The Gentleman and the Rogue (23 page)

And the day slipped away. Jem sat by the fire, stared at the flames, and thought about what he could do. They were to make plans this afternoon. Time was short now that he knew Schivvers was on his way south—if that was indeed his real destination.

Jem thought of the job at hand. He had no reputation to lose, not like Sir Alan. Best if he went in alone, really.

“Thing is,” he whispered so he wouldn't wake his master, “I can't see any other answer. He'll weigh anchor and be vanished forever. You know he will. And if he pokes his pointy nose back in your world eventually, what're the chances he'll be alone? 'Tis true. 'Oh her,' he'll say. 'The girl left me.' She will have too. Left him and her body at the same time.”

He found a blank piece of paper and Alan's ink and pen. This time he made an even bigger mess with the ink—his cuff was a blotted wreck when he was done. But he corked up the ink and cleaned the quill as Alan had shown him.

The next bit made him pause and look over at the sleeping form. He knew where Alan kept his purse of gold and silver. He pulled it out from the small trunk, rummaged around inside, and took out a few coppers.

The man slept on. Jem imagined what Alan would say if he woke and caught him in the act of stealing again. Guilt made him feel almost angry. He wasn't taking the money for his own use, for pity's sake. Bribes. A tip for the stablelad.

He walked downstairs through an almost-deserted inn, passing only the landlord who read a paper by the taproom fire. At the stable he ordered the horses harnessed—no way would he attempt this idiot plan on foot.

Though truly he'd picked the right time. Evening was good—not so light that anyone would see and recognize him, not so dark that the world would have settled into slumbering silence.

He wished he could ride on horseback. Maybe someday, if he survived, Alan would teach him. Tonight he'd have to find a place to tie up the phaeton. At last he found a small clearing near a chapel—not far away from the house, but well hidden by a tall hedge. The horses eyed him balefully as he wrapped the reins around a fencepost. “I'll be back,” he promised them. He hoped he wasn't lying.

His errand proved easy at first. The kitchen door was open a crack, inviting in all comers. Jem didn't even have to pick a lock. If Schivvers had seen that, he would have had the cook's head.

Jem silently walked in, slid past the kitchen and down the wooden stairs to the basement where the workroom lay. The short hallway in front of the door was deeply shadowed, and he had to feel for the lock in darkness. A few probes with his sharp pick, and it clicked open with surprising ease. The hinges creaked fiercely as he opened the door, and Jem froze. His heart pounding, hair raised like a stray cat facing a snapping pack of curs, he listened for footsteps. Nothing.

Once he'd entered the large, windowless room, there was even less light. Jem couldn't search for anything in pitch blackness, so he dared to light the candle stub he'd brought along with him. His breath caught as he struck the lucifer, feeling as if the tiny spark of sulfur would summon Schivvers like the devil he was.

In the flickering glow, Jem caught glimpses of shelves along one wall with rows of glass jars. Inside the jars were what looked like bits of human body parts floating in murky liquid. He didn't have time to look more closely at them, or at the shadow-shrouded shapes suspended from the ceiling, or at the table in the corner with the straps for wrists and ankles—for operations or for performing intimate examinations?

He swallowed back his growing revulsion and fear, which wouldn't help him accomplish what he'd come for, and concentrated on the books he'd discovered lying neatly stacked in an open wooden crate. Jem didn't look through them, but a few on the top were handwritten rather than printed. And they were small, as Alan had described Schivvers's journal. He crammed several small volumes into his coat pockets and turned to leave.

Footsteps sounded overhead. He quietly closed the door and dived under the desk. Voices came from outside the room, perhaps at the top of the stairs. His heart pounded in his throat. God, Schivvers would find his body here, dead from apoplexy.

The voices faded in the distance. One of them might have been Melvin. Jem crept to the door and laid his ear to it. He heard nothing, not even the creak of a house settling. Nothing stirred as he slipped from the room. He even locked the door, although covering his tracks was useless. It wouldn't take Schivvers long to spot the fact that the books were missing.

Now for the girl.

He hesitated. Alan would be furious enough when he appeared with the books. If he dragged Annie Cutler along to the inn, the man might dismiss him on the spot. Clearly Sir Alan liked planning and making carefully considered decisions. Stealing the girl was about as impulsive as Jem could get and still call himself sane. Naw, he was fooling himself. This would move him firmly into the lunatic camp.

