Authors: Gaelen Foley
“The Jackals have come onto my turf,” Blade murmured, keeping his implacable stare fixed down the dark street. “They’ve set fires, broken into shops, demanded protection money from the shopkeepers. They’ve beaten civilians in the streets and harmed some of our women. I have promised to drive them out of London.”
“Promised whom?” she asked, rather humbled by the steely resolution carved into his profile.
“Them.” As they turned the corner, he nodded toward a crowd of perhaps forty people milling about in the street in front of a gin shop.
Some sort of rustic celebration appeared in progress, people standing around a blazing tar barrel, others cutting a reel to a rollicking tune on accordion accompanied by the shrill, fluid piping of a piccolo and the rousing beat of a bodhran. Bursts of laughter reached them over the music. She could smell a kettle of fish cooking. It was no doubt a rowdy, disreputable gathering, but it looked a hundred times gayer than Almack’s. As they went a little closer and the gang’s headquarters came more clearly into view, Jacinda paused, staring at it.
What a strange place
.
By the gleam of colored fairy lights hung here and there, the outlaws’ hideaway seemed patched together with bits and scraps like a boys’ tree house. It leaned at an odd angle against the dark sky and rang with merriment and activity on this moonlit night. Under a smoking pepper-pot chimney and a crenellated roof, it was of brick, with three stories and a curious assortment of oddly placed windows: round, square, and rectangular. It had a mousetrap of elaborate gutters and winding rainspouts that emptied into big barrels here and there, while a small wooden windlass secured with ropes and pulleys hung down the front of the building. As she watched, a man on the roof used the contraption to hoist up a load of something from a plump woman in a mob cap on the ground.
“Might as well face ‘em and get it over with,” Blade muttered. “Come on.”
Falling under the mysterious enchantment of the place, Jacinda followed him.
“It’s Blade!” someone yelled as they neared the festivities. “Blade! Nate!”
Instantly, they were surrounded. People greeted Blade all around her, reaching out to touch him as though he were a good-luck talisman. They patted him on the back and eagerly shook his hand as he passed, as though he were their bold young king back from slaying the dragon; yet she detected a current of nervous anxiety beneath their joviality. She held onto his arm, rather leery of the gaudy, chaotic mob hemming them in.
“Blade!” a man yelled. “Did you get O’Dell? Is he dead?”
The crowd fell silent, awaiting his answer. Jacinda looked at her captor.
It seemed to cost him a great deal, but he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. “No. Not tonight. He ran, like a coward. Like he always does. He’s still out there.”
A long moment passed as they absorbed the sobering news.
“Enough long faces!” Nate yelled at them in sudden, startling anger. He pointed at his captain. “When has this man ever broken his word to you? Blade said he’ll get him, and that means he will! Now, strike up the music! You’re safe enough here, as you well know.”
The piper obliged, dispersing some of the tension with a nimble melody. The drummer joined in, and the accordion player gave his box a brave squeeze. The crowd seemed to exhale, and the party gradually resumed.
“Come on, Jane Smith,” Blade muttered drily to her, leading the way.
As they moved through the crowd, the people quickly returned to slapping his back and hailing him, urging him on with renewed vigor.
“You’ll get him, Blade! You’ll get him!”
He ignored them, scowling. As he pulled her along by her wrist, he stopped Nate. “Tell the others not to get too drunk,” he ordered in a low tone.
“Aye,” Nate answered, then turned to join in the festivities, accepting a mug of ale and a hearty kiss from a buxom wench.
Blade got her satchel back from the man called Sarge and handed it to her, then led her around to the back of the building, whereupon she discovered that the gin shop fronted a large countinghouse set over a narrow back alley. A pair of lanterns above the wide barn door revealed business being carried out with a well-oiled hum of efficiency. Half a dozen sturdy bruisers were loading wooden crates onto a wagon, while a little man stood high up on the wagon’s bed with a small writing board and pencil in hand. He appeared to be a clerk of some sort, charged with keeping count of the inventory. He waved excitedly to Blade while the grizzled driver in a long greatcoat greeted him, musket resting casually over his shoulder.
“Blade.”
“Evenin‘, Al. I trust you have everything in order.” He stopped to shake the older fellow’s hand.
“Under way in no time, sir.”
“Watch yourselves out there tonight. Roads are crawling with highwaymen.”
The man laughed at his jest. Blade grinned and slapped him on the back, then shepherded her toward the few cement steps alongside the loading dock leading up to the door. It all looked like a legitimate business, but she regarded him dubiously.
