“. . . A pretty little oyster girl I chanced for to meet.
I lifted up her basket lid and boldly I did peek,
just to see if she haaaad any oysters.”
Doyle whistled a long, irritated breath out between his teeth. “That’s ’im. Kennett’s the big man on the right. Cup-shot, the both of them.” He wiped his face with the sleeve of his coat. “Just what I need. Drunks with knives.”
“If he’s drunk enough, he’ll probably miss.”
“There’s that.”
Under the wool of her cloak, where it didn’t show, she wrapped her arms tight around herself. She’d picked a thousand pockets. She’d be fine.
Kennett was, as they said, a sizable man. Tough-looking, too, for all he was silly with drink. Through the fog she could make out black hair and the lines of a dark, rawboned face. No hat. His coat was hanging open, which was a gilt-edged invitation to getting his pocket picked, if you asked her. She couldn’t see much of the bloke on the left with Kennett draped all over him. He was dark and wiry, and he had his head down, watching his footing.
Voices carried in the rain. She knew the song about the oyster girl. It warned a man not to trust a lass he met on the streets. Sadly true.
“Some days,” Doyle said, “life is just a bloody great old trial.”
“How right you are, Mr. Doyle.” She pushed wet hair out of her eyes and waited for the right minute to start yelling bloody murder.
Two
SEBASTIAN KENNETT DIDN’T CONSIDER HIMSELF castaway drunk. He wasn’t precisely sober either, of course. There was a wide stretch of navigable ocean between drunk and dead sober. Fine sailing in those waters.
And wasn’t it a day for celebrating. Riley, his senior captain, master of the Lively Dancer, had come reeling into Eaton Expediters at noon, bringing a cask of French brandy and good news. Riley’s son had been born just as the man was setting anchor off Wapping at dawn. Fine brawling toasts everyone had drunk to young Thomas Francis Sebastian Riley. When they’d finished the brandy at the shipping office, they’d spilled into the tavern across the street—him and Riley and the shipping clerks and a dozen of his ships’ officers and some total strangers—and taken up drinking there. A noisy strong lad was Thomas Francis Sebastian Riley, according to Riley, who knew something about babies. Baby Thomas Francis would need all the bellowing lungs he could muster, poor mite, with six older sisters. Give him a few years, and he’d probably run away to sea.
A fine day. An excellent day. More than enough reason to raise his voice in song, entertaining Katherine Lane.
“These are the finest oysters that ever you did see.
I sells ’em three a penny, but I’ll give ’em to you free . . .”
He tipped his head back and let rain fall on his face. Heaven. He’d been back less than a week, home from the heat and stink of Corfu and points east. The cold pulled the poisons out of his lungs. It was good to breathe weather with some weight to it.
Adrian sang off-key, rapping his cane along the slats and shutters in time with the music. He wasn’t drunk. Adrian didn’t get drunk, not in his profession. He just couldn’t sing worth a damn.
“For I see that you’re a lover of oysters.”
The brothels were islands of warmth and light floating in the fog. Upstairs, on the second floor, a couple of black-skinned ladies leaned out the window with their long, oiled hair hanging down. The crimson and yellow robes across their shoulders were the brightest thing in these streets. Their little dark breasts were propped up naked on their arms, looking chilly. They called after him as he passed, raucous as seagulls, selling themselves. He waved and kept on singing.
“Have you got a cozy room that’s empty and nearby,
where me and my pretty little oyster girl can lie
while we bargain for her basket of oysters?”
The street bucked under him in a heavy groundswell. He rode it out. Didn’t even stumble. Climbing the rigging taught you to keep your feet. The captain had to set an example. Adrian didn’t need to go propping him up. He didn’t have to grin like that either.
“She picked my pocket and then off again ran she.
She left me with a basketful of—”
A woman’s scream of terror and pain cut the fog.
It came from that narrow gape of an alley. The world snapped into focus around him.
The street was walled at both ends with fog. Sharp, black edges stood out from the gray—a slant of rail, a doorsill, the line of a shutter. A tavern in the distance leaked drunken clamor.
