Brazen and the Beast

by Sarah MacLean

  She gasped as he walked away, bobbing and weaving through those lingering in the square. “I played just as fair as you did!” She followed behind. “You promised me information.”

  “I don’ ’ave information.” He sped up, slipping down an alleyway off the main square, leading deeper into the Garden.

  He turned a corner, and Hattie hurried to follow. “Wait! Please!” This man had grown up on the streets of Covent Garden. He knew about Beast. She caught sight of him at the far end of another alley, making another turn.

  He spun back around when she came around the corner. “Leave off!” Then resumed his retreat. Down a second alleyway. Turned into a third.

  Frustration grew. She was going to lose him. “Just tell me where to find him!” she called after him. Another turn. Another.

  He was gone. Lost to the labyrinthine streets.

  “Dammit,” she whispered to the dusk, her heart pounding, the only sound on the empty street her breath harsh in her lungs. He’d been her chance. “Dammit.”

  “I know where to find ’im, lady.”

  “Aye, me, as well.”

  She whirled to meet the words.

  Two other men, approaching from behind. Larger than the one she’d pursued. One wore a cap low over his brow, hiding all but the tip of his nose. The other had a shock of orange hair, bright enough to see in the fast-dimming light. He smiled, baring rotten teeth. But it wasn’t his teeth that made Hattie shiver. It was his eyes. Full of greed.

  She took a step back. “I don’t require your help, thank you.”

  “Och, wot a lady,” Cap said. “So polite.”

  “And the accent—like she was born in piles o’ money,” Teeth replied. “Enough money that she can pay us back for wot she lost us this afternoon.”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t—I’ve never set eyes on you before.”

  Cap sucked his teeth at that. “Nah, but ye broke our man. ’E could’ve worked another hour if you ain’t come ’long.”

  The card man. He hadn’t been working alone. He’d been working for these men. These men who wanted their money here and now in this empty alleyway where she’d been stupid enough to land herself. She cast about for a solution. “I’ll give you what I offered him. A crown.”

  “A crown, she says,” Rotten Teeth spat.

  “She lost us wot, three times that?” came the ridiculous reply. Impossible. It would take the gamesters days to earn that amount.

  It didn’t matter. “I don’t have that.” She reached into her pocket. Extracted her remaining coin. “I’ve six shillings, tuppence.”

  They were nearly upon her.

  “Aw . . . She don’t ’ave it, Eddie,” Cap tutted.

  “Wot are we to do, then, lady?” Eddie asked. “Maybe you could work it off? Mikey don’t mind big girls.”

  She lifted her chin. Pulled her shawl tight, one hand disappearing into the folds. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Or wot?”

  “Maybe she’ll scream,” Mikey said, yellow teeth flashing as though he’d like that, the monster.

  “She can,” Eddie said softly, close enough to touch her if he tried. “But she won’t find no savior ’ere.”

  Her heart pounded, fear and fury warring within. Fury won out. “Then I shall have to save myself.”

  Chapter Nine

  He didn’t like her in the Garden.

  Beast headed for the market, keenly aware of the setting sun—of the way the place could turn from friendly to dangerous in an instant, especially for the daughter of an earl, too full of Mayfair no matter how much time she’d spent in the Docklands. She’d as well be from the other end of the world as here, where darkness came like a promise, and brought with it all manner of malice.

  What if she’d left before he got there?

  He increased his pace, hurrying to get to her before the last rays of light settled, weaving in and out of buildings and down alleyways, making the final turn and nearly crashing into a tiny body speeding the opposite way. He reached for the child who threatened to ricochet off his legs and land herself in the muck, taking in her empty basket and threadbare cap.

  “Bess,” he said once she was stable again, the drawl of the streets thick on his tongue. “What’s got you racin’?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Beast!” she said. “I ain’t told her nuffin’! I thought she’d make a good mark for me last blooms.”

  Hattie.

  He looked to the empty basket. “Looks like she was that.”

