Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles (11 page)

Fitting enough a metaphor for the path I intended to take.

My toes landed precariously atop a staggered collection of crates, and the stacked boxes shuddered. Wood splintered, and as my heart leapt higher than I did, I muttered a harsh uncivility and pushed off the crate with all my might.

The whole cracked, toppled like a tower torn to the ground, and left me only half where I needed to be.

Had it lasted even a moment longer, I’d have reached the landing of the shop roof, and the treacherous by-ways it opened into.

Instead, my fingers barely caught the rim of the choked gutters, and the whole groaned.

I was no novice to the dangers of Cat’s Crossing.

Perhaps it was my lost weight the determination that filled me. It seemed that I was lighter to my own strength—or that my arms and shoulders did not complain quite so much as I pulled myself up by grit and fingers.

Fortunately, the roof I labored to find footing upon was empty, its peak slick with damp.

Grunting with the effort, I forced my arms straight, feet dangling over a wicked expanse of nothing, and drew my legs inward. They found purchase between my hands, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

Red and brown streaks of mud and rust clung to my hands, and my fingers ached with the strain I’d placed upon them, but this was not the worst I’d ever managed.

Achieving purchase upon the paths of the Crossing was rather easy compared to navigating the rest.

Named for the thoroughfares utilized primarily by cats and children—each small and light enough to traverse them, though not without its hazards—Cat’s Crossing was not for the faint of heart, or for the unskilled. Comprised of the rooftops, makeshift bridges, railing sliders and widow walks that twisted along London low, the whole had been responsible for more than one twisted body fallen to the cobbles below.

In gang territory, the Crossing tended to be manned by carriers—children hired by the much bigger and clumsier men below to run messages. The occasional angler set up traps, utilizing string and hook to steal the hats of those below, and more than one kinchin had used the thoroughfare to spy on things he oughtn’t.

That the Crossing haunts were children was no reason to relax one’s guard. Them what were born and raised on the streets—beggars’ brats or simply clever and agile—were not to be underestimated. A Crossing child would shiv a body for a coin as for intrusion, and while I had none of the former, I was guilty of the latter.

Old cloth—sails, usually pinched from the ports dotting the river, and the occasional sheet stolen from heaven only knows where—and rope bridges strung between rooftops provided something of a marker, but the catch came in the veracity of the offering. More than a few wayward ramps and easy paths were little more than traps designed to dump them too trusting. Running the Crossing was as much instinct as it was knowhow.

I was a mite rusty in both, but I didn’t need to get far.

I traveled the rooftop to the ridge at the top, fitted with a wrought-iron fence to keep the roosting pigeons at bay. A quick glance provided a direct enough route—one that I’d have to leap over narrow divides to achieve, but that didn’t seem inclined to kill me on the way.

What I found most curious was the utter lack of signs of use.

There were other ciphers, broken boards and shattered glass with no windows about to mark where it came. Occasionally a bit of paint scrawled a haphazard emblem that was new enough I did not recognize it, but as I made my way from rooftop to rooftop, it suddenly made itself clear.

A single bit of pilfered sheet, left like a sodden banner, hung in the doorway of an attic with no door. The interior was black, no lantern lit for the bantlings that might come—not that I expected any now.

I grabbed the edge of the wet fabric, moldering with disuse and constant damp, and twitched it open to verify the message.

A single black circle, filled in with what looked like grease or oil. Something that stained as it ran.

The black spot, reserved for tales of piracy and plague, but meant this time by way of warning: do not traverse.

The Limehouse Crossing had been deemed too dangerous by them what feared nothing.

That was a feat in itself, and must be tied with the Ferrymen who prowled below. Whatever forced the children to flee like rats from the rooftops, it was dire enough to leave the black spot as warning.

That worried me. That worried me
greatly
, and my resolve to wait before approaching Communion wavered. What authority, what might, had the Ferrymen brought to Limehouse?

I let go of the cloth. It slapped back into place, shedding stained droplets to the shingles below.

I could not linger here, not with such a sign. I had to leave as quickly as I dared.

I was cold, wet, filthy beyond measure, and no doubt, my absence had been reported by Maddie Ruth the instant I’d left.

If I came down with some ague, Ashmore would never forgive me.

Or perhaps he’d teach me a bit of alchemical curative.

That thought had merit, and did much to cheer me as I slipped and slid my way down a particular steep slope and steadied myself on a ledge that yawned out over a particularly yellow patch of roiling fog.

