Lazarus poured the necklace across his palm, a web of quivering, blood red drops. Even in the dimness, the Medici Necklace showed its quality. It looked like queens had worn it.
“This is beautiful.” He turned it over reverently. “Completely, exquisitely beautiful.” Fire sparked and danced in his hand. “A rare payment for your father’s life. You brought it with your own hands. You understand the art of these things.”
“Artist. That’s me.” Her mouth was dry as hardtack.
“I accept the contract.”
Her eyes squeezed closed all by themselves. She had it. Whatever the cost, she had what she’d come for. A list of every ship—scows and coal barges, Baltic schooners, every East Indiaman and American sloop, all the coastal vessels. Ships that didn’t even have a nodding acquaintance with the Customs House. The lot.
Lazarus said, “Tell me where and when, Jess. I’ll send them.” In the same quiet, contemplative voice, he said, “We’re not finished. Face the Brothers, Jess Whitby. You’re on trial. It’s time we got on with it.”
She was so shocked she went dizzy. The strength that had brought her this far just drained away, like it was her blood running out. Right till this minute, she’d been expecting him to claim her and keep her safe. Lazarus was right. She’d got soft. She’d been telling herself stories. Believing them.
He stood. Gentle, he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around. He pushed her forward, away from him, so she stood alone. That was all. Not a word to defend her.
She wasn’t the only one surprised. A murmur of speculation rumbled out of the men along the wall, growing louder, till it sounded like a dog growling, low in the throat. Some of them were arguing. Nobody was sure what to do next.
“Kill ’er,” a coarse voice said, loud and clear, from the back.
“KILL ’er.”
Sebastian heard that. He pushed his scrawny guide out of his path and walked through the open door.
He was in time. She was still alive. Jess stood alone in a cleared space at the center of the room. Unhurt. Her face glowed like a pale beacon in the smoky dimness. A pace behind her, a dark pillar of threat, Lazarus stood. Dozens of men crowded the walls, pressed elbow to elbow, buzzing like a hive of hornets. This was the inner circle of Lazarus’s vast gang, the deadly aristocracy of the underworld. Thieves, pimps, and murderers, men of unparalleled brutality. They’d kill her—and him—in the blink of an eye.
The Brotherhood was holding trial. Generally somebody wound up dead when they did that. He pushed his way through.
A squat, dark thug had separated from the pack. “She broke the oath. That’s death.”
“Shut yer gob, Badger.”
“Bloody loudmouth.”
Another man called out, “Let ’im say ’is piece.”
“I ain’t ’ere ter listen to the Badger yap.”
“Say what you have to say, Badger.” Lazarus hooked his thumbs in his waistband.
“She’s a traitor.” Badger had the slanted forehead and sloping, heavy arms of his namesake. He sneered once at Jess, rounded, and faced the men. “She come prancing in wif ’er flash clothes and ’er fancy talk, thinkin’ she’s better ’n us. She come ’ere with no respect. No proper deference. Tryin’ to buy ’er way in.”
Somebody growled, “Jess ain’t no traitor.”
“She were Hand, fer Gawd’s sake.”
“She ain’t Hand now,” Badger shouted. “She ain’t shite to us.”
“Sod you, Badger.” A gangling, redheaded boy, widestanced, fists ready, was hauled back by his friends.
“She turned her back on us.” The sly whisper came from a bent, frail man in shabby black. “It’s our law. Nobody’s above the law.”
“And I says we leave ’er be.”
Sebastian looked the mob over, taking in the brutally intelligent faces. Two or three echoed Badger’s resentment. One man had mad eyes, avid for pain and death. Anyone’s death. But Jess had a dozen supporters. The older men, the canny ones, watched Lazarus.
“We cut traitors.” Badger drew a blade and held it up, flat side out, to the men. “That’s the law.”
Jess dropped back a step. Not toward Lazarus. She must know she wasn’t going to get any help there.
“She said, ‘If I break this oath, ye may carve it out o’ my belly.’ ” Badger gloated. “That’s what she said. That’s what we all say.”
How the hell was he going to stop this? Jess could be dead in two minutes.