Adrian stepped clear, opening up the fighting space. Ghost in the fog was Adrian. They stood, back to back. He set his hand light on the hilt of his knife. Adrian drew one of his.
Faint and nearby, he heard the brush of cloth on cloth. Somebody stood in that black slash of an alley waiting and watching. Almost, he could hear them breathing.
The next instant feet scraped into a run, starting from a dead stop. A girl rounded the corner, racing as if all the devils in hell were after her. A dark cloak flapped around her, the hood falling over her face, her pale dress revealed, glowing like a candle flame. Head down, arms outstretched, she ran right at him, and hit so hard she staggered.
She clutched his coat. Obligingly, he took hold of her so she wouldn’t end up on those hard cobbles. Smoothly done, on both their parts. Damsel in distress was the name of this game. Bad luck for her he’d seen it played out before in a dozen variations.
Right on cue, the alley gave up a threatening figure, huge and male, carrying a two-foot length of pipe. The brute stopped short, staying invisible in the shadows. He held the pose, seeming to weigh odds. Then he lowered the cudgel and rabbited off the way he’d come, surprisingly shy for a fellow that large.
Behind him, Adrian murmured, “This has become interesting. Excuse me . . .” and took off down the same alley, silent as a fish.
His pretty pickpocket stayed fastened onto his lapels, breathing heavily into his waistcoat. There wasn’t a man on earth who wouldn’t collect her in close, being helpful.
“Please . . .” She panted and dripped, truly pitiful. “Oh, please. He’s after me.” When she twisted to look over her shoulder, her breasts nuzzled across him like hungry puppies. His groin tightened right up, wanting a share of that.
You’re good at this, aren’t you? This damp young woman had been standing in the rain a good long time, waiting for the right pigeon to come along. She made a sweet armful. He snuggled her to him, smelling lavender, and the wet wool from her cloak, and some feminine, flowery perfume that came from her skin. There were cooking spices in her hair.
If she was skilled enough, he wouldn’t even feel her going through his pockets. He didn’t keep more than four or five shillings jingling around loose in there. She was welcome to them. Nobody knew better than he did the chill and loneliness of those rooms on the second floor. Let her buy some coal to warm her toes tonight, or a meat pie, or a day’s peace from her pimp, who would be that oversized lout play-acting with the lead pipe.
She’d find a knife or two when she worked her way around his jacket. But she must be used to men who carried knives.
Then her hood furled back. She looked straight at him, and he stopped finding any of this funny.
My God, look at her. Not pretty, was all he could think. There’s nothing pretty about her. That’s beauty. The thought formed clear as the strike of a bell.
She had the face of an ardent Viking. Strands of wet hair lay along the spare curve of her cheek, outlining the bones. Eyes the color of Baltic amber met his. In the weak, rainy dusk, her skin glowed like Greek honey.
All by themselves, his hands reached under the wet cloak and pushed it back. Her cotton dress stuck to her like a second skin. Her nipples had crested up to crinkly nubs, drawn hard with the cold. He circled her body with his hands and stroked downward and pulled her in the last inches till she was against his body. Her back was sleek, supple muscle, trembling some.
�
�Help me,” she whispered, radiating sincerity. Her fingers flirted across his chest, checking for an inside pocket to his jacket and possible banknotes. “He won’t come after me if I’m with a man like you.”
He was enticed. Utterly charmed. All the time she was spouting that clumsy flattery, she searched him with an intense, featherlight, touch-by-touch exploration that was incredibly erotic. Did she know that? She was so close she was breathing warm up and down his chest, setting off a little twist in his groin every time he felt the air stir on him.
Her lips shaped some silly story about getting out of her hackney to buy something and being attacked. About running, lost in the fog. But he wasn’t listening. He watched her mouth. A man could glide his thumb into that sweet, wide mouth and ease her lips apart and ready her up for kissing. It’d be no trouble at all.
Amazing. He was ravenous for her. He’d gone hard as a rock just looking at her mouth.
She stood straight as a little sapling, taut against him, keyed up and lying through her teeth. Bright, nervous intelligence burned like a fire inside her. She couldn’t lie worth a damn.
