by Darcy Burke
He held his handkerchief up to his nose. If nothing else, at least rain would lessen the stench of putrefaction that clung to all of Bethnal Green. In the afternoon, the streets were less crowded, the majority of denizens either at work or in the public houses. He tapped his truncheon baton against his leg to the beat of an Irish ditty he’d heard outside of his window the night before. Ratcliffe’s heavy Irish population at least made him feel at home in that aspect.
“I could think of about seven hundred other places I’d rather be than here.” Kate slipped her hand into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out her Forsyth pistol and keeping it at her side. She shot a disparaging look toward a rank pile of rags cluttering a doorway.
Only when the pile groaned did he realize there was a person underneath the debris, bone-thin and yellow in complexion.
“The letter was quite clear. Outside the pawn broker’s on Anne Court.” He kept his voice low, his mouth near her ear.
She pinked, stepping back from him. “What did Atlas find out about Bartleby’s last known address?”
“He was able to locate a flat rented by one Laurence Bartleby in the heart of Westminster,” Daniel said.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he want to meet in Bethnal Green? Quite a distance to travel, even in a hired hack.” With her hand wrapped in the gray wool of her dress to hold her fraying hem up, Kate picked carefully around the cadaver of a feral cat.
They rounded the corner, dropping into a back alley. Here the street became busier, as patrons wandered in and out of a public house. Music drifted out from the doors.
“The pawnbroker’s is another alley over.” Kate stepped to the left to avoid a young mother, child in hand as she entered a flash house.
“Atlas said that Bartleby’s neighborhood is moderately well-to-do. Trust the ass to find himself another Bloomsbury,” he said.
Kate pursed her lips, a far-away look in her eyes for a second, most likely remembering her family’s townhouse in Bloomsbury. Of all the neighborhoods he could have picked, why did he have to choose that one? He sighed.
“How can he afford that? He must have found another post.”
“No record of it, at least that Atlas could find on the black market.” Daniel refused to share Atlas’s suspicions of what Bartleby was doing for money. Whether or not Kate believed it, she was a lady and there were things ladies didn’t need to hear.
They stopped in front of the pawn shop, one of several businesses in the dilapidated building. The front section had been refaced with stucco, while the side was a mottled mix of brick and wood as if money for the renovation had dried out before construction was complete. In each shop’s doorway, a crude wooden sign hung from the rafters. Painted on the dingy window of the shop in chipped ornamental lettering was “Friggard’s Pawn.” The glass was broken in the corner, most likely from a thief’s hook. The usual display of wares to entice potential customers was empty.
Daniel pressed his nose to the glass, peering into the shop. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls, the thick coat of dust missing where articles had once sat. The case in the front of the shop held no paste jewels, an indentation in the grime the size of a cash box on the cabinet counter.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “It’s vacant.”
The letter had been specific about this location. Daniel’s grip on the truncheon tightened. He stood legs wide, posture taut. Whoever had summoned them, he’d be ready for them.
He wouldn’t run any longer.
“No sign of Bartleby. Perhaps there’s a back room. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dolly shop was simply a cover for another operation.” He tried the doorknob. It was stuck. “I’m assuming you have your picks.”
Kate drummed her index finger against the walnut checkered grip of her pistol, her nose scrunched up in thought. Her gaze darted up the alley. Two men stood outside the clothing shop, deep in conversation.
“Of course I do.” She came up to the shop window and peered inside. “But I’m not keen on discovery.”
“Then we go around back by the chandler,” he nodded. Stepping down from the platform, he started to walk toward the rear of the shop.
“The door isn’t locked,” Kate called. “It’s merely stuck.” She turned the knob and the door opened partway until she gave it a shove. As it swung open, she spun around, hand out to stop him. “Daniel, no! Don’t come closer!”
She screamed. A brilliant white light flashed. One second, Kate stood at the doorway, and then a cloud of black smoke engulfed everything. He felt the percussive wave of sound as it rippled through the air, arm flying up to protect his face. Balance off-set, he stumbled, barely managing to right himself. Shards of wood, lead, and seemingly a thousand other razor-sharp things whipped toward him at an alarming speed. Windows burst, glass ricocheting into the street.
A second blast followed the first, stronger than before. This wave knocked him off his feet, tumbling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs and debris. He pushed himself up, hand hitting something pointed. Blood spilled from the wound, but he barely registered it. He couldn’t see clearly from the black cloud, couldn’t think. Instinct pushed his legs forward, away from the demolished building and toward the road.
No, he refused to leave. He forced himself to turn around. Kate was still in there. Where was she? “Kate!” He rasped out, coughing from the smoke.
She was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
Flames lapped at what had once been Friggard’s Pawn. The blackness of the powder from the explosion was punctured with golden orange tendrils. The heat grew, sparks clinging to his coat and singeing the thick wool. A crash resonated, muted somewhat by his slightly deafened ears, as the walls caved in and a gaping hole was left in place of solid foundation.
Kate had been standing in front of the door a moment before. That door was no more, so Daniel could only assume the blast had blown her back, trapped her under the rubble.
