The Bad Baron's Daughter (3 page)

“Wot do we want wi’ ‘im?” Nasty Ned growled. “Yer all th’ ‘elp oi need.” One finger of his left hand was gone to the first joint, and he roughly caressed her cheek with the stub, “Oi’ve ‘ad me eye on ya, me boy. Oi likes yer looks. We could go fer a walk in th’ alley.”

His fingers dug into Katie’s wrist through the wilted cloth of her coat. She looked down the length of the room toward Zack and Winnie, who were still deep in conversation with their friends. It seemed as if the walls of the room were expanding, carrying her farther and farther away from them. She tried to call Zack’s name, but the words were without force, inaudible above the raucous buzz of conversation. Her mind searched for an escape.

“All right, sir. But, urn, first let me take off this apron,” said Katie hesitantly. Ned relaxed his grip for an instant, and Katie broke from him and began to race toward the bar. She was brought up short by one of Ned’s companions, who stood grinning evilly, blocking the narrow pathway. She turned to see Ned rising from his chair to follow her. Her foot knocked against a metal slop bucket, and as if in a dream, she took it in hand, and reaching up, overturned the disgusting contents upon the surprised features of Nasty Ned, placing the bucket over his ears as she did so. The fulsome mess that habitually lurked inside the slop bucket oozed and dripped down the clothing and person of the ruffian, who roared hollowly in the bucket like a wounded bull. Ned disentangled himself, revealing a besmirched countenance ugly with vein-popping rage.

“Oi’ll cut yer heart out ‘n eat it, ya young wretch! Talk ta me blade ‘ere if ya won’t talk ta me!” he roared, the repulsive slime from the slop bucket dripping from his eyebrows. From out of his pocket, he produced a thick-bladed butcher knife. He lifted it into the air and sent it whirling at her. Katie, her legs weak from fear, stumbled sideways and she felt the blade’s steely breath as it passed very close to her ear.

Lord Linden had been concentrating on his dice when the silver gleam of the knife whipped on its path through his field of vision to land with a crack in the wall in back of him. This drew a roar of disapproval from the crowd, which had been indifferent to the little argument until now. Linden looked casually toward the blade where it jutted from the wall. He directed a short, indifferent glance at Katie and then a slightly longer, slightly less indifferent glance at Nasty Ned.

“Hey, slum rat,” said Linden, and pulled the knife out of the wall with a backhanded jerk. “If you want to practice your aim, don’t place your target in front of me. There’s more room for this kind of game outside.” He tossed the knife negligently toward Nasty Ned who caught it in one hand.

“Oi’ll go outside, all right, ‘n oi’ll take this little barboy wi’ me. We’ll play a game ‘e may never’ve played before.” Ned looked viciously at Katie, who quailed and clutched frantically at Lord Linden’s arm as though to anchor herself to the relative safety of
The Merry Maidenhead
. Linden looked down at her fingers in some surprise and made a sharp movement to disengage his sleeve from their desperate clasp.

“Have I attracted a barnacle?” said Linden impatiently. “Let go of me, child.”

“Aye, let go o’ ‘im,” exclaimed Ned angrily. “Yer comin’ wi’ me.”

One of the bawds from a nearby table unexpectedly raised her gin-cracked voice in Katie’s behalf. “The poor young’un don’t want ta go wi’ ya. Leave ‘im alone, ya big bullock.”

Lord Linden made another attempt to pry off the little fingers, and then stopped to scan the soulful blue eyes raised pleadingly to him. He gave an exasperated sigh.

“Very well, if you don’t want to go with him, you don’t have to go with him,” he told her. “Detach yourself.” Katie didn’t move, so he spoke again, more gently. “I won’t let him take you outside. There is no need to cling to me as if you were drowning. That’s right, let me go. Thank you.” He slowly lifted his long legs from their resting place at the table’s edge, stood and took a few steps toward Nasty Ned.

“It’s a very small fish,” Linden said quietly. “Why not throw it back in?” A single ruby solitaire twinkled wickedly from his left hand, but it shone with less brilliance than the clear coffee shade of his eyes.

“‘At little maggot dumped a bucket o’ slops over me ‘ed,” Ned said furiously, his eyes red with rage. “Don’t let it cozzen ya wi’ ‘em big blue eyes. Oi knows its type, the two-faced little piglet.”

“Possibly,” said Linden. “But I’ve decided that you two should be separated, as you can’t seem to get along. So you’ll simply have to find someone else this evening.”

“And oi sez oi ain’t gonna,” said Ned, tightening his hands into melon-like fists.

