by Shana Galen
Slag’s ebony walking stick thumped on the floor as he led them past the bar and into a dark corridor. If the crime lord had an ambush planned, this was the time and place for it. Behind him, he heard Ewan’s steps slow as the Protector prepared for an ambush. It didn’t come. Instead, Slag opened a door and led them into a room lit with lamps and made cozy by a crackling fire.
Though perhaps cozy was not the correct word. The furnishings were comfortable enough—several chairs and a couch set on a large, colorful rug and visible by the light of lamps on scattered tables—but the ceiling was low and there were no windows to speak of. To Neil, the place felt like a well-appointed prison.
“Take a seat, won’t you?” Slag pointed to the couch and chairs, but he remained standing, positioning himself near the fire.
“I prefer to stand,” Neil said. Ewan leaned on the wall beside the door and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Julia sank into one of the chairs, looking as though she was only now realizing her mistake in coming. Good, perhaps in the future she would be less likely to rush headlong into danger, although judging from her past behavior, he doubted it.
“It will be difficult to drink tea standing,” Slag said.
“You can drop the ruse, Mr. Slag,” Neil said. “You know why we are here. Let us waste no more time. Give us the boy, and no one will get hurt.”
Slag’s gaze drifted slowly to Juliana. She was peering about the room and missed his look. A small mercy that, for the crime lord’s leer turned Neil’s stomach.
“Give me my blunt or, better yet, the chit, and you have a deal.”
“Out of the question,” Neil said.
Juliana turned back to them. “Where is Billy? Have you hurt him?”
“Hurt him?” Slag laughed. “The lad came of his own free will. I offered him shelter.”
“Shelter? He was quite safe at Sunnybrooke,” said Juliana.
Slag shook his head. “That was not the tale he told, my lady. And the bruises on his face seem to imply he has recently been involved in a violent exchange.”
Neil did not know much about criminals. He knew they were usually caught, if not right away, eventually. He knew they were usually hanged. He knew that the large numbers hanged or transported or tossed in prison hulks did nothing to deter criminals. By necessity, he had associated with criminals on the Continent. He had no trouble deducing why they were usually caught. Most criminals were not very intelligent.
But Slag was no ordinary criminal. He had managed to survive the underworld and to come to dominate his small patch of it. Neil hadn’t investigated Slag’s criminal record—he was no Bow Street Runner—but he imagined if he had, he would have seen prosecutions for a several petty crimes when Slag had been young. Before he had learned to either evade the authorities, bribe them, or, as he did now, send others to do his dirty work.
Slag had probably grown up in Spitalfields, but he had enough wits to learn to speak properly, dress properly—if a bit garishly—and act cunningly. All of this information did not bode well for the rest of the interview.
“He and another boy had a dispute,” Juliana said. Neil had known she would not heed his directive to cease speaking. “But that is none of your affair. I would like to see Billy.”
“Absolutely,” Slag said, though he made no move to call for the boy. “And if he wishes to go back to the orphanage, I will not keep him here.”
Juliana was no lackwit either. She knew Slag would not give Billy up so easily. “But…” she hedged.
“But.” Slag spread his arms as though the situation were out of his control.
She swallowed. “I don’t have all the money. But what if I gave you some of it? I could get a hundred to you tomorrow.”
Slag wrinkled his nose, and Neil clenched his fists. Was she really attempting to bargain with a crime lord?
“I’d rather the full amount. If you don’t have it, then I am willing to accept substitutions.”
She exhaled and glanced in Neil’s direction. Clearly, she was considering accepting Slag’s offer. The fear in her eyes and the rigid stiffness of her shoulders told him what he already knew—she would do anything to save the orphans she loved.
“She won’t have you,” Neil said before she could answer.
Both Slag and Juliana glared at him. Neil was pleased to see the leer on Slag’s face had been wiped away.
“So you won’t have me?” Slag said, the look in his eyes murderous but his voice deceptively calm.
