The gaslights near the door shattered. He flicked his fingers forward, the blade slicing through the air, and the man who broke the lights hit the floor amidst the glass. Andreas was around the desk and pushing Phoebe Pace from her chair before she fully knew what was happening. Before the reflection of light extinguished completely from widened eyes as he snuffed the candles on his desk.
The back section of the room was cast into darkness as he pulled back quickly into the shadows, away from her. Pushing her to the floor had cost him the view of the door and the easy answer as to how many people were now in the room. The air near his uncovered throat rippled, the bullet passing within an inch, as he stepped through the smoke produced by the retort of the first shot, then the second. A darker pillar of shadow broke the wall of midnight. A quick flick of his wrist, and it folded into the dark of the floor.
The board three over from his right foot creaked. He threw out the heel of his hand and snapped the neck of the second man and gutted the third who had crept behind—the man shouldn’t have taken such a job with a wheeze in his chest. Andreas flattened himself against the wall, flipped his last knife, and listened.
Too easily dispatched. The thrill of the hunt pressed, as expected, but something tightened underneath his deadened feelings.
The whimper was loud. The scrape of the edge of her slippers as she was pulled upright.
“Show yourself, Merrick, or I’ll gut her.”
He knew that voice. A head shorter than himself, he’d be three inches taller than Phoebe Pace.
“I care nothing”—he threw the knife as hard as he was capable—“for her.”
A body hit his desk. He waited until he heard the quick intake of soft air. He moved to the desk, relit the first candle, then pushed the body to the floor. Normally, he would retrieve his blade, but he watched her instead. That insect had looked that way, eyes so wide, as he’d raised a hand to squash it.
He motioned to the door. “Get out.” The familiar smell of gunpowder finally penetrated his senses fully. He lit the other two candles. The wax hissed faintly.
“You saved my life.”
He reached for the bellpull and gave it a yank.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t clean.” He didn’t know why he answered. But the statement was true. He didn’t, not anymore.
He didn’t need to look at her to know what she was doing. Everyone who wasn’t used to it stared at the bodies. Sometimes they had to be pulled away, eyes unmoving.
“They are dead. You killed them.”
“Get out.”
“You saved my life.” He could hear her step closer, her voice uncertain. “I owe you my life.”
He liked neither the wonder nor blankness he heard mixed in her voice.
“Doubtful.” He sneered at her and saw the reflection of the mixture on her face, eyes and lips wide. “Perhaps your virginity. They would have likely found that a good reason to leave you alive. Are you going to owe me that?” He let his lips twist, heavy and sardonic, watching her. “No? Then get out.”
“That is awful.” There was still a tinge of awe present, though.
His palms flattened on the desk, and he leaned forward into her space, wanting, needing to wipe away any good feeling she might have concerning him. “And it is the only sentiment of which I’m capable. I never invited you into
my
room.
Leave.
”
“Someone tried to
kill
you. Your wrist!” She touched his hand, and he went stock-still. She leaned over to examine it, the top of her head brushing beneath his nose. Only his sudden immobility stopped him from violently pulling away. “From the candles?” Had she
bathed
in bloody honey? “How did you get this burn?” Her gloved finger pulled along the flesh beneath, carefully not touching the burned skin.
He abruptly pulled back. “Leave.”
“You need help.” She grabbed her bag. “I have liniment at ho—”
“Leave.”
More digging. “I can help you.”
“I don’t
need
help.”
She paused and looked up. “Someone just tried to kill you. Five—
five—
men tried to kill you.”
“And six will tomorrow. Now
get out.
”
“Even if you won’t accept aid, I still need to speak with—”
“Your debts are resolved.”
“What?” Her eyes went wider than they had when seeing the bodies.
He grabbed the folder from his desk—for the past few weeks he had always had it near, tempting him—and thrust it toward her. “Here are the majority of your markers, now
leave.
”
She stared at the folder, not touching it. “You accept the terms? But I haven’t even shown you—”
“Forget the terms.” He thrust forward the last few inches and shoved the folder into her delicately gloved hands. “I’m not interested. Leave London and take your parents with you, or you will regret it.”
