She was saying something to Grant. From this distance Juliet couldn’t hear the words being exchanged, but whatever the blonde said caused his mouth to thin. He shook his head sharply and then pointed at the door, a clear indication he wanted the woman to return inside, but she refused. After a standoff that lasted for the better part of five minutes and was punctuated by rapid arm movements from both parties, Grant eventually turned around and stomped back up the steps.
Before he stepped through the doorway he paused and cast one last, searching glance over his shoulder. For an instant it seemed as though he was staring straight at her...but then with another shake of his head he stepped over the threshold and the door swung closed behind him.
"Phew," Juliet gasped, her knees trembling with relief as she sagged back against the carriage. That had been close.
Too close.
All that currently separated her from a cold cell in Newgate was a pinch of luck, a dash of ingenuity, and a passionate kiss. She felt like a cat that just been saved by one of its nine lives. A very cold, very hungry, very wet cat.
The rain had plastered her hair to her head and soaked her dress all the way through to the skin. It continued to fall in great slicing sheets, mercilessly pummeling the rooftops of the carriages. She needed to get back to St Giles. Back to her bed and a hot meal and a glass – better make it an entire jug – of wine. But when she tried to put weight on her left leg it nearly buckled.
Right.
Her ankle.
Grimacing, she managed to crouch down and untie the laces on her boot. But that was as far as she could go. Her ankle had already swollen to nearly twice its size and was quickly turning a bluish black color. Thumping her fist against the cold ground in silent frustration – what else could go wrong tonight?! – she grabbed onto a spoke in the wheel and used it to haul herself back up to her feet.
Grant may have gone inside, but there was no telling when he would return. She thought of his parting words inside the bedroom, and the shiver that coursed through her had nothing to do with the cold.
The question is not if I’ll find you. The question is when.
Before their kiss it hadn’t been personal for him. Now it was, and she feared he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said he would chase her to the ends of the earth. He was, after all, The Wolf. Chasing down prey was what he did best. And she’d just placed herself at the top of his hunting list. Twisted ankle or no twisted ankle, she needed to make herself scarce.
You’ve deal with worse pain than this, she told herself. Like the time she had fallen off a ladder trying to reach the third floor bedroom of a wealthy baroness and snapped her arm right in half. Now that had hurt. Yeti had taken one look at her white face and broken arm cradled awkwardly against her chest and immediately sent for a doctor. Or at least what passed for a doctor in St Giles. He had set her arm - she still shuddered whenever she thought of it - and wrapped it in a sling where it had remained for the better part of two months.
She'd been twelve.
When she was fifteen she fell through some rotten floorboards and ended up with a large iron nail sticking out of her hand. Eight years later and she still had the scar.
And then there was the time she'd been pinned down to her bed by someone she thought she could trust. That had hurt far worse than any physical ailment.
But she didn't think about that. Or him.
Not anymore.
Needless to say, she’d taken her fair share of lumps over the years. Not exactly unexpected, given where she had grown up.
Juliet was not an English rose who had been lovingly cultivated until she bloomed and blossomed into a beautiful, delicate hothouse flower. She was a weed. A weed that had managed to not only grow between the cracks in the cobblestones, but to thrive. She was tough, and she was hard, and no matter how many times she was trampled or kicked, she always came back, because to really kill a weed you had to yank up the roots...and her roots were as deep and as strong as her unyielding spirit.
Although a fat lot of good her roots did her when she was stuck on the wrong side of London with no means of getting back home except a slow, torturous hobble through the rain.
Well, she thought, inwardly bracing herself, best get hobbling. But she'd no sooner taken three painful steps than a deep, familiar voice emanating from the shadows had her jumping straight up in the air like a scalded cat.
“I take it the robbery went well?” Bran drawled as he stepped out from behind a carriage.
"Whore in a handbasket!" she cried when she landed hard on her left foot. Arms wind milling, she hopped up to Bran and punched the middle of his chest with no small amount of force. "You bloody bastard! You nearly scared the shite out of me!"
