chapter Seventeen
Everybody lies. Miranda could not stop Victoria’s warning from echoing in her head in a constant refrain. What were Archer’s lies? Why did he feel the need to tell them?
The muted song of a fiddle drifted through the din of caterwauls and raucous laughter. Despite the late hour, street urchins wove underfoot, brushing their little fingers light as spider silk over the pockets of the unwary. With any luck, they’d steal enough to keep them alive. Some were no older than three—little snakesmen and goniffs in the making.
Blue darkness cloaked Miranda, the scant lamplight saved for taverns. Her booted feet crunched over something that felt and sounded unnervingly like bones, and she decided that the darkness was a blessing. In more ways than one. With a bowler crammed down low and her shoddy coat collar pulled up high, most of her face was hidden. Dirt covered her skin, hastily smeared on as she’d crept through the garden after Archer had ridden off into the night.
Experience told her Archer would be gone for hours—doing what she couldn’t begin to fathom, though she suspected it was as clandestine as her mission tonight. Cheltenham’s murder, and the attack at the museum, lay heavy on him. Since then, he had gone out every night, when he thought her long abed. She knew he was in search of the killer. Even though he tried to hide it, she could see the frustration and rage in his eyes burning just below the surface. And it ignited a wild urge in Miranda to protect him and find out what she could, where she could.
Cold air, heavy with icy shavings of soot, filled her lungs. She resisted the urge to tuck her head farther into her collar. One walked with purpose here, or one would be quickly singled out. But the smell brought tears to her eyes. Onions, piss, shit, rotted meat… The thick stench of rot was the worst, working its way into mouth and throat, a promise of one’s future: death and decay. She pressed her lips tight and forged on.
Her mark stood beneath one of the few working lampposts. Nearly a head taller than the rest, he was as lanky as a garden ladder, his shaggy brown hair dull in the flickering light. He was older, just as she. Fine lines fanned out from his cheerful brown eyes. But the grin. That gap-toothed grin remained the same, an equal mix of ready humor and malice. A group of younger men and boys surrounded him, watching his every move, modeling their behavior to his. He was boss now to this small group, after having worked his way up through the ranks. His velvet green bowler and mustard-colored sack suit were a bit less shabby than the clothes of his mates. Perhaps one day he would run the whole area.
Her steps slowed. How to get him alone? It wouldn’t do to come upon him with his gang hanging about. Willing to wait, she leaned against an abandoned lamppost. The lamplighter had passed it by. Passed by most of the street lamps here. This neighborhood wasn’t deemed fit to have good light, or fresh water for that matter.
A sudden anger sparked hot in her breast, and with it an idea. Perhaps she alone could smell the acrid sweet tang of gas that had leaked out of the unused lamps to pool in the thin, trash-filled gutter running down West Street. It was enough to burn. One small spark would do the trick. Her loins tightened with a throb of excitement, and a familiar power ignited within. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets to hide their trembling, and her fingers curled around the cool coin hidden there. She held onto it like a lifeline. Should the task be done incorrectly, the whole of West Street could ignite like a lamp. In truth, the very fog-fouled air of London was an incendiary bomb waiting to go off. Nothing too grand, she promised herself as a cold sweat broke out over her skin. Only a small spark, directed with precision at the gutters.
An organ grinder and his monkey danced by. Then she acted. A shiver of pleasure pulsed through her limbs, and the gutter along West Street flared to life with a sudden hiss. Gasps rushed through the night as a yellow river of fire ran between the throngs of people. Among the laughter of surprise and the general mayhem, Billy Finger lifted his head. His brown eyes glared round before catching hers. They narrowed for one cool moment. Miranda touched her brim, and the familiar gap-toothed smile curled in response. She was, as they say, all in it now.
“ ’Ello there, darlin’,” he said as he came near. “Know how to make an entrance, you do.” The overpowering scent of grease, sweat, and bay rum—most likely lifted from a recent house job—followed him. “An’ how’s me favorite mot on this fine night?”
“Don’t call me that,” she hissed in a low voice.
His feathery brows rose. “Wha? Mot?”
“ ‘Mot,’ ‘darling.’ ” She stiffened her shoulders to make them appear broader. “I’m a man, remember.”
The gap-toothed grin appeared again. “Right. An’ a very convincing cove you are.” He snorted, blowing stale breath over her. “Only a blind codger would happ’n upon you and not want to put his old nebuchadnezzar to the grass.”