“But”—she looked up at him with those wide eyes—“what do you want in return?”
“I want you to
leave
.”
“I can’t just take these. They are worth far too much—”
He walked around the desk and took her satin-covered arm in his hand. Soft under his bare fingertips. He had no use for gloves unless he needed to hide himself. They hindered his aim.
And he never touched people unless it was to harm them. Nobody except Roman and Nana.
He could feel the heat of her beneath his fingers, warm and real.
He picked up his pace, opened the door, and thrust her into the hall. Two men were running down the corridor, and he gave a jerk of his head to the interior of the room. They slipped inside.
Her solicitor was groaning against the wall of the hall as if he’d been attacked too, but Andreas didn’t spare him another look. He pulled the door shut.
He stared at the wood as the sounds of the men moving bodies echoed behind him. He knew she was still standing there on the other side, unmoving, folder in hand.
He could still
smell
her there, standing on the same boards.
He had given her most of her family’s debts back. Ripping his plans to tatters. A variety of horrible outcomes could now commence.
It didn’t matter. He never relied solely on one course of action. He could complete his revenge in a variety of ways.
And he could still feel the heat of her in his usually rock-steady fingers. If any of the men behind him were stupid enough to comment upon the twitching, they would join the bodies already on the floor.
Better to get
her
out of his office and life. That way he’d never see her again.
“W
hat?” he barked at the knock. He had gotten a sum total of two hours’ sleep. Though dealing with the perpetrators who had burned Building Twelve in their search for the Exchange records had relieved some of the tension
she
had created.
A head peered around the edge, a very nervous look upon young features. “Sir, there is a woman here. She, um, she is making trouble downstairs.”
He very carefully laid down his pen. Stupid tilting-headed nightmares. “Describe. Her.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Gray hair and brown eyes, smartly dressed.”
Something loosened. “Gray hair?”
“Well, not really. It’s brown—she didn’t get the wig all the way on, you see.” The boy tripped over the words at Andreas’s expression, displeasure assuredly tightening it. “My sister’s an actress and she always complains about the sides, so I know what ter look for, especially when I see a pretty face,” he squeaked in a half-broken voice. “She brought biscuits!”
Andreas stared, sure that he had incorrectly heard the boy’s terror-filled last words. “She brought biscuits.”
“Yes.” The boy perked up, terror receding for a moment. “And they are quite tasty, fluffy centers and butter-crisped crus . . .” The boy physically shrank back. Good. “Yes, um, well, but, she delivered four baskets and is asking for requests for the morrow. It’s pandy-, pander-, pandetmonitum,” he said faintly. “That’s what Mr. Fox called it.”
Andreas tapped his finger on the desk, staring hard at the messenger.
“They said to tell you.” He could barely hear the words, so faint as they were.
“Then Mr. Fox should fix it, shouldn’t he?”
The boy ran to the door, hell’s hounds on his heels.
As irreplaceable as Milton Fox was, if he didn’t take care of the problem, he would
be
replaced.
Milton could deal with her smile. It was like the plague, creeping in on little rat feet, reaching to infect him. He wasn’t going near her.
T
he next day he was interrupted by another knock.
A slightly older voice spoke this time. “Sir, Mr. Fox thought you should be informed that there is a woman downstairs—”
“Describe her.” He didn’t lift his head, his voice harsh and partly directed at himself.
“Prettier than street Sarah, uglier than floor Sarah.” When Andreas didn’t look up or respond to that absurd description, the lackey hurried on. “Floor Sarah has bigger ti . . . er, um . . . the woman downstairs is handing out pamphlets.”
Andreas counted to ten. Roman always wanted him to do that when he contemplated murder.
He wanted to know if Phoebe Pace was still in disguise and what impression she was giving. His vague question asking for a description served that purpose well. This was by far the stupidest answer he had received in the flurry of visits in the past two days.
He finally looked at the boy, who shifted under his black gaze. “Pamphlets?”
