The Vixen

by Christi Caldwell

  “My past is none of your affair,” he said, infusing a steely edge to that threat.

  “But it is,” the marquess persisted. “In the sense that you, too, found yourself separated from your kin.”

  This is yar lucky day. It turns out Oi’ll ’ave a use for ya, after all.

  “And where did you go? Who did you live with on those streets?” Lord Maddock asked in the way only a predator who’d sensed weakness could.

  Connor stood there for a long moment, motionless, the marquess’s words whipping through him, challenges that forced Connor’s past back to the present. “You believe your son is alive,” he put forward so the other man might hear the words aloud and realize the improbability of them. “It is likely he is dead.”

  A paroxysm contorted the marquess’s face, the first crack in his hardened composure. “But there is a possibility he is alive.”

  Which was more likely? That the Mad Marquess, who’d not denied killing his wife, believed his dead son was alive, or that the child had perished along with his mother that long-ago night?

  And yet Lord Maddock had pulled forth the one word that kept Connor rooted to the narrow hemlock floorboards.

  A possibility. The chance that something may happen or be true.

  It was an essential word for all investigators for the reminder it served . . . and yet there was more.

  In the court of public opinion, the marquess had been found guilty of wrongdoing. What if he were not the monster Society made him out to be but simply a father who’d gone mad with grief?

  Again, even as it was . . . unfeasible, it was . . . possible.

  But if it were true, that would also mean there might be a boy still living in those miserable streets Connor had been unfortunate enough to call home . . . and a nobleman looking for him . . . when none had ever looked for Connor.

  The marquess narrowed his brown eyes into slits, a challenge and a question there . . . and something more: a plea.

  Connor pulled out the chair and sat.

  Chapter 2

  Ophelia Killoran’s father, Mac Diggory, the most ruthless blighter in all of London, used to say night was when the Devil came to play.

  Darkness proved little shroud of the evil that unfolded amongst England’s most desperate souls.

  Ophelia, however, had come to appreciate the dead of night and the thick London fog as a reassuring cloak that offered protection no weapon, or person, could afford.

  The rain? It made it all the safer to slip about unnoticed . . . and it also made fancy nobs, who shrank in the rain, careless.

  Ophelia surveyed the streets, touching her gaze on the passersby hurrying toward the Devil’s Den and the corners of buildings. She continued her search, and the horror-filled words shared between several servants in her family’s clubs whispered forward.

  He finds them in the Rookeries. When the rains come, and the fog’s thickest, he’s always there.

  That telling, both haunting and ominous, conjured the oldest, darkest memories. The ones that refused to stay buried.

  Do not think of him . . . do not think of him . . . focus.

  Closing her eyes, Ophelia counted backward. Three. Two. One. She opened her eyes. Breathing slowly through her lips, she tugged her cap low and ducked away from the safety of a conversant alley and into the precarious streets of London.

  The stench of St. Giles flooded her nostrils, and she let the scent fill her lungs, finding a calming effect from the familiarity to be found here. It was the only home she’d ever known, and when so many others had fallen in these streets, she’d not only survived alongside her siblings but also thrived. That reminder chased away her demons and restored her strength.

  Ophelia slipped through the shadows, measuring each footstep, avoiding well-traversed paths.

  He lures ’em into the alleys. No older than twelve, if they’re a day . . . inside the sewer, he takes them.

  Hatred singed her veins.

  And where there should be fear at what the implications would be, should she be discovered, the sense of right was stronger.

  Ophelia reached the juncture of Great Russell Street, that place where thieves and murderers had swung hundreds of years ago. The place London’s poorest still called home. She glanced about. Heart racing, she hefted a grate aside and slipped through the narrow opening. She felt around with her feet and found purchase on the ladder. With one hand she drew the metal back into place. It settled with a heavy clank that echoed damningly around the dank sewers. Once she’d scurried quickly down the ladder, Ophelia’s feet sank silently onto the floor.

  Blinking to adjust her eyes to the dark, she hurriedly withdrew the dagger from inside her boot.