“Don’t be disgusting.” She shifted down farther into her collar where the air was fresher. “I’m not planning on showing my face—”
“Eh, Billy, who’s the fancy bloke?”
Billy turned with a snarl to the younger rough that had come upon them. “He ain’t no bloke! This ’ere’s Pan, a regular brick and me pal, so I’d watch me mouth if I was you.”
The rough, who was no older than sixteen, backed up. “No need to raise your dander.”
Billy gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Eh, hook it. An’ keep an eye on Meg. Lazy toffer’s been treatin’ her corner like a doss.”
The youth ambled off.
“Turned to the skin trade, have you?” Miranda asked. The idea of Billy as a pimp soured her stomach.
Billy gave a twisted smile. “A man’s got to make his livin’, hadn’t he?” He picked at something between his teeth and then spat. “An’ you’re getting too old to blend here, Pan.”
Which was more than likely true. Versed as she was in blending on these streets, she was now too tall to pass as a youth and too slender to look like a man, despite her bulky attire.
“We made a fair bit o’ tin together,” he went on, “but it ain’t safe. Even for you.” The hardness in his eyes would never truly fade, but for a moment, they softened in concern.
Looking at him, she felt the same sense of oddness as always in his presence. That he, the youth who would have raped her in an alleyway some three years ago, should be something close to a friend these many years later. Their paths had crossed for the second time when Father had lost his fortune and forced Miranda into a life of petty crime. Only Billy Finger, who’d been nipping palms, among other unsavory activities, found out one day, spying on her as she lifted a wallet from a nob walking down Bond Street.
He followed and, once again, cornered her in a dank alley. With no mysterious stranger to come to her aid, Miranda had been forced to show him just how unfriendly she could be. Only she’d become carried away, and the entire alley became engulfed in flames. His piteous screams tore into her conscience. Horrified by the damage she wrought, she stamped out the flames consuming his ragged clothes and took him home to wrap him up in cool cloths soaked in milk Miranda had filched from the market.
From that day on, Miranda had a partner. It was Billy who taught her how to be a bouncer, to pretend to be an honest customer in a shop, flaunting her beauty, distracting the clerk while Billy, as palmer, pinched his goods. The most miserable days of her life.
Yet they had become something of friends. He taught her more than any respectable lady could imagine. And when he was caught on the job, he held his tongue, and did not rat her out, but did his time. No longer was he her partner, but still an invaluable resource for information should she need him. She needed him now. No stone could be left unturned.
The fire in the gutters flickered then died, and the crowds surged in, an occasional nervous laugh the only sign that anything untoward had occurred.
“What do you make of this?” Miranda handed him Archer’s coin. He turned it over with his stubby fingers, and she caught a glimpse of the tight, shining skin rippling over his left wrist. Scars that had earned him the esteemed new moniker of Burnt Bill. Her fingers went numb.
“An odd sinker, this. Lookin’ for bit fakers, eh? I know a few…”
“No,” she said. “I don’t need counterfeit money.” The idea was laughable. “I thought perhaps it might be a marker for an address.”
“Might be. I’ve ’eard tell of fancy blokes usin’ such rubbish for their lil’ societies.” Billy’s blunt nose, crooked from too many breaks, twitched. “Right glockey, if you’re askin’ me.”
She smiled but only just; should Billy realize he had made her laugh, he’d wax comical to distraction. “It was just a thought,” she said with a shrug. A sinking realization that she might be spinning her wheels made her insides burn.
Billy shifted closer. Behind him, the laughter of street doxies seemed to swell before settling down into the din of West Street. “This isn’ about them peerage slayin’s, is it now? I ’eard your new cove is in the thick of it. Lord Archer, is it?”
Shock pounded against her temples. “How did you know?”
He rocked back on his heels, gripping the green-and-yellow plaid satin lapels of his coat. Really such attire should be outlawed. “Me ’ead isn’ stuck up me arse. I ’eard you got hammered for life to one Lord Archer. A right canny fellow, if them news rags is to be believed.” Keen eyes bore into her. “Wotcha doin’ g’ttin’ involved with that lot, anyways?”
“I had no idea you read,” she said in true surprise.
His scanty brows rose. “ ’Course I don’t bleedin’ read. Meg’s the one with the learnin’. Don’t listen to her go on normally, ’cept for this here…” He reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of newsprint.
