by Shirl Henke
"Alexander Blackthorne, madam." He sketched a bow with a smile dazzling enough to soften a brass doorknob. "I'm here to call upon Miss Woodbridge and the reverend."
"Cor, are ye now," Aunt Regina said as his charm worked its usual magic. Patting her wig, she graced him with an exceedingly uncharacteristic simper. "Ye'd be the gentl'man Joss first met at the docks. She told me all about ye, she did. Come in my best private dining room and I'll fetch some refreshment. Would ye care for—"
Her effusive hospitality was interrupted by a loud screech and a series of low raspy barks. Then a blur of yellow fur streaked past her feet with a brindle dog in swift pursuit. Feline and canine circled the public room twice. The cat overturned a teapot when it leaped across a table. Barreling after it, the dog knocked aside several chairs in his path, then toppled a small table sending dishes, cups and flatware clattering to the floor.
"Out, out, ye hound of the Apocalypse! Look at the fine mess!" the old woman shrieked, seizing a broom from the corner.
"Oh, no, Poc. Not again! Please don't hurt him, Aunt Regina. Poc, come here, you naughty boy, come," Joss commanded firmly. Abruptly abandoning his chase of the stray cat, Poc obediently trotted up to her and sat while Aunt Regina used the broom to chase his prey out the front door.
"Are you always in the thick of battle, Miss Woodbridge, or does it occur only when I happen in the vicinity?" Alex queried from the sidelines, where he had watched the spectacle.
Joss turned with a startled gasp. "Alex! I mean, Mr.
Blackthorne—I didn't see you—what are you doing here?" I'm babbling like a schoolroom miss.
"I came to pay a social call on a friend and to see how her patient is faring," he replied, looking down at the dog. "I see he's mended rather well."
"Thanks to you, Mr. Blackthorne. Your grandmother's herbal remedies are quite remarkable. Poc was up and about in a matter of days."
"Poc?" he asked. The terrier's tail began to thump against the rug excitedly.
"A shortened version of Apocalypse, a name I fear he's earned every day since coming to live with us." Joss cast a placating smile in Aunt Regina's direction. The old woman muttered to herself as she swept up broken crockery. "I must help clean up this mess. Please do have a seat in the back and I shall join you shortly," she said, gesturing to the open door into a private dining area.
Alex shook his head. "Since I am in some measure responsible for unleashing the Apocalypse on this household, please allow me to help you," he replied, walking over to where Mrs. Gower was plying her broom.
With a few economical movements he returned the table and chairs to their proper positions while Joss and Aunt Regina disposed of the broken dishes. If Poc was in any way abashed by his earlier destructive behavior, he did not show it as he followed them into the back room.
"I'll fetch some tea and the plum cake cook baked this morning," the old woman said as she scurried out after providing herself an excuse to return and eavesdrop.
"I assume by the way he obeys you that you've had no trouble with this fellow," Alex said, kneeling down and patting his knee for the dog to approach.
"Not at all. It's just as I said. He loves people and he's the finest ratter Aunt Regina's ever had at the inn. That's why she puts up with his ... er, playfulness."
Poc trotted up to Alex, his tail wagging with delight.
"You are a fine fellow, aren't you? Do you remember me, eh?"
As Alex made friends with Poc, Joss observed his natural way with animals. She was certain it extended as well to virtually all the humans he met. The crusty old landlady had certainly been won over. While he was occupied with the dog, Joss allowed her eyes to feast on him for a moment, noting his elegant cutaway jacket and faultlessly tied cravat.
He looked a perfect macaroni. She had heard snippets of gossip in the dining room about the scandalous young American who had taken London's elite and the demimonde by storm. She had hoped he would call, yet feared it, too. Falling under the spell of a man like Alex Blackthorne was sheer folly for a nonpareil, worse for the likes of a tabby such as she.
Laughing, Alex thumped the terrier several times, then stood up as Joss said, "My father is out. He'll be sorry to have missed your visit, Mr. Blackthorne."
"After all the mayhem we've survived together, Miss Woodbridge, don't you think it fitting we dispense with surnames? After all, we did agree to be friends, did we not? Please, call me Alex."