The smoke weighed down on him, each breath a special labor. His eyes streamed with water, sensitive to the black powder. Ash flooded the air. He could not move without hacking and his head pounded. He unwound his neckcloth, holding it over his nose so that he could breathe easier.
Yelling her name, he kept on. He turned over piles of rubble, unsure of whether he should dread what he’d find underneath or be hopeful. He grabbed on to a large piece of wood, holding it up as a shield. Another explosion, another blast of fire sent his way. The flames rippled across the edge of the wood before dying out. He was near the front of the building, heat boring down on him, smoke almost unbearable.
In the darkness he could make out one silver flash of metal, a small tube. His gut tightened. Kate’s pistol, flung from her hands when the bomb went off. Daniel ducked down and scooped it up, the heat of the barrel burning the tips of his already charred gloves. His pace increased, frenzied by the possibility of her being close. He moved without thought, relying solely on his instinct in the black cloud.
She might not be alive. But he wouldn’t think of that—he would keep searching until he found her. He would not leave her now.
Throwing down his shield, he stopped in front of a heap of debris up to his shin. He shoved through the remains, pulling off pieces of wood from the pile. Flames licked close to the area, providing him with enough light to see a body covered by the debris.
“Kate!” he screamed, hurling pieces from the pile.
He uncovered a splash of gray fabric edged in black. Kate’s skirt—it had to be. He kept digging, piece after piece until finally he saw her.
Crushed underneath a chunk of wood, face down with her limbs splayed at awkward angles, she didn’t stir as he approached. He grabbed the door, pulling it off of her and setting it to the side of them so that it offered some shelter from the splintering building.
“Kate. Please, Katiebelle, please.” Her name became an urgent plea for her to awaken. He couldn’t possibly survive without her, couldn’t become the better man she made hi
m want to be.
He knelt down in front of her, leaning over her to press his ear to her chest. Faintly, her heartbeat reached him. He let out a sob of relief, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.
She was alive.
But she wouldn’t be for long if they didn’t get to safety. Gingerly, he lifted her onto his lap. His fingers came back slick when he touched her face. Bile rose in his throat. Blood streamed from her forehead, matted in her hair and coated her left ear. Dirt, clay, and glass stuck to the wound. She must have hit the ground hard when the blast had thrown her down.
He hugged her to his chest, his heart pounding frantically. So much blood flowed from the gash, coating her face in sickly red. Gathering her up, he stood. With her in his arms, he hunched down, running as fast as he could. The flames smoldered, sending bits of building toward them. He deflected the missiles as best as he could.
His arms burned from the effort of carrying her down the street at such a pace. They were out in the open, and he dare not risk slowing down. He didn’t loosen his grip on her until finally they were far away where a hack could be hired, and he’d lifted her into the carriage. Only then did he collapse on the cushion across from her, his body limp.
***
She’d triggered a tripwire.
When Kate awoke in the carriage that was the first thing she remembered. Her foot hitting a wire so thin it might as well have been a fishing lure spun from silk. It made a small plinking sound, and if the activity on the street had been louder, she might have missed it entirely.
She blinked open eyes prickly from exposure to flame and powder. Light filtered in through the hackney windows. Daniel’s lips moved, yet she could not hear any sound coming out. Panic rose within her, clogging her sore throat until fatigue swept in. What if she could never hear again?
Her head throbbed. Too much smoke inhalation; too much pain drumming through her body to stay awake. She slipped back out of consciousness, letting the black take over.
Hours later, she awoke again. She was in Daniel’s quarters, laid out on top of his bed with a pillow behind her head. Her dress was torn and dirtied. Her shoes and stockings had been removed.
“Daniel?” Her throat was raw, scratched like dirty laundry against a washing board.
“I’m here.” Daniel sat in a chair across the room.
Tears formed at the sound of his voice, rich and with a hint of Irish brogue. She reached out for him and he was at her side in a flash, taking a seat on the bed next to her. Struggling to prop herself up, she ignored the answering ache within her. The pain didn’t matter. It was immaterial when Daniel was near her.
Devil take it, she might have died without a final taste of his lips, the feel of his strong arms around her.
“I’m—” She started, her mind not clear enough to form the proper words. Instead, she grabbed for his hand, giving a weak tug.
He followed her guidance, maneuvering so that his arms wrapped around her shoulders. His touch was so tender she barely felt it. Leaning deeper into him, she rested her head on his chest, breathed in the sooty scent of him that reminded her further of what she could have lost.
Vaguely, she remembered being in his arms. He had fished her out of the wreckage, carried her to safety. She pulled back to look at his face, black-streaked and haggard. A fresh bandage adorned the hand slung across her right shoulder. He wore no neckcloth or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves ripped and ashen.
“I thought I’d lost you.” His voice was raw, words stripped bare.
When he looked at her like this, shoulders hunched and dark circles around his eyes, she worried she would get lost in his unwavering gaze. His green eyes full of love, he stared at her as if she was the only woman he had ever needed, the only one he’d ever want—and she wanted so badly to believe him and fall into his arms.
You could not lose me because you’ve had me all along.
“It’ll take more than a bomb to end me,” she said.
