by Darcy Burke
He should stand on the side of Ireland, waving a flag of patriotism because the British had invaded the land of his ancestors, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had enough bloody problems.
He was mad to think the crowd meant him, when he knew full well there was a pugilist fighting under the name Bogger, a strapping Irishman who used the slur to suck dry English pockets.
Daniel was mad to be here in the first place.
Where was Kate? Furtively, he glanced up the alley and back again. Did she expect him at the front entrance? Perhaps he should move toward there, let himself indulge in a single pint to add to the image that he was just another fancy…
No.
He knew better. He had a family to think of, of his sister Poppy and her daughter and his uncle. And Kate, gorgeous Kate, depending on him to prove he could be a better man.
Kate, whose hips swayed so devilishly when she walked, who emerged from the shadows of a snowy London night with the tails of her men’s greatcoat floating out behind her, pistol in her hand. He grew hard at the sight of her, supple and imperial. For a second, he was not sure if he’d imagined her appearance, as he’d done so many times before.
“What are you doing all the way back here?” She asked. “Cyrus’s sponsor is holding court by the bar, so Cyrus can’t be too far off.”
He gulped, unwilling to admit his weakness. “I thought I’d attract less scrutiny if I sneaked in through the back.”
Her eyes narrowed like the beggar’s, who candidly observed them from his place atop the rubbish bin. She leaned down and scooped up some ash from the sidewalk.
“If you were worried about being seen, you should’ve done something about your appearance. We shouldn’t take chances, not after last night. Here, take your hat off.” Not waiting for him to do so, she reached up and grabbed his hat. Scattering the ash atop his hair, she spread it out with her fingers and patted it down. “There. A brunette if I ever saw one.”
He set the hat back down on his head. They walked around front, the crunch of their boots against the snow like a thousand explosions to his ears. Kate opened the door and he slid in after her.
“There’s Cyrus.” Kate pointed toward the bar where a man sat off to the side, nursing a pint.
Cyrus looked up from his ale as they approached. A candle flickered on the bar-top next to him, illuminating his glowering features. His hair was black as coal, his forehead wide, jaw square, and he had a bulbous, off-center nose that had been broken badly and not properly set. His left lid was blackened, the skin puffy from a recent hit, while his right eye regarded them with discernment. A mammoth of a man, he hunkered over the bar-top, bruised hands wrapped around a dwarfed mug.
Daniel gripped Kate’s arm, ready to pull her away from the pugilist. He’d humor her need to be in control only as long as it didn’t endanger her safety.
“Morgan. Who’s the cull?” Cyrus asked.
“I’m Patrick Sweany.” Daniel inclined his head, his natural half-Brogue thicker, like his uncle’s.
“You always did have a thing for the Irish, Morgan.” Cyrus shrugged, turning his attention back to Daniel. “Betting on the Bogger then?”
“’Course. Heard he was gonna fight Izzy Lazarus next,” he fibbed, unflinching at the fighter’s uneven gaze. “He’ll win for sure.”
“You kiss your mother with that lying mouth, Clanker?” Cyrus crossed his arms, his bulging forearms straining against the cut of his linen shirtsleeves. He wore no coat.
“Care to make a wager?” Daniel asked. “I’m damned certain the Bogger will take your man tonight, just as he’ll defeat the Jew, Izzy.”
“I’ve got a pony on Jim Friar,” Kate interjected, appeasing the fighter.
“Not a good place for a lady tonight.” Cyrus tilted his head toward the masses around them, bent on heavy drinking and exodus. “Why are you here, Morgan? Finally coming to your senses about my offer?”
“Don’t make me retch.” Kate rolled her eyes.
Unbidden, an image of Kate with Cyrus came to mind, the fighter’s muscular chest pressed against her bare breasts, his riven lips on her neck.
Bastard. It didn’t matter whether it had happened or not, the man had opportunities to get to know Kate when he’d left and thus Daniel hated him.
“You’re not the fighting sort.” Cyrus sat back on the stool, surveying her. “You only come when you want something. I haven’t sent you any goods. Something wrong with Jane?”