She returned his smile self-consciously. "Then I am Jo- celyn—Joss is what Papa and most everyone calls me. That is, those who don't call me bird-witted, bluestocking, long Meg or cow-handed holy Hannah."
He whooped with laughter. "Believe me, I've been called worse names on this side of the Atlantic and the other as well."
"Well, to me you've been a guardian angel."
He continued chuckling and said wryly, "A pretty wicked angel, I fear, Joss."
"I've heard rumors to that effect, sirrah," she replied merrily. "Perhaps it's as well Papa isn't here, else he'd have us all three on our knees in prayer for your immortal soul."
"We'd have sore knees in vain, I fear. It's too beautiful a day to waste indoors petitioning the Almighty for a lost cause. Come take a ride in my new chaise instead."
"You tempt me, Alex, but I'm already late for a meeting and then I'm expected at hospital."
"Ye should go, gel. Do ye a world of good to get out. Of course, ye'd need a chaperone ...," Aunt Regina added coyly as she waddled into the room, carrying a tray with the plum cake, a pot of tea and three cups.
"Stuff. I'm scarcely a belle on the marriage mart," Joss said to the old woman, all the while stifling a laugh at the look of horror that had flashed across Alex's face when Aunt Regina made her suggestion. "I go unchaperoned to schools and hospitals, the homes of the poor. Why, last week I even entered a flash house by myself."
"A flash house?" Alex's face darkened. "You could've been killed."
"There was not a boy in the awful place above the age of twelve," she retorted.
"That's more than old enough to do you grave injury. What on earth were you doing in such a place?"
"Searching for a five-year-old boy named Billy Jenkins. He'd run away from a brutal monster of a sweepmaster to whom he'd been sold by his mother for a bottle of gin."
"Old Madam Geneva's been the curse of poor folk," Aunt Regina inteijected piously.
Alex shook his head in resignation. "I can see there is no hope of stopping your attempts to save the world. Your guardian angel must be run ragged."
"As must yours, for different reasons, I warrant," Joss replied dryly.
"If I cannot induce you to take a pleasure ride, then at least allow me to drive you to your meeting, wherever it may be."
"At the Widow Alsworth's home. The Bible society meets there every Tuesday at one o'clock. Would you like to join us?" some imp prompted her to ask.
Alex laughed. "I'd as soon spend a week in the stocks, thank you all the same." Turning to Aunt Regina, he smiled and said, "Although I do thank you for your gracious hospitality, dear lady, I must decline the tea and cake. After all, we wouldn't want to have Miss Woodbridge late for her meeting, now, would we?"
"My cook's always got a pot of tea brewing and summat in the oven. Ye just come call another time, Mr. Blackthorne," the old woman replied as Alex took Joss's arm to escort her out. When Poc raised his muzzle to sniff the warm plum cake, Regina snatched it away. "Just try it, ye moldering rat catcher, and I'll have cook spit ye over the hearth for tonight's dinner!"
* * * *
The room was packed with people, most either hunched over gaming tables or standing behind the players, avidly watching the contests. Hazard, Macao, whist, faro. Whatever manner the patrons chose to be parted from their blunt, they found it in gaming hells such as Wheatie's. The stakes were high, but life was quite cheap in this neighborhood.
Situated in a lower class area noted for prostitution, high crime rates and low numbers of watchmen on duty, Whea
tie's drew cold-eyed professional gamblers from all sorts of unsavory backgrounds to rub elbows quite literally with the more reckless and adventurous young bucks of the ton. Alex found the aura of greed and danger stimulating. There were no social niceties to be observed at Wheatie's, but there was sufficient of the ready to be won—if a player was skilled or lucky.
He was both—at least as long as he remained sober, which he usually managed to do. Tonight, however, was an exception. He had imbibed enough champagne at a dinner party to gain a head start on euphoria before setting out with his friend Puck Forrester and cousin, the young Viscount Chitchester.
Sobriety had deserted him, but not luck. Were he in full possession of his faculties, Alex would never have chosen hazard, a game involving little skill. Nor would he have wagered so heavily.