Andreas recognized him as one of the leaders of the twelve to eighteen crowd. That explained the pubescent response to her description. The boy shifted at whatever showed on Andreas’s face. “Yes. She got into a right state when she realized no one could read them, though. She’s setting up some sort of litacerary curse. Some of the boys want to know—is that like gypsy magic? Can you curse someone to read?”
“
Leave.
”
It was good to know that people still promptly followed darkly hissed commands.
“S
ir, we have a problem.”
“Describe the woman.”
“ . . . how did you know it was a woman?”
“Describe. Her.”
“Reminds me of my aunt Patty. She always smelled like baked goods and hugs. I like her.” This was said somewhat defensively.
Andreas rubbed his eyes, figures blurring on the page. The responses were growing worse. He should do something about it. But it meant acknowledging the problem. He didn’t want to acknowledge her existence at all.
“But, see the thing is, sir, we don’t know what to do with a hundred chickens.”
H
e didn’t take his eyes off the paper the fourth day as the first knock came. “Describe her.”
“Oh. How—” Whoever it was cut off abruptly at Andreas’s hand gesture. “Nice? Kind of strange for the Quality though. Even the men get their noses upturned. But she didn’t blink at the smell in the alley at all.”
Andreas paused. “The alley?”
“Well, she must have smelled it, as she is having people clean it. But she didn’t get high-and-mighty about it, and she’s chipping in herself too. Got all of the boys to help even. Helps that their bellies are full of biscuits each day. Right good, they are. Think she even bakes them herself. A woman of
quality
baking for us, can you run your head around it?”
Andreas lifted his head, sheer rage—mostly directed internally—searing him. The boy suddenly seemed to remember to whom he was speaking.
“I’ll, I’ll just be going,” he squeaked. “Have it under control, of course. Mr. Fox just thought—”
“If anyone comes up here again to inform me of something
she
is doing, I will shoot him.” He thought that was said quite pleasantly too, and it bore forth when the boy tripped running out. He should have issued the threat on the second occasion of disturbance. He would have had peace and quiet since—no one would be fooled into thinking it an empty threat.
Andreas waited for the door to slam before pushing away from the desk. He whirled around and walked to the window, then edged the drape and sheer away to peer through the slit. Sure enough, there was a strange gray-haired head—a ridiculous wig mussed from activity and sticking up in some spots—directing mismatched street rats in the back alley.
He could even hear some of her words, now that he allowed himself to think it not just a crazed remnant of an overactive imagination.
“We’ll get this done quickly, working together! There is some nice architecture here to admire too. Perhaps we will tackle the front next week?”
Andreas let the sheer fall back into place with the drape, his fingers still touching the material. Perhaps he would wake tomorrow and find it just another in a string of nightmares.
N
o one knocked on his door the next day. Nor the day after. Nor the one after that. But that didn’t mean he was unaware of what was happening. Someone had carried a plate of those fucking biscuits past his room, and even the oak door had provided no barrier for the smell. Not for anything of
hers.
After someone had put one on his lunch tray the first day, he had . . . discouraged . . . such a future action. Not that he ate most things that were brought anyway, but the biscuit had sat there, looking fluffy and happy and innocent, and smelling of the same, and he’d wanted to squash it beneath his bootheel.
The boy who had retrieved the tray had been the recipient of his ire instead. He hadn’t had one on his tray since. And he’d heard the little shits whining ad nauseum in the kitchens later asking when Mr. Roman would return.
Work again commenced on the alley in the back for the fourth afternoon. With a cheerful voice leading the damned.
A cheerful voice emerging from lush, curved lips, no doubt.
“You are doing a great job. We will have this space looking like Berkeley Square in no time.”
He rhythmically tapped his pen against his paper. Tap, tap, bloody tap.
“Great effort, Fred. And Johnny, you are giving it your all. The pride in your work is really showing. You said you were a crossing sweeper? I can tell. I’ll bet you earned at least a pound a week.” Pause. “Ten pence? Really? Well, I’ll be sure to tip Smitty—he’s the boy on my corner—extra tomorrow.”
Andreas pulled his hand over his face and stared at the heavy oak of the door. It was just this side of stifling in the early July heat, but he couldn’t risk opening the window for a breeze. He’d done that the day before yesterday and had accomplished not a single thing as a result.