"Do ye kiss your mum with that mouth?" Blue eyes bright with amusement, he caught her arm when she tried to take another swing at him. "Easy there, Jules. One is allowed, but I can't ‘ave a woman beatin’ up on me. I've a reputation to uphold."
"I'll give you something to hold," she hissed.
"What's crawled up your skirts?" he demanded, ducking easily to the side when she took a half-hearted swipe at his head with one of her knives. Flickering gas light illuminated his lean countenance, revealing the dark slashing brows and the crooked nose and the hard jawline covered in stubby brown whiskers that she knew so well.
There was no one she trusted more than Bran. No one closer to her heart than Bran. No one who knew her more than Bran. He was her friend. Her brother. Her confidant. Which was why, when her lower lip trembled and tears threatened, she allowed him to pull her into his arms and hug her tight against his warm chest.
"There now," he said, a flicker of surprise drawing his dark brows together. "What's gotten me Jules in such a state?"
"I - I couldn't find the r-ring," she said between watery sniffles.
"Typical woman." His teeth flashed white in the soft glow of the light as he grinned down at her. "Crying over a piece of jewelry. It'll be all right, lamb. Chin up. No piece of flash is worth yer tears. No matter how pretty it is. Or how much blunt we could’ve gotten for it," he muttered under his breath.
"I'm not upset just because of the bloody ring." Although it did sting that after all her time and effort she'd come up empty-handed. "I think I wrenched my ankle. Or maybe I've broken it. I don't know."
"Your ankle? Let me see." Concerned, Bran knelt down. She held still as he gently ran his hands down the outside of her boot to check for swelling, but when he tried to pull it off she yelped and jumped back.
"Don't do that! It hurts."
He sat back on his heels. "It could be broken," he said grimly. "It's hard to tell. Either way, we need to get ye home and get that boot off before the swellin’ gets any worse. Can ye walk?"
Dashing at the tears on her cheeks, Juliet didn’t bother to contain her snort. "If I could do that do you think I'd still be standing here?"
"Now that ye mention it,” he said, rubbing his jaw as she stood up. “Why are ye standing out here? And ‘ow the devil did ye hurt your ankle in the first place?"
"I was running and I...tripped," she said evasively.
"Running from?" he prompted.
She looked away, not wanting to see his smug I-told-you-so expression. "I ran into a bit of trouble in the ballroom."
Literally.
"What sort o’ trouble?"
"The Wolf, all right?" she snapped, small hands curling into fists as her gaze swerved back to Bran. She glared fiercely, daring him to mock her. "I ran into The Wolf."
Or rather he ran into me.
"Grant Hargrave is ‘ere?" Bran's head snapped towards the manor.
"Don't worry,” she sighed. “He went back inside."
"That don’t mean ‘e will stay there. Come on." He grabbed her arm and started to pull her along behind him, but stopped short and released an ear-blistering curse when she cried out in pain. "Yer ankle. I forgot." His brow furrowed. "I'll just carry ye, then."
"Carry me?" Her eyes wi
dened. "The devil you - Bran!" she squealed when he picked her up off the ground as if she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and slung her over his shoulder. She pounded her fists against his back. "Put me down, you smelly ox!"
Ignoring her, he looked left and then right to make sure the way was clear before walking quickly across the street. The glow of the gas lights faded away as they left Berkley Square behind. But even as the decadence and opulence of the West End was slowly replaced by the rot and decay of the East, Juliet had a feeling this wasn't going to be the last time she saw Grant Hargrave. Their paths would cross again. She was certain of it. She just didn't know where...or when.
Chapter Eleven
One Week Later
Commercial Docks, London
"Bollocks, it's cold." Colin Ferguson, a sturdily built runner with dark blond hair and kind hazel yes, rubbed his hands briskly together before stuffing them into the pockets of his greatcoat. "I thought it was supposed to be spring?"
