by Shana Galen
Panting, he peered over the edge and saw Racer entering the building. Beezle, Stub, and the rogues from Mother Cummings’s weren’t far behind. He needed an escape plan. Somewhere they’d never find him. Somewhere he’d be safe.
Fog and haze from coal fires shrouded the city. To the south, the river’s countless ships’ masts resembled bony fingers pointing to the sky.
Skeletons.
Not that way.
East led to more rookeries, more men to chase him. West—west. West meant Hyde Park, Piccadilly, Mayfair…
Gideon forced his beleaguered legs to attempt three large steps back, then tested his endurance. He ran across the roof and jumped across to the closest building, landing with a thud. The roof sloped, and he slid down and down.
Shit. He was dead.
His hand snagged a loose piece of wood that cut into his skin. He dangled, blood from his hand dripping into his eyes. Ignoring the pain, he slammed his feet against a glaze below him.
Shit again. The glass was too thick to break, and his fucking hand hurt like a hot iron had branded it.
Then the pane lifted, and a woman peered up at him. “What the bloody ’ell is going on?”
Good question.
A slug hit the building beside him.
Very good question.
Gideon peered over his shoulder. Mrs. Cummings’s men hunched on the building he’d jumped from. With their heads together, they watched as one primed the barking iron again.
“This is bad. This is very bad.”
Gideon looked up. Not that way. He looked down at the window and the not-insubstantial drop below.
Neither path was desirable, but out of all his options, being popped was the least desirable. With a muffled curse, Gideon released the piece of wood and slid down until his feet balanced on the window ledge. The woman had ducked back inside when the next pistol shot rang out, and he swung inside before the slug hit, right where his head had been a moment before.
“Hey!” From the safety of the room, he shook his fist at the thugs.
The blow to his head came from nowhere. Gideon staggered back and closed his eyes to stop the spinning.
“Get out!” the woman screamed, slapping at him.
Gideon held up his hands and danced around her.
“Just show me the door.”
Still avoiding her blows, he reached the door, threw it open, and fell into the corridor.
“There’s got to be an easier way,” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet and down the stairs. He burst into the street outside the building, paused to find his bearings, and started west. He took off at a light run, ignoring his leaden legs. There’d be time to inventory his injuries later. He turned down a side street and smacked into a tall, lanky form.
Beezle stepped into the light. “Going somewhere?”
Gideon fell backward, recovered his balance. “I was looking for you.”
He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Of course you were.” Beezle held out a hand. “Give me the necklace.”
The hand was dirty and scarred, much as Gideon’s. The long, sharp nails had dirt underneath. Behind him, Stub and Racer called out.
“Give it to me now, and I’ll kill you fast,” Beezle said.
“A generous offer, but I’m not ready to die.”
“Too late.”
Beezle lunged, and Gideon caught the glint of the long, deadly dagger he held. Gideon shielded his face with his arm, crouching instinctively. The low growl made him flinch.
Beezle looked over his shoulder. “What was that?”
The mongrel stepped out from the shadows behind Beezle. His teeth were bared, the only white on his otherwise black form.
“Have you met my friend Killer?” Gideon asked.
Beezle swung the blade, and the dog lunged for him. Gideon shot away, running on fear as much as thrill. He exited the alley and tumbled into the street when he heard the dog’s growls behind him.
“Not much of a meal, is he?” Gideon called over his shoulder.
The dog barked, and Gideon pushed his body to the limit.
“If you want to eat me, first you have to catch me!”
* * *
“Why are you in here?” the Dowager Lady Dane asked, holding a lamp aloft.
Susanna turned from her father’s bookshelves. She’d been tracing the spines of her father’s collection in his darkened library. She hadn’t bothered to light a lamp or to ask Crawford to stoke the fire in the hearth. She wanted the peace of the dark.
But peace was fleeting.
“I repeat, why are you in here?”
Susanna shrugged.
“Do not shrug. It is not ladylike.”
“I’m sorry. I would choose a book to read.”
Her mother huffed and held the lamp higher as though to view Susanna’s choice. “And did you? Make sure I approve it first.”
Susanna had tugged her shawl close, shivering in the coolness of the large library.
“I haven’t chosen one yet. I…I was thinking about Dane.” Oh, treacherous ground! She should scuttle away or risk being smashed underfoot.
She squinted her eyes closed and pressed on. “Have you had word from Dane and Marlowe?”
Her mother put a hand to her forehead. “Do not mention that woman’s name to me. She is the reason we have no invitations tonight. Lord Braybrook is hosting a musicale, and do you think we were sent an invitation? No. We are little more than pariahs. That is what your brother and his mésalliance have done to us.”
“We are hardly pariahs.” She should shut up now, but then she would never know. And she would have to call herself coward. Again.
“We are not as popular as we might have been, Mama, but you cannot blame Dane for following his heart. He loves Marlowe.”
“Love.” Her mother fanned her face with a gloved hand. “What do you know of love? What about duty? What about honor? How could he shame us by marrying a…a common thief?”