  The acrid sting of waste slapped at her senses. No matter how accustomed one was to this world, the smell of rotting shite and death was one that could never be truly purged. Swallowing back the bile in her throat, she inched over the slick ground, measuring each step.

  The squeal of rats echoed off the sewer walls.

  “My, how pretty you are . . .”

  Ophelia froze, going still, as those cultured tones pinged quietly ahead.

  I am not too late.

  Her feet twitched with the need to fly forward.

  Haste, as Diggory had schooled, made waste. And though she hated the man who’d birthed her with an intensity that showed the darkness in her soul, she also recognized that certain lessons he’d passed down had value.

  Keeping her breaths slow and even, Ophelia tiptoed through the sludge, keeping step in time to the conversation unfolding up ahead and the unexplainable groans of the sewer.

  “Very lovely . . . my, how . . . so very lovely . . .” That hated voice grew closer and closer, and Ophelia stopped.

  Though his back was presented to her, the dark did little to conceal the quality of that wool frock coat. Hatred scorched her tongue, burning her with the ferocity of that emotion. Was it arrogance that made a nobleman believe he needn’t bother to disguise his wealth and rank when assaulting a child? Or was it simple carelessness?

  Either way, it ultimately made her work this night all the easier.

  Ophelia continued forward.

  A child’s whimper echoed throughout, that plaintive sound faintly muffled by the whine of rats scuttling about.

  “It will not hurt one bit. I promise,” the nob promised on a husky whisper as he fiddled with the girl’s skirts. “And there will be a nice treat for you when it is done.”

  Brandishing her dagger, Ophelia lunged. Riiiip. The whine of her blade shredding that fine garment pealed around the sewers.

  His breeches shoved low, the nob was slow to move. “Wh-what?” he shouted, stumbling. He ambled about, whipping his head all around the sewers as he sought her out.

  Ducking low, Ophelia darted around him. She sliced a hole down the back of his jacket.

  The vile lord’s breath coming fast, he spun.

  His previously gleaming boots slicked in excrement, he landed with a noisy thud in the shite.

  Ophelia withdrew her pistol and leveled it at his chest.

  “M-my God, you c-cannot shoot me,” he sobbed. “Please, do not,” he wisely amended.

  “Ya’re a child fucker,” she taunted in graveled tones, relishing the way the color drained from his cheeks. “Wot would yar fancy wife say? Or does she know?” she continued, moving her pistol lower to the open front fall of his breeches. “Oi wager she’s relieved to ’ave ya out o’ ’er bed that she wouldn’t care that ya ’urt a child.”

  “I don’t hurt children,” he cried. “She wanted it.” You want it, you little whore . . . you street rats are all the same. “Followed me of her own will, she did. Ask her. Ask—”

  Ophelia cocked her pistol, and that decisive click reduced the lord to a pathetic round of inane ramblings. “Shut yar bloody mouth,” she warned. Not taking her gaze from the letch at her feet, she moved closer to the quaking child.

  Her buttons undone, the tattered garment hung loose
about her gaunt frame.

  Please, please, do not touch me . . . don’t . . .

  Ophelia’s heart lurched as her past merged with this little girl’s present.

  The gun in Ophelia’s hand shook, and the nob brought his hands over his ears, cowering. “Do not hurt me,” he shouted hoarsely. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Name the price.”

  She flattened her lips. “Shut yar mouth, bastard,” she hissed. While most errant cries went ignored, those shouted in cultured tones often brought constables and intervention from men and women of the streets eager for the coin that could be had in saving a nob. “Another word an’ Oi’ll shoot it off.” She waved her gun meaningfully at the front of his breeches. Backing up, she edged closer to the girl.

  “The Devil’s Den ’as been known to ’ire children in trouble,” she said from the corner of her mouth in hushed tones meant only for the child. “Go there.”

  Wide-eyed, the girl nodded. Then, clutching her garments close, she took a wide berth around Ophelia and the nobleman at their feet and bolted.

  As soon as she’d gone, Ophelia kicked out her boot, catching the nobleman in the side.

