The Lady and Mr. Jones

by Alyssa Alexander

  He didn’t know how many rooms it had, or how many patrons were in it at any given time—worse, he could not determine if Cat or Wycomb were inside. He couldn’t even peek into the windows.

  Slipping the pistol from its hiding place beneath his coat, then his knife from his boot, Jones crossed the filthy street to the door opposite. The wood was worn, black paint from long ago flecked over the surface. He opened it slowly, ready for what might come.

  The stench of unwashed bodies and opium smoke filled his nostrils. Jones clenched his teeth together and tried to breathe through his mouth. Stepping into the hall, he let the door close softly behind him. The wall was rough, even through his coat. He ignored the scrape and pressed his shoulder blades against the wall.

  The hallway was narrow, with open doors dotting the length of it. The light was dim, barely more than the late evening night in the streets beyond.

  Cat might not be here. Jones reminded himself this, even though his gut told him adamantly that she would be. Wycomb at the docks. Wycomb interested in the Anna Louisa returning from India. Wycomb unable to procure the “goods” he promised and a demon in the rookeries. The connections were there, if one looked.

  There would be only one more chance to save her.

  He had failed her once already. Fate and Wycomb would not give him a third chance.

  Drawing in air, Jones stilled his mind to clear it of fear. It was an old trick, one that usually had the desired result. The fear did not wane this time. It clung inside his chest and coated his throat with panic. If he failed her again, what would happen to her?

  Before he could think so much he forgot to act, Jones turned his head and angled his body to see into the first room. His gaze raked over the scene. Men lay half propped on pillows, some appearing to sleep and others unaware of anything about them. A general air of repose wove between the wisps of smoke.

  No Cat.

  Instead, there was a man beside the door, watching the patrons. Large forearms crossed over his chest, and both a pistol and a knife were tucked into his waistband. A guard, it was clear.

  There would be more—to guard the product, to prevent crazed patrons from rioting.

  Quickly, so the guard would not see him cross the open doorway, Jones moved down the hall to the next room. It was set up as the first room, pillows and tables and pipes strewn about, though empty. Business must not be good.

  Jones continued down the hall, picking his way as quietly as he knew how, to peek into the third room. This one was also empty, though it showed signs of use. Cloth was laid out as though it were bedding, empty bowls and scraps of garbage littered the floor, but no sign of Cat.

  He reached the end of the hall and found stairs leading up and others leading down to what might have once been kitchen areas. He looked up, looked down. The upper floors were dark and quiet, but pale light and the echo of voices drifted up from below. Jones crept down the stairs, testing each step for strength and sound, pistol and knife ready. Both weapons were solid in his hands.

  A warren of small rooms ran the length of the lower floor, as if someone had added space as needed over time without regard to hallways or proportions. Some opened into other rooms, others were separated by narrow halls barely wide enough for his shoulders. Storage or servants’ rooms, perhaps, before St. Giles had become the slum it was now.

  He crept through the snarl of rooms, listening. He passed one room where a group of men were gambling on the toss of a dice. Gin bottles littered the floor beside chicken bones stripped of their meat.

  Four men, plus one above.

  Not good odds, but he had dealt with worse and survived.

  Only he’d never had Cat with him.

  He couldn’t think of it. Cat dying filled him with such horror that the entire world went dark before his eyes. With a shaking breath, Jones chased the darkness away with the image of her eyes in his mind.

  Butterfly wings.

  The panic slicking his insides grew. He used it to fuel him, letting that panic ground him. He would not fail her again.

  He passed another room where two men lay sleeping on pallets. Light snores alternated, as if they orchestrated the sounds. Jones thought one was the man who had tried to abduct Cat on rain-soaked Oxford Street. Six men, plus one above. He continued, and discovered a seventh man seated at a table in the next room, not facing the door nor with his back to it, but perpendicular. Various lidded pots ranged across the table, more were stacked about. Burlap bags were piled in one corner, mostly empty, with tobacco leaves spilled around them.