The sound of a pistol discharging was as thunder in the deafening silence that followed.

Only long practice and refined instinct saved me from startling like a manged cat and skidding right off the rooftops I navigated.

Fortune might favor the bold, but it certainly did not favor me. What I thought might be a clever method to escape became instead a simple truth—the Ferrymen were far more organized than I had thought.

The source of the Crossing’s black spot opted to join me upon my jaunt.
Bloody Ferrymen.

“There she is!” came a shout, so cracking close that it could only come from one direction. My gaze slid down beyond the ledge my feet balanced upon to find a glowering face looking up from a window below.

A bit of smoke cleared the casing, to meld seamlessly with the fog.

Since when did the Ferrymen use pistols? They were cosh men, or shankers, preferring the quiet of an accost over the attention brought by a pistol’s report.

I leapt over the divide, crouched low and barely avoided another discharge as it winged past my head. The sensation, so close but for the grace of gravity, sent shivers down my spine.

“Flank ‘er,” called the same voice, and a clatter warned me that they’d drawn ladders.

For shame. Was no place sacred?

Turning away from the farther rim where wooden rails had come to rest, I jimmied my way farther up another slope, leapt across the rail and walked awkwardly at a slant along its length. The building nestled close to the one I occupied towered much higher, and just beyond it loomed one of the massive lifters installed by a German baron and his son. If one could climb the girders, one might reach those districts where the wealthy strolled free of fog or misfortune.

I’d only ever known one chap who’d attempted it, and it cost him more limbs than he could afford to spare.

I was not inclined to mirror the feat. However, if I could reach the sturdy girders, I might climb
down
whilst they searched the rooftops for me.

The roof thudded beneath my feet, and I glanced behind me to see two somewhat lankier Ferrymen on my trail. They wouldn’t risk the bulkier men, for the rooftops were dangerous enough when one was slight of weight and figure. Bulk worked against one up here.

Another pistol shot discharged, this one in the hand of the lead footpad, and I half ducked; I had no cover. All I could do was hope that he was a poor shot.

That he spent as much time wobbling as he did running and aiming proved my good fortune—what little I could claim.

Abandoning my path, I turned sharply right and half slid down the roof. Something like a burn slid up my leg, and I knew I’d regret this later, but adrenaline fueled me where bliss might have soothed the pain. I welcomed the relief.

“Don’t let ’er jump!” yelled a man.

The one in the lead called, “‘Ere, now, missy, no call fer that!”

As if I’d listen.

The edge of the roof came quickly, but the divide between the two buildings was little more than the length of my arms across.

Easy enough for myself to fit. Less so for them.

I sucked in my belly, girded my courage as much as I could, and allowed gravity to handle the rest.

I slipped between worn wood facings and mottled brick as though I were water.

Unlike water, the landing jarred me from knees to waist to my thudding heart, and only the confines of the space kept me from pitching over in brutal agony.

Had I more room, I might have landed better. Then again, more room would make this less of an escape and more a hemming.

I fled through the crevasse afforded me.

“Cherry!”

Whatever gods, charms, logic or luck guided Maddie Ruth, I would bless them every day, for, to my surprise, it was her voice that called my name across the busy thoroughfare I all but fell into.

I spun, but saw no Ferrymen in my wake—they would be forced to go long side around, and that meant navigating four buildings wide.

“Over here!” came her voice again, and I stared hard, blinking furiously in the sparklers popping bloody red in my vision. A gesture to my left and higher than I’d expected caught my eye.

Maddie Ruth hung like an awkward doll from the door of a carriage I did not recognize, waving furiously until the brown curls framing her face bounced. Fog split from the flailing force of her movements, creating a yellowed slipstream around her like a hazy corona.

She looked little more than a manic monkey, such as those impish creatures found in Oriental markets, causing mischief wherever she went. Even the footman atop the carriage seat seemed to support this ridiculous tableau, clad in simple grays and cloaked for the weather. A bit of gear-turned music from a tin box might make this less surreal than it felt.

And to think that I was sober.

I had no time nor interest to question her as to the origins of the carriage. I ignored the curious stares of my fellow pedestrians; ignored, too, the hue and cry bellowed behind us.

Another shot went astray—or perhaps it did not, as a woman screamed and others joined her.

Relieved—to say nothing of the anger I nurtured at the Ferrymen and the Veil—I all but flew into the open door Maddie Ruth left behind her, and slammed it shut with a kick.