  The girl nodded, her cap going further askew. “Aye. Bought the lot. And for thruppence.”

  He was unsurprised by Hattie’s generous spending, but made a show of looking impressed. “And now, moppet? Where’s the lady?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t tell her ’ow to find you. I’d never.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  Her chest bowed out with pride. “Left ’er in the square, I did. Told her no one beats you.”

  He imagined Hattie hadn’t cared for that. He reached into his pocket and extracted his bag of sweets, offering it to Bess. When she popped one into her mouth, he chuffed the girl beneath her chin and said, “Good work today, Bess. It’s getting close to dark. Best find your mum.” The duo would have another early day tomorrow—up at dawn to collect their blossoms and then back to the square to sell them.

  If the Bastards had their way, every child in the Rookery would wake early to get to lessons, but families had to eat, and the best Devil and Whit could do was give them clean water and as much protection as was possible.

  Which meant he didn’t have time to protect aristocratic ladies hell-bent on adventure when he’d expressly told her he would find her, and not the other way around. He saw Bess off, then headed for the market square, crossing into it in just enough time to see Hattie on the other side, getting fleeced by one of the square’s card men.

  He imagined she’d chosen the dress to blend in with the Garden crowd or some nonsense, a simple walking dress in a soft, mossy green with a bonnet to match, topped with a knitted shawl pulled tight around her shoulders in an attempt to, what—make her shapeless? Whit supposed that he might have ignored the whole ensemble if not for the woman inside, who was impossible to miss and nothing near shapeless. She was taller than most and with wild curves that no one would miss. Especially not a man who’d had a taste of them the night before.

  Memory flashed, her tongue meeting his in a delicious stroke, her breath coming fast at his lips, her fingers tight in his hair, as though she wished she could direct the caress.

  Christ, he would allow her to direct his caress wherever she liked.

  He resisted the urge to linger on what might come of it, ignoring the waking of his cock as he headed for her without hesitation, speeding up when he realized she wasn’t getting fleeced. She was doing the fleecing.

  The broad-tosser stood, anger clear on his face, collected his table, and turned away—heading for the nearest alleyway. And Hattie followed . . . not knowing she was being led into the darkness to be set upon by thieves.

  Whit began to run.

  He followed down the dark, empty lane where they’d disappeared, turning down one alleyway, then another, searching the dead ends that peeled off the path—each a perfect place to rob a toff. To do worse to them. He cursed, loud in the darkness.

  “Don’t come any closer!”

  No, he didn’t like Hattie in the Garden. He didn’t like her boots in his filth, or her voice ricocheting off his stone walls. But he absolutely didn’t like the fear in it.

  He’d break anyone who touched her.

  He was at a flat run at that point, desperate to get to her. Telling himself, as he tore down the street, that he only rushed to protect her because she was the key to his enemy’s demise.

  Protect her.

  Around the final corner, still in the shadows, Whit discovered the Doolan brothers—proper Garden thugs, homegrown from the muck of the place and far stronger than they we
re smart—backs to him.

  Facing Hattie.

  Whit couldn’t see her face behind the duo’s thick shoulders, but he could imagine it, and he hated it. Pale with her violet eyes—that impossible color—wide with fear, and her full lips open as her breath shallowed with panic.

  Rage coursed through him, setting his heart pounding.

  Protect her.

  He couldn’t see her. But he knew she’d be inching away from the stink of the brothers, from the rot of their teeth and the scars on their faces and the filth on their hands.

  Wait.

  She wasn’t inching away from them. “The way I see it, gentlemen,” she said, her voice ringing out, steady as a steel, “you’ve misjudged my ability to fend for myself. I don’t think you’d like to see how I would do it.”

  She’d had a small knife in her pocket in the carriage last night—a blade sharp enough to cut the ropes at his wrists, but too small to strike fear in the hearts of the Doolans, who’d been on the threatening end of far more dangerous weapons. And still . . .