A pert little doxy whose scarlet hair bore no resemblance to any color on nature's palette offered to blow on the dice for him. How could a gentleman refuse, even if she did work for the house? Alex nodded to the croupier seated opposite him across the large green baize expanse of the oval table. The burly man's nose was bent to the left, doubtless a mark of his previous profession—prizefighter. Many of the rougher gambling hells in the district were staffed by such bully boys. Bent Nose grinned, displaying what few yellowed teeth former opponents had left him.
"Well, now, gents, our young American cock o' th' game 'ere would like to try 'is 'and. 'Ere you be, gov. You're the caster."
Alex tossed a twenty-pound note into the betting circle. He knew it was not uncommon for a man to wager his coat, boots, even his breeches in shady places such as this. The redhead blew a kiss in the direction of the dice box for luck before he rolled the dice out onto the green felt.
Wagers on the game escalated all around him as he began a steady winning streak. Among the crowd was a small, dapper-looking young man faultlessly turned out comme Beau. Languidly he extracted a twenty-pound note and bet on Alex. Then he carefully removed an exquisite ivory inlaid snuff box from his jacket and took a precise pinch, placing it upon the back of a snowy white lace-cuffed wrist. As he waited for Alex to roll, he inhaled delicately.
Alex could hear the muttering from the shadows as side bets were placed. This was becoming very interesting. He could feel the dandy's cool green eyes on him, filled with lazy amusement while the doxy once more did her "kiss."
He shook the box and rolled, winning again.
The bent-nosed croupier's expression darkened ominously as the muted voices in the crowd began to rise.
At that point Chitchester stumbled up from the whist tables where he had succeeded in losing his last farthing. Making his way across the crowded room, he tried to elbow a path to view Alex's play, jostling the green-eyed dandy in the midst of another snuff taking. "I say, old chap, can't you make a bit of space for me?" he asked thickly.
Raising his thin blade of a nose, the dandy surveyed the crowded table. "Space would certainly have to be made since none exists," he drawled. A few of the better sort chuckled at the bon mot as the quipster shrugged and stepped over, allowing Chitchester to observe the ongoing contest.
The incredible streak of wins continued for Alex, as did the steady stream of gin the redhead considerately poured for him. The droll little dandy played against Alex for a few more of the escalating bets, then retired from the fray saying, "Dame Fortune, sir, is running high with you this night. I would be beetle-headed indeed to further provoke her."
When Alex nodded and resumed his roll, the dandy began placing wagers on Alex with other onlookers around the table. Inhaling snuff indolently, he observed the scene around him, seeming to enjoy the spectacle of drunken lordlings jostled by profane lightermen while deft-fingered cutpurses lifted what the luck of the gaming tables left the players.
"Dem, if you'll not have cause to be purse-proud by night's end," Chitchester cried with a distinctly inebriated burp as his American cousin won another pass. The hour was growing late and Puck Forrester had abandoned them in a funk after losing seven straight hands of whist. The Viscount wove precariously back and forth, fading fast. Before long he took his leave after borrowing enough from Alex for hansom fare.
Alex was nearly as drunk as his cousin, but he'd been seasoned enough by backcountry Georgia whiskey to conceal his state better. Still it was getting devilish tricky reading the dice and the croupier was growing more hostile with every pass the house lost.
"You lose, gov," Bent Nose said triumphantly, quickly reaching out with his stick to snatch up the dice.
Before he could touch them, the dandy's slender hand snaked out and snatched the stick with lightning dexterity, inches from the tabletop. "I believe you've misread the dice, old chap."
Chill green eyes met surly black ones for a pregnant moment. In spite of his slight stature, something in the dandy's manner gave the heavyset croupier pause. "Blimey, yer right. Light's failin' me eyes."
"Mine as well," Alex said, nodding appreciatively to the slender young man. "I'm obliged to you, sir. Alex Blackthorne, late of the sovereign state of Georgia."
"Alvin Frances Edward Drummond, your servant, sir. My friends call me Drum. My enemies have other names for me," he added with a pleasant smile at Broken Nose. "I give you leave to be a friend if you will," he said to Alex.
"Drum," Alex responded with a grin while the redhead pouted prettily, holding the box of dice for him, already blessed.
The game resumed with no further attempts by the croupier to cheat, although he did change dice several times in a vain attempt to stop Alex's winning streak.
