Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles)

by Margaret Foxe

  “The Devil Inspector’s mutt. Wot’s ‘is name, you know, the muscle wot looks like a bloody battleship wif’ fists.”

  “Matthews,” Aline murmured. Inspector Drexler’s cockney prizefighting lieutenant, with literal fists of steel. Aline had met the man on many occasions when she accompanied Romanov to Drexler’s offices. He’d always seemed so nice, despite his bulk …

  “’E came in ‘ere, told me we hain’t to be doing business with you, little miss, for the duration. In no uncertain terms.”

  “Bleedin broke me nose,” the Bull wailed. “Again.”

  “Aye, and gave our Reg” – an inveterate gambler who rarely left the premises – “a facer that right popped ‘is eye out, just for bein’ nearby.”

  Aline gazed at the two men and almost felt sorry for them. Almost. But it was more out of outrage at her own situation that drove her to exclaim, “But he had no right!”

  “’E’s the law, Miss Snitch. Right got nofin’ to do with it,” Witwicky murmured.

  “Them two foreign pikers wif ‘im weren’t no law,” the Bull muttered.

  Aline’s ears pricked. “Foreign pike …? You mean, someone accompanied Lieutenant Matthews on this … this ridiculous errand?”

  “Oh, Aye,” Witwicky scowled, scratching the skin under his cast, his look angry and not a little frightened by what he was remembering.

  “Describe these men,” she said in a low voice.

  “Fine gennellmen by the look of them. One of ‘em were dark, evil-lookin’ like one of them Algerians, with yellow eyes. Spoke gibberish, mostly.”

  Aline’s breath seized. Romanov. She was certain of it. Who else on earth had yellow eyes?

  “Devil cant,” the Bull said, and spat on the floor. She eyed the offending blob, a mere speck upon a floor so filthy she reminded herself to take off her shoes before entering her boarding house tonight.

  “The other were a big blond bruiser. One of them Abominables, by the look of him. Made Maffews look like a runt. That one didn’t talk. But ‘e sure is a fine listener. The dark arab wot’s with ‘im mumbled somefin in ‘is devil’s speak, and next fing we knows is me arm’s in a cast, and the Bull’s ‘ere’s in the bleedin’ Thames.”

  Aline was outraged. Shocked. A little sickened. “How dare he!”

  Witwicky and the Bull both stared at her, nonplussed by her reaction. She gave them a contrite, shame-filled look of apology. Poor sods. They were rascals, thieves, and general ne’er-do-wells, but they hadn’t stood a chance.

  “I apologize for this high-handed behavior, gentlemen. I did not send these men to you. Indeed, I had no idea they even knew I came here. Rest assured, I shall get to the bottom of this.”

  “Oh, no ye don’t, Miss Snitch,” Witwicky snarled, grabbing her elbow and herding her towards the exit. “You’ll be getting’ to the bottom of nofin’, far as I’m concerned. These friends of yourn …”

  “They are not my friends …”

  “Whatever. I”ll not be crossin’ the likes of ‘em. I value me livelihood. And me limbs. You’ll be leavin’ ‘ere now han’ not returnin’.”

  He pushed open the door and shoved her onto the street.

  “At least let me pay you …” What was she saying?

  “No!” Witwicky cried, paling. “I’ll be takin’ none of yer money. Debt is settled.” He moved to shut the door, but then paused, gave her an assessing glance. “And don’t fink to try your ‘and at another establishment. Word is your protectors ‘ave been up an’ down ‘alf of London scaring the bejeezus out of me colleagues.”

  Aline thought she was angry before, but now she was shaking with her fury. “You mean I’ve been blackballed?”

  “Somefin’ like that,” Witwicky sniffed. “Doubt you’ll be placin’ another wager any time soon.”

  With that, he slammed the door in her face.

  Aline stared at the grimy door in stupefaction for several long moments.

  Romanov. Damn his eyes! The utter nerve of the man!

  She could almost see the scene that must have unfolded in Witwicky’s place of business. Matthews pounding his version of the law into the Bull’s nose, Fyodor rushing in to underscore the point by breaking a few bones, and tearing a few limbs off, and the Professor himself standing in elegant attendance, enjoying himself immensely.

