Bernadette almost snorted. “I prefer to say yes to life and no to the altar.”
He tsked. “Don’t be taking off to Madrid and riding bulls next. You can do that after we get this girl into London.” He paused. “My hat.” Glancing about, he bellowed, “Where the hell is my hat, Emerson? You aren’t pissing in it, are you? Bring it out already. Now!”
Bernadette blinked. Maybe time in London would be a good thing. Because sometimes, just sometimes, and rare though it was, she did miss the, uh...culture.
Seven months later
New York City—the Five Points
LINGERING BEFORE THE LOPSIDED, cracked mirror hanging on the barren wall of his tenement, Matthew affixed the leather patch over his left eye. It was annoyingly fitting that the only image he ever saw of himself every morning after shaving and dressing was splintered in half.
Turning, he grabbed up his wool great coat from the chair stacked with his father’s old newspapers.
He paused, leaned down and touched a heavy hand to those papers. “Morning, Da,” he whispered.
He drew in a ragged breath and let it out, fighting the sting in his eyes he could never get past, knowing this was all that remained of his father. This. An old stack of papers that personified his father’s life. Though at least that life had amounted to something.
Matthew patted that stack one last time.
Draping on his great coat and buttoning it into place, he swung away, opened the door leading out of his tenement and slammed it behind himself. After bolting the door, he trudged down the narrow stairwell and out into the skin-biting, snow-ridden streets of Mulberry.
Matthew paused, glimpsing his negro friend heading toward him. Apparently, knuckles were about to get bloody. Smock only ever called on his tenement when there was a problem.
Matthew briskly made his way through the snow that unevenly crusted the pavement, his worn leather boots crunching against the ice layering it. The bright glint of the sun did nothing to warm the frigid air that peered over slanted rooftops. He squinted to block out the glare in his eye and stalked toward his friend. “Don’t tell me one of our own is dead.”
Smock veered toward him, large boots also crunching against the snow. He puffed out dark cheeks before entirely deflating them. “Worse.”
“Worse?” Matthew jerked to a halt, scanning that unshaven, sweat-beaded black face. It was winter. Why was he sweating? “Have you been running? What the hell is going on?”
Smock lingered, his expression wary. He scrubbed his thick, wiry hair. “Coleman called a meetin’ an’ put Kerner in command.”
Matthew’s eyes widened. “What? Why? He can’t do that.”
“He already done did.”
“But I own half the group!”
Smock shrugged. “He’s leavin’ an’ yer goin’ with him. To London, says he. What? Dat not true?”
“London? I’d rather swallow my own shite than go to—” He paused, thinking of his father’s widow, Georgia. Last time he’d seen or heard from his “stepmother,” was all but seven months ago, when the woman had ditched the Five Points in the hopes of creating a new life for herself in the name of some Brit. He only hoped to God her life hadn’t sunken into mud. “Is this about Georgia? Shouldn’t she be in London about now? Is that not working out?”
Smock threw up both hands. “Don’t know. Don’t care. All I know is—” He tapped a long finger to his temple. “Coleman’s not himself.”
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know.”
Bloody hell.
* * *
UNLATCHING THE DOOR COLEMAN never locked, Matthew stepped inside. The acrid smell of leather and metal wafted through the air. Matthew scanned the vast, high-ceilinged storage room that Coleman leased from an iron monger. Bags of sand nailed against dented, dingy walls lined one side and a straw mattress laid on crates with a dilapidated leather trunk full of clothes lined the other. Like him, Coleman had always been a man of little means, but sometimes, he sensed Coleman purposefully tortured himself into living like this a bit too much.
Matthew wrinkled his nose and muttered aloud, “Don’t you ever air this place out, man?” Kicking aside wooden crates that cluttered the dirty planks of the floor, he jogged across the echoing expanse of the room, holding his pistols against his leather belts to keep them from jumping out.
Unlatching the back door, he shoved it open. Afternoon sunlight spilled in, illuminating the uneven wood floor, as a cold breeze whirled in from the alley with a dancing twirl of snow. Adjusting his great coat about his frame, he slowly strode toward the center of the room with a sense of pride. He had primed his first pistol here.
Shouts and the skidding of boots crunching against ice-hardened snow caused him to jerk toward the open door. A lanky youth dressed in a billowy coat and an oversized wool cap sprinted into and across the room, darting past Matthew so fast he barely made out a blurred face.
Was that— “Ronan?” he echoed.
“Can’t talk! Two men. I owe you!” The youth dove headfirst into a stack of large, empty crates and out of sight.
Matthew’s brows shot up as two thugs in stained wool trousers and yellowing linen shirts burst in from the alley. One gripped a piece of timber embedded with nails and the other a brick.
“Show him up, Milton,” the man with the brick yelled. “That runt owes us money.”
How was it everyone knew his name even when he didn’t know theirs? Matthew widened his stance. “With this attitude of brick and timber, gents, the way I see it, the boy owes you nothing.”
The oaf with the timber glanced at his burly companion. The two advanced in stalk-unison, their unshaven faces hardening as thick knuckles gripped makeshift weapons.