“I wouldn’t have put it that way.” Juliana stood, sensing as they all did that a storm was about to break. “You see, while I am indeed honored by your, uh, proposal, I fear we are too different to make a successful match—”
“Enough!” Slag roared. He thumped his stick on the floor.
“You should have left it,” Neil said, moving to block Juliana from Slag’s wrath.
But even as he moved in front of her, the door behind them burst open and four of the largest men Neil had ever seen lumbered inside. Two of them even made Ewan look puny, and that was no easy feat. Julia gawked at them, and Neil thought he might be gawking too before he recovered himself.
“Wait!” he said even as Ewan moved into a defensive stance. “I am certain we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
Slag stared at him.
“I have a proposal of my own.”
“Go ahead.”
“You tell these men to go back to whatever hole they crawled out of and give us Billy.”
“And in return?”
“We won’t completely destroy you.”
Slag stared at him for a long moment. Even Juliana turned to stare at him, her face clearly betraying her thoughts—he was completely and utterly mad.
And then Slag began to laugh, and Ewan had a moment when he thought, Bloody hell, it might all work out after all. He laughed too, and even Ewan curved one corner of his mouth upward.
But then Slag, still smiling, slashed his walking stick through the air and said, “Kill them all.”
Seventeen
Julia had not intended to scream. She liked to think she would not have screamed if she hadn’t been tossed onto the couch and told to get down and stay there. That was an order Julia had no trouble following. She had seen and done a great deal in the time she had dedicated herself to the orphanage. More than 90 percent of what she had seen and done were not the sort of things ladies should ever see or do. She had broken up fights, cleaned up vomit, nursed sick children, buried the carcasses of dead animals who had chosen the orphanage’s stoop as their final resting place. She had endured hunger, cold, lack of sleep, and what she had thought of as fear.
But now she realized that she had never before known real fear. Real fear struck her when she watched Neil hurtle himself across the room and slam into Slag. The two men fell back against the hearth, Neil narrowly missing being thrown into the flames. She tore her gaze away from Neil at a loud crash behind her. One of the tables had fallen, and it was no wonder, as the four thugs had encircled Mr. Mostyn, hiding him from view. She only knew he was still on his feet and fighting because she caught flashes of his light hair.
And then one of the thugs stumbled back and toppled onto a chair, crushing it, and Mostyn slid through the opening, grasped the table in one hand, broke off a leg, and brandished it at the other thugs. One didn’t move quickly enough and took a crack to the head. He fell back, crashing into the couch and almost falling on top of her.
It was then she decided that perhaps she might be more out of the way if she climbed under the couch. She scooted under the furnishing just as the thug did tumble onto the couch, causing the entire thing to creak in protest.
Julia winced and turned to catch a glimpse of Neil again. She caught sight of him and Slag, still near the blazing hearth, just as Slag swung his stick and struck Neil’s arm. Neil faltered but didn’t go d
own. He swung with his good arm and his fist collided with Slag’s nose. Blood sprayed, a rain of crimson, and Slag raised his walking stick for another strike. Julia closed her eyes. She couldn’t stay under the couch until this was over. If Mr. Mostyn and Neil lost the fight—and that looked very likely—she was doomed. She had to find her own way out.
More importantly, she had to save Billy.
She could squeeze out from under the couch and… Her thoughts trailed off as she caught a whiff of smoke. She risked another look at Neil. His head was still round, not caved in as she had feared, and he continued to wrestle with Slag before the hearth. Neil had one end wrapped around the end of the walking stick, and he and Slag played tug-of-war with it. Behind them, the fire burned inside the grate.
And she still smelled smoke. She turned and looked at Mostyn, her eyes widening. She couldn’t see much but legs from this angle, but she could see the overturned lamp and the small licks of fire eating at the rug.