The interior was dim, a gentle whirring indicator of a proper fog-filtering device. Muck left by my filthy boot turned the pale blue fabric decorating the interior nearly black, and the beaming face of Maddie Ruth looked as out of sorts as the old one-shot pistol she held trained upon a third party.

Long legs clad in fine black trousers stretched out into the space between the seats. I sank to the floor beside those polished shoes, my aching knees finally giving way.

Eyes like foggy jade fixed upon me. “I confess,” drawled the newly minted Earl Compton, “that I begin to understand my brother’s disastrous fascination.”

Chapter Eight

For the whole of the short journey, not a one of us said anything at all. What was there to talk of? At a glance, it seemed as if Maddie Ruth had followed me to Limehouse. While I had wasted an hour’s time with Osoba and the Veil, she had seized an opportunity when she stumbled across the earl. And then she’d promptly seized his carriage.

This act placed her solidly between grudging respect and utter bemusement in my esteem.

The man within the borrowed carriage did not appear angry so much as red-rimmed about the eye and less sober than one might expect of a late morning. By deduction, I presumed that he had spent all of an evening in the gaming hells, or perhaps returned to the Menagerie after summarily rejecting my plea.

He did not smell as though he’d spent time in the smoky dens I understood that he enjoyed; the fragrance of Chinese smoke tended towards a hint of floral buried beneath a certain richness of flavor that defies ready description. Had I smelled it, I would have no doubt at all.

The conveyance halted outside a small yet exquisitely situated cornerstone home on the edge of Limehouse and Ratcliff, and as I peered out the small window, I began to comprehend the situation.

He had not left a gaming hell or a brothel or even a smoky den, but he
had
spent the evening out after leaving my company.

Piers alighted from the halted carriage first, stepped over the narrow rut meant to drain the streets, and rapped smartly on the front door. It was a nice enough structure, built on the corner of a row of them, and therefore somewhat larger by design.

It was not the sort of place one expected an earl—even a spare turned heir apparent.

The door opened, a feminine voice asked with some surprise, “Did you forget something, my lord?”

“Coincidentally, it seems I misplaced my hat,” Piers said, and I did not think it a lie, for I’d seen none atop his head or within the carriage where Maddie Ruth and I waited. “Something rather interruptive has occurred, m’dear, forgive me for this.”

He stepped inside, opened wide the door, and beckoned for us to follow.

I went first, for if there were Ferrymen about, I’d rather Maddie Ruth escape by way of carriage.

I must have looked something out of a childhood prank, covered in mud, skirts plastered stiff with it, and that only to my knee. Darting inside put me within a small foyer, larger than the one I claimed now but half the size of my previous Cheyne Walk home.

The exterior of the home might be plain, but the interior was lovely, decorated in delicate style. It was sweetly feminine, with etched gas lamp fixtures affixed to the wall and a beautifully woven carpet of unique design stretched into the hall. Striped paper upon the walls in pale cream, orange burnt dark and a lovely shade of deep violet brought a certain warmth to the whole.

A woman’s startled breath proved exactly what sort of frightful mess I dragged with me.

I froze where I stood, but it wasn’t enough to keep the drying mud from peeling off my leg and splatting to the pristine floor. It seemed overly loud. I winced.

The woman who watched me shed filth upon her floor blinked. Clad as she was in a day dress the color of brown bread ice cream, I thought uncharitably that Lord Piers’s lady mother would be the first to call this woman plain. It was not true. Though her dress lacked any indication of the frippery so favored by them above the drift, it suited her in its simplicity, contrasting with skin the color of the dark wood my father had favored in his study.

Eyes like obsidian flecked with gold met mine in wide wonder.

Of all that I had expected—and I expected Piers to maintain a mistress or half a dozen—I had not thought he would choose a woman of such remarkable color. It was a vastly unfair thing to think, and I recognized that the instant surprise formed within me.

I had spent too long among those of Lord Piers’s stature, and I did not like how easily I slipped into that mold when in an earl’s company once more.

Regardless of her station in life, she was my hostess. All else came secondary to the favor she did me.

And she was lovely.

“Miss Turner,” said Piers absently, peering out into the gray muck, “may I introduce La—”

“I’m a collector,” I said abruptly; too loudly, for she flinched. “Please don’t call me anything. I’m—” A pause, a quick glance out the door, and I lowered my voice. “Collector’s business, Miss Turner, I’m sorry to come uninvited.”