  Ah, here was the center of production, where the opium was mixed with tobacco for the patrons above.

  Behind the table, a splash of dingy white spilled over the stone floor. Cat lay on her side facing the door, face pillowed on one arm. The hem of her nightshift was grayed with dirt, the cloak partially covering her spotted with mud—and worse.

  Jones moved out of the doorway to press himself once more against the wall of the darkened hallway.

  No blood. He hadn’t realized the fear had overtaken him until his belly loosened from the tight fist gripping it. No visible injuries, though her eyes had been closed. Had they drugged her? Laudanum? Or, worse, the opium itself? His hand curled around the hilt of his knife, fingers gripping the horn as though he could dig into it with his nails alone.

  Dear God, no. Please.

  Heavy, staggered footsteps sounded above. Someone in the den was moving. The footsteps faded amid vague grunts, but the sound reminded Jones he could not wait. He peered into the room once more to gauge his opponent. The man was bent over the table, his back not fully toward the door. Any significant movement and Jones would be seen. He seemed tall even in the chair, but lean. Emaciated.

  If he raised the alarm, his skill would not matter. If he used the pistol set at his elbow, his size would not matter.

  Jones looked once more at Cat to gather himself before the attack. Her sharp gaze pinned him in place. Bright and clear and focused, her eyes showed no hint of confusion or hallucination. She did not blink, did not even move, but watched him carefully. He expected to see relief reflected in her face. Instead, her features had firmed into a sort of confirmation.

  Even trust.

  His heart swelled as he set a finger to his lips and held it there to be certain she saw it. Satisfaction rippled through him when she didn’t acknowledge him beyond a blink. She was smart enough to know her movement might betray his presence.

  Attention returned to the man, Jones breathed in slow and sure, quietly enough his opponent would not hear that intake and be alerted. The quick rush of energy that preceded any attack spiked through him. He channeled it, through his muscles and joints and into his fingertips. He pushed off hard with his feet, surging into the room. Training became instinct, then instinct became action. The man heard him and spun around, already reaching for the pistol on the table. It was too late. Jones leaped, launching himself into the air and using momentum to send his shoulder into the man’s chest.

  Pain bloomed in Jones’s shoulder, but it was nothing compared to the impact of the stone floor as he landed. He rolled, fast and quick, to be out of knife range before he was ready to fight.

  In the corner, Cat scrambled to her knees and pressed herself against the wall. He saw now she was chained at the ankle. Hell.

  The man moaned as he pushed himself up. Jones didn’t give him the chance to get beyond his knees. He slammed his fist into the man’s face, once, twice. He went down again, but his foot lashed out and caught Jones on the shin. Leg buckling beneath him, Jones fell to one knee.

  The man rolled, much as Jones had done but clumsier. There was street training here, but not formal training.

  From the corner Cat made a small, strangled sound.

  Jones had to end this. Now.

  He swept his own leg out and caught the man alongside his head. Soundlessly, he crumpled to the ground.

  Panting, Jones rolled the man onto his back and began frantically se
arching his pockets. It had to be somewhere, tucked away.

  “He doesn’t have the key.” Panic edged Cat’s voice. “The other man does. The one upstairs.”

  Bloody hell. Jones abandoned the unconscious man and surged toward Cat, who was struggling past chains to rise to her feet. He wanted to cup her smudged and fearful face in his hands, to rub his thumb over her bruised cheekbone and smooth the pain away.

  There was no time.

  “I have my picks.” He might not be fast enough—he was good, but he wasn’t on the same level as the Flower. Unfortunately, he was the only choice they had. Jones knelt at her feet. She hiked up her nightgown and cloak to give him access to the manacle.

  Blood stained the pale skin around the iron manacles. He fought back a round of rage and steadied the hand that had started shaking. The blood was so red. So fresh.

  Cat made no sound as he worked. The muscles in her shin and calf flexed as her body swayed above him. Exhaustion? He couldn’t be sure. The world narrowed to the small, dark opening of the manacle’s lock. To the delicate implement he worked. The tumblers caught, moved, caught.

