by Anne Mallory
His attention immediately pulled back to his surroundings when he saw the edges of the shapes moving down the street. His instincts had been correct. He wondered what had tipped off his enemies—their enemies, since the Merricks and Paces were now linked—their enemies, and wasn’t that just irony.
Twenty minutes later, he and his men finished incapacitating the last of the moving shadows outside of Phoebe Pace’s house. For a moment he thought he saw that same damn drape move. Pulling into the absolute darkness, he kept his gaze narrowed on the window for long minutes, but nothing happened.
A trick of the moon? The attacks had been noiseless. The torches had been easily snuffed before the attackers’ intentions had become obvious. And he never made the mistake of letting anyone see him.
Still, his gaze rested upon the window for far longer than necessary, once again.
He didn’t know what he expected. For the foolish woman to peer through? For her to lift up the pane and wave?
Tension thrummed through him, unabated by the fight. The extinguished torches at his feet smelled of oil and snuffed flame, curling through the air, making his eyes close for a moment.
When he opened them, he swore the drape had moved once more.
He cursed himself and whipped through the shadows, back to the East End of town. The house was safeguarded and would be safeguarded—a continual exchange of men to guard it—and so maybe now he could purge the damn woman and her damn smile from his mind.
Chapter 6
She was sitting in the seat on the other side of his desk the next morning, tilted toward the door, with the damn basket on her lap. The same one he had been haunted by for a week. Wearing the same smile he had been haunted by for months. He entered the room and quickly averted his gaze.
“Good morning, Mr. Merrick. You are looking fine this morning.”
He had passed the looking glass on the way here. He looked like the back alley—before it had been scrubbed. He had grabbed three hours of sleep after another assassination attempt, the burning of Building Seven at the docks, where his enemies had thought the Exchange records had been transferred, and the amusement outside her home. Last night’s assailants were down the street in one of his secure facilities, waiting for him to do with them as he willed.
Having in custody the men from her attack meant he had to do more questioning. He hated questioning. It meant speaking, and possibly having to change his clothes afterward. But he wasn’t going to trust the questioning to someone else—not on this.
And here Miss Bleeding Sunshine sat, looking as if just this morning she’d been attended by fairies, baked with elves, and had tea with a unicorn.
“What do you want?” he asked brusquely.
“I am here to offer my report and to share what I’ve been up to.” She extended the basket across his desk as he sat in his chair. “And to bring you these. The basket has been empty each night, so I hope you have been enjoying them.”
Of course the boys would have finished the treats after removing them. It was always their own choice whether to eat Andreas’s food.
He flipped open his ledger and looked at the tasks for the day. He wanted to scrub a hand over his face, but he pinned her with a dark look instead. “Well?”
“I am well, yes. Though we had a tough night. Fires, you know. And scuffles. And gunshots. All of London is on edge these days.”
He tried to keep loose. He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
She waved a hand. “Nothing of consequence.”
Fires, as in plural? He drummed his fingers on his desk. Don’t ask. “Fires?” Ass, cow, lips, shit.
“Yes.” She looked up and to the left. “I think there were three. One was quite concerning. The other two were fairly small.”
He usually left the discipline to Roman or Milton or One-eye, but all of the men who had watched her house last night after he’d left would be in for a trouser change at the very least.
She leaned toward him conspiratorially. “Our maid is interested in the neighbor’s footman. Quite a nice-looking fellow who has solid goals.”
Andreas stared at her wondering, not for the first time, what in the hell she was talking about.
And . . . she was still sitting across from him. He didn’t have any new scowls left. He had used up all of his fiercest ones with her, ones he hadn’t even had to use on his bitterest enemies, and to no avail. He was becoming a little concerned actually that he was . . . stuck with her. There was something about the set of her body that said she might be . . . permanent.
She nodded back sagely at whatever she read in his face. “She was watching him, dreaming, and she lit one of the drapes on fire with a collected candle that was not yet extinguished.”
