My Favorite Thief (17 page)

Sal obediently went to a small cupboard in the corner of the room and retrieved a bottle and two dirty glasses. She set them on the table, poured a generous shot of gin into each, then handed one to Archie.

“Here's to prime times ahead,” said Archie. He raised his glass and drained it, then banged it on the table, motioning for Sal to fill it again. Once that drink was gone, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and glared at Flynn, who was sitting huddled on the floor against the wall.

“Keep yer mouth shut and do as I say, and ye'll have nae to fear. But try to escape, or do anythin' to make trouble,” he added ominously, “an' I swear I'll break every goddamn bone in yer skinny little body.”

 

W
HERE'S
F
LYNN?” WONDERED
O
LIVER, FROWNING.

“I thought he was with you,” said Annie as she took a seat at the dining room table.

Doreen passed a plate of warm biscuits to her. “I've nae seen him all day.”

“He was up an' out early this morning,” supplied Ruby. “I heard him goin' down the stairs.”

“ 'Tis nae like the lad to be late for his supper,” fretted Eunice, serving ladlefuls of fragrant stew into everyone's bowl. “I told him I was fixin' beef-and-barley. That's one of his favorites.”

“I'm sure he'll be along soon,” Annie assured her.

“He shouldn't be goin' off without tellin' Miss Kent or Oliver, Eunice, or Doreen first,” Violet observed. “That's the rule.” She slathered a thick layer of butter onto her biscuit, then crammed the entire thing into her mouth.

“Here now, ye're goin' to choke if ye shove it in like that,” scolded Doreen.

“A lady tears off just a wee piece, puts a little butter on it, then eats it nice an' dainty,” added Oliver, trying to help Violet with her table manners. He pulled a small piece off his own biscuit to demonstrate.

“I'm starvin',” protested Violet, her mouth full.

“I canna see how ye'd be starvin', given that ye ate an entire meat pie, four pieces of toast, three fried eggs, an' four sausages for breakfast,” countered Doreen.

“The lass is still growin',” Eunice clucked sympathetically, adding another ladleful of beef-and-barley to Violet's bowl. “Look at the poor thing—she's nae but skin and bone.”

“Even so, ye shouldna be chokin' down yer food like a starved dog,” argued Doreen. “It ain't proper.”

Violet rolled her eyes. She was barely fifteen, and she had already been whoring for three years by the time Miss Kent had taken her in two months earlier. It was her own mother who had first pushed her into the trade, as a way of supplementing their family's meager income. She had been twelve at the time, which was the legal age of consent. Her first time with a man had been terrifying and painful, and she had wept bitterly when it was over. But her mother had called her a good girl when she saw the fistful of coins the man had given her. She had taken them all, sorted through them, then given Violet just one to keep, generously telling her she could spend it or save it, whatever she liked.

After that Violet never gave her mother everything she earned.

There was never any question of whether or not Violet would continue whoring—not if she wanted to go on living with her family. And if she didn't, well, just where would she go? Her “gentlemen friends,” as her mother liked to call them, kept food on the family's plates and a roof over their heads, which was somehow made to seem right and noble. After a while, Violet found that both her body and her mind adjusted. She was a working girl, just like the hundreds of other girls who frequented Charing Cross Station and the Strand, looking for customers. Some of them received gifts from their men, like pretty hats with feathers on them, or even silk stockings or soft leather gloves. But when Violet saw the older prostitutes wandering the same areas, their chests heaving with phlegmy coughs, their chalky faces wrinkled and bruised, she wondered if that was all life had in store for her. She had heard about prostitutes who lived fine lives, put up in elegant apartments where they dressed in jewels and furs and drank champagne all day, but she didn't know any like that. Those kind of whores didn't have to actually walk the streets. They were so beautiful and refined, the men came right to them. That was the kind of whore she wanted to be, she decided. Someone elegant, who could pick and choose which man she would let between her legs. That seemed a much better life than walking the streets or slaving in a factory.

She helped herself to another biscuit. Mimicking Oliver, she carefully pulled off a small piece, dabbed a miniscule amount of butter on it, and daintily placed it in her mouth.