  They were inching away from her.

  What in hell? Whit edged closer in the shadows.

  “Where’d you get that, gel?” Eddie Doolan asked. Was his voice wavering?

  “You know it, then?” She was surprised.

  “E’ryone in the Rookery knows it,” Mikey said, his panic undeniable.

  She came into view, lit from above by a shaft of reflected sunlight, and Whit nearly rocked back on his heels at the sight of her. Tall and strong, her shoulders back and her jaw set like a warrior. And in her hand . . . a blade that promised wicked punishment.

  Punishment Whit knew without question, because he’d meted it out a hundred times. A thousand.

  The woman held one of his throwing knives.

  Shock was chased by a thrum of anticipation when Eddie asked, words reed-thin with fear, “Are you Beast’s?”

  Whit ignored his instant reaction to the question.

  “I have his blade, do I not?”

  Clever girl, brazening it through.

  “Shit,” Mikey spat, “I ain’t no part o’ this.” He scurried off like the street rat he was, there, then gone.

  She turned surprised eyes to Eddie. “Rather disloyal of him, don’t you think?”

  Eddie swallowed. “You ain’t tellin’ Beast, are you, lady?”

  Whit answered for her, stepping out of the shadows. “She won’t have to.”

  Hattie gasped as Eddie spun toward him, hands already up as Whit advanced. “We weren’t doin’ nuffin’, Beast. Just scarin’ ’er a bit. Just enough so she don’ mess wi’ our card men again.”

  He came closer. “What are the rules, Eddie?”

  The other man’s throat worked, searching for the answer that wouldn’t come. “No hurtin’ gels. But—”

  Whit hated the word. There were no qualifiers to the rule. That single syllable made him want to tear the other man apart.

  Eddie’s eyes went wide as Whit came closer, his fear spilling stupid words into the dusk. “We didn’t expect ’er to pull a knife, Beast. If you fink abou’ it, the lady started it.”

  What a fucking imbecile.

  He nodded. “Started it by running from you.”

  Eddie’s minuscule brain clamored for a reply. “Runnin’ after the card man. Lookin’ fer you.” Thinking he’d struck on something valuable, he smiled. “We were protectin’ you, see?”

  “Oh, please,” Hattie scoffed from over Eddie’s shoulder, but Whit refused to look at her, afraid of what might happen if he did.

  Instead, he reached for Eddie, clasping Eddie’s grubby lapels in his hands and pulling him close. “If I ever see you threaten a woman again, I’ll show you just what that blade feels like. Remember, I’m everywhere. I see everything.”

  Eddie swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. Nodded.

  “Do you have something to say to the lady?”

  “S-sorry,” the filth whispered.

  Not good enough. “Louder.”

  “Sorry, lady. Beg pardon. Sorry.”

  Whit did look to Hattie then, her own eyes wide with surprise. “Yes. All right.” She slid her gaze to his, and he didn’t like the uncertainty there. “I accept. He appears to have learned a lesson.”

  “Get out.” He threw Eddie away from them, not watching as he fell to the ground and scrambled immediately backward, rising to a run. Instead, Whit turned to the rooftops and whistled, long and piercing, to the night. “Find me Michael Doolan. Tell him he’d best find me at the fights. And if he doesn’t come to me, he shan’t like what happens when I come for him.”

  He turned back to Hattie, whose uncertainty had turned to curiosity. “Do you make a habit of speaking to buildings?”

  “I’ll stop when they no longer do my bidding.”

  “The stones will fetch this man to you?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “So it’s true what they say?”

  Who had spoken to her? What had they said?

  He grunted his reply, ignoring the rage that whirled through him at the idea that she might have been hurt here, on his turf. Ignoring the deeply unsettling idea that he might not have been able to protect her had he been a few minutes later. Whether or not the woman held his knife.

  Speaking of. He extended a hand. “Give me the weapon.”