Half a lie, that, but the better one of all I had to choose from.

Piers’s mouth sealed on a white line, and this I had little choice but to ignore for now.

Miss Turner surprised me once more. “Come inside,” she ordered, and an order it certainly was for all it came on a gentle contralto pleasing to the ear. “Is there more?”

“One,” I said.

Lord Piers added, “Here she is.”

Maddie Ruth careened over the narrow stoop, flushed with more enjoyment than was proper, and the earl shut the door behind her. There we all stood—a merry pair of vagabonds, the earl, and his mistress.

Miss Turner’s smile took the bow of her mouth and turned it into a tool so fine, I was not certain even she knew the strength of it. Piers no doubt did, as the helpless curve that tugged at his lips seemed softer than the stinging sarcasm he’d delivered me.

I followed Miss Turner silently, cognizant of the trouble at hand, and the need to solve it all. “First, we’ll see to your attire,” she told me, leading me up the stairs.

She left Lord Piers to his own devices, and to Maddie Ruth’s. That simple lack of invite—the courteous offer to make one’s self comfortable—suggested that he spent a fair bit of time here already.

It took a quarter of an hour to rid me of the mud I’d accrued, but it was time that needed spending. With no sighting of me by the Ferrymen ranks, I hoped they’d spread wide enough to lose sight of escape routes, allowing safer travel.

Miss Turner’s home practically sat upon Ferrymen territory. This would make matters more complicated, and every minute passed was one I fretted upon.

When I finally dried myself and dressed in the attire Miss Turner laid out for me, I felt somewhat less of a bedraggled child and rather more aware of the feeling that I encroached where I desperately did not need to be. The dress chosen for me was, like the one she wore, simple yet refined. A pale robin’s egg blue in color, it would no doubt look stunning upon her, and I thought perhaps she’d chosen it in deference to her lord’s supposed friendship with me.

I plaited my hair and left it hanging down my back, happy to be rid of the itching the too-tight pins caused me.

I rejoined the others in the parlor to find tea served, and gratefully took the cup Maddie Ruth passed me. It was still warm.

Piers stood before the fire, one hand upon the mantel, and stared into the flame in brooding silence. I had never known the younger lord to brood, but then, I had not really come to know him at all.

The act increased the similarity of appearance between him and his late brother.

The recognition hurt, but in a bittersweet way that did not steal my breath as it once had. This, too, was a sort of sentimental understanding. My husband was gone. Piers labored to rise from his brother’s long shadow.

I could admire both, but it was the younger that stood before me now.

Maddie Ruth sat beside me upon the sofa, as though to offer solidarity.

Miss Turner’s silver spoon clinked gently against her saucer. “How long should I prepare for your staying?” she asked, eyes forthright upon me. She did not simper, nor did she bend her head.

I approved. Not that Lord Piers required it, especially from a wayward sister-in-law.

“Not very long,” I said, and did not mince words in like esteem. “The Ferrymen are out in force, but they should lapse into normalcy soon enough.”

Her eyebrows, thick and dramatic in arch, furrowed. “Did you tangle with the Black Fish Ferrymen?”

“Not directly,” I said, and frowned at her. “Have they been bothering you?”

“I pay my dues,” she replied, one shoulder lifting in a dismissive sort of shrug. My gaze flicked to Piers, who studiously ignored us both.

“Are they selling protection in Limehouse?” I demanded.

“I can’t speak for all of it, but here, yes.” Miss Turner sipped at her tea, her dark eyes level. “They moved into Ratcliff nearly half a year past.”

Maddie Ruth frowned, mimicking me. Unconsciously, I’d wager. She kept too open an eye upon me; she figured herself something like a protégé—a belief I labored to rid her of. “But this here’s Menagerie territory,” she protested.

Karakash Veil territory to be precise, but I didn’t bother correcting her. “Which may be near enough the same not to matter,” I said. “Miss Turner—”

“Please call me Adelaide,” she interrupted, and I thought I might have heard a muffled snort from Piers. Laughter? Or dismay? He did not turn to show his face.

“Adelaide, then,” I allowed, smiling despite the current circumstance. “Please excuse me that I do not offer a name. I fear what trouble it will bring you.”

“I’ve heard about you.” When I raised my eyebrows, she added, “The girl who is a collector. There’s always been rumor. I’d no idea my lord knew you personally.”