“What are those men loading onto that wagon?”
“Used goods,” he said vaguely.
Just then, an eager, high-pitched voice filled the alleyway. “Blade! Blade!”
He looked over as a small boy came darting out of the doorway past the men carrying the crates.
“That’s the boy who robbed me!” Jacinda exclaimed.
“Hang back a moment,” he murmured, setting her behind him in the darkness. “I want to hear what the little blighter has to say for himself.”
“ ‘Hoy, Blade! Did ye get O’Dell?” The boy rushed over to him, fairly vibrating with puppyish excitement. “Did you give ’em a belting? I’ll bet you tapped his claret, all right! Blade, Blade, hey, Blade, I gotta show you somethin‘! Look what I done!” With a flourish, Eddie the Knuckler lifted his cupped hands and presented the gang leader with an impressive stash of gleaming coins.
Her
coins. Jacinda narrowed her eyes.
“Someone’s been industrious tonight,” Blade drawled. “Where’d you get it, Eddie?”
“Lobby o‘ the Bull’s Head.” The boy beamed up at him, clearly worshipful and trying desperately to impress his hero. “You shoulda seen me, Blade! My flat never knew what hit him! I was gone before he could say Jack Sprat! Actually, there was two—I mean three of them. They was big, too! Big as you, almost.”
“Really,” he said lightly. “Eddie, I have brought someone to meet you. This is Miss, ahem, Smith.” He reached behind him, gently took her wrist, and pulled her into view.
Eddie’s eyes widened. Jacinda gave the child an arch look.
“Shite,” the boy uttered, spinning around to flee, but Blade grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, halting his exit.
“A word with you, sir. Miss Smith, this way.”
“Aw, Blade, leave off! I was only jokin‘!”
Complaining all the way, Eddie trudged ahead of them on Blade’s orders, going up the steps to the door. Blade showed her into a broad workroom with a large table in the center, a battered secretaire in the corner, and a squat black coal stove on the wall to her right, which sat unlit. A few dusty shelves cluttered the dingy plaster walls, while a burrow of small filing boxes angled into the corner. He nodded toward the benches around the table.
“If you’ll make yourself comfortable for a moment, I will see about your property.”
“You’re going to return it to me?” she asked in surprise.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He sent her a provoking half smile and shepherded Eddie into the small adjoining office. Leaving the door open a foot or two, he turned to the child. “Damn it, Eddie, are you trying to get strung up before your tenth bloody birthday? ”
She half listened to him lecturing the little pickpocket, looking very stern, his hands braced on his waist. His stance drew back his short, black jacket a bit, revealing the bloodstain on his white shirt beneath, like the red carnation he had worn that day at Knight House. His indifference to his own wound disturbed her.
She forced herself to look away, then noticed that each time the unkempt-looking thieves came back from the loading dock to carry out another crate, they wrinkled their noses in distaste when they passed her. She blanched with embarrassment to remember the stink that clung to her redingote. Undoing the belt and buttons, she shrugged out of the offending garment almost violently—and immediately regretted it. At once, all around her, the outlaws froze.
They stopped and stared at her, some with the crates still in their arms. Jacinda glanced down nervously at herself, still dressed for Almack’s in a white silk ball gown with gold-thread embroidery, finery the likes of which they had probably never seen. As their coarse stares ran all over, she tried to tug her shoulder-baring décolleté up higher, but the thieves were already exchanging evil grins and putting their boxes down. One or two leered openly at her bosom, but most of them seemed to have homed in on her throat. Realization dawned, and she paled, slowly lifting her hand to the ornate diamond necklace she had totally forgotten she was wearing.
It probably cost as much as the building. She gulped and began backing away as they started toward her, closing in like hungry wolves.
“Ah, Blade?” she ventured, still edging away from them, but Eddie was whining loudly at him. “Blade? ” she called a bit more forcefully, but when the heavy table at her back blocked her retreat, she knew she was trapped. “
Blade
!”
She looked over in alarm at the half-opened door. He had stopped midsentence in his lecture to Eddie and for a heartbeat just stared at her, his stunned gaze sweeping over her.
If the sight of her had dazed him in that dark alley, at this moment, in the light, the sheer extravagance of her beauty positively clobbered him. His mind went blank; his voice strangled in his throat. She was a
goddess
. He could not scrape two thoughts together, wonder-struck by her flashing dark eyes, milky skin, and the golden fire of her hair cascading over her white shoulders. His stare ran over her sweet, lithe arms and stopped at her cleavage. Then he was in agony.
