Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

“Never heard of no lady who preferred the noisome stews and dens of the East End to a toff’s house.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, never mind, Miss Primrose blighted Dane. I don’t care why you’re here. You’re going home to Lady Freshwell’s, so don’t throw nothing else at me.”

Miss Dane’s tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth, and she appeared to be confused. Then her expression grew contemptuous. “I understand. That man Fleet has finally realized he must question me before he kills me. I did not credit him with the intelligence, but perhaps his master issued the decree.”

“Fleet?”

Nightshade’s thoughts went blank. The name meant more to him than she could know. Mortimer Fleet was as black a soul as the rookeries had ever produced, and Nightshade owed him much—curses, plagues, all manner of evil. He thrust aside his hatred as he realized something he’d have noted sooner if he hadn’t been distracted by a pink mouth and multicolored hair. And flying lobsters.

“Choke me dead, Miss Primrose, you ain’t lost. You’re hiding. From Mortimer Fleet.”

“I congratulate you, sir, on your theatrical capacity. However, I am quite capable of perceiving your rather simple trickery.”

“Oy! What’s this about trickery?”

“Do you think me so simple a creature as to trust you and tell you what you want to know?”

Miss Dane squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She clasped her hands before her, and Nightshade blinked at the change. Somehow she had acquired a simple dignity that placed no reliance on fine clothing or palatial surroundings. This was dignity of breeding, of heritage, and above all, dignity of the soul.

“I decline to tell you anything, sir. I hope I am not so selfish as to risk the lives of others for my own sake.”

“You was hiding from Fleet, and you think I work for him.”

All he got was a slight nod.

“Why?”

“I find this pretense tedious, Mr. Nightshade.”

“Not Mr. Nightshade, just Nightshade.”

“In polite society, ladies do not address gentlemen so familiarly.”

“Well, you’re nowhere near polite society, but you soon will be. I’ll prove I’m not Fleet’s man by taking you home.”

“You know very well I cannot return to my aunt’s house.”

“And why not?”

“I really do grow weary of this game, sir. Perhaps you toy with me to wear me out. Perhaps you threaten to take me home because you want to remind me that if I return, I’ll be dead by sunrise.”

She said this so simply, so without emphasis that, at last, he believed her. Miss Primrose Dane had been
running for her life ever since she vanished. If he took her home and she was killed …

“Well, damn and blight me,” he said to himself.

“I have no doubt of it.”

He grinned at her. “Watch your tongue, Miss Prim, or you’ll get that hiding I promised. No, don’t say anything. I’m thinking.”

“A task that requires your utmost effort, I’m sure.”

He heard her, but pretended not to notice. “Hmm.” He shook his head. “There’s no helping it. If going home will get you killed, I got to take you somewhere else.”

“Now we’re closer to the truth. You’re taking me to Mortimer Fleet.”

“Bleeding hell, woman. How is he in this?”

“How can he not be?”

“You don’t know what Fleet is, Miss Prim. What you seen so far is naught to what he can do if he’s pushed.”

“You know your master well.”

“Stupid woman, what have you got yourself into? I didn’t bring you here in secret, you know. By now, the streets are full of the news.” Nightshade went to the door. “Badger, tell Prigg to get a few of the boys and set a watch. Fleet’s got his fingers in this pie. And tell Maudie we’ll be leaving sooner than I thought. She should be pleased.”

From the other side of the door came a loud reply that faded as Badger trotted for the stairs. “Fleet? Fleet? Fleet? Ooo. Terrible trouble, bad, bad luck. Cursed luck.”

Nightshade came back to stand by the bed, thinking hard about the next few hours. When he looked at Miss Dane again, she had pinned her hair back into its neat little bun at the nape of her neck. He almost smiled at the way it made her look like a girl of sixteen trying to masquerade as a dowager.

“Mr. Nightshade, I will pay you to let me go.”

For some reason, he was offended. To cover this weakness, he scoffed. “You got the blunt to pay me?”

“Not at the moment, but I have a small independence. If my solicitor will allow it, I can touch the principal.”

“I hear you got a brother who’s set. What about him?”

“My brother’s fortune is bound up in the estate, and he is at Oxford. You cannot know how much is required by such an education.”

“Wait,” he said with suspicion. “You mean you got a brother with an estate and the blunt to go to university, and yet you’re living on the charity of this Lady Freshwell.”

Miss Dane’s expression grew cool. “I have no wish to confide in
you
the intimate particulars of my family’s affairs. Will you accept payment?”

“No.”

“It would be a great deal.”

“How much?”

She answered eagerly. “Fifty pounds.”

“Ha! Not enough, Miss Prim.”

Miss Dane gasped. “You never intended to accept!”

“Just wanted to know how much you could afford.
Now I know one of them intimate particulars you was so anxious to hide.”

She uttered a long, wordless cry of disgust. He grinned at her, and all dignity deserted Miss Primrose Dane. She stooped and reached beneath the bed. Nightshade saw what she had in her hands and bolted for the door. He dodged aside just as the chamber pot crashed against the portal, and blessed his luck that the vessel was empty. Porcelain shattered in all directions. A shard bit into his cheek. He shouted a blasphemy and called to Badger. The door opened. He hurtled through it and slammed it shut seconds before Miss Primrose Dane threw a pitcher of water at his head.

When the noise of the pitcher’s demise had ceased, he yelled through the door. “You’re getting awfully close to that hiding, Miss Prim. Think how much it will hurt to make a bumpy carriage journey sitting on a sore bum!”

He listened for her response, but all he detected was shocked, maidenly silence.

