by C. J. Archer
"We should vote," Gillingham said.
"No." Lincoln pulled the bell pull to summon Doyle and opened the door. "Doyle will see you out."
They filed out and headed down the stairs. Lincoln remained by the door, not following. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm.
"Lady Harcourt seemed glum today," I whispered.
He bent his head to mine and smirked. "You're building up to something. What is it?"
"Am I that easy to read? Never mind answering that. Yes, you're right, I am building up to something. I want you to ask her what the matter is."
"Why?"
"Because she looks sad, and she'll speak to you and not to me."
"That doesn't answer my question."
I gave him an arched look. "Because I'm curious. There. Does that satisfy?"
His smile was positively sly. "Seth would be a better choice than me."
"No, he would not." Because she loved Lincoln, not Seth. She respected Lincoln more, too, and had relied on him in the past for help. I suspected she'd open up to him. "Go on, ask her."
"You won't get jealous if she flirts with me?"
"Of course not. I'm not the jealous type."
"Pity." He strode off.
I smiled at his broad back as he retreated down the stairs. I wouldn't be jealous of Lady Harcourt if she flirted with him. I knew that to my bones. The only thing that would make me jealous would be if he flirted with her.
I waited in the drawing room with Gus and Seth, a sherry glass cradled in my hands. Seth handed a brandy to Lincoln when he re-entered a few minutes later. "Well?" I asked. "What did she say?"
"Not much," he said, standing by the fireplace. "I gather her unhappiness is a combination of living with Buchanan and the way her friends are now treating her since discovering she was a dancer."
"Living with Buchanan would be enough to drive anyone to despair," Seth said.
"Or drink," Gus added, saluting with his glass.
"At least she got an invitation to the ball," I said. "Not all of her friends are shunning her."
Seth shook his head. "Lady Hothfield told me she only invited Julia at the request of one of the prince's friends, a Sir Ignatius Swinburn."
"I fail to see how that is a problem."
"Swinburn is a fat, old cad with foul breath and disgusting manners. He treats women like whores, discarding them when he tires of them, and he quickly tires. Most ladies of quality steer well clear of him, but some widows are desperate enough to make themselves available, hoping it will put them in the prince's path. It never does. The prince already has his favorites and doesn't care for his friends' discarded mistresses."
"How'd you hear all that?" Gus asked.
"It's amazing what some women will tell you when they believe themselves in love with you." He glanced at me. "Don't tell Alice I said that."
Gus shook his head. "You toffs are a strange lot. Glad I weren't born into your class."
"My class is glad of it, too."
"So we can assume from what you say that Lady Harcourt is desperate enough to throw herself at Swinburn," I said. "That's why he specifically requested her presence."
"I think so."
"And perhaps he tired of her already."
Seth lifted one shoulder. "Or he didn't take any notice of her the night of the ball, despite asking for her to be present. The fellow is a turd. It's possible he wanted to see her there so he could toy with her; dangle a carrot in front of her face, so to speak, then take it away. I wouldn't put it past him."
"He sounds utterly despicable."
"He is."
"I feel sorry for Lady Harcourt."
"Don't," all three men said.
Lincoln finished his brandy and set the glass on the sideboard. "I have the general's paperwork to look over tonight. Send someone up with food and I'll eat as I work."
I almost followed him but hung back, warring with myself.
"Charlie?" Gus asked. "You still thinking 'bout Lady H?"
"No. About Leisl."
They both looked to the door through which Lincoln had just exited. "You going to talk to him about her?" Gus said.
"Yes. Someone should, but do either of you dare?"
"Blimey, no."
Seth nodded at my sherry. "Drink up. You're going to need it."
Chapter 6
Lincoln opened his door before I knocked. He leaned against the door frame, his arms folded, a small smile on his lips. He looked devilishly handsome, with his hair unbound and his jacket and tie discarded, and I suspected he knew it.
"It's disconcerting that you know when I'm about to knock," I said, touching his tie and pretending to straighten it when I really just wanted to touch him.