It was as if she were encouraged by his responses, his general state of breathing. Because . . . when the hell had he ever been encouraging . . . ever? Getting rid of people had always been easy. A flick of a wrist or a dark scowl, and most people ran in the opposite direction.
“I see.” He wished he did.
She waved a hand. “The gunshots were farther away, thank goodness. The papers were full this morning of the events. Would you like me to summarize them?” She leaned forward, smiling, intent. Turning the full force of her bright gaze against him.
He concentrated on his desk for a moment and took a deep breath. He needed one in order to deal with the . . . disturbance . . . that was Phoebe Pace. “No.” He didn’t need to read the papers to know what had happened last night. “What do you have to report, Miss Pace, about the company and your maneuvers? That is why you are here.”
She seemed unfazed by his tone and change of topic. “Well, I wanted to stop by to see you too, of course.” That disturbance—located somewhere in his midsection—disturbed more. “But I do have events to report. I am meeting with a few investors and Lord Garrett’s assistant this afternoon. I will further negotiate with his assistant to withdraw his interest.”
It was what he had expected. Garrett was obviously expecting it as well, given the activities of the previous night. How had Garrett known, though? Was she naïve enough to have corresponded with him too? It had to have been in secret because otherwise his spies would have known.
That she might be secretly corresponding with Garrett disturbed him far more than it should. Further negotiate . . .
He narrowed his eyes at the tangent his brain had started to traverse. She had avoided talking about the fires quite skillfully. Planting little seedlings to lure his mind in other directions.
“You are meeting with Garrett’s lackey alone?”
“Lord Garrett, and no. Mr. Harris will be there, of course.”
“Your esteemed man of business.”
“You don’t approve.”
“Of spineless fools, who faint at the first sign of trouble? No.”
“Mr. Harris is quite quick with figures and—”
“And he knows you are fully running things and will accede to your wishes.”
Silence. “Don’t be silly. Of course I am not fully running things,” she said carefully.
“You should get another man of business.”
“Well, you see . . .” She trailed off as he pinned her with a dark look, coiled darkness easily gathering at the hesitation in her voice. Hesitation inconsistent with her previously displayed personality.
“He’s blackmailing you.” His response was flat.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Of course he is not. Mr. Harris just made a sensible suggestion yesterday that we have done well together so far, and talk would be to no one’s advantage.” Her shoulders gave a little droop under his steady gaze. “He is blackmailing us a bit, yes.”
One of the curls around her face seemed to droop along with her body. He looked down at his desk, unwilling to watch her. He was feeling quite violent. He had expected to put on a show for the captured arsonists down the street, but the rage was exceedingly fresh all of a sudden.
He kept his gaze fixed on the pape
rs on his desk. “Put off Garrett. Reschedule for tomorrow. I will take care of Mr. Harris.”
He should have gotten rid of the man already—he hadn’t trusted him on sight. Harris was undoubtedly the cause of the move last night. But Harris couldn’t have given away the ties between the Paces and Andreas yet—nor her visits here—or else other dominoes would have fallen on Andreas. But the man would. It would be only a matter of hours probably.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t. You’ve done so much to help already—”
“I dislike your Mr. Harris. I will take care of him one way or another. If you don’t want blood marring your front rug, you will put off the meeting until tomorrow.”
Silence. “You are quite unsettling at times, Mr. Merrick.”
“Good.”
“I do not wish Mr. Harris ill, despite his recent behavior. I will dismiss him myself.”
“Fine.” The man would be easy to find. He made a note in his margin.
“I will need a new man of business.”
“Undoubtedly.”
“I had hoped to discuss these issues with Mr. Fox. To see if he might help me locate a suitable replacement for a few weeks.”
Andreas single-mindedly concentrated on his papers and tried to blank his thoughts.