“There's a good lass.” Oliver smiled with approval. “Now, just remember to chew with yer mouth closed, nice an' quiet.”

Violet immediately closed her mouth.

“Good evening, everyone.” Charlotte affected an expression of calm as she entered the dining room. She did not want anyone to sense the sick anxiety that had been mounting within her all day. “Where's Flynn?”

“He'll be along shortly,” Doreen assured her, taking note of the dark shadows beneath Charlotte's eyes. “Are ye nae feelin' well?”

“I'm fine, Doreen.” She managed a smile. “I'm just a little tired, that's all.”

“Ye've been doin' too much lately,” Eunice scolded, shaking her head. “Goin' off to all them fancy dinners an' balls at all hours—to say nothin' of that night ye dragged the Dark Shadow home with ye. Ye're nae so swack that ye can be doin' those things.”

“Ye need to stay in and rest,” Annie agreed. “Let the world go about on its own for a bit.”

“I'm afraid staying in and resting won't help me to keep things going here,” Charlotte responded.

“If ye drop dead from exhaustion, that willna keep things goin' here neither,” argued Doreen. “I hope ye're nae plannin' on traipsin' out tonight—ye look as if ye're ready to fall into yer stew.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I'm not going anywhere tonight.”

In fact, she had no idea whether she was or wasn't. Her father had told her that he would come to her after four days for his money. That meant he could appear any moment. She had waited all day to see if he might send someone with instructions on where she should go to meet him. So far, no one had come. The anxiety of waiting was eroding the fragile calm she was struggling to maintain.

The moment he realized she had obtained only a fraction of the money he had demanded, he would beat her.

She told herself she could stand that. After all, she had endured countless beatings by him as a child, and she had survived. What truly terrified her was the possibility that he would also harm one of her family. She had agonized all day as to whether she should warn them. But if she did, they would insist upon involving the police. And when her father found out, as he ultimately would, that would make him even more furious. Which would cause him to do something brutal. Perhaps not to her, but to one of her brothers or sisters, or maybe even to Genevieve and Haydon.

The fear roiling in the pit of her stomach rose up, nearly choking her.

She desperately wished her brother Jack wasn't away on one of his lengthy voyages. Jack was the oldest of her siblings, and they had always shared a special bond. When they were younger, Jack had been her champion, always trying to protect her from the world. And he might have stayed her champion, if Charlotte had not insisted that he go to sea and visit all the exotic places they had talked about endlessly as children. But even though it might have been comforting to confide in him about her father, it would have been impossible, she realized bleakly. His own violent childhood had given Jack a dangerous, sometimes uncontrollable rage. He was more of a match for Boney Buchan than anyone else in her family, but that didn't mean he would win against him. Genevieve and Haydon had worked for years to civilize Jack, which meant that now he at least understood that there were rules to be observed, and consequences to be suffered.

No one had ever tried to civilize her father.

The only other person she had considered turning to that day was Harrison. She found herself thinking of him constantly, recalling his powerful presence, the intensity of his dark gaze as he asked her to tell him who was threatening her. As if he truly believed that he could help her. And for one brief moment, as she had felt the searing heat of his strong hands upon her, she had almost believed he could. But a gently bred aristocrat like Harrison knew nothing of the sordid world from which she came. He was born to a life of elegance and grace, filled with velvety green lawns and pretty ponies and little iced cakes, with a mother and father who adored him and servants who were employed to see to his every whim. He came from a world that was clean, gentle, and pure. And despite the fact that he had enjoyed some success at being a jewel thief, his last two break-ins had been disastrous; it was obvious his skills were waning. Harrison had been kind enough to give her what by any standard was an enormous sum of money.

For the rest, she would have to count on herself.

“Can I have it?”

Charlotte stared at Violet blankly. “Pardon?”

“Yer supper. Ye ain't eating it. Can I have it?”

“Sweet Saint Columba, I'll get ye more from the kitchen—there's nae need to be grabbin' it off of poor Miss Charlotte's plate when she's scarce had a chance to eat.”

“But she ain't eating it,” Violet returned, defensive. “She's just starin' at it.”

“That's all right, Eunice. I'm not hungry.” Charlotte handed Violet her bowl.

“Can I have yer biscuit, too?”