"And knowing what you want to ask me?" he said.
"You do?" It was a good sign then that he was still smiling. Perhaps he'd decided he needed to talk to Leisl.
"It's either because you want to ask me to press Julia to be more specific, or you want to ravish me." His smile widened ever so slightly. "I know which one I prefer, but I suspect it's the other."
"Actually, you're wrong." I pressed my hands to his chest, enjoying the hardness of his body, the flex of muscle, and the slight uptick in his heart rate. "But they are both excellent suggestions, and a good indication of how your mind works."
His gaze wandered past me, down the hall. He drew my hands away. "Doyle or Bella may come past at any moment."
"Actually, I'm not here to ravish you or discuss Lady Harcourt," I said. "I want to talk about Leisl and why you won't visit her."
Surprise momentarily brightened his eyes before they darkened again. "You're wasting your time."
"Don't dismiss the idea immediately."
"I haven't." He stepped aside and allowed me to enter, then shut the door behind me. "I thought about it then dismissed it. Charlie, there's no point seeing her. She told us everything about her vision on the night of the ball. She said she has no more information for us, and I believe her."
"I don't want you to discuss her vision. I simply want you to talk to her, as a son to his mother."
He lowered his head. "Charlie, I have nothing to say to her, and I doubt she has anything to say to me. She would have approached me if she had."
"Perhaps she didn't know how to find you." I clasped his arms above the elbows and rubbed. The act soothed me but did nothing to smooth away the crease in his brow. "Perhaps she doesn't know how to begin."
"Nor do I."
"Lincoln, do you remember when I met my mother? Her ghost, I mean. It went better than I expected. It was wonderful to meet her, and know that she'd cared for me. The experience soothed an ache within me. Perhaps talking to your mother will help you in the same way."
"I don't need help, and I don't need a mother." The strain in his voice warned me that his temper was close to snapping.
I pressed on anyway. "Perhaps she needs you."
"Then she can come here and see me."
"I'll invite her for tea."
He tilted his head and lifted his brows.
"I'll take that to mean you'll get cross if I do," I said.
"I know the idea of us sitting down to tea together appeals to you." He stroked my hair off my forehead, his gaze following the sweep of his hand. "I know you miss your own mother, both your real one and adopted one, and I know you think this is an opportunity to gain a family member. But you have to leave the idea alone. I don't want Leisl to come here and be disappointed that I can't be a proper son to her. Do you understand?"
My throat felt tight and I could feel my eyes filling. "Why can't you be a proper son?"
"I'm not capable. It's not in me."
I cupped his face in my hands. "You didn't think yourself capable of loving anyone a few months ago, and now look at you."
"There's only enough for one." He kissed the end of my nose and cut off my protest. "Now go before I say something I'll regret later."
"This discussion is not over."
"Yes, Char
lie, it is." He pulled away and opened the door. He glanced up and down the corridor before stepping aside and allowing me to exit. "Be ready early in the morning. Wear your old boy's clothing." He closed the door before I could protest.
I stood by the door, waiting for him to reopen it. He must know I was still there.
But he did not. After a moment, I went to my rooms to retrieve the trousers, shirt and jacket I'd worn in the slums. It was going to be an interesting day; one I wasn't looking forward to. I thought I'd seen the last of my old haunts and the gangs I had befriended. My life felt so far removed from those days now. Revisiting the slums would bring back memories that had only recently stopped haunting my dreams. Memories I'd wanted to put behind me forever.
Lincoln and I didn't go to Whitechapel, but to the rookery of Clerkenwell. London harbored dozens of slum pockets where the middle and upper classes dared not enter. The slums scaled from bad to worse, with Clerkenwell being on the bad end and Whitechapel, where the Ripper murders occurred, at the worst. Daylight did nothing to improve the dark, damp lanes and yards. In fact, it only served to reveal the filth the darkness hid. The tenements groaned like old men in the stiff wind. Broken windows, peeling paint and grimy façades could be easily fixed, but the rotting timbers and dangerous leans signaled deeper problems that nothing less than demolition could improve.