“Oh no,” she breathed. In this old building, the fire could spread quickly, blazing into an inferno before any of them had a chance to contemplate escape. The patrons in the front room might get out, but anyone upstairs, where Billy was likely hiding, would burn to death.
Julia looked at Neil again. Still fighting for his life. If the shuffling feet on the other side of the couch were any indication, Mostyn was engaged in the same battle. It was up to her. Julia slithered out from under the couch, covering her head when one of Mostyn’s attackers looked like he might trip and fall on her. He fell the other way, and she scrambled to her knees. She crawled to the fallen lamp, reaching out to right it and then snatching her hand back at the intense heat. She bent and attempted to blow out the burgeoning fire, but too much of the lamp’s oil had soaked into the carpet and her efforts made no difference.
Her last hope was smothering the flames. Fingers fumbling, she ripped off her cloak and threw it over the fire, then lifted and lowered it yet again. But she had missed her chance—when the flames had burned through the oil but not yet found other fuel. The fire had slid its talons into the rug’s fibers and held on. She watched the trail of fire snake out along the pattern of the rug and away from her useless cloak.
Julia dropped the garment and did the only other thing she could think to do. “Fire!” she yelled. “Everyone out! Fire!”
The men fighting Mostyn had already taken notice and scrambled to avoid the flames. Julia glanced at Neil in time to see him wrench the walking stick from Slag’s hands and swing it at the crime lord’s head. Slag blocked the blow with his arm, but even across the room, she imagined she heard the crack and pop as bone splintered.
Her gasp was cut off when she was grabbed about the waist and lifted off the floor. Julia kicked and tried to wrench free.
“It’s Mostyn,” came the voice of the man holding her. “I’ll get you out.”
She stopped struggling as Mostyn carried her through the open door of the chamber. Slag’s men had fled before them, and she could hear their shouts of “Fire!” as they ran into the taproom. Mostyn made to follow them, but Julia fought him again. “No!”
He could have ignored her. He was strong enough that her struggles didn’t impede him, but he paused and set her down. He bent and looked into her face. “My lady, the Warrior will find his own way out.”
Julia was suddenly ashamed that she hadn’t been thinking of Neil. She’d wanted to go back for Billy. “It’s not him,” she said. “I want to find Billy. We have to get him out.”
Neil stepped into the doorway beside them. Perspiration ran down his face from the heat of the fire, making the spattering of blood run down his cheeks in macabre rivulets.
“I’ll get him out,” Neil said, his voice hoarse from the smoke that was beginning to burn her throat and lungs. “You go with the Protector.”
“No. I’m coming.”
Neil bent and took her chin in his cupped hand. “Not this time, and don’t fight me on this.” He gave her a hard kiss that surprised her not simply because it was unexpected but because of its intensity. Then he looked at Mostyn. “Get her out and keep her out.”
“Yes, sir.”
She didn’t even have the chance to say goodbye before she was lifted again, this time slung over Mostyn’s shoulder and carried through the smoke-filled building. Outside, Mostyn didn’t pause and lower her to the ground. He continued walking until they were well away from the burning Ox and Bull. Then he set her down, not exactly gently, but carefully at least, and turned to look behind him.
Julia found her balance and followed his gaze. The building was engulfed in flames. The dark sky was lit with a haze of red and orange. All around them men and women rushed toward the building. Some carried buckets of water, but most just wanted to watch. In the rookeries of London, few buildings were insured in case of fire. Even if they had been, the fire brigades were unlikely to venture into those parts of Town. If a building caught fire, it burned. Attempts might be made to save the nearby buildings, but if those caught on fire, the best one could hope for was a dousing rain.
Julia watched the smoke billow up from the burning alehouse in great plumes. Neil was inside. Neil and Billy. Billy was only a child. He had made a poor choice to go to the Ox and Bull, but he did not deserve to die. She would hold herself responsible if Neil died. He hadn’t wanted to take responsibility for the orphans and the orphanage, and she had put him in a position that left him no other options. In fact, since she’d met him, he’d done nothing but take care of her and the boys, thinking of her needs before she even thought of them herself.