  She was free. The iron fell to the floor with a loud clang. Her breath kicked out in a squeak and Jones looked up. Cat’s eyes were wide and frightened, but still full of purpose.

  “We have to go. Now, Jones.” Cat shook her nightshift and cloak to cover her ankles with a swoosh of fabric and lace hem. “They’ll be back soon. They never stay away long.”

  They. Part of him longed to know who “they” were. The fact that he couldn’t stay to fight “them” chafed, but there were priorities in these circumstances. He pushed to his feet and resigned himself to flight.

  “How often do they check on you?”

  “Every fifteen to twenty minutes. Longer, sometimes, if someone is with me.” Her voice was as calm and pointed as ever, though he saw the underlying fear in her face. “But he was here just before you arrived. There’s time.”

  Her ungloved hand slipped into his. Soft skin and strong fingers moved against his. He took comfort from it even as he turned toward the door and freedom. Cat ran with him, her footsteps not quite as silent as his own but not as loud as he would have expected from a novice.

  Bursting through the doorway, Jones glance once right, once left. The network of hallways were dark, with only the faintest glow from the room where men gambled. Right would take them past that room to the stairs to the upper floor. He turned left and took the blind path, with no idea where they would end up beyond the rear of the townhouse.

  There would be a window or door to the street above. There always was.

  A chill permeated the air and Jones glanced back. “Cold?”

  Cat shook her head, loosened hair floating in the breeze created by their passage. “Where are we going?” she whispered.

  Hell if he knew. So he didn’t answer, just continued his job, pistol held up and ready in one hand and Cat’s fingers twined in his other hand.

  There was no need for the pistol. At the rear of the hall was another series of rooms with windows. They were high as the floor was underground, but they opened to the old mews—now another extension of the rookeries. They’d emerge on the cobblestones, none the worse for wear if they moved quickly.

  “Oy!” The shout wasn’t far away.

  “They know I’m gone.” It wasn’t a hiccup that cracked Cat’s voice, but it was close enough. Terror had a sound all its own.

  “We’ll get out.” Where to go from there was another matter altogether. He dropped her hand and rushed to the window. The latches were useless, rusted shut and unable to open. He pushed, jammed the palm of his hand against the latch and ignored the pain. It wouldn’t budge.

  Footsteps rang in the rooms beyond. Jones and Cat carried no light to betray them, so it was only their sound that would give them away. Jones looked once at the doorway behind, once more at Cat and her wide, determined eyes.

  “Turn your face,” he said. Averting his own countenance, he crooked his elbow and jammed it against the glass. Shards flew as the sound of broken glass filled the air. He felt one slice his face, another his forearm. His elbow didn’t bear thinking of, as he could already feel the blood trickling down his arm. “Out. Now.”

  He cupped his hands and Cat set a foot in them, without any hesitation. He boosted her up until she could hoist herself onto the sill.

  “Don’t go far, but stay hidden. I’ll be right after you.” The footsteps were closer, faster, running now. He looked up into her face as she knelt and peered in over the wooden sill. “I’ll be just one minute.”

  “Jones, I will hold you to it.” She leaned through the broken shards of glass, kissed him once. Hard. “I love you.” With that she was gone, leaving nothing but the clear, starry sky and the stench of opium behind.

  The door burst open and Jones spun, braced for attack. It was only one man who lunged and reached for Jones, his knife glinting in the light from outside the window. But he was unsteady, and hardly a match. Jones shoved the palm of his hand into the man’s nose, then swept his feet out from under him. Satisfaction reigned for only a moment before the man kicked and caught Jones mid-thigh.

  Pain roared through him. He landed on the stone floor with a breathless grunt, then rolled and tried to scramble to his feet. His leg buckled and the pain spiked, so he leaned against the wall to gather his strength. Then he leaped, reaching for the knife.

  The man surrendered the knife easily, which should have been the warning.