We didn't speak as I led the way down lanes so narrow I could stretch out both arms to the sides and brush the slippery bricks with my fingertips. I stopped at a crumbling old house that looked as though a child had built it from blocks in the nursery. It felt abandoned, but the telltale signs of life were there for those who knew where to look—the shoe prints leading to and from the boards at knee height, the small marks on the wall where the boards scraped against it.
I hesitated, uncertain whether to knock. A knock might not be answered, so I simply slid the boards aside and crouched at the small opening.
A hand on my shoulder stopped me. I glanced back at Lincoln, at the same moment I heard a whistle inside and the sound of a door closing.
"I can't come in," Lincoln said quietly. He was too big, his shoulders too broad.
"You can be lookout."
Lincoln was never the lookout man. That job always fell to Gus or Seth. He must hate the suggestion, but he simply handed me the canvas sack he'd carried with him. "Be careful."
I nodded and crawled through, dragging the sack behind me. The gap was tighter than I remembered. A comfortable bed and regular meals had fattened me up. I may still be small and slender, but I wasn't a bag of bones anymore.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light filtering through the dirty window but my other senses told me the space was empty. The lookout stationed at the trapdoor had whistled a warning then dropped down to the cellar below. It was standard procedure when a stranger entered through the front door flap.
But I was no stranger. Crouching, I opened the trapdoor an inch. "It's all right," I called down. "It's me. Charlie. I've come back."
Whispers drifted up. I imagined the newcomers asking who Charlie was, the older members telling them about me. If any older members of my last gang remained, that is. It was possible they'd all moved on—or died. Winter was never kind to street children, even ones with a roof over their heads. I shivered and realized just how cold the house was. Not just cold but damp. The sort of damp that turned blood icy and numbed toes.
"I've brought blankets, clothes and food," I said through the gap. "There'll be money too if you agree to help me."
The whispers increased in volume and urgency, then suddenly ceased. I sat back on my haunches, away from the trapdoor. It opened, revealing a set of wary eyes that darted to me then around the space.
"I'm alone," I said. "Stringer, is that you?"
The trapdoor lifted higher. "Charlie? It really is you?"
I nodded and squinted at the face, familiar yet not. "Finley?"
He grinned, revealing a set of teeth, some of them missing, but most still white. "It is you!" The boy had changed in the months since I'd lived here. His face had angles where before it had sported the softness of childhood, and his hair was longer. So was mine.
"Is Stringer not here anymore?" I asked.
Another shake of his head. "You came back."
"I did. Are you the leader now?"
He shook his head. "Mink is. Oi!" he called down. "It's Charlie, all right." He opened the trapdoor wider, inviting me in.
I hesitated then followed him through the door and down the ladder. If I wanted them to trust me, I had to show that I trusted them.
The cellar was just as I remembered, with the lumpy mattress pushed into the corner and some blankets piled high at one end. They'd be lice ridden and dirty, but the darkness hid the worst of the grime. The only light came from the glowing embers in the grate. The flames had gone out, the coal almost burned away, although smoke and a little warmth lingered. The pile of blankets coughed, a harsh, racking cough, before quieting again.
"Get back up there, Finley," ordered a reedy voice from the shadows. "Make sure no one followed him here."
"There's a man outside in the lane," I said. "He's my friend. He won't harm anyone, he's just my lookout."
"Why do you need a lookout?" The speaker with the reedy adolescent voice emerged from the shadows. It was Mink, the quietest member of the original gang, and the most serious. He could read, too, unlike the others, and I suspected he was whip smart, although he'd kept to himself so much that it was difficult to gauge how smart.
"He worried that I'd be in danger down here from you lot," I said as Finley disappeared through the trap door.
