by Anne Mallory
And her subsequent actions all the more alarming.
She half expected him to be spotted at any moment. A cry erupting about an intruder. About her indiscretion. And yet the garden seemed void of anything but invited guests.
She smartly chose not to look too closely, for inspection would prompt her nemesis to do likewise.
“I smell something foul.”
“Yes, now that you are here, I do as well.” Charlotte rose, brushing her skirt.
Bethany’s fingers wrapped around her arm, clawing satin. “Soon, Chatsworth. Soon you will be naught but a distant, fond memory.”
“Oh?” She peeled the claws from her arm. “Are you leaving dear England?”
An ugly laugh issued. “You have been very fortunate so far, but no one is that perfect. You will slip. And I will be there to watch you fall.”
“I’m sure that you will,” Charlotte said simply, and stepped to the side. “You’ve always been a cockroach.”
She heard the murderous growl, but continued walking calmly along the path.
“Soon, Chatsworth,” the ugly voice called. “And the damage will be irreversible.”
Charlotte tried to shake off the portent. The echo of Roman’s promise, dangerous in a different way. Bethany’s tune had changed little. Why should she listen to her now?
Because you are skating the edge of ruin. Half-willing to shove yourself into the mill.
The dance floor was full, and she was happy to walk around it, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Not wanting to be trapped into a dance.
For there was no wild, drugging happiness to be found for her here on the floor. Merely political moves like the shifting of the chess pieces over a cold board. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had thought otherwise in this venue, but she remembered it in a secret part of her soul, a part that was yearning to bloom once more. That chaotic passion of youth.
The tendril of it peeking up and threatening to overtake her with its insanity.
She located the Downings. Leaning into each other. Blowing toward each other like trees in favorable winds. Charlotte’s smile stayed firm, and she kept her eyes on them instead of glancing back to the garden.
“Did anything of note take place before we arrived?” Miranda asked brightly.
Charlotte’s gaze strayed unwillingly, unwisely, watching the lights from the room bounce off the glass of the open doors. “No, nothing of importance.”
Bethany Case entered from the garden patio, her sickly sweet smile turned Charlotte’s way. Challenging. Promising that no good would come to her enemy.
And for the love of everything proper, a man who ruled part of the underworld had just been there, lounging in the fronds, touching her, drawing her steadily toward him, wanting. Collecting. Which meant he could show up anywhere, at any time. Soon. Could come to the next event and throw her over his shoulder and make off with her into the night.
“Well, perhaps we will have more luck at our next destination. You are going to the Slatterlys’?”
“Yes.” There was a low wall at the Slatterlys’. She bet Roman knew exactly how to hold her properly in order to scale it together.
“I must tell you all about—”
But Charlotte couldn’t concentrate on her friend’s words.
He could sate the edges of the bet in whatever form he found her. On a bench, on the grass, on the dance floor—dress skirts whirling above them as she arched beneath him. Her face wild and passionate, and nothing like what she saw in the cold reflection of her mirror.
“And then—”
A wild half-formed emotion rose within Charlotte, pushing at tight binds, trying to shred consequences. And she had to employ every tactic she possessed to cage and bind the feeling. To speak to and answer Miranda and Downing with calm precision. To dance with Trant. To behave as she ought to for the rest of the night.
But when she entered their rented carriage, two events later, at the end of the night’s festivities, it was to find a single Sainfoin conicle—red-veined and unusual—for it was far too early for said flowers to bloom—resting on the seat, a white pawn and note attached to the stem by a golden string. One word was scrawled upon the paper.
Soon.
Chapter 10
Roman tapped the note in his hand. Where could he leave this one? Heaven forbid he grow stale and repeat himself. Which eliminated a garden bench, her reticule, her carriage, a runner at the park, and down her décolletage—she’d squawked charmingly when he had pulled her into a back room at a charity event last eve and deposited that one.
By far it had been his favorite drop.
He wondered if he slid the folded paper into her stocking . . . would it count as duplication? It was technically up her dress, after all.
He twirled the paper fold around his fingers, playing with it. The game was heating up nicely.
On her pillow.
It was past time for that really. He’d get One-eye to identify her room. He couldn’t trust himself to do it, too liable to do something prematurely.
Removing himself from temptation’s grasp was the best way to control his impulsive nature.
Removing himself . . .
Like not playing cards with Bennett Chatsworth and Trant.
Like not recklessly cheating and putting their lives and livelihood at risk.
Like not thumbing his nose and taking the night with her anyway. A night that hadn’t been full of physical pleasure but had been awash in its own pleasure all the same. The pleasure of anticipation. The spark that maybe . . . maybe . . .
The spark that had already fanned into a flame.
Removing himself . . . A tight smile pulled his lips.
He had learned to listen to his gut. Yet even so, even to him, his list of temptation’s grasp and how he’d flung himself into it lately was long. And frequent.
And centered solely around one person. One woman.
He tapped the heavy stock against the desk he was reluctantly sitting behind. He hated desks, but they served a purpose. Proper and stiff. Expected.