  She tightened her grip on the onyx blade, and he imagined the warmth of her palm against the design there, the softness of her gloves polishing the fine ridges of steel that kept a grip firm and ensured a straight aim and a true strike. “What are the fights?”

  His only solace. Ignoring the question, he said, “The blade, Hattie.”

  She looked at it. “They were afraid of it.”

  He did not reply, waiting for her to say what she really meant.

  “They were afraid of you.”

  He tried to find the disgust in the words. She was softness and shine—cleaner and fresher in her starched bonnet and her white shawl than this place had ever been. She was nothing like it, and shouldn’t be here. And she should be disgusted by what she’d witnessed. By the coarseness of it. By the filth.

  By him.

  “No, not you,” she said, and for a wild moment, Whit imagined she’d heard his thoughts. She lifted the blade, inspected it in the fast-disappearing light, and added, in a whisper, “They were afraid of the idea of you.”

  “All fear is fear of an idea,” he said. He knew that better than most. Had been weaned on terror and learned to survive it. The tangible was bearable. It was the intangible that would steal breath and sleep and hope.

  She tilted her head, considering him. “And what is the idea of you?”

  Beast. He didn’t give voice to the word. To the promise of it. For some wild reason, he didn’t want her thinking of Beast when she looked at him.

  He didn’t want her looking at him.

  Lie.

  “Where is your chaperone?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “It makes sense you didn’t have one last night—no need for chaperoning at a brothel—but you’re a woman of means, Henrietta Sedley, and there are any number of people in the marketplace who would have cause to recognize you.”

  Her lips, wide and full, opened on a surprised gasp. “You know who I am.”

  He didn’t reply. There was no need.

  “How?” she pressed.

  Ignoring her question, he said, “You still don’t know who I am, if you thought seeking me out was a good idea.”

  “I know they call you Beast.” He’d told her that. “I know your brother is Devil.” Uncertainty whispered through him. What else did she know? “Which makes me question the naming protocol in your family.”

  “He’s my half-brother. We named ourselves,” he said, hating the speed with which he replied. Hating that he replied at all.

  Her face softened, and he hated that, too, irrationally. “I’m sorry for that, if those were the names you chose. But I suppose the Bareknuckle Bastards deserve na
mes that deliver a blow.”

  He took a step toward her. “For someone who claims not to know anything about how I came to be unconscious in her carriage last evening, you know a great deal.”

  Those sinful lips curved into a smile, the expression like a blow. “You think I would not ask questions after our encounter?”

  He should have scowled. Should have pounced on the evidence that she had a close relationship with the enemy that had shot his man and stolen his shipments and knocked him out. Should have held her family and its business to the fire and promised to set it aflame if she did not give him the information he desired.

  He should have. But instead, he said, “And what else did you discover about me?”

  What the fuck was he doing talking to her?

  Her smile turned to secrets. “I am told that once you come for someone, you don’t stop until you find them.”

  That much was true.

  “But I wasn’t certain you would come for me.”

  Of course he would have. He would have come for her in her Mayfair tower even if she didn’t have the information he desired.

  No. Whit resisted the thought—an impressive feat until she added, that punishing dimple flashing in her cheek, “So I came for you.”

  He would never admit the pleasure that coursed through him at that confession. Nor would he admit to the pleasure that came when she reached for his hand, lifting it in one of hers.

  “What happened to your hand?” The kidskin gloves she wore did not stop the sting of her heat as she stroked her fingers over his knuckles, red and stinging from the blow he’d put to the wall earlier. “You’re hurt.”

  He sucked in a breath and removed his hand from her grasp, shaking it out. Wanting to erase her touch. “It’s nothing.”

  She watched him for a moment, and he imagined her seeing more than he wished. And then, softly, she said, “No one would tell me about you.”

  He grunted. “That didn’t stop you asking. Which returns us to the issue of your chaperone. Any number of toffs could have seen you. And I imagine any number of toffs would have questioned your lack of subtlety in asking for me.”