“I don’t.” Piers finally turned, but I saw little trace of amusement in features that seemed rather more stern than when we’d first met. I suspected the earl’s responsibilities weighed heavily.

When Piers neglected to explicate, Adelaide bent to place the delicate saucer upon the small table set between the sofa and two handsomely carved chairs. With no trace of annoyance at her patron’s curt behavior, she said only, “What is your next step? I am pleased to offer my home for as long as you require.”

“That will not be necessary,” I replied hastily, well aware of the pale green eyes narrowing upon me. “I will send Maddie Ruth out now to report to my—that is, a colleague.” A stumble, there, and one I was not quick enough to mask.

What would I call Ashmore? When I had known Piers, Ashmore was simply my absent guardian. Although briefly a lover, and no doubt he would not argue were I to call him such, he was more of a tutor—and that I could not say without explaining what I, a self-admitted collector, would require a tutor for. Alchemical study was not the sort of thing one brought up in polite company.

Well, unless one was visiting with Lady Rutledge and her salon.

Piers was most certainly not of that ilk.

Maddie Ruth set her tea cup down atop the bare wood table, obviously forgetting the saucer she’d left in her lap. “I’ll run lickety-quick,” she promised. “I left a note, but there’s no telling when he’d return.”

“Have you another exit, Adelaide?”

The woman’s smile pulled ear to ear; a touch of excitement, I thought. Like as not the first of a collector’s attentions she’d had. “I do, and a proper gate leading to a lane that should take you far as Brook Street.”

Piers folded his arms across his chest. “If your girl has need of my carriage—”

“No,” I interrupted, and once more, I realized I’d been too firm. I softened what I could, but I dared not allow Lord Piers and his lady any more trouble. “I appreciate the offer, but ’tis daylight now, and I’ll lay odds your carriage has been marked. If it starts going north when you’re used to heading to the docks, the wrong sorts will take note.”

“I’ll be all right,” Maddie Ruth chimed in, standing and shaking out her long woolen skirt. She caught the saucer before it tumbled to the floor, casting it an accusatory eye as though it had only spited her. “T’weren’t be the first time I drift through Limehouse.”

Adelaide stood as well, and it did not take much scrutiny to note the way Lord Piers’s gaze touched upon her face. The stern lines carved into already strong cheekbones and masculine jaw seemed to relax in her company.

A gentle sort of acknowledgement.

Perhaps it was I growing softer. My heart went out to a man I already felt as though I owed the world to. Just another in a queue, and not enough of me to mend all the hurts he bore.

I squared my shoulders. “Maddie Ruth, tell him ’tis paramount we move location. We can’t stay where we’ve been discovered.”

“Right.” She set the errant saucer beside the cup. “Anything else?”

“I’ll leave soon after you do to—”

“You are welcome to stay—” Adelaide began.

“Don’t be daft,” Piers snapped over her. To me?

I cupped my cooling tea with tense fingers. “Do you mean to suggest that I stay for longer?”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of turning you out,” Adelaide assured me.

Piers’s jaw shifted, as though that bit of gentlemanly regard that forced his earlier words tasted too bitter in the after.

I carefully did not look at him. “I really think it best that I find an alternative.”

“Nonsense,” Adelaide replied firmly, and tipped her head to one side at her patron.

Piers sighed. Loudly. “Please do not cause Miss Turner any more concern.”

Clever cover, that one. I could point out that my very presence was concern enough, but he made it clear without saying the words that my apparent risk outweighed the worry she’d suffer were I simply to depart.

A kind girl, his Miss Turner.

“Won’t be dark enough for lamps ’til an hour or more,” Maddie Ruth said. “The black’ll make it easy. Will you be all right ’til then?”

“It seems I’ve little choice,” I replied, barely short of courtesy. Mouth pursing, I added, “Thank you for the care, Adelaide.”

“It is my pleasure,” she assured me, then smiled at the younger girl. “I think we should go together.”

Piers startled at that, arms unfolding as though he might seize her in both hands. “What? Who said anything about your accompaniment?”

“’Tis a common enough thing for
me
to take your carriage for errands,” she said, rather matter-of-factly. “It would be better should any be watching.”

Piers snorted outright. “And so you will claim my carriage. How long have you hidden this manipulative mind of yours?”

“Perhaps you might pay more attention when next we sit at the chess board, my lord.” Adelaide smoothed back near-black hair that did not need it, straight as a pin and wound into a thick chignon. He watched her hand—delicate fingers and roughened palm—with longing.