Finally, with nearly fifteen hundred pounds in the betting circle, Wheatie himself sidled up to Alex. A short pudgy fellow, Freddie Wheaton was balding with an excess of bushy eyebrows set over small beady eyes that glowed with avarice. His little round mouth curved in an oily, insincere smile as he placed one stubby-fingered hand on Alex's coat sleeve.
"I 'ate ta break up yer string o' luck, gov, but this 'ere's a workin' man's gamin' 'ouse. These stakes is too 'igh by 'alf fer me 'n my reglars ta stand."
The loud babel of voices rose in cacophony, some angry at having the excitement curtailed, others pleased to see the toff put to finish.
Sensing the mood of much of the crowd, Alex shrugged. "It is late and I'm having almost as much difficulty as your croupier reading the dice." Scooping up his winnings, he stuffed twenty- and fifty-pound notes inelegantly into his coat pockets, handing the redhead a generous fistful for her diligence.
"I 'ave a place, duckie, right 'round the corner," she whispered conspiratorially, clinging to him like a limpet.
As his state of inebriation increased, his standards of female comeliness declined. So did his judgment. Alex accepted her offer and they wove their way through the crowd, pausing long enough for the young American to offer his card to Drum, who was languidly lifting his wrist with another pinch of snuff.
The dandy accepted it, noting the Caruthers's city house address with a raised eyebrow as Alex vanished out the door.
The chill night air hit him like a nor'easter washing across the deck of one of his father's sailing ships. Alex took a deep breath and looked down at his companion, whose unruly scarlet locks looked ink black in the moonight. "Whish way, my lovely?"
She giggled coyly. "Just 'round that corner, luv," she replied, tugging him toward a narrow walkway between two tall buildings.
After spending his boyhood and youth hunting with the Muskogee, Alex had developed a sixth sense for stalking—and knowing when he was being stalked. Had he not consumed all that damnable champagne and gin, that sense would have been triggered well before he entered the passageway.
There were three of them from Wheatie's establishment. Alex snapped a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Bent Nose grinning evilly, slapping a truncheon across one meaty palm as he advanced on his prey from behind while his fellows blocked the opening to the next street. The alley was effectively sealed at both ends. The woman slipped behind Bent Nose and vanished like a wrait
h as soon as Alex turned around.
Cursing his own stupidity, Alex inhaled cold air in a vain attempt to clear his head while it still rested on his shoulders. Pure reflex led him to extract the blade from his boot. The sight of it gleaming in the moonlight stopped the croupier's advance.
"Now, gov, alls we want is th' blunt. 'And it over 'n no one gets 'urt." The malice glittering in his eyes belied the statement.
Alex cursed silently. He had not carried his pistol this evening because it created a noticeable bulge in his new jacket. So much for sartorial splendor. He'd be lucky to get out of this alley without these pug-uglies creating a bulge on his skull... or worse. He glided closer to the ringleader, feinting with his blade. "Out of my way and you can keep your liver."
Swearing, the boxer swung his truncheon, missing Alex's head by inches but coming down on his shoulder with a nasty whack that numbed his left arm. Alex barely managed to hold on to his knife. Quickly he raised his right arm to block the second blow, smashing his foe's arm against the brick wall. The truncheon went flying from the croupier's hand but he yanked a stiletto from his waistband just as Alex moved in with his knife.
The two men wrestled, blades locked, turning in the narrow confines of the alley. Alex could hear the other two men coming up behind him and tried in vain to twist around, placing Bent Nose between himself and them. Suddenly he felt the icy hot slice of steel in his back as one of the men cried, "I 'ave 'im, Jackie!"
Before he went down, Alex swept his foot behind the croupier's knee and shoved hard, then turned, slashing out in the opposite direction with his blade. He sliced the second thief's throat cleanly. As the man gurgled and dropped, Bent Nose recovered his footing and started to lunge in for the kill.
Alex could do nothing to stop him since he was engaged in dealing with the third assailant. Just as he slipped in beneath the thug's blade and drove his own home, he felt the hot breath of death coming up behind him. The wound in his back burned like liquid fire and he could feel the wet stickiness of his own blood rolling down his breeches. Got to turn around and face him. Everything began to fade. He knew he was done for as his knees started to buckle.