“Haven’t you ever been in love, Mama?” Susanna flinched back at the impertinence of her question. Generally, she refrained from asking her mother even the most basic sorts of questions, but Lady Winthorpe’s conversation at the garden party had made her inexcusably curious.
“Of course,” her mother snapped. “I loved your father.”
“There was never anyone else?”
Her mother’s thin lips pressed together. “Why do you ask?”
Susanna almost shrugged. She caught herself in time. “I just wondered.”
“You wondered?” Her mother stalked into the room, bringing the slash of light from the lamp with her. “There is nothing about me to wonder. I married your father and birthed three children. Why the three of you insist on plaguing me now is beyond me.”
“Have you ever been to Vauxhall Gardens?” Susanna asked. Was it her imagination or did her mother’s face go white?
“Of course. But it was a long time ago. The gardens have deteriorated since then. It is not safe, full of rakes and courtesans.”
“I want to go.”
“Out of the question.” Her tone was imperious. Not even the Queen could have done as well.
“I’m out now, and it’s a fashionable setting.”
“Absolutely not,” her mother said, her manner more forceful than Susanna felt the suggestion warranted. “It’s not safe. Pickpockets and rogues of all sorts frequent Vauxhall. Even Lambeth is no longer safe.”
Susanna would not back down, not after her triumph over Lady Litton. She wanted an adventure, and Vauxhall was the most romantic and daring place she could think of. If she didn’t go now, her mother would keep her in the prison of this town house for the rest of her life. Even if Susanna married, she’d only move to another prison. For once, Susanna wanted to be free, to go so
mewhere of her own choosing, to go somewhere for her own amusement—not because she was obligated to.
“Then we should ask Brook to escort us,” Susanna said. “We would be safe with an inspector who has his contacts at Bow Street.”
Surely her mother could not object to that argument.
“Your brother is far too busy with his work to be called upon to escort us on such a frivolous journey.”
Susanna’s jaw dropped. “But you hate Brook’s work! You always say he should go out in Society more. You said his insistence on associating with Runners is an embarrassment. You—”
“I know what I said, young lady,” her mother snapped. “I do not need my words repeated by you. And what I am saying now is that we will not trouble your brother with this.”
“But—”
The dowager held up a hand. “Furthermore, this is the last I want to hear of this. Not another word. Do you understand me, Susanna? We are not visiting Vauxhall Gardens. Ever.”
Susanna stepped back in surprise at the vehemence in her mother’s voice. The dowager put a hand to her forehead. “Now look what you have done. I have a megrim. Edwards!” She took the lamp out of the library and called a second time for her lady’s maid. “Edwards, I need a compress.”
Susanna crossed the room and closed the door, muting her mother’s voice. Then she returned to her father’s desk—Dane’s desk now. She felt for the chair, wobbled, and slid to the floor. A sob welled up in her throat. “I’ll never be free of her.”
She sounded pitiful, and she didn’t even care. She was trapped, like the butterfly her brothers had once caught at Northbridge Abbey and imprisoned in a glass jar. The butterfly had flown about the jar, beating its wings on the glass until it finally ceased in exhaustion.
The boys soon grew tired of watching the butterfly and went to play other games. Susanna immediately released the poor creature, but by then it was too fatigued to fly out. Even when she dumped it on the grass, the butterfly did not move. It had given up.
She’d tried to be the perfect daughter. She’d tried to do everything her mother asked of her, but nothing was ever good enough. She didn’t speak loudly enough or she spoke too loudly; she walked too slowly or too quickly; she ate too much or too little; her hair was too long or not long enough; she was too fat or too thin. Susanna felt like cowering, as she was now, every time she saw her mother, because she never knew what she would be criticized for next.
She was tired of fighting. She wanted to give up, lie down, fall asleep, and never wake up again. The weight of her exhaustion pressed down on her, and she leaned against the side of the desk, giving in to it.
Scrape.
Susanna stopped crying and listened.
* * *
“Very good, Edwards,” Dorothea said when her lady’s maid had taken her wrapper and assisted her into bed. The cool sheets felt good against her swollen feet. She’d spent too much time on them at the garden party. She’d had to search the entire house before she’d found Susanna in the music room, of all places.
But thank God she’d found her. Dorothea’s heart had thumped wildly when her daughter hadn’t been in the retiring room and no one could remember having seen her.
Edwards held up the compress. “Here you are, my lady.”
“That is perfect, Edwards.” She settled the compress on her forehead and closed her eyes.
After a few moments, Edwards turned the compress over. “Feeling better, my lady?”
“No, Edwards, unfortunately I am not. I do not think I shall be well until I see Susanna married and married well.”
Edwards’s mouth turned down sympathetically. “The girl does seem to put you out of sorts.”
“Yes, she does. Did I tell you she disappeared at the marchioness’s garden party today?”
“You did, my lady.”