The corners were battered and a spot of grease marred one edge, but it had been carefully wrapped in a length of wax paper to protect it from further harm. She unfolded the paper with a trembling hand. There—along with a story proclaiming Archer as a person of high interest in the peerage slayings—was a line sketching of Miranda, named as Archer’s mysterious and exotic new bride. Her lips had been drawn into a rather smug-looking smirk, but the artist had captured the essence of her quite well.
Billy bent over the paper, bringing along a fresh wash of ripe onion to her nose. “A right fair doodle, if I say so.”
“Quite,” she rasped. Such salacious news stories had ceased to bother her. But that Billy kept a drawing of her on his person… Guilt clawed at her throat with wretched, hard fingers. She hadn’t given him a passing thought in a year.
Eyes carefully averted, she handed him the drawing. “Have you heard of a West Club? Or Moon Club?”
Billy shook his head. “Only club ’ere is ’Eaven an’ ’Ell.” He jerked a thumb toward a solid structure three houses down whose doors were opened wide to allow for the steady stream of London dandies and roughs coming in and out. The small sign above the door read HEAVEN on top with a pair of angel’s wings and a blue arrow pointing up and HELL with a distinctive red pitchfork pointing the way down.
“Fancy a romp with a judy an’ it’s up to ’eaven you go.”
She ducked her head as a group of gentlemen got out of a newly arrived carriage. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, and no doubt counted themselves among those who frequented the same parties that she did. “And what do you do in Hell?” she asked, eyeing the men from under her brim.
“ ’Ell’s for darker stuff, love. A bit o’ this an’ that…” A gleam of mischief lit his eyes as he flipped Archer’s coin through his fingers with ease. “Fancy a look?”
“Thank you, no.” She took the coin midflip. “Is there a Moon Street in London, perhaps?”
“Not that I’ve ’eard.” He scratched beneath his hat, sending it further askew. “Look ’ere, if anyone’s ’eard of this West Moon Club, I’ll find ’em, right?”
“Thank you, Billy.” She handed him a wad of pound notes.
“Keep your chink.” He shoved her hand away. “It ain’t like that wi’ us.” A shocking wash of pink crossed his wide cheeks. They both looked the other way in awkward silence, and she noticed an older man headed in their direction. He moved with a presence that rippled down the whole of West Street.
The man wasn’t very tall, probably as high as Miranda’s shoulder, and wore an unassuming suit of black under his thick dark cloak, but the crowd parted for him with a deference that spelled trouble. Billy cast his eye that way and paled. He made to grip her elbow but stopped, realizing that the gesture would mark her as a woman.
“Let’s make scarce.” He kept his stance casual, not looking toward the man, but he remained aware of the man with all his senses.
“Who is he?” she murmured as they walked toward a small alley.
“Black Tom. He runs the Dial’s. Knows who belongs an’ who don’t. He ain’t keen on outsiders unless they’re ’ere to pay. Come on.”
They turned a corner, almost making it to the safety of the alleyway, when they ran into a wall of men. The motley crew eyed them with various levels of humor and malice.
“Goin’ so soon there, Billy?” came a musical voice from behind.
A foul oath passed Billy’s lips as he slowly turned, taking her with him.
Black eyes gleamed like onyx beneath thick brows as the man Billy had called Black Tom regarded them. A wide brim top hat lay cocked upon his head, leaving greasy locks of raven hair to fall about his large ears and into his high collar.
“I should be offended, not gettin’ an introduction,” Tom said lightly.
Billy shifted his feet. “Blimey, Tom, didn’t think you’d want to bother wi’ such riffraff.”
“Thought wrong, boyo.”
A soft chuckle went through the group as though they were one entity.
Stiffed-backed, her pulse throbbing, Miranda could only stand and wait. The black eyes of the boss hadn’t left hers for a moment.
“Tis me kinsman from the East End,” said Billy through white lips. “A simple lad, really. Right nickey in the noggin’, he is.”
A scant brow rose. “Get on wif you, Billy. Havn’ a laugh at our expense? Why, it’d take a flat not to know toff from a toffer. Even in cove’s clothes.”
Strong hands wrenched her from Billy’s side. Her head hit the iron lamppost as two roughs pinned her against it for Tom’s inspection. At that, the small man doffed his cap and offered an eloquent bow. “ ’Ello, there, darlin’.”