The gold-trimmed neckline of her ball gown was cut low and square, and put the peachlike ripeness of her round, lovely breasts on wonderful display. His mouth watered as he stared at their upper curves, and the first thought that finally formed in his mind was that her nipples were almost visible. It was enough to drive a man mad.
“Blade!”
The effect, he saw, was not lost on his men, either. Not a moment too soon, he came crashing back to his senses.
Letting out an explosive oath, he threw the door wide open and stalked into the workroom. “Get the hell away from her! Out of my way! Back to work!” he bellowed, shoving his way between them to reach her.
He grasped her arm and thrust her behind him. Clinging to him, she peered out from behind him as he blocked them from her with his body.
“I said get back to work,” he ordered in a warning growl, but they held their ground, a restless, uneasy mob.
“Fine bit o‘ sparkle, Blade. You plan on keepin’ that for yourself?”
“No one touches her.”
“Why don’t
you
keep the girl and give
us
the diamonds?”
“Aye, and nap us her fancy dress, too, eh? Could fetch a fine price at the pawn shop. Why don’t you strip it off ‘er for us?”
Behind him, the blonde let out an appalled gasp.
“We promise not to look!” another said.
They guffawed, but a murderous quiet came into Blade’s voice.
“I’m gonna tell you buggers one more time. If you’re goin‘ to act like animals instead of men, you might as well go join the bloody Jackals, ”cause I got no use for you here. Now, I want that wagon loaded. We got a shipment due tomorrow mornin’. Unless you want to make somethin‘ of it?“
A few of them grumbled, but slowly they backed down, turning away with surly looks. As they slouched back to their task, Blade turned to the girl with an exasperated glower. Giving her scarcely a second to grab her satchel off the table, he grasped her hand and pulled her out of the room toward the narrow, dingy stairwell.
“Where are you taking me?” she exclaimed, tripping along after him on her long skirts.
“Be quiet,” he growled. “Come with me before they bloody mutiny.”
He marched up the steps, his implacable grip wrapped around her hand. She picked up her skirts with her free hand and hastened to keep up with him.
“I cannot believe they threatened to take my gown!”
“Can’t you?” he retorted. At the top of the stairs, he stalked down the cramped corridor, pulling her after him, then threw open a door on the right.
At once, a breathless feminine voice greeted them, tinged with a torrid accent. “Billy!”
He stopped at the threshold. “Damn it, Carlotta, what the hell are you doing here? Get out.”
“Billy!”
“Out!” he ordered.
His fair captive waited in the hallway, rather wide-eyed, as his unceremonious command was met with a stream of hotheaded foreign curses. A moment later, his latest conquest flounced out of the room, hastily tying her cottage-style bodice. Carlotta was an exotic-looking, olive-skinned Gypsy girl with long black hair.
When she saw the blonde, she whirled to him, her tanned face flushing with rage. “Who is this? You bought yourself some high-priced harlot?”
“I beg your pardon!” the blonde exclaimed in haughty indignation.
Carlotta turned on her. “He is mine, you little—”
In the nick of time, Blade caught Carlotta’s hand as she raised it to strike the unsuspecting girl. “Do
once
try to act like a lady, would you? ”
Wide-eyed, Miss “Smith” gazed at the Gypsy girl, looking astonished and quite fascinated by the notion of fisticuffs between women. Blade took the wild creature in hand and sent her on her way. Carlotta’s vulgar, hotheaded curses trailed after her as she stormed off down the hallway. Turning to his guest with a long-suffering look, he could not have been more acutely aware of the contrast between the two women. Carlotta fairly steamed with exotic allure, but her foul language and crude manners embarrassed him as he stood before this high-bred demoiselle of luxurious elegance, refinement, and grace. As she looked around in wonder at his rough-and-tumble world, he stole the chance to study her. Her beauty was at once wild and delicate. As dainty as sculpted porcelain, her face expressed a frank, lively mind and a mercurial nature as full of caprice as the English weather—clouds, sun, clouds, sun, all in one day. The sort of woman who would play the game on her terms or not at all, he thought. But as he watched her, what he was most keenly aware of was her innocence. Though her dark, sultry, almond-shaped eyes hinted at an untapped wantonness, he could feel the youthful freshness of her spirit when he stood close to her, a tangible force as golden as her hair. It simultaneously made him want to run like the devil and to bare his soul.