The words smacked hard, and he stifled a wince—barely.
She stood and rested her hand atop his head. “Ultimately it is God you’re accountable to, Alexander, not to me or Ford, to Johanna, or even to yourself. God alone.” Her edict hung on the air as her feet pattered over to the door.
She let herself out and good thing, for he couldn’t move. He sat dazed, the same slack-muscled, washed-out feeling as after a good row. She was right, of course. Every word of what she’d said rang so loud and true that his head buzzed.
But when he was this close to discovering a traitor, was it any more honorable to back out of the situation and put the lives of Englishmen at risk by the French?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Step-glide. Step-glide. Lucius practiced stretching one foot forward then bringing up his lagging leg in a smooth motion as he made his way down Wiggett Lane. This late in the day, not many pedestrians remained out and about. A good thing too. Cross looks or laughter didn’t help his concentration. He hadn’t quite yet mastered the flowing movement he’d been practicing the past five days. Aah, but Punch had made it look so easy as he’d slid back and forth across that puppet stage. If only he could move with such grace.
The last ray of sun blazed on a flash of red, and he jerked his head to the side. Behind a large glass window was a pyramid of all sorts of folded fabric, stacked to attract the eye. His gaze skimmed past the yellows, despite their magnificence, and went to a bit of red wool at the top. The colour was so pure, a shiver skittered from shoulder to shoulder.
He stopped and faced the window. “Look, Nixie. What a jumper that would make for you.”
Nixie’s little nose pressed against the glass. “It’s the same shade as what Punch wore at the puppet show, Mr. Nutbrown.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I can’t stop thinking on it. Seems like yesterday.”
Nixie’s dented face turned toward him. “You should buy that fabric. Then you can always remember it.”
“Brilliant! I shall.” Discarding his step-glide practice, he darted toward the door. Even though the shop was likely closed, sometimes all it took was a little persistent rapping and knob-jiggling to get one to open up.
Nixie bobbed between him and the door. “But are we not late to our business meeting?”
“Indeed.” Inches from the knob, he pulled back his free hand. Not that he minded the income, but he was worn weary from always having to meet with Mr. Blackie and Mr. Charlie. It cut into his free time far too much.
He patted Nixie’s little head. “What would I do without you to care for me, my friend?”
Nixie leaned into his touch. “I will always take care of you.”
“Pray do not be offended, Nix. I know you shall.”
He tucked his friend into his pocket and set sail once again down Wiggett Lane, then turned sharply onto Bledsoe. This part of town smelled like milk gone bad. He practiced holding his breath instead of glide-walking.
Halfway down the block, he swung into the Broken Brass pub. The stench in here punched him in the nose worse than on the street. Unwashed bodies filled the room, but that wasn’t the worst of it. It was the corners. Those dark shadows hid all manner of waste, for more often than not, the drinkers didn’t bother with going all the way outside to do their business. He’d stop breathing altogether if Nixie weren’t in such need of him.
He wedged his way through muscles and beards and bones, only once tripping over a fellow who’d not even made it to a corner to double over and retch. Near the back door, at the farthest table from the bar, he stopped.
Mr. Charlie lunged up from his seat and grabbed him by the throat. “Yer late!”
His windpipe folded beneath the man’s grip. This method of greeting was becoming increasingly annoying. He tried to yank Nixie out to let the man know, but his fingers were starting to feel tingly.
Mr. Blackie leaned across the table with a growl. “Not yet, Axe.”
Splaying his fingers, Mr. Charlie dropped back to his seat.
Lucius coughed, sucking in air the wrong way. He pulled out a chair and sank into it. Slowly, Nixie emerged, a little crooked on his hand, but in better shape than he felt at the moment. “Mr. Nutbrown”—Nixie hacked a bit himself—“is excessively sorry for his tardiness, gentlemen. It’s the way of business sometimes.”
A sneer slashed across Mr. Blackie’s face like a wound. Perhaps he’d had a bad day? His big, sausage finger speared a folded slip of paper and slid it across the table toward Nixie. “Read this. Out loud.”