The answer to this was not verbal, it was physical. Linden placed a hand on Nasty Ned’s chest and gave him a quick powerful shove. Ned fell backward heavily, upending a table in the process. He rose to his feet again, the blade gleaming.

“Ya panty-waist swell. Oi’d as soon skewer ya as anyone,” Ned threatened.

Linden raised his eyebrows. “Would you? I wonder. You won’t fare so well with me as with yon beardless weanling,” he sneered, nodding toward Katie. “I’ll tell you what, my homely friend. Shall we make this more interesting for our audience? Loser buys drinks for the house.”

“Fine with me,” snarled Ned, raising his voice to be heard above the clamor of approving yells. “Too bad ya ain’t goin’ ta be around ta enjoy th’ party.”

The crowd cheered as Linden removed his coat and tossed his hat into the hands of a companion. “ ‘Ave at ‘im, Lord Lesley, ‘at’s th’ lad,” came the calls from the onlookers. A veritable arsenal of knives, brass knuckles and truncheons began piling up on the table in front of him. Lord Linden ignored the pile of weapons and walked across the floor to stand carelessly in front of the enraged brute. A light, self-assured smile played with the corners of his lips as he spread his hands mockingly and said softly, “Now then, baboon. Come skewer me.”

Ned feinted twice with the shining blade as Linden stood before him, a study in cheerfully arrogant nonchalance. Suddenly, Ned lunged for blood. Quick as quicksilver, Linden shot out a strong wrist, pulling Ned off balance, and in a series of swift, graceful movements, he brought his knee up to batter Ned’s face, and then with one hand on Ned’s belt and another on his collar, he threw the failed pugilist into the wall with long practiced ease. The wall and Ned’s head collided with a thud that shook the room, and he fell heavily to the floor.

The room erupted with a resounding cheer. Byrne’s friends swarmed around him in a congratulatory huddle, clapping him heartily on the back with cries of “Capital move, Lesley, absolutely tops!” Drinkers surged toward the bar, demanding their drinks (to be charged to Nasty Ned) and shouting toasts to Lord Linden. As the hubbub died down, Linden and the other aristocrats turned their attention to the fallen adversary.

“Have I broken his neck?” inquired Lord Linden indifferently.

“Unfortunately, no,” replied one of his companions, prodding the man’s unconscious head distastefully with his boot. “I fear the ease of civilian life has put you a trifle off your touch.”

“A trifle,” agreed Linden. He turned to an admiring group of onlookers. “Perhaps you could drag this sleeping ox over to the straw? I think he may not wake for some time and he blocks the way.”

“Glad to, guv’nor,” came the response. Several pairs of filthy hands pulled Ned away and tossed him unceremoniously into the strawpile. Linden gingerly plucked Ned’s sweat-stained jacket from where it lay across a chair, walked over to the recumbent bully, and threw it over his shoulders.

“
Bonne nuit
, baboon,” said Linden, laughing under his breath.

Katie was leaning weakly against the table abandoned by Nasty Ned and his friends, when she felt someone pinching her elbow. She turned to find Zack beside her. “I’ve been standing here trying to think of a tactful way of saying I told you so,” he said mildly.

“And found you couldn’t?” said Katie. “Zack, did you see that? He was trying to kill me.”

“I saw. In fact, I was trying to get a better view but the good seats had been taken. Did you ever try to make your way across a gin shop during a knife fight?” Zack tilted his head to one side. “You’re fortunate I’m too generous a man to remind you that I told you to stay away from Nasty Ned.”

“I couldn’t help it, Zack. Before I knew it, he was smacking me against the wall and trying to drag me outside with him. And then he threw that knife at me.”

They were joined by Winnie, who finally succeeded in elbowing her way through the crowd. “Trouble yer best friend, young’un?” she asked with concern. “Ya jest made yerself an enemy ya don’t need.”

“She did. But she found herself a friend she
does
need,” Zack replied, cocking his eyebrows and nodding toward the table occupied by Linden and his entourage.

“Lord Lesley?” Winnie cried. “Aye, ‘n where’s ‘e gonna be when Nasty Ned wakes up? Probably ‘avin’ ‘is din wi’ th’ Prince Regent!”

“True,” said Zack. “So it might be a good idea if she went over and thanked him for his trouble. The word might get around if it looked like she was having a chat with him.”

Katie looked at Zack with trepidation. “Zack, I don’t want…”

Winnie clapped a hand over Katie’s mouth. “If ya don’t want, then ya shouldn’t go pickin’ fights wi’ th’ likes o’ Nasty Ned.” She pushed the reluctant Katie firmly in the right direction. “Better get right to it. It ‘pears they’re gettin’ ready ta take their leave.”