“They’ve been chasing me. Feels like miles. I don’t know.” She licked the rain off her lips. “I don’t . . .”
“What is it you don’t know?” He didn’t fight the impulse. He stroked the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, back and forth, slowly caressing, coaxing it soft and full. Just saying hello to it. She could get away from him any time she wanted.
“I had to . . .”
He kept at it, seeing what would happen next. Her lip was silk smooth and wet where she’d licked the rain off. He followed the shape of it, watching her, keeping at it till she went silent. A shudder passed through her that might have been resistance. Then her mouth slacked open, quivering.
It was a beautiful thing to do to a woman, luring the sweetness of her up to the surface this way. He had her pinned like a butterfly with that single touch. “That’s a sad story, sparrow. ”
“Story?” Her pupils spread wide and black, gazing up at him. She was so responsive. Unbelievable. How had she survived on Katherine Lane, being this sensitive?
“Why don’t we forget all that? Let me get you in out of the rain.” He hoped he sounded reassuring. What he sounded to himself was drunk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll take you somewhere warm and safe. Will you come with me?”
No answer. Just that fathoms-deep, velvet fascination in her eyes. He left off tempting her mouth and nestled her chin in the palm of his hand and gave her a chance to collect herself. Rain fell on her face and rolled away across skin that was fine-grained and smooth as flower petals. She was lucky. The life she led hadn’t marked her yet.
After a moment, she blinked at him. “What?”
“You don’t have to be out here in the wet. Let’s go get under cover and talk for a while. Come with me.”
“With you?” He liked the way she sounded. Dazed. That was good for a man’s self-esteem. “You want me to come with you?” She bit her lip as if she were trying to bite away the feel of what he’d been doing. He wondered if it helped any.
“I’ll give you five shillings for the night. Think I have five shillings. M’friend does.”
Adrian would lend him the ready. Adrian walked around with lots of money in his pocket, and nobody ever picked it. Where the devil was Adrian, anyway? He should be here, playing the voice of reason, not leaving his drunk friend to be stupid about a pretty whore.
“You’d pay that much?” Laughter sparked in her eyes.
It was a ridiculous price for Katherine Lane. This was a woman worth being stupid over. He surprised himself with how much he wanted to take her away from this market for human meat and that brute of a pimp.
He’d better get her to Eunice before he forgot that he didn’t buy street whores. It was a sad, dishonorable business, using these poor, trapped girls, not to mention a fine way to catch crotch beasties.
This one was different. He looked at her and saw himself hurrying her down to the dock, leading her aboard the Flighty Dancer, and slamming the door to his cabin. He’d take those breasts in his mouth and open her thighs and slip inside where she’d be warm, even on a chilly day like this. She’d show him all the tricks she could do with those light, clever hands and that soft mouth.
Wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he’d bribe her with shillings and take her home with him. Aunt Eunice would know what to do with this bedraggled, larcenous ragamuffin. Eunice might get her off the streets for good. “Five shillings. And I’ll give you a meal. Get you warm and dry. I’ll take you to . . .” Damn it, he was too drunk and too stumble-tongued with lust to explain.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted a street whore. This one was fresh as a daisy, clean and sweet. She smelled of soap and flowers and spices. Even her fingernails were clean.
Nobody on Katherine Lane smelled of soap and flowers.
Lies. She stank of lies.
Clean and lovely and talking like a lady . . . a woman like this sold herself in a snug brothel in St. John’s Wood. She didn’t come flying out of an alley in Katherine Lane. She’d been lying in wait—not just for any pigeon—for one man in particular. What did this skillful whore do besides picking pockets and telling lies with her eyes? Did she slip a knife between a man’s ribs with those deft hands of hers?
He locked hold of her wrists. “Who sent you?”
“What?” The gold-brown eyes went wide. That was fear. She’d known she might get caught.
She was right to be afraid of him. “Who paid you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
More lies. Somebody had set a trap with this pretty, laughing woman. Not a trap for him. Nobody gave a damn about one more merchant trader. It was Adrian they wanted. And Adrian was alone in one of those side alleys, prowling and poking into corners.