Lucius shook out the paper so both he and Nixie could see it. “Load tomorrow,” Nixie read. “Deliver to Ramsgate.”
Mr. Blackie and Mr. Charlie exchanged a glance, then Mr. Blackie’s sausages reached for the paper.
Nixie darted out, front and center. “But there’s more.”
“Then read the blasted thing! Ye soft-brained coddle-headed—”
Mr. Charlie continued spouting unkind epithets, and likely would for a very long time, so Nixie slid over to Mr. Blackie’s face—almost as smoothly as Punch might’ve. “This paper says you’re to make a list of names of the men who serve so they may receive their reimbursement.”
“Re–im–burse–ment?” The word jerked and juddered past Mr. Blackie’s thick lips. Picking up his mug, he slugged back a big swallow of ale, then swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His dark eyes sought Mr. Charlie’s. “I don’t like the sound o’ that.”
“Me neither.” Lifting his cap, Mr. Charlie scratched a patch of hair on the crown of his head. “Don’t seem right killing those what help.”
A foul curse ripped out Mr. Blackie’s mouth, blending in with a host of other off-colour language from the other patrons. “He better not expect us to do the re–im–burs–ing. Let the little dandy dirty his own fine suit with blood.”
Blood? Nixie’s head angled from one man to the other. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but are you under the impression that reimbursement involves the spilling of blood?”
Their faces swiveled toward him, bypassing Nixie altogether. “Don’t it?”
He squirmed on his chair. This much scrutinizing reminded him far too much of his younger years under Mr. Shrewsby’s evil eye, the master of Beetroot Home—a shelter for castoffs and misfits.
Nixie rescued him, rising up like a knight on a white horse. “No, sirs. Reimbursement simply means pecuniary compensation.”
Dead fish eyes held more glimmer than that in Mr. Charlie and Mr. Blackie’s stares.
“It means they’ll be paid,” Nixie explained.
Mr. Blackie leaned back and drained his mug dry, slamming it on the table when he finished. “O’ course I knew that, ye daft muggle. I was jes’ seeing if you knew. You passed the test.”
Lucius flipped Nixie around and smiled at his friend. My, but they were a smashing team! Such a pair. The best of the best. A finer duo the world had never—
Mr. Blackie’s voice interrupted him. “You remember all those men we talked to?”
With his free hand, Lucius tapped the side of his head, but Nixie spoke. “Mr. Nutbrown never forgets a face.”
“Good. Bring us the list tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock, and we’ll give you yer last assignment.”
“And don’t be late.” Mr. Charlie poked Nixie in the chest. “We’ll be giving you your re–im–burse–ment.”
Lucius stood, snapping a sharp salute to his forehead with his free hand. Nixie tried, too, but his little puppet hand never did quite reach his brow. “Tomorrow, then, gentlemen.”
He turned to go, but Mr. Blackie’s voice pulled him around. “Oh, and Nutbrown, this time we’ll be meeting out back.” He hitched his sausage finger toward the door leading out into a slop lane.
Lucius tucked Nixie back into his pocket. It was a rather unconventional choice of meeting venue, but at least with an appointment that early in the day, he’d have time to buy the red wool for his little friend. The thought was so appealing, he nearly laughed along with Mr.
Blackie and Mr. Charlie.
But inside his pocket Nixie shivered as Lucius pulled out his hand. What did his business partners find so amusing?
Plink. Plink. And plink. Johanna dropped the last coin along with the last of her hopes into the strongbox. Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she rubbed little circles as if the action might magically move the numbers in her head from the negative to the positive. It didn’t. And by the sounds of only two customers out in the taproom, neither would enough magical money appear tonight, either.
She slammed the lid shut with more force than necessary, rattling the wooden bowl on the kitchen table. What a horrid week, as nauseating as the leftover stench of the cabbage soup she’d burned at lunch. She’d lost the man she loved, and it appeared she’d also lose the Blue Hedge. Her head sank in defeat and—as Mam might point out were she not abed with a cough—she was now in the perfect position to pray.