Larder Lily shoved Alice Treacle off Nightshade’s lap. Alice hit the floor and screeched as she lunged up and smacked Lily across the face. Nightshade rose, dumping Lily and grabbing Alice’s arm before she could strike again. All around them Maudie’s customers turned to whistle, shout encouragement, and clap. Lily ducked under Nightshade’s arm and would have kicked Alice had Nightshade not grabbed her by the hair.

“Here now!” He shook the two. “Any more of this, and I’ll not be having with either of you.”

“Bleeding whore,” Alice muttered, and spat at her rival.

A shrill exchange of insults followed, escalating into the far reaches of vulgarity. Neither woman saw Nightshade’s eyes roll or the way his finely drawn lips
curled in distaste. If they had, perhaps they would have curbed their rough conduct, but they were too deep in their jealousy. Finally, Nightshade dragged them to the kitchen and out the back door, and shoved their heads in a rain barrel. They came up spluttering and shivering, but Nightshade whirled and stepped inside, slamming the door behind him.

Both women rushed back into the kitchen to warm themselves by the fire. Alice couldn’t get warm, and she went in search of her cloak, vowing to return to her room and dry her hair. Larder Lily bullied a scullery girl into giving her a kitchen cloth. She dried herself with it, and crept to the doorway of the main room in time to see Nightshade finish a whispered conversation with one of his men. They went upstairs together, and Lily was certain they were going to the room where Nightshade had secreted that strange young woman.

Since his return, Lily’s hopes of capturing Nightshade’s interest had renewed. There wasn’t a woman in east London who didn’t want him. Lily was simply one of the more persistent, even in the face of his vicious tongue and the indifference he never bothered to hide from any woman. She had never known Nightshade to bring a girl to the Black Fleece. She didn’t like the idea of another rival.

Walking casually through the tavern, Lily glanced around to make sure Maudie wasn’t looking. Then she followed Nightshade upstairs. If he’d succumbed to the wiles of some fancy tart, she’d know what to do about it. She knew too well how easy it was to make someone vanish. No one was going to come between
her and the most beautiful and successful thief in London.

Lily slithered up to the door to the woman’s room and listened. When she heard nothing, she dared to open the door a tiny crack, but upon seeing no one, she pushed inside. The door hit something on the floor. Lily kicked aside pieces of porcelain, and noted the toppled furniture and collapsed bed. She was looking for some clue to the stranger’s identity when she heard voices in the hall.

Rushing to the door, she was in time to see Prigg shove Nightshade’s coat and a woman’s cloak into Badger’s arms. She followed the two at a distance down the back stairs and spied a hansom cab. Badger handed the garments to Nightshade, who was in the cab, and jumped up beside Prigg in the driver’s seat. Lily tried to see beyond Nightshade to the other occupant, but Nightshade had thrown the cloak over the woman, and her face was concealed.

Suddenly Nightshade leaned out of the hansom and stared straight at her. Lily shrank inside and didn’t dare look until she heard the cab roll into motion. Her last sight was of Nightshade’s dark head withdrawing to the interior of the vehicle. She heard his voice.

“All speed, my imps. To Woolwich.”

Lily shut the door and made her way upstairs, her steps slow as she thought. What business had Nightshade in Woolwich, a district far to the east of Houndsditch? Lily didn’t know, but she smelled a chance for profit, if she brought this bit of news to someone’s
attention. Someone who could pay well. Nightshade and a mysterious woman.

Lily’s sly brain worked steadily. Perhaps she could profit and get rid of Nightshade’s woman at the same time. The trick would be not risking Nightshade—and keeping him from discovering her part in revealing his activities, of course.

Prim’s eyelids felt like book weights. She had scooted as far away from Mr. Nightshade as the cab would allow and maintained vigilance. Certain that she was being taken to her death, she had decided to leap from the cab, even though they were going at a speed that would assure her injury. Just as she prepared to jump, the black-haired ruffian grabbed her wrist. Prim gasped, but he gave her an irritated snort.

“Daft creature. You’d break your neck.”

It had been her last opportunity, for he’d kept hold of her wrist from then on. Now she was having great difficulty keeping her eyes open, for the journey was a long one, and being terrified all the time was exhausting. She fought to keep awake, and almost succeeded when she realized that they had traveled to Woolwich only to turn back. Mr. Nightshade was circling, just as she’d learned to do. Prim’s eyes closed as she reflected upon the irony of their knowing the same tricks.

The sounds of the carriage and horses faded, then transformed into a waltz played by the musicians hired by Aunt Fresh well for this evening’s ball. It was last summer, and the ballroom was packed with guests.
Prim looked on as the dancers whirled in a circle beneath glittering crystal chandeliers. The crowd of bodies made the room even warmer, and ladies were fanning themselves not just to draw attention to their white, rounded shoulders and bosoms, but to keep from perspiring. Ladies did not sweat.

The heat made it hard to breathe, and it made Prim’s discomfort at sitting out so many dances all the greater. She had danced with Newton, but he didn’t count. Newton’s idea of cleverness consisted of looking down at her blue ball gown and remarking, “I say, isn’t your dress blue?” If she had to listen to his inane conversation during another dance, she would stomp on his foot to escape.

The dancers spun in a great circle, turning as they went. Her head felt heavy from the heat. If she narrowed her eyes, the silks and brocades of the women’s dresses blurred together, and she could imagine they were dancing jewels. Her game came to an abrupt end when she heard her name called. She opened her eyes to find David Acheson, an undersecretary for foreign affairs, approaching. Acheson was an acquaintance of Newton’s, but not a friend. No one of Acheson’s intellect and refinement could find Newton attractive as a companion. He came toward her, smiling, his lean elegance and poise a contrast to her own diffidence and moist stickiness.