Dorothea eased herself back down onto the pillow and closed her eyes. “I worry about her. She resents it when I try to protect her. Am I not a mother? Should I not keep my daughter safe?”
“You love her, my lady.”
“Of course I do. I love all of my children.”
Edwards turned the compress again. “I have always sensed Lady Susanna was special to you, my lady.”
Dorothea opened her eyes. “She is, Edwards. She is very special. I do not think she even knows how special she is to me.”
“You should tell her, my lady.”
Dorothea closed her eyes again. That was something she dared never to do.
* * *
Scrape.
In the library, Susanna went still. There it was again.
The town house was old and had a tendency to creak and groan. But then she heard it again, and this time she knew it was not the house. It sounded like…a window. There were two windows behind Dane’s desk, and both looked out upon the small garden. One was directly across from where she sat huddled on the floor. The draperies were closed, and nothing stirred behind them. Was she imagining the noise, or was something or—God forbid—someone trying to enter the house?
She peered around the corner of the desk and stared at the opposite window. Her breath caught when the draperies rustled with the breeze. The window had definitely not been open before. It had been cold enough in the room without allowing the night air inside.
Susanna jerked back, hidden on the far side of the desk again. Everyone knew London was rife with housebreakers, but would the thieves be so bold as to try and enter a house when the family was home? She heard a thump and trembled.
Apparently, the rogues were so bold. What would they do to her if they found her? Kill her? Rape her? Kidnap her for ransom?
She must escape, but how?
She peered around the desk again and saw two legs standing in front of the window. It was too late to run. The thief was already inside. She did a quick inventory of herself. She had nothing, absolutely nothing that would protect her from a ruffian.
She could hear the thief breathing now. He was breathing hard, as though he’d been running. She pressed her back against the oak of the desk and craned her neck. She spotted the shadow of a candlestick on the edge of the desk. She hadn’t lit the candle in it. If she could pull it off the edge without the thief noticing, she could use it to protect herself.
She felt the edge of the desk with her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she stretched her fingers until she touched the cool silver of the candlestick. She eased her fingers around it and tugged it soundlessly over the edge of the desk.
The candlestick shook in her hands. The weight was more than she was prepared for, but she caught hold of it and clutched it to her chest just in time.
The thief clomped into the room. He wasn’t worried about being quiet. She could hear him now. He lifted books and replaced them. She knew the sound the binding made when lifted and released. That meant his back was to her.
Her heart thundered so loudly she feared he could hear her, and she was at risk of swooning at any moment. She dug her fingers into the ornamentation around the candlestick until the silver cut into her palm.
She must be strong. She must be brave.
It didn’t appear as though any other thieves were entering after this one. She could hit him with the candlestick and prove to her mother that she was an independent, capable young woman who should be allowed to go to Vauxhall Gardens—or anywhere she pleased!
Susanna trembled as she moved to her knees and slanted her eyes up and over the desk.
There he was!
He looked every inch the dangerous rogue! He was tall and powerfully built and had dark hair covered with a cap. And he was indeed pawing through her father’s books. She had to stop him.
She ducked down and scooted along the edge of the desk until she reached the side closest to the shelves. She was exposed now. If he should but move a little to his left, he would see her
. She forced herself to slide slowly and with exaggerated care until her back collided with the sharp edge of the far corner of the desk.
She could smell the thief now. She’d expected him to smell of something rank and evil, but he smelled of the night air and something else, perhaps sandalwood?
This close, she saw the rough hew of his clothing. The dirt on his boots. He did not belong here, and his actions left no question as to his intent. She grasped her skirts in one hand to keep them from tripping her, and held the heavy candlestick in the other. Soundlessly, she rose. He seemed to sense her movement, but right before he could turn, she rushed him and slammed the candlestick onto the back of his head.
With a groan, he went down, the cap tumbling from his head.
She’d done it! She’d really done it.
She gave a small gasp of surprise and horror when she saw the trickle of blood on his neck. Oh God. Had she killed him? What would happen to her if she’d killed him? Would she go to Newgate?
She wanted to wake Crawford, but she couldn’t call the butler if she’d killed a man. He’d be forced to summon the magistrate. Better to ensure the thief was alive before calling for anyone.
Tentatively, she knelt down, and her hand wavered over the thief’s neck. She’d seen her mother’s physician touch the dowager’s neck at this point to check her pulse. Susanna had never tried to check a pulse, and she’d never touched a man other than her father or her brothers. Her hand hovered above the man’s neck, until finally she shut her eyes and forced herself to touch him.
He was still warm. His head was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see if her hand was in the right position, but she didn’t feel a pulse. She moved her fingers a fraction of an inch.
Still nothing.
She moved them again, and he groaned.
She snatched her hand away and scrambled backward. The man tried to rise, lifting his shoulders off the floor and cupping the back of his head. He groaned again and turned his head to look at her, just as she was about to raise the candlestick again. He raised his hand to ward off the blow, but she’d paused anyway.