"Welcome to spring in London," Grant said dryly.
Ronan Hawke, a runner of few words, grunted in agreement. Big as a bull and twice as mean, he was Bow Street's muscle. One look at his trunk-sized neck (not to mention his massive chest), and a criminal more often than not turned themselves over with hardly a squeak. Grant was hoping that would be the case tonight.
They'd been called down to the wharf to investigate a series of robberies. Someone was stealing goods off the merchant ships as they came into port. Over the past two weeks they had managed to steal five barrels of tobacco, two crates of tea, and – oddly enough – a trunk filled with silk handkerchiefs.
A heavy fog hung over the docks, making it nearly impossible to see more than four or five planks ahead. Holding up a lantern encased in glass, Grant led the way down a long pier while Colin and Hawke flanked out behind him, keeping a wary eye open for anyone lurking in the shadows. The wharf was a dangerous place, filled with all manner of thieves and pickpockets who wouldn't bat an eye at stabbing a bloke for the coins he carried in his pocket.
"Do you know what we're looking for?" Colin asked as they approached a small wooden dinghy moored at the end of the pier.
"Not what." Carefully setting the lantern down in the middle of the dock, Grant drew back his foot and kicked the side of the dingy with so much force the boat nearly capsized. "Who," he said with satisfaction when a shout sounded from beneath a pile of rags and a man popped up.
"Bloody 'ell!" he yelled, brandishing a short sword so encrusted with rust that it was more brown than silver in the soft glow of the lamplight. "Who the devil do ye think ye - oh." As his watery gaze focused on Grant, he lowered his sword and turned his head to spit into the water. "It's you."
"It's me." Grant held out his arm. With obvious reluctance the man – better known as Captain Jim, an old sailor turned drunk who'd lived in his beaten up boat for as long as anyone could remember – allowed himself to be pulled up onto the pier.
"What do ye want this time?" he demanded, squinting at Grant out of bloodshot gray eyes. A thick black beard peppered with white covered the lower half of his face. The upper half was dominated by scraggly eyebrows that wiggled like pieces of bait every time he spoke. "I've been mindin' me own business, I 'ave. Keepin' to meself. Stayin' out of trouble."
"Staying drunk is more like it," Colin said, his nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of the sailor’s potent cologne, eau du rotten fish, gin, and seawater.
"Oy! Never let it be said I can't hold me liquor." With a drunken leer Captain Jim tried to take a step forward, lost his balance, and would have pitched over the side of the pier if Hawke hadn't grabbed ahold of his shirtfront.
"Easy, Captain." Reaching inside his coat, Grant drew out a small leather pouch and dangled it in front of the old sailor. "All we're after is a few minutes of your time. Nothing more. Have you heard about the supplies that have gone missing off the merchant ships?"
Jim dragged his fingers through his beard. "Maybe I 'ave and maybe I 'aven't. What's it to ye?"
Colin, never patient under the best of circumstances, released a curse. "We don't have time for this. Toss him back in his bloody raft and be done with it. We'll find the culprit on our own."
"The Captain knows more about these docks than anyone," Grant said with an easy smile. "Don't you, my fine man?"
"Aye." Jim glared at Colin before looking up at the pouch Grant was dangling above his head like a carrot in front of a horse. "I know 'em better than anybody. Nothing happens 'ere that gets past Captain Jim. Ye can bet my sweet Mary on it."
"Who's Mary?" Colin asked.
"His boat," Grant replied. Loosening the drawstring on the pouch, he turned it over and shook out a handful of coins into Jim’s waiting palm. "Five shillings if you can tell me what you know about the merchant ships."
"A sailor never turns on 'is mates! We've a code of honor that I'm obliged to-"
"Five shillings and a bottle of gin."
Jim smacked his lips together. "Done."
"Code of honor my arse," Colin muttered under his breath.
Hawk nodded in silent agreement.
"Now," Grant said, ignoring them both. "Who is it? Who's been stealing off the boats?"