  She could see in her mind’s eye her employer’s smug smile of satisfaction curving one edge of his lips, probably congratulating himself on having tidied up his secretary’s little peccadillo.

  How did he even know about Witwicky? How did he even know about her habit, full stop? She had been so discreet, so careful.

  Oh, oh, oh!

  Aline stomped her foot on the pavement and whirled around. He thought he could strong-arm her into ceasing her wagering, did he?

  She forgot all about her vow to quit gambling as she strode over the threshold of one of Witwicky’s rivals. She now had a full purse and a sudden hankering to pick a few winners in the afternoon’s races.

  She’d show him that she’d not be coerced into developing fiscal responsibility.

  She made it all the way to the counter and nearly had her wager lined up when a rather surly-faced bodyguard – also missing a mechanical limb – caught her under the arm, and hauled her to the door.

  She nearly fell into a puddle from the force of her ejection.

  Damn, damn and triple damn!

  By the time she’d been thrown out of the seventh betting office and a handful of gaming hells, many of them run by men with plastered or missing arms, her hope that Witwicky’s ominous prediction was an overstatement was fast fading.

  She’d been marked. Blackballed. Stymied.

  It was unbelievable. It was not to be born.

  Aline trudged back through the throng of Bow Street and Covent Garden in a daze of bafflement and fury, barely seeing where she went. In her stupor, she forgot the cardinal rule of negotiating the vendors’ stalls – that is, avoiding eye-contact with the hawkers and their wares – and found herself haggling over various goods and knickknacks she didn’t need simply because it was easier to buy the blasted things than walk away.

  By the time she reached the opera house at Covent Garden, she was several pounds poorer, in the possession of two bruised apples, a bouquet of wilting daisies, and a quarter pound of turmeric.

  Turmeric!

  What was she to do with turmeric? She didn’t cook – she hadn’t the barest of inklings what turmeric tasted like or what purpose it served in a dish other than to muddy it with its hideous color. And she was probably allergic to it, with her luck. Yet somehow a Hindu spice trader who had hovered at her side in his steam-powered cart all the way down the street had assured her that she could not live without a pouch of his finest spice.

  She’d been glaring at the heap of turmeric atop his stall because in the afternoon light it seemed to match the color of her employer’s eyes when he was feeling self-satisfied about something. She had little interest in purchasing a reminder of those devious eyes, but the vendor had convinced her otherwise.

  She felt the weight of the pouch in her skirt pocket as acutely as if it were a block of lead.

  This was shaping up to be the worst day of her life. She was staring at her feet, feeling so sorry for herself that she didn’t notice she was barreling straight into someone until too late. It felt like she’d hit a brick wall. She landed on her arse, her spectacles flying off her face, and cursed mightily. She glanced up.

  And up.

  To meet Lieutenant Matthews’ annoyed glare. A veteran of the underground boxing circuit in St. Giles, he had a battered face that had been patched with crude brass Black Market scraps. He was a handsomer version of the Bull, with both his eyes and eyebrows in tact. But he looked as put out with her as the Bull had. He extended one of his massive Welded arms to help her to her feet.

  She took it with great reluctance. “You!” she huffed, as he jerked her upright. “You’ve been following me!”

 
“Aye, Miss,” he said grimly. “That I ‘ave. All bloomin’ day.”

  “Do you often follow me?”

  “Aye, Miss. Every time you get the hankering to visit the stews.”

  “Every time!” she cried.

  He looked at her like she was a four-year-old child. “Well, it hain’t luck that has kept you from getting’ yourself raped and killed, beggin’ yer pardon, Miss.”

  She was speechless for a moment at his blunt words. “Nonsense! I have always navigated this neighborhood without an ounce of trouble.”

  “As I’ve always been ‘ere to keep the trouble away.”

  Aline’s eyes widened. Perhaps … well, perhaps Matthews was telling the truth. But still, she had never asked for this clandestine bodyguard. To think that nothing about her adventures into London’s seedy underbelly had been authentic was quite a blow.