“ . . . yes . . .” she murmured. “That might work . . . just for today.” The baubles in her hair jingled, indicating a nod. “Very well. I believe I have the perfect man. You have helped me greatly.”
“Who—”
But she had risen already, baubles jingling merrily, causing him to look up to see her sunny smile blazing at him. “Thank you, Mr. Merrick.” She was out the door, wig in hand, before he could finish the question.
He wondered what she would do if he attached a leash to her collar next time she entered the room. No, he wanted her far away, not at his feet. Dammit.
He tapped his finger against the desk and looked at the basket sitting innocuously on his desk. “Hope you enjoy!” Another damn dog image alongside a waving girl.
What was with the dogs? And the merriment? And the smell of bloody biscuits haunting him all the damn time?
He stared at the basket.
He was hungry.
He drummed his fingers harder.
She had delivered them herself. And she was obviously trying to kill him in other ways. This way likely wasn’t quite twisted enough.
And they smelled . . . really good.
He tented the cover, long fingers slipping under the cloth and over a still-warm biscuit.
The fragrance emerged more strongly, now that it was freed from its binding. Smelling like her really, of warmth and honey and home. And secrets. Thrusting out, tugging one’s desire.
No. No.
He pulled his fingers back, empty, and forcefully pushed the basket away.
No bloody way was he eating one.
He pushed himself away from the desk and honeyed temptation. He needed to figure out what that blasted woman was planning.
Everything about her was driving him insane.
Chapter 7
Andreas watched from the shadows on the side of the house that belonged to Garrett’s solicitor. The windows were open, due to the heat, but he didn’t need to hear the overly husky voice to be fooled by the picture inside, no matter how unbelievable it was.
Good Lord, she was dangerous. And she didn’t dillydally. He would remember that for the future. He should have been a step ahead of this insanity instead of simply covering it as it happened, but it had only been three hours since she had been in his office. Not enough time for the men watching her to report back that she needed to be shot for her own good.
Rat shit. Had to be.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.” A short bow from the man who had entered the room. “I’m Mr. Harris.”
Johnson, Garrett’s assistant, arched a brow at the man, examining him from top to bottom, lingering on the thick glasses, the bushy mustache, and the traces of fallen powder on his shoulders. “Pardon me?”
“Mr. George Harris.” The man tapped his hand against the case he was carrying. “Mr. Thomas Harris’s brother, of course. He is indisposed and asked me to attend instead.”
“I see.” Johnson looked beyond irritated at the change.
“I will be replacing the other Mr. Harris as the Paces’ man of business, at least temporarily.” The new Mr. Harris waited patiently for Johnson to ask him to sit.
Johnson’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Mr. Harris’s indisposition is a matter of some delicacy. He required some time off to think over his future engagements.” The new Harris waved a hand in a far-too-feminine fashion. “He’s taking a respite in the country.”
Andreas had wondered. Obviously, Miss Pace had been intelligent enough—and far too compassionate—to warn the cretin. According to the original Harris’s neighbors, the man had sprinted from his house two hours ago carrying two bags only half an hour before Andreas’s men had arrived on his doorstep.
“I have a letter here from Mr. James Pace that gives me action on his account. Forgive me—I just left chambers and came directly here. I received a distressed note about the matter this morning, so it was a sudden change of appointment.”
Andreas wanted to see the new Mr. Harris write in a different script than James Pace. And he wanted to see James Pace write in a different script than Phoebe Pace.
Johnson was still too obviously irritated by the change though—a change that removed the old Harris, a player who had just been culled to Garrett’s court. Johnson was too irritated and thinking too hard about how to salvage matters to realize what was in front of him.
Johnson gave the new Harris an ingratiating smile. “Of course. But I’m a traditionalist and appreciate the old ways. Please, sit.” He looked at the paper Harris held. “Though I admit surprise that Miss Pace did not accompany you.”
“Yes. Had to convince her this was better.” Harris leaned forward. “Better off without the womenfolk.” He laughed heartily.