  He hissed, rolling over to cradle his ribs.

  Using that distraction, she stomped on his groin.

  An ungodly cry ricocheted around the sewer. “Oi said shut yar mouth,” she warned as he writhed and moaned at her feet.

  “Please, God. Please,” he entreated, clutching at himself.

  Her breath coming hard and fast from her exertions, Ophelia leaned over him, sticking her lips close to his ear. “There’s no God in these sewers. There is no God in these streets. Next time you think to put your hands on a child, think of what’s been done to you this day.” Catching his head, she banged it against the ground once.

  The nobleman’s eyes rolled back.

  She cursed that slip in her Cockney. Bloody hell. She’d been careless.

  “My lord?”

  Her heart thudded to a quick stop and then resumed an accelerated cadence.

  Bloody, bloody hell. She glanced down at the nobleman prone at her feet, knocked senseless at her hand. It wouldn’t matter to the world if he’d been about to bugger a child or gut her to keep her silent of his sins. All Polite Society ever saw was a people higher and better than street scum like Ophelia and her siblings.

  “My lord?” That voice drifted closer, along with the clumsy footsteps of a man unfamiliar with these sewers, increasing her heart’s beat. “You there.” A crimson-clad footman rushed forward.

  He launched himself and caught Ophelia’s right calf.

  Her leg buckled, and she cried out.

  Ophelia came down hard on her hands as the dagger flew through the air. It struck the stone pipe with a damning clang.

  Both froze, staring down at the crimson knife.

  Then, using the man’s distraction, she scrambled to her feet and kicked him hard between the legs.

  His shout of agony went up around the sewers.

  Panic knocking around her chest, Ophelia looked over her shoulder to the tunnel connecting the sewer and ducked inside. Her feet sank into the water, soaking the soles of her boots. The chill penetrated the thick leather. Damning the loud echo of her feet kicking up water, she raced deeper and deeper in.

  Terror choked off her airflow as she stumbled into the next connecting tunnel. She strained her ears for a hint of the man following her but maintained her frantic pace. Slowed steps were the most dangerous ones, nearly as dangerous as a false sense of security.

  Ophelia continued running until a faint shaft of moonlight beckoned, spilling from the opening that connected the sewers. She broke free, welcoming the refreshing coolness of the nighttime air as it slapped her face.

  She paused to catch her bearings.

  The gallows that had long defined Charing Cross glowed under the moon’s pale light.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  At her quickest pace, she could make the return in twenty minutes. Having pushed herself to evade capture, it could only be longer.

  Of course, at midnight her brother’s club, the Devil’s Den, was overflowing with patrons. Nothing could pry her brother from the gaming floors at this hour, and he’d certainly not question the whereabouts of Ophelia . . . or of any of the Killoran siblings. Nay, he’d be monitoring tables and watching to see the serving girls and prostitutes weren’t mishandled, but he would never seek out the private suites and look after sisters who’d been looking after themselves since long before he’d ever entered their lives.

  A hackney rattled along the cobbles, and Ophelia stepped into the shadows.

  She adjusted her cap, miraculously still in place despite the trials she’d put her pins through this evening.

  The bloody letch in the sewers had deserved a far worse fate than the one she’d handed out.

  “Please, don’t. Don’t touch me . . . please.”

  Her stomach muscles tightened.

  Do not think of it . . . do not think of it.

  No good could come in thinking of that long-ago night. Particularly not here, amongst the Rookeries, with the constables no doubt already called and searching the streets for the one who’d assaulted a precious peer.

  Ophelia turned at the end of the street. Relief eased some of the pressure in her chest at the familiar sight before her.

  Home.

  Awash in the glow of candlelight, the Devil’s Den pulsed from the raucous activity spilling out each moment the doors were opened.

  Oh, it was hardly a place that any person would think of as home, but it had been the only one she’d truly known. It represented security and safety. Another carriage rolled noisily along, and she hunched her shoulders. Never before had that proven more true.