Please, God. Provide a way.
A small sound, not a still voice, but more like a slow and quiet creak answered. She lifted her face, listening with her whole body—then she shot up from her chair and darted to the back door. She yanked it open to a smudge-faced, crutch-leaning, wide-eyed boy.
“Evenin’ Jo.” Thomas grinned. “I were just coming in to help you with the—”
“Stop it.” With a yank on his sleeve, she ushered her brother inside and shut the door. “Do not lie to me. If you wanted to be of help, you’d have been here long ago. Where have you been? And no spinning any tales.”
He shifted on his crutch, hiking up his injured leg a little higher—no doubt trying to garner her sympathy. “Out with my friends. That’s all. Eew! What’s that smell?”
“Humph.” She grunted with as much force as Mam, ignoring his diversion tactic. Studying the boy from head to toe, her gaze snagged on a bulge in his pocket. “What were you doing with your friends?”
“Oh, you know. Just jawin’ a bit, out behind the Broken Brass. Gotta run now, though. Ought keep my leg up, aye?” He tried to squeeze through the open space between her and the table.
She sidestepped and blocked his route. “I would see what’s in your pocket before you go, Brother.”
“Aww, Jo! You can’t—”
She held out her palm.
Scowling, he shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins—which he purposely kept just out of her reach.
“Thomas Elliot Langley! I told you not to gamble anymore.”
His chin jutted out, so reminiscent of her father that it tightened her throat.
“You told me not to gamble here anymore.”
“You knew very well what I meant. There is to be no gaming with your friends here or anywhere else. You are finished.” She reached for the money.
He swung his hand behind his back, leaning precariously on his crutch. “I can’t just up and quit. My friends are expecting me tomorrow. Wouldn’t be right not keeping my word, would it? You’re the one always harping on being trustworthy”
“Oh, really? Since when do you care about honesty?” She leaned forward, bending nearly nose to nose. “You will go tomorrow and tell those boys you are done—or I will tell Mam what you’ve been about.”
His head hung, and he mumbled something.
She lifted his face. “Thomas, I mean it. This wagering is a sickness. Once it took hold of Father, it led him—and us—into ruin. He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. It was all cards and betting, nothing else. He lost sight of those he loved until he wasted away. Do you want that to happen to you?”
Thomas’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a swallow. “I–I’ll quit. I promise.”
“Good.” She straightened, but held out her palm once again. “And I’ll take that ill-gotten gain to make sure of it.”
His wide eyes narrowed, and she got the distinct impression that had he not a crutch to hold on to as well as a handful of coins, he’d have slapped her hand away.
“You’re a shrew!” he shouted. “A rotten, mean, horrible—”
“Enough!” A deep voice with a hard edge made Thomas flinch and her stomach drop.
What was he doing here?
She turned, wanting and not wanting to see Alex’s blue eyes. Why did he have to come here again?
Thomas used the distraction to hobble past her—but broad shoulders blocked his exit from kitchen to taproom.
Alex stood, arms folded, an impassible, unmovable mountain. “That’s no way to speak to a lady, young Thomas. You will apologize. Now.”
Slowly, Thomas hobbled back to her. Without making eye contact, he mumbled, “Sorry.”
Johanna kept her gaze on her brother. Better that than look at the one she’d been trying to forget.
“You can do better than that,” Alex coaxed.
Thomas’s freckled cheeks blew out with a puff of wind. “I’m sorry I called you names, Jo.”
How could she remain cross with that? Her lips quirked into a half-smile. “You are forgiven.”
“There, that’s better. Now run along.” Alex left his perch on the threshold and strode into the kitchen, giving Thomas enough space to dart as fast as he could with a crutch out the door.
Johanna backed away, putting the table between her and the man she’d sworn to never speak to again. Refusing to meet his gaze, she looked only at his chest, but that was a mistake. All she could think of were the times she’d taken shelter there—and her heart broke afresh. What in all of kingdom come was he doing here again? Walking back into her life and rubbing raw her already ragged emotions?