“Now ye're just bein' greedy,” observed Annie. “Especially since ye've had three already.”

“One of 'em was real small,” Violet countered. “And when ye rip 'em into little pieces they don't fill ye up the same as when ye swallow 'em big.”

“Here you go, Violet.” Charlotte passed her biscuit to the slender young girl as well. Her churning stomach and ragged nerves were making it impossible to eat anything anyway.

“If ye're nae goin' to eat yer supper, then what'll ye have?” asked Eunice, regarding Charlotte with concern.

“I'm really not hungry, Eunice.” She rose from the table. “I think I'll just retire to my room and read a bit.”

“Would ye like me to fix ye some tea and toast?”

“Maybe later.”

“I'll bring ye a tray in an hour. I've made some lovely cod pie—I'll bring ye a plate of that, too.”

“I'm afraid I'm not hungry for cod pie,” Charlotte told her.

“I am,” Violet said enthusiastically, gobbling up Charlotte's stew. She belched.

“Here now, I've told ye afore we'll have none o' that at the table,” said Doreen sternly.

“If ye keep eatin' like that, yer belly is goin' to burst,” Ruby warned.

“Now leave the poor lamb alone,” said Eunice, who always loved to see someone enjoy her cooking. “She's just nae used to havin' so much food about. Ye can have yer cod pie now, Violet, but maybe ye'd like to bide a wee bit, and have it later. I'll set some aside for ye, if ye like.”

“I want it now,” Violet told her. “I'm starvin'.”

“Canna see where she's puttin' it,” Oliver marveled. He glanced under the table, checking to see if she was hoarding food in her napkin for later. “Seems to all be goin' into her mouth,” he reported, shrugging.

“Eunice told me I ain't got to hide food, because she said I could eat whenever I wanted,” Violet told him, shoveling the last spoonful of Charlotte's stew into her mouth.

“Aye, and so ye can,” Doreen agreed. “Just make sure ye dinna fill yer belly so full that we have to roll ye from the table,” she added, chuckling.

“And please remember to save some dinner for Flynn, Eunice.” Charlotte rose from the table and slowly limped toward the stairs. “He's sure to come in any minute.”

 

S
HE HUDDLED FURTHER INTO THE CORNER, HER ROUGH,
soiled blanket pulled up over her head, barely breathing. Maybe he wouldn't notice her, she thought frantically, struggling to lie as still as she possibly could on the floor. That happened sometimes, when he came home so stewed that all he could do was stagger across the room, vomit, and collapse on his bed. Then he would sleep like a dead man, except for the disgusting sounds that blared from his nose and mouth. But Charlotte didn't mind those sounds. They told her that he was truly out, which meant
he wouldn't bother with her for hours. Sometimes he even slept well into the next day. She liked that.

A fragile sense of calm would fall over her when her father slept deeply. Then she could move about and do as she liked, as long as she did it quietly. If it were daytime, she would escape their wretched room in the tenement building and wander the streets, looking for something to nick. Things were usually better for her if she could bring home something to give him. It was never enough, of course. If she lifted a wipe, he complained it was only cotton and not silk. If she managed to nip an apple or a bun, he snapped that she should have nicked a rum cake or a meat pie instead. And if she managed to really screw up her courage and lift a pocketbook or a watch, he would snarl that the pocketbook was near-empty, or the watch was only cheap metal and not gold. He would call her a useless little slut, and rage he'd have been better off if she'd never been born. She would listen in distraught silence, her head bent low, silently telling herself that next time she would do better. Then he would crack her hard across the face and arms and back, again and again, until she fell to the ground.

She had never pleased him.

She heard him staggering toward her, and her heart sank. Not so drunk, then. She squeezed her eyes tight and pretended to be sleeping, feebly hoping that he might let her be. Instead he moved closer. Her heart beat faster as the stench of him assaulted her senses, a wretched smell of sweat and drink and filth. She knew she didn't smell much better, but at least she made some effort to clean herself each day with a little cold water and the precious bits of soap she nipped. She clutched her blanket, a ragged shield of thin wool, which could do nothing to protect her from either him or the cold. Please, she thought, not sure whom she was addressing, please don't let him hurt me.