  Head down, Ophelia surveyed the busy streets, waiting for a break in the steady stream of patrons entering the club. For a handful of moments, not a carriage, horse, or stranger passed.

  She bolted.

  Pulse pounding the same frantic rhythm as when she’d made her escape from the sewers, Ophelia wound her way through the crowds to the adjacent building purchased by their family and linked to the club. Making use of the narrow alley that ran between, she picked her way over trash and a swarm of rats eating whatever treasure they’d found here.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  By God, she needed to speak to Broderick about tending this space. Connected as it was to their club, it deserved the same attention as the Devil’s Den. Ophelia found her way to the expansive mews connecting the properties and slipped inside through the servants’ doors.

  As soon as she’d closed the oak panel behind her, Ophelia leaned against it. Her shoulders sagged.

  Safe.

  “Trouble.”

  She gasped.

  The panicky whisper at the entrance of the kitchens brought her eyes flying open.

  Her sister Gertrude, bent over, resting her hands on her knees, panted. “Trouble,” she rasped again.

  Ophelia’s stomach flipped over itself.

  She knows. How could she know? Neither Gertrude nor Stephen nor Broderick nor Cleo, when she’d been living here, had ever made mention or come upon her after one of her midnight jaunts. And on the heels of that was a gripping terror. “What manner of trouble?” she asked steadily. How was her voice so calm?

  Her breath settled into a normal cadence, Gertrude rushed over . . . and then stopped. Wide-eyed, she looked Ophelia up and down, her stare lingering on Ophelia’s mud-stained boots and breeches. “What—?”

  “We have rats,” she blurted. Which was not an untruth. They did. A sizable number of the miserable rodents.

  Gertrude cocked her head.

  “Large ones,” she finished lamely, gesturing with her hands to indicate an exaggerated size.

  Her far-too-compassionate sister clutched at her throat. “And you were out . . . killing them?”

  By the horror in that question, Ophelia may as well have been accused of slaughtering the queen. “
I was out . . . clearing them,” she settled for. Why, why, had she mentioned the rats? She could have gone with mucking the stables or tending the gardens, either of which would have elicited far fewer questions from her tenderhearted sister.

  Suspicion filled Gertrude’s right eye; the other had long ago been lost to a brutal fist to the head. A familiar guilt sank deep in Ophelia’s heart.

  “What does that mean, precisely?” Gertrude dropped her hands on her hips. “Clearing them?”

  Ophelia sent a prayer skyward for patience. She should have known that her sister, a lover of rodents, with a dratted mouse of her own, should take umbrage at Ophelia’s supposed handling of the creatures. “Gertrude,” she said warningly, “what trouble?”

  Her eldest sibling blinked slowly, and then the earlier panic filled her tone. “Someone arrived a short while ago,” she whispered, taking Ophelia by the hand. “Demanded to see Broderick.”

  Oh, God. “Who?” She forced the question out.

  “An investigator.”

  Ophelia stumbled.

  Gertrude caught her by the waist, steadying her.

  Fear kept Ophelia rooted to the floor, unmoving. “What?” she whispered.

  Gertrude took Ophelia’s hand once more and forcibly tugged her along. “Will you focus? His name is Mr. Steele. He is an investigator,” Gertrude reiterated. “And . . . and . . . you cannot be discovered looking”—her sister wrinkled her nose—“or, for that matter, smelling like that.”

  Her heart pounded frantically. Leave it to Gertrude, who when worried or anxious tidied everything from the rooms to her younger sisters’ appearances. “I hardly believe this merits me taking a bath.” No matter how desperately she wished it and how very much she longed to sink her aching muscles into the hot water.

  “No, there isn’t time for that.” Gertrude set her jaw at a determined angle. “But at the very least we can make you presentable.”

  And as she allowed herself to be pulled along, Ophelia very much felt like the sacrifice being readied for an offering.

  “When did he arrive?”

  With a like terror reflected back in her sister’s always steadying gaze, Gertrude swallowed loudly. “Not long ago. Broderick turned him away, but he . . . insisted on being seen.”