He stopped on the opposite side of the table. “That was quite a storm from your brother. What is the problem?”
The problem? Did he mean the way her heart twisted and wrenched merely from the sound of his voice? She glowered up at him, breaking her vow of silence. “Nothing you need concern yourself over, Mr. Morton.”
Her sharp tone cut the air, and he flinched. Good. She’d like to see him do more than that, to wilt, to droop, to drop to his knees, ruined by a hurt as great as the one that ate her soul. A hundred blistering retorts prickled on the end of her tongue, the urge to see him felled beneath her righteous rage growing stronger with each heartbeat.
But wasn’t that just what Thomas had tried to do to her?
She lowered her gaze to the table. “Why are you here? Something wrong at the Rose Inn?”
“No. I came to bring you this.”
A pouch landed on the wooden table with a jingle. His big hand shoved it to a stop next to the strongbox.
She retreated as if he’d set down a snake. “Your lodging was already paid. You owe nothing.”
“Is your final hearth payment and rent not due soon?”
His words landed like pebbles thrown into a pond, the ripples sending her reeling. All she had to do was reach out and take it. Solve her troubles while maybe putting a dent in his pocket—or at the very least keep him from buying his new bride some baubles or trinkets.
Tempting as it was, she pushed the pouch back to his side of the table. The thought of him with another woman was so abhorrent, not even taking his money would lessen her disgust. “As I’ve said, sir, it is none of your concern. Now go away.”
“Johanna, please.” He sighed, the huff of his breath jagged at the edges. “Don’t be stubborn and lose all for the sake of your pride. May a friend not do a good turn for another?”
“Is that what you are?” A dark, throaty roar clogged her throat. The audacity of the man! Did he think he could buy his way back into her good graces? She shook her head, again and again. “A friend doesn’t inflict a mortal wound, then leave the injured to bleed out alone.”
Beneath the tan of his skin, a flush deepened on his face. “If I’d stayed here, would that have not been more cruel?”
She threw out her hands. “Then why come here at all? Go back to the Rose. Go back to your wedding plans. Go back to your happy life and Louisa—”
She spun away. Too many tears threatened
to spill. Too much pain twisted her face, far too much to hide—and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Behind her, boot steps pounded on the flagstones, rounding the table.
No! She’d not have it. Darting sideways, she snatched a frying pan from a hook on the wall and hefted it. “If you even think to touch me, I will mark that face of yours worse than any gaol keeper.”
He froze. Emotions, too many to count, flashed in his blue gaze. Finally, his shoulders slumped, and he aged a decade in a second. “I am sorry, Johanna. I never meant to hurt you. I … I thought I was doing what was right.” His jaw clenched, and he looked away. “Yet I hate what I have done.”
“That makes two of us.” She blew out a long breath and lowered the iron pan. “Go away, Alex. Just go. And don’t come back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Stew bubbled in the pot, and Johanna stirred it absently, watching snippets of potatoes and fine bits of parsnips surface and sink, surface and sink. The sight soothed in a mesmerizing way—the chopped pieces of once-living things now caught in a death spiral at the end of her spoon. Floating and dropping. Just like the last month of her life.
She leaned close and sniffed. At least this stew smelled better than yesterday’s failed cabbage soup.
The back door crashed open, but she didn’t turn. She simply didn’t care. The grim reaper himself could barrel into the kitchen and she’d still stand here, stirring and stirring.
“Jo! You got to see!” Thomas’s crutch thudded in time with his words.
“Whatever it is, show it to Mam. I’m busy.” The spoon trailed round the edge of the pot, round and round.
He tugged her skirt. “Come on, you got to look.”
Blowing a bit of hair out of her eyes, she stared at the stew. Likely he held a toad, or a squirming vole, or some other boyish torture device. “Go away, Thomas.”
“Jo, please.”
Her spine stiffened. Besides the fact that Thomas never used the word please, the panic in his tone alarmed her. Pulling the spoon from the pot, she tapped off the drips and turned.
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