He lifted his head and yelled, “Adrian! Watch out! It’s a trap.”
That set everything off.
“Behind you! Sebastian!” Adrian’s shout.
He saw them then. Silent as beetles, two men scuttled toward him. More followed, slipping from doorways and corners. Under cover of the rain and fog, the pack had stalked in, unseen, converging from three directions. They were Irish, from the Gaelic they tossed back and forth. They carried knives and cudgels and chains. These were vermin from the dockside, deadly and cold as ice. They’d sent the girl as a honey-pot to hold him while the gang closed in. She’d smiled at him while she was planning to watch him die.
“Run from me.” He let her loose. “Run fast.”
But she backed away, wide-eyed, breathing hard. “How? Nobody knows I’m here.” That was shock in her voice, and fear. She turned in a circle, looking for a hole in the net closing round them. And he knew she was no part of this. No decoy.
“More of them down that way. A baker’s dozen.” Adrian dropped out of the fog into his usual place, taking the left.
Two of them against a gang. Long odds.
He picked a target—one in front, where his friends would see him die—and threw. The bravo collapsed with a sucking, bubbling neck wound. The familiar stink of death rose in the alley. He pulled his second knife.
The thugs hesitated, sending glances back and forth, fingering blade and cudgel. Attack or retreat. It could go either way.
Then one man broke ranks and lunged for the girl.
She was fast. Cat quick, writhing, she bit the filthy arm that held her and knocked a knife aside and wrenched loose. She skipped back, clutching a long, shallow cut on her forearm. “Not hurt. I’m not hurt.”
No tears, no screams. Pluck to the backbone. She was also damnably in his way. He shoved her behind him, between him and Adrian. Protected as she could be.
If this lasts long, she’ll get killed. “Mine on the right.” He threw, and his blade hit badly and glanced off a collarbone. One man down. One wounded. That would have been two dead if he’d had the sense to stay sober. “Waste of
a knife. Damn.”
His last knife was in his boot. Not for throwing. This one was for killing up close.
He forced his mind to the pattern the attackers wove, trying to spot the leader. Kill the leader, and the others might scatter. Adrian danced a path through the bullyboys, breaking bones with that lead-weighted cane of his.
No way to get the woman to safety. She stayed in his shadow, using him as a shield, white-faced. She’s been in street fights before.
Then he didn’t think about her at all. Chain whistled past. He grabbed it and jerked the man off balance and drove his knife through a gap in the leather waistcoat, up under the breastbone, to the heart.
For an instant he stood locked, face-to-face, with the man he’d just killed, a redhead with pale skin and vicious, gleeful, mad blue eyes. Outrage and disbelief pulsed out at him . . . and drained away. The eyes went blank.
Then the dead bastard thrashed, rolled with the knife, and took it down with him as he fell.
No time to get it back. A crowbar cracked down on his shoulder with a bright, sour, copper pain. He fell, dodged a boot, and rolled away as Adrian took down his attacker.
The girl screamed.
Up. He had to get up. He was on his feet, shaking his head, trying to see through a black haze. The girl was stretched between two men, being dragged away. He staggered through madness and confusion, fog and pain. Adrian was swearing a blue streak.
Under the chaos he heard a monstrous racket of wheels on cobblestone. A goods wagon turned the corner.
The girl tore loose, leaving her cloak behind. She reeled straight into the path of the horses and slipped on wet cobbles. She had a split second to look up and see hooves. Her face was a mask of raw terror.
He launched himself toward her. Too late. He knew he’d be too late.
The driver wrenched on the reins. Horses reared and squealed. Frantic, she jackknifed away from the striking hooves. She was so close to scrambling to safety . . .
She slipped on the rain-slick cobbles. The wagon skidded. Iron rims shrieked on the stone. The wheel hit the side of her head with a soft, horrible thud. She whipped around, and wavered upright for an instant, and slumped to the dirty stones of the street.
My Lord and Spymaster Page 2