She rubbed at her eyes. Her fingers scraped her brow. “Bugger,” she groaned, as pain shot through her temple and crusted blood flaked off on her fingers.
“Careful,” Daniel cautioned. He stood, filling both a bowl and a teacup with boiling water from the tea kettle. Handing her a full teacup, he took a seat cautiously on the bed. He placed the bowl on the table, with a clean bit of fabric torn from the sheets hanging off the rim.
“Drink up,” he said. “You needn’t worry about the quality. I boiled it while you were asleep. It should be safer than tea, given what the coffeehouses here pass as tea.”
“Bitter swill.” She tried to smile as she lifted the cup and sipped. She tasted blood, coppery sweet, from where it had dripped down from the wound on her brow.
“How are you feeling?” He picked up the bowl, dipping the cloth into the soapy water and ringing it out.
“I’m not dead, so better than the alternative.” Her body ached, she was certain she had a few bruises the size of fists, and her head thrummed, but she was alive.
All because of him.
“The door took most of the blast,” he mused. “From what I can piece together of the initial explosion, the bomb must have been behind something. Maybe the counter; there were so many fragments of glass, more than should have been from the windows shattering.”
“When I opened the door, it triggered something.” She frowned. “I tried to warn you—”
“I think the bomb was wired to the door. So when it went off, the door blew off the hinges and knocked you backward. It gave you shelter from the rest of the shards, at least.”
She nodded, as if it were an everyday occurrence to be trapped under a wooden plank, the smell of powder thick in her nose and the whirling of fragments around her. It had been so dark under that board.
Suffocating blackness that only ended because he’d risked his own life to save her.
He leaned forward, the cloth in his hand. “Let’s try and clean that mess on your brow, shall we? This may sting a bit and for that I am truly sorry.” He ran the hot cloth across her chin, delicately cleaning the area.
The sting knocked her breath away. A thousand burning fires on her brow that didn’t cease when he drew the fabric off. He dunked the cloth back in the water, wringing it out and returning to her face for more. She squirmed out of his grip, hissing sounds that didn’t form full words.
He held her down, murmuring softly to her. Words she could not fathom, but they sounded sweet and comforting. Little by little she relaxed against his clutch, the pain ebbing into dullness.
Dipping the cloth in the now rust-tinged water, Daniel sat back on the bed. “There.”
She drew in a shaky breath. Her shoulders ached from the movement but it made her calmer, for she had control over something at least if she could manage her breathing.
He stood and tossed the soiled water out the window. A shout echoed from the street below, where the water had apparently landed on a passerby. Daniel refilled the bowl with water from the kettle, grabbing another cloth. She squinted. He’d torn up a ragged bed sheet for this, sacrificing warmth for her health.
“Thank you.” She dared not speak louder than a whisper, afraid of breaking the precious calm settling between them. Everything was as it should be, and if she didn’t move, she might not believe she had been buried under a pile of wood and glass a few hours before.
“Say nothing of it.” He soaked the second cloth in that water, his back to her.
Sturdy shoulders, solid chest, a perfectly sculpted rear she’d once slapped as he braced himself on her bed and drove into her—she knew every curve of his frame better than she knew the rookeries. That familiarity scared the hell out of her, but it was also oddly soothing. When her foot had hit the wire and she’d turned around to warn him away, the idea of him surviving even if she did not had soothed her.
“You saved me.” She might have been crushed under the remains, forgotten about by the rest of society. Perhaps some would say she deserved it—a fitt
ing end to the crooked daughter of a crooked man.
“What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?” He turned around, wet cloth in his hands, his brows furrowed. “What kind of man would I be if I did that?”
“The kind of man I’ve thought you were for three years.” She frowned, whether from remorse or the constant ache of her battered limbs she knew not. This thing—whatever this was—between them was treacherous, something she could not easily define.
“You thought I’d leave at the first sign of danger.” He sighed, coming to the side of the bed. He held the bowl of water and the cloth, setting both down on the table.
“I—” But she couldn’t finish that thought. If she admitted she no longer thought of him that way, it would be akin to an admission of feeling for him. Of love, blossoming in her heart when she ought to crush it, for it wasn’t safe and it wasn’t infallible.
Beside her was Papa’s greatcoat, now shredded. Closing her eyes, Kate ran her hand down the familiar wool. One more comfort of her old life in Bloomsbury stolen from her. There was nothing left, nothing but the flintlock—
“My father’s Forsyth pistol,” she said suddenly, her eyes popping back open. She grabbed Daniel’s hand, pouring her hurt into a vice grip. “We must go back and retrieve it. Please, Daniel, it’s all I have left of him.”
He pulled his hand away from hers and patted it once before crossing to the other side of the room. Opening up the trunk off to the side of the room, Daniel emerged with the pistol held out to her in both hands.
“I found it when I was searching for you.” He looked all too pleased with himself, his grin glowing and his eyes dancing with glee. Bringing the gun to her, he set it down in her lap affectionately.
“You...” She couldn’t form words.
Her finger traced the roses carved into the wooden handle. The flintlock was heavy in her lap, a constant presence she’d grown to love. The gun had become her best friend these last three years, the only thing that still made sense. A crutch like gin had been for him once.