Kate’s expression became guarded. “Jane is fine, or as fine as she can be with her brother in gaol. I saw her the other night when she was working. You know she doesn’t want you asking about her.”
Cyrus sneered, fresh blood speckling his split lip. “She don’t know what she wants, that lass.”
“You weren’t good together. You’ve got to let her go.”
Was that how Kate saw their relationship too? Like poison disguised as wine, warm on her lips but fetid in her stomach.
We are meant for another chance. Daniel held on to that faith, clutched it tight as his gaze flitted from her back to the scowling Cyrus.
The tapster inquired what they wished to drink. Kate ordered an ale. Daniel’s mouth watered, his throat tightening.
“Coffee,” he said.
“A man who won’t drink’s not a man.” To demonstrate, Cyrus knocked back the rest of his ale and slammed down the tankard.
Daniel bit back a retort, for Kate had stiffened next to him. She glared at Cyrus, hackles raised in his defense, and he wanted to see what she’d do.
“A man who needs to hide behind drink isn’t a man,” she snapped. “I don’t remember you being so devilishly judgmental.”
Daniel squeezed her arm in gratitude. So he had not descended so far in her esteem after all. Cyrus’s features relaxed, as if he were pleased by Kate’s retort and she’d passed some sort of test. Daniel folded his hands in his lap and did what he hadn’t done when he was drinking—he listened.
***
“You remember my betrothed,” Kate said.
That simple statement left her raw. Somehow calling Daniel by that title, with him present, seemed far too intimate for their current state. It was a word of promises, households to manage and children to raise.
Cyrus took the new pint offered to him by the bar-wench, winking at her with his one good eye. “Irish’s lucky he got away when he did. I’d like to rip his throat out for butchering Tommy.”
Daniel stiffened. His hand rested on the bar-top, mere centimeters away from her fingers. Close enough that if she moved a hair’s breadth to get her drink, she would brush his supple gloves.
“Been a long time since Tommy died, and you never quizzed me about it before.” The boxer turned his attention to Daniel. “Sweany, you said? I’ve not heard of any Sweanys in these parts.”
Panic clogged Kate’s throat, but she shoved it far down. He couldn’t know of Daniel’s identity, not with the hat pulled low, the darkening of his hair and his deep accent. She could only remember Daniel sounding like that when aroused, when he was too far gone to care about modulating his speech.
Those were the realest times she’d had with him.
“I moved a few months ago. From Cork,” Daniel supplied.
Cyrus gave a short nod, but his eye still held a hard gleam. He was suspicious, and he’d keep on digging until he eventually found out that Sweany was no more than the quick thinking of the man he wanted to maim for killing his best friend.
Unless she did something.
When Cyrus’s attention was on her, she intertwined her fingers in Daniel’s. Glove to glove, she could not feel the callouses on his palm, but she knew they were there and that was almost as poignant.
“I’ve found someone new.” She turned her head toward Daniel, letting the silence serve as emphasis as she looked into his eyes. Eyes she could get lost in, swimming in jade. “How can I possibly move on until I know that I didn’t have something to do with Daniel O’Reilly’s descen
t into madness? I never suspected a thing. I would’ve married him, Cyrus, married a man capable of brutal murder.”
Cyrus seethed. “Tommy was a good man, you hear me? Damned besotted with some doxy. It’s always the woman. You tempt and tease us but you never give it up. You’d string us along until we’re only fit for Bedlam, and then you leave us because we make one mistake. Jane don’t know—”
“Cyrus,” Kate snapped. “Do you want me to tell Jane that I found you belly up in a bottle, bemoaning your fate like a melodramatic chit? Because I will.”
Cyrus bared his teeth, but she refused to be intimidated. For all her days, she would never understand what Jane had seen in the pugilist.
Daniel raised himself up to his full height, ready to attack Cyrus if he came after her. That was insanity, Kate knew, for the man was far larger than Daniel and made a living pounding the shit out of others.
Regardless, the show of support sent a little flutter through her. Stomach flipping, Kate looked back at Cyrus.