Matthew crossed his forearms over his midsection and gripped the rosewood handles of his pistols. Whipping out both from his belts, he pointed a muzzle at each head. “He’ll give you the money by the end of the day.”
They scrambled back. They raised their hands above those oily heads, those weapons going up with them.
Matthew advanced, cocking both pistols with the flick of his thumbs. “Given you both know who I am, it means you also know that my jurisdiction runs between here and Little Water. So get the hell out of my ward. Now.”
The men sprinted through the open door and out of sight.
He released the springs on the pistols and shoved them back into his leather belt. With the heel of his worn boot, he slammed the alley door shut. Turning, he strode over to the pile of crates. “I feel like all I’m ever good for is giving you money and getting you out of trouble, Ronan. It’s been that way ever since I first saw you shuffling along in those oversized boots.”
Several wood crates were frantically pushed out of the way by two bare hands. They clattered to the floor as Ronan crawled out. Still on fours, the youth peered up from beyond a lopsided cap, strands of unevenly sheared brown hair pasted to his brow. “If it had been one man, I would have taken care of it.”
Taking a knee, Matthew smirked. “Thank goodness there were two. So. How much do you owe those cafflers? I’ll pay it. As always.”
Ronan hesitated, then blurted, “Two dollars.”
He choked. “Two! What, did they introduce you to God?”
Ronan winced. “It was for this girl over on Anthony Street. She said it was free. It wasn’t my fault!”
“You’re fourteen, you—” Matthew flicked that cheek hard with the tip of his finger and rigidly pointed at him before jumping onto booted feet. “What the hell were you doing over at Squeeze Gut Alley? You could have been killed.”
Ronan scrambled up, adjusting his brown coat. “She was worth it. She not only knew what she was doing, but had tits the size of jugs.”
Matthew stared him down. “They could have been the size of Ireland and it still wouldn’t have been worth two dollars or your life. Did you at least sheathe yourself?”
Ronan blinked. “What do you mean?”
Matthew groaned.
“You need a father.”
“What? You offering? Do I get to live with you, too?”
Matthew snorted, knowing the boy would move in with him. “I need a wife first.”
“Go find one then. I ain’t going anywhere.”
Knowing his days of having a family were fading fast, given he’d be thirty in less than a year, Matthew grouched, “Not to disappoint you or myself, but all the good women in these parts are either dead or taken.”
Ronan snickered. “Ain’t that the truth. And the dead ones are the lucky ones, I say. So. I got a message from Coleman. You want it?”
Matthew paused. “Yes, I want it. What’s this business of him overriding me?”
Ronan eyed the closed door and lowered his voice. “There’s talk of another swipe on your life. Only, this time, it involves seventeen men from a neighboring ward, hence why Coleman up and put Kerner in charge. Coleman says he’s got business abroad he’s been putting off, so he bought two tickets on a packet ship to Liverpool and wants you on it with him tomorrow at noon. That way, you dodge the swipe, until these boyos are taken off the street by marshals, whilst Coleman ties up strings in London.”
Matthew set a heavy hand against his neck, pinching the skin on it. Another swipe. God. He should have been dead years ago.
Dropping his hand, Matthew dug into the inner pocket of his patched waistcoat, and pulled out all the money he had on him—three dollars. He held it out. “Here. Pay off the debt and keep the rest for yourself and out of your mother’s hands, lest she drink it. And next time, if you want a girl, Ronan, do the respectable thing and marry one.”
Ronan searched his face. “Thanks for... Thanks.” He took the money and tucked it deep into his pocket. He cleared his throat and adjusted his cap and trousers, trying to appear manly. “So, um...what should I tell Coleman? He’s got business over at the docks.”
“Tell him he’s a son of a bitch for caring.”
“Which means you’ll be on that boat.”
“Exactly.”
Ronan sighed, grudgingly turned and made his way to the door, flinging it open. “I’ll tell him.” Ronan glanced back. “You’re coming back, right? You’re not leaving me?”
Matthew hesitated, knowing the boy depended on him for far, far more than money. “I’ll be back once I get word from the marshals that the swipe is over. I promise. In the meantime, take my tenement whilst I’m gone. I’ll give you the key in the morning. The rent has already been paid for to the end of the year.”
“I’ll take it.” Ronan’s face tightened. “I’m done cleaning up whiskey and tossing men out on the hour. No matter what I say and despite all the times you’ve gone over there to talk to her, nothing ever changes. I hate her. I do.”
Matthew swallowed and nodded. Ronan’s mother, who had once been a successful stage actress in Boston when the boy was two, was nothing but a drunk and a penniless whore, who now brought all of her cliental home, whether Ronan was there to see it or not. “She’s still your mother and you’re all the woman has. She needs you.”
“More than I need her,” Ronan muttered, disappearing.
Matthew threw back his head, exhausted. London? Why did he have this feeling Coleman was saving him from one mess, only to drag him into another?
CHAPTER THREE
All that you see, judge not.