Mink peered at me through long strands of greasy hair, and for one moment I wondered if he was like me, female pretending to be a boy. But then I remembered seeing him piss once. He was definitely male. "Why would you be in danger from us?" he asked.
I counted three others in the cellar, including the person beneath the blankets. Finley and Mink made five. Their numbers were depleted, unless the rest were out scavenging and stealing. With my training, I could probably fight them off if I had to, particularly with the knife strapped to my ankle and another to my forearm.
"I'm not," I said. "But he worries about me."
Mink's gaze slipped down my length then slowly met mine again. "So you found yourself a husband."
The other lad gasped and the body on the mattress pushed back the blankets to peer at me.
"I'm not married," I said.
"But you are a woman."
"I am. How long have you known?"
The body on the bed swore softly. The other boy, Tick, if I recalled correctly, stared at my chest as if he'd never seen a woman before.
"Not at first," Mink admitted, "but the idea grew on me the longer I knew you. You never pissed or changed in front of us and you liked to be clean. In my experience, only girls like to be clean."
"I always knew you were the clever one." I handed him the sack and watched him open it.
Tick reached into the sack and pulled out a loaf of bread, baked the day before. He tore off the end and knelt on the mattress. A boney hand emerged from the folds and squirreled the bread away.
Mink pulled the blanket from the sack and, to my surprise, smelled it. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, burying his face in the wool. I knew it had been laundered with a lavender scent, but couldn't smell it from where I stood. The stench of urine and filth was too strong.
"How many are you now?" I asked softly.
He lowered the blanket but didn't let it go. "Just us five."
"There's more than enough food for five of you to eat well for a few days, at least." I nodded at the sack. "There are clothes, too."
He pulled out a shirt and smelled it. "You always did like clean shirts."
"And trousers."
"Dresses?"
"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to wear a dress," I said. "It took some getting used to again. They're no good for climbing
, or running." Or fighting.
Mink's face softened and I thought he'd smile, but he didn't. I'd never seen him smile. When the others would howl with laughter over a childish joke, his lips would hardly lift. Sadness dogged him, so deep that he couldn't shake it. In my experience, sorrow like that haunted only those who'd once known love and safety and lost it, whereas those like Stringer could laugh and enjoy themselves because they knew nothing better than the life they lived in the cellar hovel. They were born in the slums and would die in the slums. I suspected Mink wasn't born to this class but had found himself entrenched in its mire at some point.
"You mentioned money," he said. When I listened really hard, I could hear the middle class tone in his voice. He hadn't learned to cover it completely. "How can we get some?"
"My friend and I need ears and eyes in the East End."
He shoved the sack away. "No. We're not dobbers. We ain't risking our lives for your fancy man."
"He's not my fancy man."
"He a pig?"
"No. He works for a secret organization that tries to keep the world safe from…" I sighed. There really was no way to describe what Lincoln and the ministry did without mentioning supernaturals, and he'd strictly forbidden me to tell them that. "Never mind. He's a spy, of sorts, but his network is a little fragmented in this part of the city." Although Lincoln had tavern keepers, police constables, shop keepers and prostitutes in his spy network, he didn't have anyone at the very bottom level. It was impossible to get lower than these child gangs.
"We can't help you," Mink said, folding thin arms over a thin chest. "Take your things and go." He signaled for Tick to give back the blanket. Tick clutched it tighter and watched his leader through narrowed eyes.
"Don't be a fool, Mink," I said. "You need what's in that sack, and you need regular money. My friend can offer you that. Look at me." I held out my arms. "I'm healthy and happy."
"You've definitely changed, and not just your…" He waved at my chest but didn't meet my gaze.
"Pups," Tick said with a grin.
"You used to be real skinny," Mink went on. "And quiet. I thought you were quiet so no one noticed you."
That was exactly why. It had worked until I raised the spirit in the police cell and been taken to Lichfield. After that, there was no point in remaining insignificant. "If no one notices you, no harm can come to you," I said. I watched him, the boy who had been quiet too, but was now the leader, even if of a depleted gang.