He didn’t pull his knife and hack a path to Jess, leaving bodies writhing on the floor. He didn’t howl and break necks. He stiff-armed one man, shoved another aside, and shouldered to the front, past men intent only on the drama playing out in the center.
Lazarus had spotted him. Eyes, brown as agate, cold as marbles, sardonically amused, met his. They’d dealt before, haggling over women Aunt Eunice wanted rescued. A hard and devious man at the bargaining table, the Dead Man.
Lazarus raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jess and waited. Oh yes. Lazarus knew what he’d come for.
He nodded back. Acknowledging. Yes. Jess.
Badger postured for the mob. “And I’m the man te gut the bitch.” He swung suddenly, backhanded, with his empty fist.
And stumbled stupidly into the empty space where she’d been. She glided past him, smooth as a fish. “Missed,” she said.
“Yer gonna die, rat.”
Her voice rang clear. “You speak for the Brothers, do you? That’ll come as a surprise to some of ’em.”
There was a rumble of laughter.
“Gonna cut you, bitch. Gonna carve you like a pie.”
“Never used to be a killing offense, working for the smugglers. ” Jess flitted just out of reach. “That’s a new rule you made, right? Speak up, Badger. Cat got yer tongue?”
There was a joke in that, one everyone knew. Laughter scattered the tension. Badger glared around, the back of his neck turning red. “I got me rights, I do. I got things ter say.”
“Spit it out, then. I ain’t here to dance wif yer.”
Catcalls and whistles broke out from every side. She was turning the crowd in her favor. It might be enough to save her life. If Badger didn’t cut her. If Lazarus didn’t want her dead. There were a hundred possibilities, most of them bad.
He stood at the front of the crowd, one leap from Jess. Picking his time.
She was all Cockney now—a tough, vulgar, vibrant street urchin. Back in the offices of Whitby Trading, they wouldn’t have recognized her. She skipped over the welter of scattered rugs. “Nice knife, Badger. Use that for picking yer nose wif, do yer?” This was the fierce little animal she’d been as a child in the rookery. “Or maybe yer scratch yer arse.”
On every side, cutthroats grinned appreciatively.
“Never could catch me, could yer, Bugger?” She dodged again, lightning and laughter. “Oh, sorry. That’s Badger, ain’t it?”
Rough jeers rang out. Rattled, Badger swung in a furious half circle. “We make an example of ’er. She dies.”
Argument bubbled up everywhere.
“She loped orf. We all know the law.”
“She didn’t pike it ’erself. Went wif ’er da.”
“She owes us.” That was a dangerous judgment, more so because it came from a sober, middle-aged villain. “Jobs went sour because Jess weren’t here, planning ’em. She were ours, and we needed her.”
A woman spoke up from the back. “Oh, hold yer bluidy tongue, Jack. She were a kid. Take it out o’ Whitby’s hide.”
“If yer dare . . .” Furtive laughter.
“You tell ’em, Cat.”
The red-haired boy said, “She didn’t peach. She never peached on us.”
“Worked for Whitby, didn’t she? It ain’t like she went honest.”
“I say, she dies.”
The most degenerate killers in London squabbled over what Jess was guilty of. She waited, sweating, wary eyes on Badger’s knife. And Lazarus watched without taking sides. He looked calm, a
lmost bored, his eyes half-closed. Whatever game he played with Jess, it was unrolling to his satisfaction. Lazarus wouldn’t interfere.
If she’d cringed . . . if she’d whined . . . they’d have been on her like a pack of dogs. That hard, bright grin, the spectacle of her sheer, raw courage, held them off. But she was dancing on a knife edge. As long as Lazarus stayed quiet, the mood wavered and shifted. Sebastian had to stop this before they killed her just for the sport.
It was time. He stepped deliberately into the clear center of the room, where Jess faced Badger. Voices quieted. For the first time, Jess looked up and saw him. She whitened. The fool girl should have known he’d come for her.
He used the voice he’d learned on the quarterdeck. “I say, she lives.”
Ripples of murmur and silence spread around the room. He took another step and he was where he belonged, between Jess and that damned knife Badger was waving around.
“What’s he doing ’ere?” Badger glared suspiciously from face to face. “Who’s ’e?”