And then instead of urging him to get out of the burning building, she’d likely sent him to his death. She had made many mistakes in her life, but this was the first she truly wished she could undo.
“Wait here,” Mostyn said, his voice low and filled with gravel from the smoke. In fact, even away from the fire, the smell of smoke still rose from her clothing and choked her throat closed.
Or perhaps that was fear and guilt.
She nodded, pressing her lips together and watching the flames lick at the roof through watery eyes. What else could they do but wait?
“I’ll go back for him.”
Her gaze snapped to Mostyn. “You’re going back? You can’t!”
“Wait here,” he said and walked away, his long legs taking him out of sight before she could think of an argument.
“Idiotic men,” she muttered. “Who walks into a burning building?”
She would have to spend the rest of her life feeling guilty for the death of three males. She was such a fool. She should have listened to Wraxall in the beginning. She should have brought an army of men into the orphanage to keep the boys safe and Slag out. She didn’t know where she would have found the funds for such an army, but that seemed like a paltry concern at the moment.
And now Slag was dead. Neil’s blow might not have killed him, but the fire would. Would his cronies come after her? Would they know she had been responsible, indirectly but still responsible, for his demise?
Julia took a deep breath and tried to quiet her mind. A group of men ran past, and she pushed herself into the shadows. She knew where the orphanage was from here, but she dared not go alone, especially now that she’d lost her cloak and her copper hair would be a beacon to anyone looking for her.
But how long should she wait for Mostyn to return? What if he never returned? What if he returned carrying the lifeless body of Neil? Please let him be alive, she prayed. She had no right to ask God for anything after the sins she’d committed today. Sins for which she was not even sorry, for the pleasure Neil had given her seemed a small price to pay for a mark against her name, if indeed St. Peter was keeping track.
“Lord,” she whispered, “if you save him, I promise to entertain no more impure thoughts and refrain from any further impure behaviors. Just save him.”
She opened her ey
es and a woman with a scarred face and loose but matted brown hair stared at her. Julia inhaled sharply—immediately wishing she hadn’t, for the woman smelled truly rank—and pressed farther back. But she was up against the building and had no room to hide herself more.
“Was you praying?” the woman asked, her accent so thick even Julia could hardly understand her.
“I was.” Her voice shook from fear and emotion. “My friends are in that fire.”
“Good.” The woman stepped forward. “Then they’ll be no one to ’elp you.” She moved closer, so close that she pressed against Julia, who was forced to turn her head to the side to avoid touching her nose to the woman’s as well as the stench.
“What do you want?” Julia asked, trying not to breathe too deeply.
“I want yer blunt.” As she spoke, her hands grasped hold of Julia’s waist, then skittered like bony beetles all up and down her sides. “Where do ye keep yer purse?” She felt for pockets in the dress and, finding them, delved inside. Julia resented the violation and pushed the woman back.
“Leave me alone. I don’t have any coin with me.”
“Come, now. Fine lady like you.” The woman looked her up and down, then shoved one shoulder into her chest and continued patting Julia. Julia tried to catch her breath even as the woman’s hands felt up her arms and over her breasts.
“Remove your hands! I’m no fine lady. I live at Sunnybrooke Home for Boys.”
The woman leaned her head back. “Where?”
Julia blew out a breath. “St. Dismas—the orphanage. I don’t have any blunt.”
The woman pulled an embroidered handkerchief from Julia’s bodice. “Maybe not, but I can sell this for a ha’penny.”
Julia shoved her back. “Then sell it and be gone.”
But the woman was staring at her hair. “Not so fast. Your hair is a fine color.”
Julia put her hand to her head. “Get away.”
The woman produced a dull knife with the dexterity of a professional. “Might fetch me a crown or more.”