“What’s a bit of reminiscing between two old friends?” Cyrus relaxed back into the chair. “Not that I’ve got much for you, Morgan. Tommy might have known some bad blokes, but your lad was Emporia, and Tommy did warehouse work. One can obviously see the connection, though you don’t like it.”
She made a fist, nails digging into her palm. There had to be more than that.
“What happened before Daniel killed Dalton? Surely you must know something?”
“Do you think me dim because I’m a bruiser, lass? I’m not going to risk my hide for nothing. Show me a little something for my troubles.” His eyes roved down her frame, gaze settling at her chest. Her greatcoat was open, revealing the lower neckline of her gold walking gown.
Damnable, damnable fashion. In the Red Fist, where most of the women were lightskirts, the less she wore the better she fit into the crowd.
“Say that again, Mason.” Daniel’s voice was low, lethal as he pushed himself up and off the stool.
Fury radiated from the firm set of his jaw to the soles of his worn top boots. She saw the man the constable claimed he was—the potential for violence hidden underneath his calm exterior. So why then did she feel a tingle through her body, comfortably stealing away the bitter taste Cyrus’s proposition had left in her mouth?
He would not let her honor be tarnished. She’d forgotten she could even have such a notion as honor.
Cyrus leaned on the counter-top lazily, unperturbed. He held all the cards and he damn well knew it.
“Are you deaf as well as dumb?” Daniel’s hand slammed on the bar-top, fisted and ready to punch Cyrus in the jaw. The noise drew attention to them, in the form of several turned heads toward their little congregation at the end of the bar.
That would never do. She hopped off the stool, pushing herself between the two men.
Cyrus stood, towering over Daniel. He took a step toward them, his movements surprisingly agile considering his size.
“Get out of the way,” Cyrus barked at her.
The situation was getting out of control quickly. How could she not have accounted for this?
Another error in judgment to add to her already long list.
When she didn’t move out of Cyrus’s way fast enough, he grabbed for her shoulders, lifting her up and off of her feet. By the time she’d managed to form a protest, she was back on the ground away from Daniel, giving Cyrus a clear shot at him.
“Bollocks!” Her shriek got their attention. In tandem, they looked at her, confusion flickering.
Daniel took another step forward, edging on Cyrus. Kate stifled a groan, reaching into one of the pockets of her greatcoat. She pulled out a gold watch and set it down on the counter.
“It’s clean,” she said grudgingly. “I checked it myself.” The watch was supposed to be a good payday for her. She had bought it from a drug-addled pickpocket, who was easily convinced the market was saturated with watches and thus it was worth far less.
Daniel needed the information, but more importantly, she needed to know Emporia wasn’t connected to this. Papa had been vigilant in knowing the affairs of his employees. If Papa had known about a plot and not stopped it…she couldn’t countenance that.
“Kate—” Daniel started. He shut his mouth when she glared at him.
“It’ll do.” Cyrus snaked it up from the counter, depositing it in the inner pocket of his coat. “Would’ve preferred a lay with you, clever doxy, but it’ll do.”
Daniel’s face became stormy. Kate grabbed for his hand, warning him not to challenge Cyrus again. He threw his arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. She stayed put, not because it was so comforting to lean her head back against his sculpted chest, but because it would not perpetuate their deception if she pulled away. She breathed in bergamot and cloves until her senses were caught in the fragrant haze.
“Tell us who the beaters that Dalton knew are,” Daniel demanded. “You said he had connections, or was that you spinning tales?”
“I ain’t no liar.” Cyrus took the stool next to her, leaning in so that his words were only audible to her and Daniel. “I don’t know any names.”
“Sweany here is a grand thief. Do you really want him to lift that watch from you?” Kate had no patience left.
“Listen now, that doesn’t mean I know nothing. Tommy and I, we grew up together. I was in better circles, due to the Mason name, but I never cared much for the bon ton and we were on the fringes regardless. Tommy wasn’t a bad man, but he sure as hell wasn’t lucky. That much ought to be obvious.” Cyrus swiped a palm across his brow, a misplaced attempt at hiding his sadness over his friend’s demise. “We ran in the same gang. Small stuff, mostly, anything more and Joaquin’d have my head. I did it for the thrill, but Tommy—he thought he’d make a life for himself and the whore who’d caught his eye. Never listened when I told him he was being duped. No bit of baggage cares enough about our lot to run off into the country and start over.”