Resignation pulled down Billy’s long features as two others took hold of him. The boss stepped in close, the smell of gin and unwashed male hitting her nostrils like a brick.
“Wha’s your name, then, luv?”
“Meg,” she mumbled, trying to sound as simple as Billy claimed. A useless endeavor. A simpleton would only be easier sport.
A dirty finger traced her cheek, his long nail scraping flesh as he licked his wet lips. “But you’re a fine bit o’ stuff, aren’t you now.” A smile split his cragged features. “This ’ere’s my bit of dirt you’re standin’ on.” He took a step closer, and the men held firm, their hard fingers bruising her flesh. “Wha’ come on my turf is mine. An’ I takes wha’s mine.”
Male arousal hung thick in the air, a palpable excitement that turned her stomach. Crowds of people milled about, not one of them looking, not one of them foolish enough to do so. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, their laughter penetrating the weak veil of darkness. She was as good as raped and dead if she did not act. Yet a cold sweat broke over her skin at the thought. She shivered, sickness and rage gaining purchase with equal speed. The sounds of the night came in from all sides. A street filled with people. Witnesses all. And innocents as well.
A thumb caressed her bottom lip. Blood thundered in her ears and with it the gathering storm. Do it. I cannot. Quite suddenly she wished for Archer so desperately that tears threatened. Don’t think of him.
The sound of laughter and joviality rang out down the street. Yet here… Hot breath hit her cheek, hot as the air that gathered around her. “Fancy a toss, luv?”
She felt rather than heard Billy move, and the resulting scuffle. Her eyes flew open to see her friend held fast with a knife at his throat. His eyes bulged, fear making him quiver.
“You workin’ me, Billy Finger?” Tom said without taking his eyes from Miranda. “Denyin’ me my piece?” The man spoke lightly but the evil flatness in his eyes betrayed his tone. He’d gut Billy and enjoy every second.
Billy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Don’t—” The knife at his throat cut him short.
Black Tom cocked a thick brow. “Don’t, wha? Hurt your littl’ toffer?” Rotted teeth flashed. “She mean that much ta ye, then?”
Billy licked his lips quickly. His skin took on a grayish hue as sweat seeded over his high brow. “Don’t piss ’er off,” he managed.
The stovepipe hat on Tom’s head tilted back as the man gaped. “You bammin’ me?” His laughter cracked out, joined by the rest.
“ ’Ere now, lad,” he said through chortles, “ ’as no man ever taught ye how to ’andle a haybag?” Tom’s cold black eyes snapped to Miranda, hatred and pleasure burning in them as he took another step forward. Sick dread overflowed in her belly, leaking down her limbs and setting them to shaking.
“You need a toss, sweetin’.” A blow to her head knocked her hat free, sending half of her hair awkwardly over her cheek. A throb of heat went down her spine, and with it, the urge to hurt. No. Too many people.
“Don’t.” She did not want to do this. The face before her wavered as her control was overwhelmed by need.
A warped smile winked at her. “Too late for beggin’.”
White-hot heat stretched her skin tight and crackled through her hair. Dimly, she heard Billy moan, saw him strain to pull away from his captor, away from her. But the coarse hands of Black Tom kept reaching for her. The laughing eyes of his crew looked on as he ripped her coat open. Cold air blew through her thin lawn shirt. A small child ran between the legs of the men, chasing a broken bottle. Too many innocents. Blood throbbed in her ears.
“Very nice, indeed,” he muttered a moment before he grabbed her breasts and squeezed.
A roar lit through her ears. She could not think; the thing had her. It broke in a terrible wave of heat. The gas lantern above her head exploded in a volley of fire and pelting glass.
Tom flew back, blazing with yellow flames. His scream mingled with the loud pops of the lamps down West Street exploding like cannon fire.
Chaos erupted, men and women screaming as the hapless onlookers scrambled to get away. A stream of rushing men and women caught her up and carried her along as the fire danced toward the ramshackle building behind. The aged timber and empty rooms acted like a tinderbox to the fire’s greed, and the structure roared to life with a burst of scorching air.
“Billy!”
Screams of mass panic swallowed up her dry shout. Black Tom rolled upon the ground, an inhuman sound vibrating from him as the fire ate him.
“Billy!” Her knees cracked against the hard cobble and the red leviathan grew higher. It looked her in the face, kissing her cheeks with a hot blast. For one blessed moment, she spied the familiar outline of her friend against the flames as he ran off into the wild night, then a hard blow from behind brought her down.