  And she didn’t think she could handle another blow at the moment.

  She pushed her way past Matthews and stomped down the street. He sighed and fell in step behind her.

  “So you’re not hiding your presence from me anymore?” she demanded after it became apparent he was not going to go away.

  “No, Miss.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Matthews? Decided your cover’s blown, as I now know what you and my employer have done to every gambling establishment in St. Giles?”

  Matthews shrugged. “Somefin’ like that.” He held up a coin purse she recognized as her own. “And that blighter spice trader picked your pocket back there.”

  Blushing crimson with chagrin, she took the purse and thanked him. Perhaps she was a hopeless case. “Did you leave his arms in tact?”

  He smiled. “Aye, Miss. This time.”

  “Are you going to follow me all the way to Mayfair?”

  “Aye, Miss. Where you go, I go, until the Professor returns.”

  She stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “You’ve spoken with the Professor? You know where he is, and why he won’t answer any of my tickertexts?”

  Matthews squirmed. “Not exactly. But I’m to keep a close eye on you, them’s my orders. Straight from the top.”

  “Inspector Drexler has allowed you to perform this … ridiculous task?”

  “’Tis not ridiculous, Miss,” he replied stubbornly. “And it goes even higher up than my boss. All the way to the top.”

  Aline had no idea what that meant. All she knew was the Professor was using his connections to stalk her! And he seemed to have been doing it for five years.

  She took a deep breath, pushing through her rage. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, she chanted to herself. None of it mattered, because she was, as of this moment, done with her employer, whether he was still abroad or not. She was going to Egypt. Far, far away. And she was going to forget the past five years had ever happened.

  She was going to forget him and his devil-eyes full stop.

  She seethed all the way from Covent Garden to Mayfair, refusing to take the steam car, just to make Matthews have to walk the extra distance. Which was not fair for either of them. Matthews was just following orders, after all, and she was just punishing herself by adding those extra miles. London was not completely pollution-free, after all, and she was feeling the soot in her unenhanced lungs by the end of her journey. She was just too angry to care.

  She’d managed to calm her nerves by the time she and Matthews reached Romanov’s townhouse. Unfortunately, the moment she opened the front door, her nerves were once again shattered. The two hellhounds jumped out at her, snarling, and sprinted down the steps and onto the street, their leashes trailing in the dirt. Madame Kristeva barreled out in pursuit, screaming in Russian.

  Aline dropped her daisies and turmeric, sighed, and ran to join Madame Kristeva, with Matthews on her heels bellowing for her to stop. Two things she knew for certain: for one, if anything happened to Ilya and Ikaterina, Romanov would start chopping off heads, and hers would be the first to go. For another, she was seriously, irrevocably done with her employer.

  Madame Kristeva began to flag after the first couple of blocks. Aline groaned and raced past the winded woman, dodging pedestrians and carts, keeping her sights focused on the errant leashes. Matthews stayed stubbornly by her side.

  At long last, some fifteen minutes after the chase had begun, it ended. They caught up with the hellhounds, who had found something interesting to sniff. She’d only to reach down and retrieve the leashes.

  Which she did. After which, she was yanked off her feet as the two beasts lurched forward, barking excitedly. At what, Aline would never know, for she was hurtling through the air, the pavement having ceased to exist.

  When she landed, she sank into the brackish, churning water of the Thames, and the last thought she had before everything went black was that she was going to marry Charles Netherfield as soon as humanly possible – if she survived the river, of course.

  And Romanov could rot in hell.

  Chapter 4

  "You are what?" Dr. Augustus bellowed, though she stood not two inches from him.

  Miss Wren sighed in irritation, tapping her foot against the rocky precipice upon which they were perched. Perhaps having this particular conversation with her employer was better suited to a comfortable drawing room and not the top of the French Alps, but it was too late to take back her words now.

  "I said, I am returning to England, sir, and marrying Captain Standish."

  "What utter nonsense," Augustus scoffed.