  The fist caught him square in the jaw and sent blinding agony and bright stars wheeling through his brain. He staggered, bracing to prepare for another blow even as he plunged the knife into his attacker’s thigh, then wrenched it free.

  The howl of pain reverberated in the stone room, the sound overpowering the thud of the man dropping to the floor.

  Jones spun toward the window, already dismissing the opponent. His only thought was Cat, alone in the rookeries. He reached for the window sill and hoisted himself up. Tossing a leg up and onto the street, he angled his body, then threw his shoulder into the ground and rolled, bringing his other leg through the window.

  The ground was wet and stunk of piss, but the air was clear of the scent of opium. He didn’t pause to take a deep breath of the night. Pushing to his feet, Jones scanned the darkened alley. One end opened onto the main thoroughfare, where footsteps and shouting and other street sounds echoed. The other end of the alley he knew intersected the hundreds of other narrow alleys connecting the streets of St. Giles.

  Where was Cat? He listened, trying to filter any noise that might be in the alley from other city noises. Above him, clothing flapped on strings spread between the buildings. Lights spilled out from a few windows, along with voices punctuated by laughter.

  No Cat. He saw no flash of gray-white at either end of the alley. Would she go toward the street, or hide in the alleys? Either way she could be killed, or worse. There was nowhere in the rookeries a lady could hide, especially one like Cat with wealth sewn into the very stitches of her cloak and quality bred into the bones beneath her soft skin.

  There was nothing to do but guess. He aimed for the wider street, thinking she might go where there were people in the hopes of greater protection. When he reached the street he saw no sign of her nightgown or cloak, or any scuffle that might indicate someone was hassling her.

  He ran toward the other end of the alley where it opened into another narrow space between buildings. He looked right, left. Nothing. No sound of running footsteps, no visual sign of her passing.

  “Hell.” He ran a hand through his hair as fear spread a thin layer of ice in his belly. Where had she gone?

  He started running down the alley, feet pounding into the cobblestones and sending fluids he’d rather not think about splashing onto his boots. He navigated the twists and turns and tried not to let memory overtake him. Cat. He had to find her before Wycomb did, or one of the men in the den, or some other criminal on the streets recogn
ized her for what she was.

  He couldn’t see her. Nothing. Not a whiff of her soap nor a flash of her nightgown.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Cat waited at the end of the alley for Jones. He didn’t come. Not in one minute, nor two. She peeked around the corner, saw nothing but shadows and far beyond, the light of the street. She waited longer, back pressed against the rough brick—until she heard the footsteps. Fast and hard, with such purpose it drove terror straight through her.

  She ran, as quickly as she could hampered by her nightshift and cloak. Gathering them up so the froth of fabric was bundled in her arms, she set her head down and turned into an alley, then another and another. Without hesitation. The footsteps faded, but fear did not. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was safe. Desperation clawed at her lungs as she skittered down an alleyway and into the nearest shadowed corner. It was a doorway, inset slightly into a brick building.

  Dismay dawned as she recognized the front door of the opium den across the street. She had returned almost to where she had started.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Fear had a sound—running footsteps in the dark. It had a scent as well—urine and body sweat and the stench of the opium.

  She couldn’t stay here. She shouldn’t be here. Her nightshift fell once more around her ankles, dirty but still a beacon in the dark. Cat pressed herself against the door, flattening her fingers against the wood. She didn’t know where to go. What to do. Gasping slightly, she grabbed the door handle behind her back and turned.

  The panel fell open with a swift whoosh of air. She stumbled backward and into yet more terror.

  “Oy!” The shout was harsh and full of anger. Cat spun around to discover the tallest, baldest man she’d ever seen. “Get out! This is my room!”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sir.” She nearly sobbed it, which was horrifyingly embarrassing. “I’ll go.” She should have been imperiously angry. Any woman of her class would have done so and demanded some type of respect.

  Pathetically, she couldn’t summon enough anger or pride to demand respect.