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 down. 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.”