There were men who did know him. In undertones, his name was handed back and forth around the room. Even here, his reputation meant something.
Jess whispered, “Gonna get yerself sodding killed.” But she moved into his shadow, shielding behind him.
Lazarus said, “Gentlemen, this is Captain Sebastian Kennett, come to visit.”
“The sea captain?” Badger bared his teeth and tossed the knife from one hand to the other, spinning it, showing off. “Kennett ships. We don’t like rich coves what stick their noses in where they ain’t—” Badger feinted suddenly, slashing toward him, “wanted.”
He ignored the blade like it didn’t exist. It cut the air two inches from his cheek. He’d read bluff in Badger’s eyes before the blade twitched. Bluff . . . and he’d called it.
They understood nuances, this council of cutthroats. He had half of them on his side, that instant. An appreciative murmur rose, and a laugh.
Badger yelled, “You got no rights ’ere. Yer can’t walk in orf the street and—”
“Jess is mine.” He made sure everyone heard that. “You have my woman. That’s my right here.”
Badger’s low forehead creased. Events were getting away from him.
“I’m not—” Jess began.
He snapped, “You are,” and she swallowed whatever was hovering on her tongue. Something better unsaid, certainly.
There wasn’t a man here who wasn’t watching Lazarus, waiting to see what he’d do with that claim. Nothing, it seemed. Thirty men saw Lazarus being impassive.
He surveyed the pack, meeting eyes, looking into faces. “Jess is my woman. I say she didn’t run. Is there any man— besides Bugger here—” there was a stir of appreciative humor, “who says she did?”
“She been gone a while,” one plump rogue pointed out amiably. “Ten years. Ain’t like she stepped out for a spot o’ tea.”
Chuckles.
“Oh, I dunnoh, Blinks. I smuggled me a fair old spot o’ tea, when all’s said and—” She’d turned toward the voice, taking her eye off Badger. She didn’t see the raised fist coming at her.
Badger’s mistake. This was the opening he needed.
He blocked the punch. Cracked forearm to forearm. Badger spat a stream of filthy words and dropped into a killer’s crouch and brought his knife up.
This fight had been inevitable when he walked through the door. The huge black, the bodyguard, earned his gratitude by snagging Jess and yanking her, protesting, to the sidelines.
Badger didn’t mind attacking an unarmed man. He charged, thinking his knife was important, counting on the reach of those long, freakish arms. That left him wide open for a fast punch just below the heart. Speed beat reach, any day. When Badger hunched over to gag his belly out, Sebastian booted him in the groin.
There wasn’t a man there who didn’t wince. In the absolute silence, Badger swayed in place, gave a womanish whimper, and collapsed in on himself like a rotten melon. The knife clattered to the floor.
Because he knew his audience, because he was making a point, he kicked that vicious animal one more time as he crumbled. It felt just as good the second time. This garbage dared to raise a hand against Jess.
It stayed quiet. He didn’t have to raise his voice. “You were rude to my lady, Badger.”
No answer from the carcass on the floor.
He picked up Badger’s knife, flipped it, and leaned down to press the point to the man’s throat. He did it hard enough to send a trickle of blood running down to the rug. “I don’t like it when men are rude to my lady.”
Badger didn’t wash his neck. It was a throat that would be improved by slitting. No loss to anyone in the room, if he read the crowd right. But he’d made his point. He held the pose one second longer, then straightened up and tossed the knife away. That was the kind of gesture Englishmen loved. Besides, holding it was just going to get him in trouble.
This was what he’d needed. Not just a fight. A display of skill they’d talk about for weeks. He’d given the Brotherhood something to think about besides butchering Jess on these carpets.
“I don’t like brawls in here.” Lazarus’s voice slid like a snake between rocks. “This is not Donnybrook Fair.”
Jittering currents of expectation swept the room.
“Not much of a brawl.” Coolly, he prodded Badger with his boot. “Unless you want this killed.”
“A handsome offer. Not today, I think.”
He stared into the seamed cruelty of Lazarus’s face. “Then it’s time we talk.” He added, low enough that no one else heard him, “You’ve played with her long enough. End this.”
Lazarus nodded. He looked around the room, collecting every eye, taking control of his gang. “Is there anyone here,” he said calmly, “who doubts that Jess belongs to me?”