“Agreed,” Johnson answered, some of the tension leaving him as he spotted an opportunity. He gave Harris a meaningful look. “Going to have to nip that one in the bud.”
“Damn bluestockings. Just between us, I’m a bit concerned by the amount of leeway that female gets.”
Johnson relaxed further. “Too true, Mr. Harris. But Lord Garrett will bring her to heel.”
Harris raised a manly brow.
“Or his heir will. A good match there.” Johnson sneered.
Andreas’s fingers twisted around the branch. Johnson would require further watching.
Mr. Harris nodded briskly. “The young ones never know what’s best for them though.”
“Perhaps you might help her see the benefits of such an alliance. Miss Pace has been . . . rather dismissive of any marriage offers.”
“Rather silly of her.” Mr. Harris shook his head. “Everyone knows a woman requires a man to steer her on the correct path. That woman keenly needs a husband.”
Though shrouded in words that seemed serious, but were undoubtedly sarcastic, they underlined a mystery of the situation right from the horse’s mouth.
Phoebe Pace wasn’t stupid. Far from it, if rather unconventional. The matter of her motivation was key. The forgiveness of their debts had opened up a number of opportunities for her, not least of which was an increased opportunity to find a decent husband to help her.
One who would deal with the company’s issues and gain them a solvent path. A path that could be free from Garrett’s manipulations. But yet, was she out in the country trying? No, she was sitting in the room before him hidden behind a ridiculous amount of wig, overly bushy brows, and mustache. Powder and affect.
Another good question was why the clothes fit so well.
“Perhaps you can guide her.” Johnson was obviously feeling good about the new Mr. Harris. Andreas narrowed his eyes on her. She spun tales and made people see what she wanted them to.
“Perhaps. S
hall we proceed?” she said, trouser-clad legs spread at a ninety-degree angle. He stared for a moment, unable to help himself. “Pace & Co. of London finds itself with an influx of new capital.”
Johnson’s eye twitched. “And?”
She needed to be locked into a room. The key thrown away. If Johnson figured out who this Mr. Harris really was, Garrett would use the knowledge and ruin her without any effort.
Only a woman possessed of insanity or desperation took such risks. He wasn’t willing to let go of either explanation at the moment.
“The Paces have come up with some disturbing ideas of what to do with it. Unfortunately, I have little say in the matter as of yet.”
A gambit to keep the interaction between them friendly and turn the blame on the absent Miss Pace while hinting at the possibility that Mr. Harris might be able to help.
She was playing a deadly game, and he was again struck with the question—what did she know?
She put her hands on her thighs, elbows out.
Too forthright to be an actress, though someone had obviously schooled her. All of the reports of her lengthy visits to actresses at the Claremont Theatre and Covent Garden suddenly took on a new meaning that was not philanthropic in nature. Still, she was trying to display too many male mannerisms. Luckily for her, Johnson was too concerned with saving his own ass at the moment to notice.
“The Paces are decreasing outside investment to twenty percent. They plan to invest twenty thousand buying back shares.”
He could have shot himself in that moment—right after he shot her first. That moment of insanity—giving her those debts back—had allowed this to happen.
Garrett wanted that twenty thousand. It was evident in Johnson’s movements. They needed the Paces under their thumb. Andreas didn’t think Phoebe Pace knew quite how much. “How do the Paces find themselves with such capital? I had understood that they had gotten themselves too far in debt to do such a thing.”
“Harris” waved a hand. “Mr. Thomas Harris didn’t tell me. And that is not my concern at the moment. What is is your master’s interest in buying shares, which will be unavailable for a time.” She held up a piece of paper. “A joint meeting is to be held Friday a month from now, though. If you are interested in joining, all parties will be gathering. I have a feeling that you might be able to accomplish much at that meeting, given what I know from my brother, who informed me of much before his departure.” The last was said quite mildly.