He’d wait on the pillow.
A knock sounded on the door, and he called out for the person to enter.
Two boys entered the room. The first was scrawny and looked as if one stiff breeze would fell him. But his eyes were quick—as if he’d catch the signs of such a breeze before the current reached him. The other boy was larger, stockier in frame, but without the meat to be a true threat—yet. There was a hunched-in quality to his big shoulders and movements. A future glimpse of a hulking presence.
A quick glance at the two would have most people immediately claiming the first one as a small, fast messenger, and the other as brute force in the making. Only a deeper look would say otherwise.
The smaller one stared at him, lips pressed tightly together, a jagged scar crossing the length of his forehead. Roman would bet the age of the scar and the boy’s initiation to the streets coincided. Which one preceded the other would be the question.
The boy gripped his cap in his hands, twisting the cheap felt. A clear show of emotion in someone who didn’t have enough money to purchase a new one.
“There is no need to be nervous,” Roman said, keeping his voice even.
“Am not nervous,” came the mutinous reply. But small hands twisted again.
A little Andreas. A little One-eye. All ruffled pride.
“No?” Roman let his eyes pointedly stray to the cap.
Behind hollowed eyes, the boy looked irate. He squared up his shoulders, jutted out his chin, forced the cap to his side.
The other boy hunched, lips pressing, eyes wary. Waiting in reaction. Anticipating the kick. Knowing that one always came even if he didn’t deserve it.
A smaller Milton. A smaller Lefty. All extinguished hope.
Roman focused on the hunched, hulking boy for a moment, keeping his voice even and somewhat disinterested as he watched the exact way he twitched. “We have many posts open. On the floors, in the streets, as messenge
rs, in the classroom, in the kitchens, in the gardens—”
He smoothly followed the direction of the telltale sign of interest at the second to last. “We have posts for helping with the groceries, prepping supplies, learning how to cook—”
A twitch of life. Perfect.
He motioned to the larger boy. “Head down to the kitchen and speak with Henry the Henfisted. He’ll feed you and talk to you about opportunities. Peter will show you the way.”
The boy nodded quickly, not waiting for the offer to be withdrawn, and ducked through the door like a large wraith, seeking the boy in the hall who had brought them there.
The remaining boy fastened beady eyes on his. “You have posts open in the kitchens?”
But Roman could see the way the boy’s small body moved, the way the muscles of his face showed what he was thinking. Not that it was hard to deduce when one saw as many gaunt children as he did.
“Yes, but you can get something there to eat as soon as we are done—without pretending you want to work there.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed, yet he said nothing, watching, watching, watching, as Roman did to him, but without the added years, full stomach, and full sleep—well, full enough sleep—that Roman possessed. Still . . . smart, little, prideful beast. He’d have to keep him away from Andreas for a few weeks. His brother would kill the tiny bugger. Too much alike in disposition for his brother’s peace of mind.
Roman allowed the boy to take his measure for a few moments. To try to, at least.
He likely wouldn’t suss out exactly what this boy wanted yet. However, he could address an essential need. “Peter says you have a knack for thievery.”
The flat, sure look in the boy’s eyes said everything. “So’s what if I do? You gonna hire me out?”
“We don’t hire out, as such. Though Peter can tell you about what we do accomplish with men of your talent should you wish to pursue such paths. There are many. Thieves are especially good at catching other thieves.” Roman shrugged. “Or for pursuing their pure skill, if they wish. Did Peter tell you the rules?”
There weren’t many, but those they had were encased in iron.
The boy made a noise. “Yeah. We’ll see.”
And they would. Trust was hard wrought. Not every child—or man—wanted to play by someone else’s rules. But most of them did want somewhere to belong. A natural feeling of having a place. It’s what kept some so long in other situations—that they would lose their place in the world, even if that place was frightening or dangerous.
Roman gave the boy in front of him a fifty percent chance. There was brilliance there, but it would be the boy’s choice. And sometimes the past was too difficult for some to overcome.
“When Peter returns, tell him to take you to Milton. He’ll shore you up. He was a thief too before he became one of our managers.” He kept his eyes locked with the boy’s. Saw the glimpse of hope before it was ruthlessly squashed. He upped the boy’s chances to sixty.
“Yeah? How many people you send his way?” he challenged.
Fifty-five, if the boy couldn’t gain some control of his tongue. To know when to use it as a frontal assault and when to wait and lash from behind was an essential skill.
“Few.”
The boy’s eyes narrowed.
“It doesn’t matter if you believe me.” Roman shrugged, putting his elbow on the desk. God, he hated desks. So unnatural. “I’m neither stupid nor green to think you would. And you look neither of those things either. Meet the others. Talk to them. Live with them. See where you want to be.”
The boy’s eyes slipped, internal want showing through for a few precious milliseconds.
His score soared to seventy-five.
Belonging was also what kept the ranks together in their dysfunctional little empire. For internally it was a safe zone. The streets were still the streets, and sometimes things happened outside the walls, but the unit was fiercely loyal to itself and to them. It was a safer place to be and provided a haven where they could try new options.
