Nodding, Broderick continued his path. A young servant rushed forward to open the door, and he sailed through just as Reggie’s wool cloak disappeared around the edge of the building.
Broderick’s determination and mercenary approach to any venture he undertook had only ever been matched by his youngest sibling. Oh, Cleo and Ophelia were stronger and fiercer than most men in the Dials. But at the end of the day, they were not so jaded they’d step over another in order to strengthen the Killoran empire.
Broderick reached the end of the alley and followed the same path those brown skirts had disappeared down.
He instantly found her. Nearly six feet tall, it had always been impossible for Reggie Spark to lose herself in crowds. A task lent an even greater improbability by the flame-red curls that even now, with her bonnet in place, escaped and flew around her shoulders like a crimson calling card.
Never, however, had that calling card proven more valuable than it did in this moment.
Keeping close to the buildings, Broderick set out in pursuit.
Chapter 8
Is today the day your empire falls . . . ?
Dank heat slapped at Reggie’s face as she marched purposefully through the Dials.
The offending stench of East London rot and stale air flooded her nostrils, an unnecessary reminder of this place she called home.
Suddenly, her nape prickled.
She slowed her steps.
Shivering, she did a quick search of those she now kept company with: whores calling out wicked promises to potential customers, toothless vendors hawking their wares.
Reggie might not have ever developed the same street skills as the Killorans, but she had sharpened her senses enough to pick up on traces of danger around her.
Or mayhap her guilt accounted for that whisper of dread.
She tightened her grip on the blade that was never far from her person. A gift given to her years earlier by Broderick, that dagger was as much a part of her as the freckles on her face. Of course, he had handed over that gift as matter-of-factly as he would a loaf of bread or glass of water and then spent weeks instructing her on how to defend herself.
Now she held it close, taking comfort in the reliable hilt.
Don’t be a blasted ninny. You’re not one to shirk because of shadows. Not anymore. She hadn’t been that girl in a long time.
Forcing herself back into movement, Reggie continued on.
The pace she’d set combined with the early heat to send sweat beading at her nape and trickling down the high collar of her modest cotton gown, winding an infuriatingly itchy path down the middle of her back.
Yet in these streets filled with sinners Satan wouldn’t dare cross, Reggie knew better than to dash about alone with even the hint of her arms exposed.
An old beggar woman called over from the opposite side of the cobbled roads. “Ya want yar fortune read, girl?”
Not breaking her stride, and not so much as bothering with a glance in her direction, Reggie pressed on. She didn’t slow her steps until she reached the corner of Monmouth Street.
Shoving her bonnet back with her spare hand, Reggie shielded her eyes from the sun and searched.
One.
Two . . .
And finding . . . three.
She squinted. Surely not . . . Mayhap she had read the address incorrectly in that folder.
Forcing herself to move, Reggie walked the remaining twenty paces until only the busy street stood between her and the address in question.
Raising her hand to her brow once more, she peered at the brick facade. Bricks that surely once gleamed bright crimson had faded to a lackluster coral hue, wearing cracks and breaks that marked the passage of time.
This was what her friend Clara had called their hope for the future?
Disappointment swept through her.
“Get out a me way, ya ginger wench.” That coarse Cockney wrenched a gasp from her, and she jumped back, narrowly missing the speeding hackney.
The pair of horses kicked up the thick puddles as they trotted past, splattering the front of her cloak with grime and unknown waste contained within.
With a curse she shook out her skirts. Bending, she swiped her now muddied bonnet from the edge of the sidewalk.
And then froze.
A lone rook making a morning drink of the puddle paused. He cocked his head, the subtle movement tipping his thin beak sideways. The creature ruffled his raven feathers but remained belligerently standing in the midst of Monmouth Street, staring at Reggie. His unblinking, bluish-black eyes locked with hers.
One’s bad, two’s luck, three’s health, four’s wealth . . .
Reggie trembled and did a frantic search for another rook, but that usually social creature sat solitary in his study of her.
It is an omen . . .
How many times had she teased her father for his unfailing belief in those signs around them? Yet just now she proved to be very much his daughter. For standing outside the decrepit building that was meant to represent her future, there could be no doubt that this was not the dream she’d aspired to.
And for a long moment, she contemplated returning to the Devil’s Den and accepting a safer but emptier future.
Reggie briefly squeezed her eyes closed.
She opened them . . .
Another rook stood beside the lone one who’d so watched her.
Her heart kicked up a beat. Two . . .
Reggie stood and sprinted across the street, skirting several street lads who had the look of thievery in their eyes.
She reached the five limestone steps and paused to admire the striking turquoise double doors. So previously fixated on all that was wrong with the building, she’d failed to note the heart-shaped adornments etched upon both panels; framed by a trim of wood roses, there was a breathtaking beauty to them. A beauty that defied the cracks in the paint and wood along the base of the door.
It is called a turquoise, poppet . . . a stone so powerful it protects against evil and ill health. As long as you wear it, you will be safe . . .
Her throat thickened as she allowed herself to think of him once more—the father who’d loved her.
When her life had crumbled under the treachery of false love, it had been so easy to sell off that gift she’d carried. Until now. For the first time, she yearned for that slight reminder of those she’d left behind.
These double panels . . . were a sign.
Finding the apropos Greenman door knocker, Reggie gripped the handle clenched through his teeth and rapped loudly.
Her back prickled, and tugging the folds of her cloak close, she surveyed her surroundings, doing a search of the bustling streets, grateful when that door at last opened.
A pinch-faced fellow with thick whiskers along his cheeks stared up at Reggie with a tangible disapproval. Nearly five inches or so shorter, the solicitor representing the seller had perfected the art of peering down his bulbous nose at people he’d himself determined were his lessers. “You are late,” he clipped out.
“You came,” Clara whispered, coming forward.
“My apologies,” Reggie demurred.
The solicitor gave her another long look before reluctantly waving her in. “Hmph.”
It took a moment for Reggie’s eyes to adjust. In the spirit of conservation practiced at such meetings, only a handful of sconces had been lit. The candles’ glow, however, cast a faint-enough sheen to illuminate the heavy dust hanging in the air. Fishing out a kerchief, she pressed it to her nose.
Staring over the scrap of fabric, she took in the hall. Dilapidated tables and broken chairs littered the space, and the wood floor had long since lost its shine, having been replaced instead with the remnants of spilled drinks and water stains.
Her heart sank.
So it was to be a one-crow day, then.
“Broken furniture can be fixed,” Clara pointed out, accurately following Reggie’s thoughts.
“Yes,” she concurred. “But it isn’t just broken furniture.” She nudged her chin. “It is an entire establishment that is run-down.”
“Hmph,” Mr. Elliot, the testy man-of-affairs, grunted. “The price is fair.”