  "Nonsense, sir? I rather think our present predicament – that is, being chased through the Alps by murderous thieves – is ripe with nonsense, not the fact that I am going to marry a proper English gentleman."

  - from The Chronicles of Miss Wren and Dr. Augustus,1896

  London, 1896

  AS expected, Franco had taken his damned time corroborating Sasha’s alibi. Without Rowan to moderate Franco’s grudge, Sasha and Fyodor had seen the weeks drift by behind Council guard, without any great hope of seeing London before the seasons changed.

  Unable to contact the outside world, and without knowing what Rowan had found upon his return to London, Sasha could do nothing but stew in his worry and anger in his Genoese jail cell. Only the very real threat of Council retribution, and his growing suspicion the killer would not fulfill his threats while Sasha wasn’t in London to bear witness, had kept him from escaping his confinement.

  Who knew how long Franco would have dragged things out had another body not surfaced. When Franco had admitted this development to him as he and Fyodor were being released, Sasha had suffered a moment of desperate panic, believing he had misjudged the situation, and the murderer had already killed Finch. But the victim had been found in Scotland, of all places, on a little island in the Outer Hebrides.

  Not exactly a place Finch would have been likely to be, considering the amount of water she would have had to vomit over to get there.

  But the facts were bad enough. The victim had been a local woman, blonde, petite, and bespectacled. The killer wasn’t through, and Sasha knew that it was only a matter of time before the storm hit London. For some reason, the murderer had decided to threaten those closest to him, on top of framing him.

  The murderer had always had a singular vendetta against him – God knew why – but the stakes had escalated in a way that had finally pushed Sasha too far. Sasha’s three hundred year vow to temper his emotions was fast fading. He was losing control. Which scared him more than anything else.

  Such were his rather bleak thoughts as Fyodor drove him home through the dirty streets of London after three weeks in prison and one week in the Outer Hebrides with none other than Franco himself, investigating another crime scene. Franco had not absolved him of guilt, of course. He was stubbornly clinging to his suspicions that Sasha had accomplices working for him, or some such nonsense. But he had at long last let Sasha and Fyodor return to London, unable to convince the High Council to extend the edict, in light of the events in the North.

 
Sasha had grown to think of England as his home in the six years he’d lived in London – or as close to a home as he'd ever manage. It seemed an unlikely match for him, having spent the better part of his three hundred forty two years on some part of the Continent, most recently in the cosmopolitan, intellectually sophisticated Vienna.

  By comparison, England, despite its claims to be the center of the modern world, seemed rather ramshackle and quaint, populated by eccentrics and puritans. But he liked those eccentrics and puritans. He liked the friends he made and the work he did. He even liked English weather, having always had a partiality for rain.

  And he liked the fact that England was about as far away as he could imagine from Russia. In England, it had proved easier to forget who he had been and what he had lost.

  He sighed and rested his head against the window of his steam carriage, watching the rain drip down the glass and the gas lit streets of London pass by, impatient to reach his townhouse and see for himself that Finch was unharmed. She’d yet to answer any of his tickertexts, which was most odd. But he’d been assured she was unharmed by Matthews himself, who was still guarding her. Though from the tone of Matthews’ tickertexts, Finch was not entirely happy he’d been gone for so long.

  His mood improved in anticipation of the pending reunion with a sulking Finch. No doubt his prim little English secretary would be waiting for him inside with a list of some sort, hiding her exasperation with him behind her spectacles.

  He’d not met another like her in three hundred forty two years of life. She was the most fragile human he’d ever met, unenhanced in a world where even the street urchins of her generation had been fitted with Iron Necklaces. How she’d survived to adulthood with her condition was a testimony to her obstinacy. All five foot two inches of her was filled with a proud determination and a fierce wit he’d never encountered before. Hiring her had been the smartest thing he had ever done.

  And he enjoyed having her around. After his long life, it was rare for him to find a human whose company he could still tolerate. He liked to provoke her, to test her mettle, and she never failed to delight him when she thwarted his assaults with one of her pointed, schoolmarmish glares. She was immune to him. No other woman was. It was refreshing.