The boy nodded, eyes returning to their distrustful state, as self-preservation dictated. Roman dismissed him.
Sometimes seeds needed careful nurturing, and sometimes they just needed a sprinkling of water and a good plot of land.
Unless he personally oversaw a case on the streets, he let the boys stock their own ranks by bringing in others who would work well within their units. That Peter, prideful, prickly Peter, had suggested these two said volumes, both about how Peter was fitting in to the group and how he viewed these two potentials.
But, again, sometimes the past was simply too much for some to overcome.
Sometimes he saw it in Andreas’s eyes. The pulling weight. The revenge coldly plotted for so long, too long. Warmth dwindling behind an iced wall.
Roman could only do what was within his power to keep that wall from turning into stone, pushing him out as well. But in someone else . . . cool blue eyes and wintry flaxen hair . . . he could melt it now. Or try. The urgent pull just made it more personal.
He tapped the note again. Yes. He had the perfect spot in mind.
He pushed away from the desk and left the room. Plans and decisions in his head.
He tapped a boy on the shoulder as he walked down the hall, not pausing, turning to walk backward as he rattled off instructions. “Round up One-eye, Travers, Johnson, Burns, Crowny, and Deuce.”
The boy nodded eagerly and ran to the stairwell. Roman turned and continued on—he hated to pause when he had a plan. He swiped up the papers he needed downstairs. Some marks required more convincing than others.
The men gathered quickly and received their instructions. It was a routine job—coerce and buy. And it had been one that had been hanging for weeks. Needing only a signal to begin.
Waiting for that certain something to slot into place.
The dice—chance and recklessness—in his pocket burned heavily. He reached in and tossed them to a boy in passing. “Table twelve.”
With a quick nod from the boy, Roman knew they would be returned to their proper place.
There were many who wished they could do the same with Roman. Upstart. All it would take was a few mistakes . . . a few opportunities for their enemies to exploit. And each opportunity had her name written all over it.
Roman walked to his destination in the heart of London, unable to send any of the others to this particular man. Some visits required a more . . . sensitive touch.
He waited in the shadows, watching as a well-dressed group passed by. The men were oblivious to anything around them. Simply following their expectations. Unsuspecting. Unaware that someone lurked in the shadows. He could gut the first one and finish with the last of them before the first even realized he was bleeding. Stupid, not to pay attention, even out here during the day, where one might feel safe.
Charlotte no longer bypassed dark corridors, not for the last week now, without sending each one a searching look. He tapped the note in his pocket. Always looking for him, aware now of who or what could lurk in the shadows. It was a lost innocence, but far better than to be surprised by the monsters in the night.
The thought that she’d need to be prepared for far worse if she fully engaged with him tickled the edges of his conscience, but he flicked the thought away before it could sink in claws.
A man exited the building, and Roman slipped through before the door closed.
Darkness watched and waited. Always. But giving people options—watching their eyes widen at the knowledge that dreams were possible—was an addictive game. Especially since many dreams were well within his ability to grant. Going to school to become an esquire. Running a business. Becoming a cook.
One thing that their empire had wrought was the ability to allow those things to occur. Helping one was in the natural order of the other.
But undertaking tasks and desires outside of that . . . desires that threatened their very existence . . . desires that he couldn’t justify rationally because
they were solely gut-wrenching feelings . . .
He slipped into the inner sanctum easily. Evading the heavily guarded areas, choosing the lesser paths and shadows.
No guard stood inside the room.
Foolishly arrogant, those with power sometimes were. Roman himself was far too guilty of the failing. He clicked the door shut, letting the noise announce his presence.
“What do you want?” the man on the other side of the heavy desk asked, hand clutched around a pen, shrewd eyes unreadable, wealth and breeding in every line of his body, every accent in the room. He didn’t bother to ask how Roman had gotten to him. They had been beyond such questions for a long time.
“Now is that any way to speak to an old friend?” Roman smiled and flipped the lock. Ah. The sweet knowledge of fear bled into the man’s gaze before he capably stifled all visible emotion.
Roman smiled more broadly and sauntered forward, dropping into the opposing chair and kicking his feet up onto the desk.
“One of these days, Merrick, you are going to die with that cocky expression upon your face.” Dark promises. “What do you want?”
Roman lifted a negligent shoulder. “Oh, nothing grand. Just a small matter I’m sure you can help me with.”
The powerful man across from him went rigid under the tension of the lie—so unused to people demanding things from him. Other people, peons, didn’t demand, they jumped to his commands, and nearly every citizen in England was a peon to the man across from Roman.
But, alas, Roman had always been terrible at knowing his proper place. “What do you know of the Chatsworth family?”
The man eyed him. “Upstarts. But the oldest daughter is considered unnaturally beautiful.” His eyes narrowed. “What could you possibly want with them, Merrick?”
Roman smiled and flicked a paper containing Charlotte Chatsworth’s possible future onto the desk.
Chapter 11
Soon. Four simple letters in a word that caused her to tremble in anticipation and dread.