He should just open it. It’s not like he couldn’t hear everything she said anyway. His ears seemed specifically attuned to the sound of her voice, like a faulty violin in an otherwise seamless orchestra.
Or more realistically, the perfect violin in their disreputable symphony.
Why wouldn’t she just
go away
?
“Of course, I will keep bringing biscuits.” Pause. “Do you think so? I will definitely do that.”
A flurry of voices melded together, then stopped talking abruptly. As soon as she probably opened her raspberry bloody lips.
“Oh, yes, I plan to be here for months.”
His hand jerked forward, and his quill broke against the spine of a book on his desk.
T
hree more days. Two sets of footsteps. One hesitant knock on the door. So it had come to this. Someone had bent under the pressure, acquiescing to large, liquid eyes and succulent lips. Risking death to bring her here. He squeezed his seventh quill in as many days between his fingers. It squeaked under the compression, knowing its life too was close to an end.
He would say nothing. And she would go away.
A knock sounded again. This time he knew it was hers, soft gloves rapping the hard wood.
“Enter.” The damning word slipped from his lips.
He couldn’t even swear profusely at himself, so tight did he grip his physical and emotional responses immediately following the escaped word.
He could smell her as soon as she entered. Ten long paces away, and, without looking, he could pinpoint the exact spot on which she stood by smell alone. Goddamn honey and biscuits.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice was happy and warm. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you again.”
He didn’t look up. He refused to do so. If she had a pistol, he would just have to die, triumphantly oblivious to a last sight of her. “I don’t believe I invited you back,” he replied.
“No, and I waited a period of time for you to do so, but I have come to the conclusion that it is not a good idea to await an invitation from you,” she said cheerfully. He stiffened as she padded over on her slippers and sat in the chair across from his desk. Thick wood threaded with impenetrable steel stood between them, but he would have been more comfortable with half of London betwixt instead. “I have a status report for you if you have a moment.”
He forced himself to keep writing. Long scratches that would likely make as little sense later as the woman seated across from him. “A status report?”
She rustled her bag, and the sound made him stiffen automatically, but he forced his shoulders to relax.
“Yes, I am noting everything here.”
He peered through his lashes just enough to see a large ledger open on her lap.
He said nothing, and as expected, she filled the silence.
“It will take quite a bit, but I believe I will have our debt repaid even sooner than calculated.”
He stopped writing and looked up sharply at those words. The wig looked as ridiculous up close as he’d figured it would, blocking her rich brown hair. How anyone would be taken in by . . .
People were stupid.
She kept speaking. “I have many plans, though I invite you to help me by making requests. I will see what we can accommodate. Working together on this will be nice, don’t you think?”
“What are you babbling about?”
His harsh response didn’t diminish her smile one bit. “Well, we have currently repaid eighty-four pounds, Mr. Merrick. And by the week’s end, I believe that number will be ninety-two.”
He stared at her. “What?”
“The biscuits and treats I make are gifts, of course. But the chickens constituted the bulk of one debt itself.”
“Chickens?”
Of course, he knew they were overrun with fowl now, as even though he had patently defied asking questions about her visits, he had been informed of the chickens’ presence and had heard the birds squawking—who in the neighborhood hadn’t?
“Yes, I thought they would be quite useful as you have many mouths to feed. Your kitchen staff seemed most pleased.”
He stared at her. “You thought chickens would be useful to us, so you brought us enough to feed the entire East End of London?”
She nodded. “Twenty sterlings’ worth.”
“One hundred chickens equals twenty pounds?”
“You do not agree?” She nodded and made a notation. “Fifteen then, and I will do a personal favor for you.”
Dear God. “No, twenty sounds appropriate,” he said, a touch of horror creeping into his voice.
He pinned his darkest look on the large man hovering at the door, who flinched away. After defying a direct order already, the man’s ability to breathe depended solely on his silence concerning this conversation. And they would be having . . . words . . . later. The man vigorously nodded his understanding. Andreas turned his attention back to the current bane of his existence as she continued to speak.