Dead silence.
“I tell Jess when to come and go. I tell her when to breathe. I decide when she stops.” He waited another minute while the silence stretched out. “Nobody else touches her.”
Lazarus hitched his jacket closed and walked past what was left of Badger. The talking started behind his back. Speculation, approval, and relief. Jess had her life back. For the moment.
“Step into my office, Captain Kennett,” Lazarus said.
Twenty-three
IT ENDED WITH BADGER FLOPPING ON THE FLOOR and the Captain adjusting his neckcloth, calm as a cucumber. Everybody enjoyed the show. Just another of Lazarus’s bloody spectacles. Never a dull moment in the padding ken. That was something else she’d managed to forget in the last couple years.
When Lazarus jerked his head toward the back room and invited the Captain to talk, Jess was glad enough to follow and get away from all the eyes watching her. She’d known Lazarus would keep her safe. Known it all along. He’d taken his bloody time getting around to it, hadn’t he?
The back room where Lazarus conducted his private business had been a fancy parlor once. The wallpaper was peeling and most of the plaster had cracked off the ceiling. The place reeked of piss and onions. She wouldn’t have noticed that ten years ago. The table held an oil lamp, unlit, and a wine bottle and glasses. Ropes with climbing hooks were hanked up neat and stored in the corner. The tools of her old trade. One chair held an open book and a stack of newspapers. Lazarus read everything he could get his hands on. A crowbar leaned against the hearth. They’d use that for milling kens when they weren’t poking the fire with it.
“My pied-à-terre, Captain. Make yourself at home. Jess . . . you two . . . in here.” As he walked, Lazarus pulled his jacket off and let it drop. The current toy, that girl he was tormenting, bent and picked it up and folded it over a chair-back. She went to curl up in a chair near the curtained window, looking pregnant as hell. Generally Lazarus sent them home when they got pregnant.
She couldn’t help that poor woman. Nobody could. Not till Lazarus got bored with her.
Black John took up a place at the wall where he’d have a good line of fire. T
he Hand slid in and crouched down in the corner, being alert and inconspicuous. And her, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to act with Lazarus when she wasn’t Hand. So she stood there feeling sick and shaky, getting cold where her clothes stuck to her skin.
Lazarus stretched and yawned and took the chair beside the fireplace, kicking his boots up onto the empty grate. She’d got reasonably good at guessing what Lazarus was thinking, back when she was Hand. Just now, he was cold, bite-yerarse-off angry. She wouldn’t have crossed him for any money.
She finally made herself meet his eyes. He said, “Welcome home, Jess.”
That was him telling her she was staying. He must have been planning to take her back ever since she walked into the padding ken. Always had to do things complicated, Lazarus did.
“Yes, Sir.” She rubbed her face and tried to think of some way out of this. Her brain had gone numb as a potato.
“Don’t get comfortable, Jess. You’re not staying.” The Captain prowled the room, working off the fighting edge he hadn’t been able to use on Badger. This was another man she didn’t want to cross right now.
There was no one like Sebastian. No one. Lazarus could beat him to a pulp, or slit his gullet and have him dumped in the afternoon tide. Kennett acted like he was on the deck of his own ship with fifty men at his back. All those years with Lazarus, and she’d never seen anyone stroll in so insolent. You’d think he wanted to get killed.
“Is that what you think?” Lazarus said.
Kennett helped himself to the other chair and sat, confronting Lazarus. There was nothing conciliatory anywhere in either of them. He said, “We have things to say. Clear these ears out of here.”
“My people don’t have ears unless I tell them to.” Lazarus was pretending to be genial. A king cobra, being genial. “Sorry to spoil your fun with Badger, but I can’t let you kill my pimps for being stupid. We’d be knee-deep in carcasses.”
“You let him raise a knife to Jess.”
“She could outrun that clod when she was six.” Lazarus gave a lazy, malicious smile. “Generally. I showed the Brothers she hasn’t gone soft. They’ll accept her now. Fluffy, I have a guest.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Wine. For God’s sake, girl, anybody’d think you were raised in a barn.”
My Lord and Spymaster Page 24