—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen
The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row
WHY, OH WHY, DID SHE feel like Caesar about to be stabbed by Brutus? Directing her horse alongside the stunning redhead who Mr. Astor was ardently gambling on, Bernadette Marie fixed her gaze on the remaining path leading through the rest of the park. She tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins, endlessly grateful not to have been ambushed or stoned. Yet.
Glancing over at Georgia, Bernadette withheld a sigh. She really was going to miss the girl. The idea of handing her off to London society made her cringe. Georgia was so much bigger in character and in spirit than these stupid fops around them, and after ten months of the girl’s eye rolling and giggling and huffing whilst Bernadette attempted to mold her into perfection, Bernadette realized that she was about to lose a friend. Something she really didn’t have. For whilst men flocked to her in the name of money, women never flocked to her at all. They only ever saw her as competition or a threat to their reputation.
Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”
Bernadette tried not to smirk. “This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to Town to wed and stay in it.”
“Oh, yes. That.” Georgia’s green eyes brightened as her arched rust-colored brows rose. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”
Ah, to be twelve years younger and still think men were worth more than their trousers. “He will most likely faint.”
And Bernadette meant it. After the astounding transformation Georgia had undergone from street girl to American heiress, not even her waiting Lord Yardley was going to recognize her.
As Bernadette scanned the path before them, wondering if they were done showcasing Georgia for the afternoon, two imposing gents on black stallions made her pause. She lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet.
Both well-framed men wore ragged great coats, edge-whitened black leather boots and no hats or gloves. In fact, their horses and saddles looked better kept than they did. The two clearly thought they had every right to be on this here path. One man had silvering black hair that was in dire need of shearing, and the other—
She blinked as her startled gaze settled on windblown, sunlit, chestnut-colored hair, a bronzed rugged face set with a taut jaw, and a worn leather patch that had been tied over his left eye as if he were some sort of...Pirate King.
She drew in an astonished soft breath. Oh, my, and imagine that. It was like meeting a phantom from her own mind. Ever since she was eight, she’d always dreamily wanted to meet a real privateer, like Captain Lafitte out of New Orleans, whom she’d read about in the gazettes she’d steal from the servants. She would dash herself out toward the Thames each and every morning with her governess in tow and rebelliously stand on the docks, watching the ships pass, whilst praying said privateer would spot her from deck, point and make her quartermaster of his ship.
Everywhere she went, be it the square, the country or sweeping the keys of her piano, she had waited and waited to be seized by pirates and dragged out of London. She had even envisioned one of them to be rougher and gruffer than the rest, bearing a leather patch over an eye he’d lost in a fight. She even gave him a name—the Pirate King. The Pirate King was supposed to introduce her to the span of the sea not set by female etiquette but by the wild adventures outside everything known as London. A life far, far away from her stern, penny-pinching papa, who had expected her to marry a crusty old man by the name of Lord Burton when she turned a walk-the-plank eighteen.
But this Pirate King was seventeen years and a marriage too late. And though, yes, pirates were considered criminals, and this one looked like one himself, she had learned at an early age that all men were criminals in one form or another, be they breaking the rules of the land or the rules of the heart. Oh, yes. She had no doubt whatsoever that this one probably broke all the rules. Even the ones that had yet to be written.
As he and his black stallion rode steadily closer alongside his other bandit of a friend, and the distance of the riding path between them diminished, he leveled his shaven jaw against that frayed linen cravat and stared at her with a penetrating coal-black gaze. His visible eyes methodically dropped from her face to her shoulders to her breasts and back up again with the lofty ease of a captain surveying a ship he was about to board.
An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. She squelched it, knowing that the man was probably just calculating the worth of her Pomona Green velvet riding gown.
Determined to trudge through whatever ridiculous attraction she had for the ruffian, Bernadette could
n’t help but cheekily drawl aloud to Georgia, “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.” Because ruffians weren’t supposed to be on this path. It was the unspoken rule of aristocratic society.
Georgia, who had grown unusually quiet, and perhaps a little too eager to follow Bernadette’s orders, yanked the rim of her riding hat as far down as it would go, until all of her strawberry-red hair and nose disappeared. She then frantically gathered the white trailing veil of her riding habit, pulling it up and over her face, burying herself farther in it.
Bernadette veered her own horse closer. What was she doing? Preparing for an ambush? “The veil never goes over your face. ’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”
“Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”
“Are they?” Heavens, he was a landlocked pirate. Even good old Captain Lafitte from New Orleans wouldn’t have been able to hold up his fists against a New York Five Pointer. Why did that intrigue her? It would seem her taste in men was fading quickly into the pits of all things unknown. “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”
Georgia glanced at her through her drawn hat and veil. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”
Bernadette tossed out a laugh, pleased to know she was being reprimanded. “All men are. Now, quiet. Here they come.” As she eased her horse to a mere walk, to demonstrate she was not in any way ruffled, Georgia altogether brought her horse to full trot and passed.
Slowing his horse with the tug of a wrist on the reins, the man’s dark brows came together, that patch shifting against his cheekbone as he glanced toward Georgia, who rudely barreled past, veil flying.
Forever a Lady Page 4