"What about the gin?" Jim said suspiciously.
"It's here." He patted his coat. "You get it after you tell me what I need to know."
"Ye always were a crafty bastard. All right." He slapped a hand to the back of his neck. Dug short, brittle nails into skin that looked like it hadn't seen a good scrubbing since Napolean's defeat at Waterloo. "It's a young lad. About the same age as that one." He jabbed a bony finger at Colin. "Has a white scar underneath his eye. Real mean sort. The kind that will gut a fish and toss it back in the water jest to see it try to swim."
"Does this lad have a name?" Grant asked.
"Calls 'imself Mallack. E's put together a gang of four, maybe five. Sailors, mostly. Or at least they used to be. They hit the ships the same night they come in. Half past midnight, sometimes a little later. They wait until the crew heads to The Lusty Mermaid."
A tavern made out of the hull of an old pirate ship run aground by the British Fleet, The Lusty Mermaid was a favorite establishment of sailors, cutthroats, and thieves. Occasionally Owen ordered a raid on the tiny tavern but it was a dangerous business with little reward as the criminals they really wanted always had a way of slipping out of the back, leaving them with the drunks and the fools.
The last time Grant had frequented the Mermaid he'd been lucky to leave with his life after a stray bullet clipped the edge of his ear. He still remembered the burning heat of it, as well as the moment of stunned disbelief that followed when he realized how close he had come to death.
It shook a man, coming face to face with his own mortality. It made him think about what was really important. What really mattered. For Grant, that was being a runner...and a good son. But how much longer could he continue to be both? Sooner or later, one would have to give way to the other. His parents wanted him to accept his birthright and become the lord he had been born to be. To find a gentle lady and raise a family and spend his summers in a quiet country estate far away from Bow Street. But his heart – his very soul – knew he was right where he belonged.
Did he ever look at his brother's and their wives and children and feel a twinge of envy? Of course. He would be foolish not to. But he knew, deep down, that sort of life wasn't for him. Not as long as he was a runner. For what sort of gently bred woman would want her husband to hold such a dangerous position? One that not only put his life at risk, but potentially hers as well.
In a perfect world he supposed he could have both. The job and the woman. But all he had to do was take one look at the poor old drunk standing in front of him to know that nothing about the world was perfect.
"Don't know where they're keepin' everything," Jim continued. "One o' the warehouses, most like." He looked yearningly at Grant's coat. "Can I 'ave me gin now? I've a mighty thirst."
Grant
pulled a plain glass bottle out of his pocket and gave it to the old sailor who immediately popped the cork and took a long, gulping swallow.
"Ah," Jim said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "Nothin' better than a fine woman and a good bottle o' gin."
"I'll take your word on the latter," Grant said dryly. "When's the next merchant ship scheduled to come in?"
"End o' the week."
"Thank you, Captain. You've done us a great service." He shook Jim's hand and for an instant so quick that if he'd blinked he would have missed it, he saw a glimpse of the man Jim had been before drink and dashed dreams had taken their toll. Then the proud light in the old sailor's watery eyes dimmed, his shoulders slumped, and he shuffled back to his dingy with his bottle of gin cradled lovingly in his arms.
"Well that was certainly interesting," Colin remarked as they made their way back down the pier. "Do you think he was telling the truth?"
"I don't think he would have any reason to lie." Grant tipped down the brim of his hat as a light misting rain began to fall. "We'll come back in four days. See if we can't catch these bastards red-handed."
"Sounds like a plan to me."
"Hawke?"
"Aye," the burly Runner grunted.
When they reached the end of the wharf Grant stopped short as a wayward thought tickled the back of his mind. "You two go on," he said, nodding in the direction of Bow Street. "I've some business yet."
"Business?" Colin lifted a brow. "This late at night? What are you – ah," he said, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Got yourself a ladybird, have you? You old dog." He punched Grant lightly on the shoulder. "Spencer said you had a wench in every part of town, but I didn't believe him."
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