Smothered by the foul stench of fish and wet wool of a lady’s skirt, she struggled to get free of the woman lying on top of her. Arms tangled with limbs as they both tried to rise.
“Get off!” shouted the frantic woman. A sharp kick to Miranda’s ribs sent her flying back, and the woman scurried away. A foot crushed her hand, and she sobbed. Blinded by fleeing bodies and thick smoke, she could not tell up from down.
Suddenly hands had her, strong and sure. She surged upward, pulled into a hard embrace. Black smoked burned down her throat as they hurtled forward, knocking people down like pins, crashing through an old wooden door and into the cool quiet of an abandoned brick building.
Panting in the dark, she tried to move. Her rescuer kept her crushed in his embrace, pressing her tight against the wall. Heated breath touched her ear as he turned his head. She reared, flailing her limbs in useless protest. A large hand clamped over her mouth, the arm about her a vise.
“Stop,” he hissed. “Stop, I say!”
She kicked out, finding a shin, and a grunt wrung from the man’s lips before his embrace tightened.
“I saved your life, you.”
Her struggles slowed as the vague familiarity of the voice seeped through her panic.
“There now,” Lord Ian Mckinnon breathed, letting his hand fall. “Easy. I don’t want to receive the same treatment as that poor prig did back there, I can tell you.”
As usual, letting the fire out had drained her physically. She sagged against a cold, damp wall and took a deep breath of air. It was dank and smelled of decay, but was blessedly free of smoke. In the distance, the clanging of the fire brigade bell rang. Mckinnon eased back, but he did not break his embrace. Miranda blinked up to find his strong features arranged in a grin.
“That is quite the trick, lass.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Sharp canines showed beneath his thin mustache. “You know precisely what I mean. I saw it all.” He leaned in until their breath mingled. “Even the moment when it broke free.”
Her stomach lurched, but she affected calm. “You watched me get attacked,” she said, ignoring the obvious. “And did nothing?”
The caress of his voice at her ear sent little prickles of unease down her spine. “I watched you defend yourself. I saw the look in your eyes. You were never truly afraid.” He edged back to look into her eyes. “That interests me.”
“What do you want?”
With slow ease, he studied her. “What are you doing here?” he asked after a moment. “Don’t tell me it’s to play dress up. I won’t believe you.”
She shoved at his bulk but he did not budge. Rather, he settled in comfortably, letting his length nestle along hers. A tight knot claimed her stomach. His embrace might have been intimate, yet it left her cold and irritated.
“Get off, will you?” She shoved again.
“Not until you tell me.”
“I owe you nothing.”
He laughed shortly as she struggled again to free herself. “I saved your life.”
Which was precisely the reason she couldn’t feel the burning anger toward him that she felt for Black Tom. It did not stop her from wanting to smack the smug look off of his face, however.
Mckinnon laughed again. “Never mind,” he murmured against her ear. “I know.” His hand plunged into her pants.
Screeching, she bucked, the heat rising once more. But suddenly he was off, dancing back with haste.
“Easy now,” he said lightly. “Cool yourself. I was simply looking for this.”
He lifted his hand high, and a golden flash caught the weak light. Archer’s coin. Inwardly, she groaned.
Mckinnon gave it a glance and then raised a questioning brow. “You’re trying to clear his name, aren’t you?” He smiled. “If you think learning West Moon Club’s secrets will absolve Archer, you are wrong.”
She fell against the wall with a small gasp. “You know of West Moon Club?”
He flicked the coin high and then caught it neatly. “My father is a member, aye?” Mckinnon tossed her the coin. “I know more than I care to know.”
“Then will you—” She stopped, and he grinned.
“It’s never that easy, is it?” he said.
A pregnant silence ran between them as his gaze held.
“I’m leaving.” She moved to go but he stepped forward, not touching her, but pinning her to the spot just as effectively.
“You’re right to worry. Archer’s back is to the wall, and he knows it.”
Her shoulders hit the cold brick behind her as she edged away from McKinnon’s advancing form. He stopped, seeing the movement, and regarded her with shrewd eyes.
“You’d do anything to protect him, wouldn’t you, lass?” Soft wonder filled his voice.
She pressed her hands into the wall. “I believe you are overreaching.”
Mckinnon shook his head slowly, a feral grin creeping over his shoulders. “I don’t believe so.” He took a small step closer. “Shall we find out?”