I cared about you, Daniel. I would have run away with you. Those thoughts rose up, gossamer threads to be snipped by rusted scissors when she remembered their place.
“So what kept him from leaving?” Daniel asked.
“Well, Morgan’s bloke sliced his neck clear through, I’d say that stopped him, wouldn’t you?” Cyrus lifted his glass. “Bunch of bastards brought him on what he thought was going to be the greatest deal. Stealing bodies from the graveyards and selling them to doctors who didn’t give a rat’s tail about where they came from. I told Tommy not to do it, told him it’d end badly. He never listened to me, never—”
Cyrus stopped. He blinked rapidly, then the emotion was gone from his face, snuffed out.
“Do you recognize the name Jasper Finn?” Daniel leaned forward on the bar, overeager.
Cyrus shook his head. “He some kind of exhumator?”
“The best, apparently, but I haven’t found anyone who’s seen him.” Kate drew her bottom lip between her two front teeth, biting down on the tender skin. “If he truly exists, someone must know him.”
She would turn over every rock in London if she had to, if it meant finding another tie besides Emporia.
“I can’t help you there, lass, even if I wanted to.” Cyrus shrugged. “I don’t make a business of sorting with the resurrectionists. Bunch of skin-flints, the lot.”
“Yes, because bareknuckle boxing is such a noble pursuit.” Kate rolled her eyes.
Daniel patted her shoulder in a gesture most likely meant to quiet her. She stiffened against his hold, shooting a glare at him.
He was undeterred. “The woman you mentioned earlier—do you remember her name?”
“That bitch couldn’t be bothered to come to his funeral. Of course I remember her.” His voice rose, increasing in volume. Another ale appeared in front of him without his asking. The barmaid would keep him drinking, in hopes he’d draw in more business with one of his legendary brawls.
“I can understand how that would upset you. Women,
they can be ruthless. Hell, I’ve got a friend in the same situation, enamored with a woman who probably wouldn’t mourn his death.” In contrast to Cyrus’s escalated anger, Daniel was calm, verging on sympathetic.
For a second, her eyes met Daniel’s and her next question died in her throat. She said nothing, but in that silence the weight of their wrongs crashed down on her shoulders. They could never be the same people again, not now.
I’ve mourned you for the last three bloody years.
Cyrus snorted, oblivious to their exchange. Caught in his own grief over his friend’s death and his irritation toward the woman who had failed Dalton. “Her name is Sally Fletcher. Attached to a brothel on Jacob’s Island. Devilishly dimber, but don’t let her angel’s face fool you.”
“I’ll try not to be taken in.” A mischievous smile tugged at Daniel’s lips, that telltale sign he thought he was being witty. Kate pushed back her bar stool, ready to be gone. That smile was not for her any longer. Some other woman would be the recipient of it.
They had information now that lead away from Emporia, and that in itself was worth the price of three gold watches. She nodded to Cyrus, waiting as Daniel fished out coin from his pocket for the ale and coffee.
“Give my best to Jane. Pleasure doing business with you, gel.” Cyrus winked.
She wouldn’t dignify that with a response.
Chapter Seven
They walked down Shadwell High Street, the street alive with a vibrancy that failed to lift Daniel’s mood. Snow crunched under his feet. The smell of gin had left his nostrils, allowing him to breathe easier again, but the heaviness in his stomach came from the knowledge of Kate’s sacrifice. She’d given up part of her livelihood, all to answer questions from a man she shouldn’t have had to speak to, let alone develop an acquaintanceship with.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
“Cyrus would never have told us anything otherwise.” Kate cocked her head toward him, her voice flat.
She walked with her hands shoved into her pockets, her shorter strides two to his longer ones. He slowed to match her pace. This city, with all its grit and crime, didn’t deserve the brilliance of Kate Morgan.
