed her, then another and she was almost able to think straight.

  There was what she should do, now that she knew Roffe’s true calling — and what he would do, now that he knew she knew.

  Cat considered that.

  He might throw her out. She should run, herself.

  She wanted no part of that game, killing for hire, no matter the wealth it might have brought Roffe, but where was she to go? She had nothing save what he provided.

  No, that wasn’t quite true — she had the skills she’d learned. He might have provided them, but he couldn’t take them away. The lock-picking, the woodcraft, the fighting skills —

  Which would have stood her in good stead last night if only she’d kept her wits about her and not been grabbed so unawares, something she vowed to never allow again.

  Even Hinds’ teachings were valuable. She could move, at least for a time, in nearly any level of society thanks to that.

  All of those were hers now and she could make a decent life as a thief, no matter if she fled Roffe.

  She frowned.

  What would Roffe do, though, now she knew his secret?

  He wouldn’t just let her go — he had some plan for her, she was certain — but, neither, did she think he’d harm her. He’d not seemed angry at her being outside the window where he’d killed that man — only … amused? Amused, and told her to run along home.

  So, she might still have a place here, if she wanted it — which she didn’t. But she didn’t think she was in any immediate danger from Roffe.

  There was a noise from elsewhere in the house, so Clanton must be at home. That and the sudden rumbling of her stomach decided her — whatever she did, even run, she’d want a full stomach for it.

  She left her room — changing to other clothing could wait. Clanton wouldn’t be offended by the faint stench of alley still on her, and she was too hungry to care. The teachings of her time on the streets were still with her, at least in that — food first, if you can, and all else can wait.

  Downstairs, though, was no Clanton, and neither in the kitchen. No food, either, as though he’d not made or not yet returned from his morning trip to the local pub. She checked the time and found it not so late that she should be certain he’d have returned, so perhaps the noise she’d heard had been him going out for it.

  Then the noise came again — from upstairs.

  “Clanton?” she called.

  He didn’t often go upstairs, save to her rooms, so she should have passed him on her way down.

  Another sound, a dull thump, and this from up the stairs again — which would make it from Roffe’s rooms, where Clanton never went at all if Roffe was not about.

  “Clanton?”

  No answer and that settled Cat on the source of the noises. It must be Roffe, decided to stay the night in his rooms and deal with her.

  “Mister Roffe?”

  There was no answer, so Cat climbed the stairs. She might as well face him now as later, and see what he had in mind for her.

  The door to Roffe’s room was open. The curtains were pulled tight against the morning sun, but a fire burned in the hearth, casting light and shadows equally throughout the room.

  “Mister Roffe?” she tried again.

  No answer, so she went to the doorway.

  The thumping must have been Roffe moving the furniture about. The two wing-backed chairs and their round table, which normally sat against the wall, had been moved to the foot of the bed facing the portrait. A bottle and glasses sat on the table and Roffe, face hidden by the deep wings, but recognizable by the same clothes he’d worn the night before, sat in the far chair.

  “Come in and have a seat, Catherine, I’m certain you have questions.”

  Cat entered the room. She walked to where she could see Roffe’s face, but didn’t sit. He didn’t seem angry — only still amused, with a wry grin, but also melancholy, as shown by the set of his eyes.

  “A seat, I said, and a drink if you like.”

  “It’s a bit early,” Cat said.

  She sat, but kept to the edge of her seat. The chairs were positioned so that she couldn’t see Roffe without leaning forward and turning her head, the chairs’ wings blocked him from view, but she could see the portrait quite well right in front of her.

  “There are some mornings it’s never too early, don’t you think?” Roffe asked. He raised his own glass and sipped at it. “It’ll settle your nerves after last night — and I don’t offer this brandy often, so you’ll not wish to miss your chance.”

  Cat took up the empty glass and the decanter to pour herself a bit. She set the decanter down and sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the burn.

  This is somehow special?

  The first sip burned at a cut on her lip from the night before, and another inside her cheek, and she almost spit it out, but it traced a line of fire down her chest and settled in her stomach where it kindled a deeper warmth. She took a long breath. The drink did relax her, so she took another sip.

  “She ran too, you know,” Roffe said, gesturing to the portrait with his glass.

  “Your brother’s wife?”

  “Oh, now, Catherine, you’re more perceptive than that — don’t disappoint me so.”

  Cat nodded. She settled further back in the chair, allowing herself to relax. Roffe seemed in a talkative mood, not angry at all, so she might find out enough of his plans for her now to make her own plans to leave. Perhaps even not right away — there was food enough here, after all, and a place to sleep. More to learn, she was certain, if she could stomach being around Roffe for the time it took, and all she could learn might help her make her own way.

  And there was Emma.

  That thought surprised her, and Cat struggled for a moment with the implications. Could she leave the other girl behind? No, she couldn’t — she had to admit, at least to herself, that she truly did love her.

  That … complicated things.

  Roffe seemed to be awaiting an answer, so Cat studied the portrait. She’d wondered more than once why a man might keep a portrait of his brother’s family in so prominent a place. Roffe’s admission that there was more to it made her think.

  Perhaps Roffe himself had been in love with the woman but she’d chosen his brother? That had an appropriately tragic ring to it, given Roffe’s line of work. Some conflict where the brother died, perhaps at Roffe’s hand …

  But, no, she thought it must be simpler than that. Roffe was not, in her experience, so convoluted as all that. The man simply lied when it suited him, and this bit about the brother’s family seemed like such a time.

  “Not your brother’s,” Cat said.

  “There you go,” Roffe said.

  “She ran, you said?”

  “I met her in Dublin. There on business
. Aideen — it means little fire, and she certainly was.” Roffe sighed. “I never had any bloody intention of marrying, you understand, it’s … not recommended in my line of work.”

  Cat could hear the wry grin in his words despite not being able to see his face. She remained silent through a long pause, waiting for Roffe to say more.

  “She stole my heart,” Roffe said, “much as I stole her father’s life. She never learned that, of course. Might have suspected it in the end, but I never leave any proof behind, so …”

  Roffe leaned forward to take up the bottle and refill his glass.

  “Don’t put the bottle so far back,” he said.

  “You killed her father?” Cat asked.

  “Oh, all right, let’s get to that.” Roffe sat back again. “As you discovered last evening, I kill people.” He paused for a moment. “For money, if you were at all uncertain.”

  The blunt and unashamed statement of it took Cat by surprise, though, on reflection, she wasn’t sure why it should. Roffe had never shown her a bit of shame or embarrassment at any of his actions, so why should this be any different?

  “Before you go on with some sort of judgment of it,” Roffe went on, “I’ll remind you that you were quite all right, enthusiastic even, about the prospect of joining me when you thought it was thievery I was about.”

  “That’s —”

  “A life is just another form of property, Catherine, there for the taking. Do you honestly suppose that a man whose name makes it to my ear is not deserving of what I’ll bring to him? Would you suggest that the world is somehow made lesser, being now bereft of Lord Harrington? The man was a vile, foul villain — a blackmailer and worse. There’re a dozen or more fine citizens of our city cheering his demise at this very moment. They wake to learn that they are free of his depredations and rejoice.”

  “And yet, she ran,” Cat said.

  Roffe sighed, a long, drawn out affair.

  “She ran,” he allowed. “I had a mere two years with my little fire, then the babe was born. She changed after that — became more … cautious, is perhaps the term. I was blind to her suspicions and careless. She confronted me not long after this portrait was completed. I denied it, of course, but I could see her suspicions were not allayed.” Roffe paused and Cat could hear him drink. “Ah, Aideen, my little fire … she was gone within the year along with the babe.”