The group of young aristocrats had indeed decided that they had exhausted the possibilities of
The Merry Maidenhead
. There was a general scraping of chairs and commotion; one of their number was raising his glass to the ceiling and draining his last drops of gin, and Lord Linden stood up restlessly, looking around for his hat.

He was shrugging into his immaculately tailored black coat when he felt a light hesitant tugging at his sleeve. “My lord?” said a sweetly musical and very feminine voice. Linden turned to find himself looking down into Katie’s unthinkingly worshipful blue eyes.

“Well?” he inquired, without warmth.

Katie flushed at his tone and hung her head. “I wanted to say thank you, my lord,” she whispered.

“It’s nothing,” he replied. He tapped her chin with his knuckle, reached up to ruffle Katie’s hair and then stopped. Thoughtfully, Linden took one bright thick curl and felt its creamy texture. He let his gaze wander gently over her slender body and then return to Katie’s delicate face. His smile was slow and sensuous.

“What’s your name, child?” he asked, the words stroking Katie like silk.

“Kat… oh,” stumbled Katie, as she remembered too late that she was supposed to be posing as a boy. His hand still played inside her curls and she felt as though her hair had sensation, could feel Linden’s touch.

“I see,” said Linden softly. He released the captured curl and let his hand linger on Katie’s cheek. “Do they make life difficult for you at
The Merry Maidenhead
, your
beaux yeux
?”

“My—? Was that French?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, that was French,” he said and then grinned. “How old are you? Sixteen, seventeen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen,” he repeated. “Let me give you some advice, little one. If you want to see eighteen, the next time you decide to dump the sewer bucket over someone’s head, make sure he’s smaller than you.”

Katie felt his caressing finger leave her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

It had been a hot day, and the cool breath of night had not yet brought relief. Shadows were lengthening, the rays of the setting sun blocked by the lean tenements packed together like the trees of a giant pine forest; crowds of people scurried beneath like so many busy forest creatures. The streets of St. Giles’ Rookery were decorated with a septic array of decomposing refuse.

“That’s th’ last o’ th’ lot,” said Winnie. She set down the empty paste bucket, pulled a plaid handkerchief from her waist, and wiped her perspiring brow. “Thanks fer carryin’ th’ posters fer me, Katie.”

“The pleasure was mine. Zack won’t let me out alone since Nasty Ned picked that fight with me in the gin shop. Believe me, I’ve had enough of the hermit’s life the past few days. I’d help you carry hot coals with my bare hands to get out for a bit.” Katie stepped back and read the brightly colored rectangle they had affixed to the street-side wall of a skittle alley. “In fact, I believe I have been carrying hot coals. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants,’” she read aloud. She smiled at Winnie. “Did you write that?”

“No, some bloke from th’ colonies. Zack is doin’ th’ cautious thing not lettin’ ya out alone. Best ta be wary.”

“Do you think we still have to be wary? Ned hasn’t been back in two days,” said Katie. “Maybe he’s forgotten about it.”

“Oh, ‘ell,” said Winnie, grabbing Katie’s arm and pulling her into the shadows. “ ‘At was bad luck, sayin’ ‘at. Look over there.” She pointed.

Katie blinked and looked twice, squinting her eyes into the late afternoon shadows. Her heart sank. There, across the busy street, leaning against the black brick wall of the tenement opposite, were Nasty Ned and a gang of four other persons of the ruffian persuasion, lounging false-casually, their arms folded menacingly across their chests. There was no mistaking Ned’s loutish, thick head and his muscular shoulders, even in the fading light. It was remarkable how well-acquainted she felt with him, even though they hadn’t been properly introduced. She briefly considered walking out into the street, hailing him, and asking him how his head felt this fine day, but rejected the possibility for fear he would give her an overly detailed explanation. Winnie chuckled fatalistically.

“Our gentleman friend, Sweet Ned, is ‘ere, ‘n oi don’t think ‘e’s payin’ us a social call.”

“What should we do?” Katie said.

“Well, oi’ll tell ya,” said Winnie, biting her nail. “Oi don’t think they’ve seen us, ‘n there’s a chance ‘at they ain’t even after ya. But we don’t want ta take ‘at chance.” She paused. “There’s a cock pit around th’ corner. Rather than try ta make it back ta the Maidenhead, it gettin’ dark ‘n all, oi think we should walk ta th’ cock pit ‘n if they follows us, we kin lose ‘em in th’ crowd. ‘Ow does ‘at sound?”