But then he recalled Annie's peaked little face, how she'd trusted him and directed that signal thing at him. He goddamned well wouldn't leave her behind. Taking the books wasn't going to be enough. Not for him, anyway.

So instead of sneaking out the kitchen door again, he made his way up the back stairs and nearly ran into a scullery maid. Jem sucked in and held a panicked breath, then scolded himself for being frightened of a little kitchen maid.

He listened for the sound of people and heard nothing. The barouche was in the carriage house, so he knew they were home.

Why the bloody bowels of hell wouldn't one of them make a noise so he could figure out where everyone was? This felt like a perverse game. He half grinned, thinking of the perverse games he'd indulged in today. Far more to his taste.

The bedrooms upstairs. He'd sneak along there and see if he could find hers.

Two doors down the corridor, he found the spacious, dark-paneled bedchamber that had to be Schivvers's. It even smelled like the man, the sharp scent of pine and alcohol—something too sharp to be good to drink. He couldn't see sure signs that the girl was Schivvers's bed partner. The bed was more than big enough and had more than a single pillow, yes, but that meant nothing. He'd learned that from Alan's decadent bed.

There was a small rug on the floor. The way the rug had been situated, it could be the bed of a favored dog. He knelt and found a hairpin there. Perhaps she'd dropped it. But there were other indications she did more than simply pass this spot—several curling dark strands, long enough to be from her head.

A few seconds later, he found it. A chain anchored to the foot of the heavy bed. The thin chain with pretty decorative loops had a well-polished shackle at the end. Jem understood right then that Alan hadn't exaggerated the man's nature. Only a sick bastard would polish and decorate shackles for a little girl. He prayed he was wrong and that there was some sort of animal about the place that he'd missed.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Jem dived then rolled under the bed, far to the back in the shadows. But if anyone took a notion to peer under, they'd see him.

The door creaked open, and two pairs of feet entered the room—a man's gleaming boots and a girl's bare feet. They didn't speak. Her legs and knees appeared as she sat on the rug. She wore only a shift. Jem saw large hands—a man's hands—and heard the
clink
of a shackle. But it wasn't on her foot. Her wrist? It looked too big for either.

“Lie down,” the soft-spoken bastard ordered.

When she lay on the rug, Jem saw the metal band around her neck. Her eyes were closed, so she didn't spot him.

A familiar dull rage filled Jem. Occasionally in his old life he'd felt useless anger at the unkind hand fate dealt some people. Only soon he'd be stepping in and telling fate to go bite itself.

From above came Schivvers's voice. “I might be bathing. I might be eating my supper. Which do you guess it to be?” The toe of his boot nudged her shoulder. Gently. She tensed but didn't answer, and Jem worried at her disobedience, but then the man spoke again. “Ah. You recall my last command to remain silent. Good. Perhaps I'll give you a reward. Yes. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

She didn't speak.

“Answer.”

“Yes, Mr. Schivvers,” came her small voice, but she didn't open her eyes. Jem, who'd known a few men who enjoyed cruelty, guessed that was a mistake. Sure enough, there was a jingle and a swish of cloth as the man abruptly hauled her up. No cry from the girl, though. She had been well trained.

“Again.”

“Yes, Mr. Schivvers.”

“Again.”

“Yes, Mr. Schivvers.” Over and over went the idiotic exchange. It went on for a few minutes, and then Jem realized at each “again” he spoke, the man shook or pinched or did something to the girl, for her body jounced, and her toes curled. But she didn't cry out.

One of her “Yes, Mr. Schivvers” must have satisfied the arse, or perhaps he only got bored, because at last, without another word, he bade her to lie back down on her mat, and then he left. Jem watched his boots all the way out the door and heard the click of a lock after the door had closed.

He glanced back at Annie. The girl lay on her side, looking under the bed, straight into his eyes. A normal girl would have shrieked, but she'd left normal behind a long time back, Jem guessed. She only blinked, then stared. No smile, no words. He opened his mouth, and she frantically shook her head.

She pointed over her shoulder, stabbing her finger in the direction of the door. Oh. He guessed Mr. Schivvers listened—for the sound of her weeping, maybe.

Jem slid out from under the bed, stood, and dusted himself off. He made a face at the fluff that had collected on his shirt and breeches. Bad servants in this place. Or maybe the master didn't let them in here, either. The girl held the chain that attached her to the bedpost as she slowly pushed herself up until she sat cross-legged on the rug. Likely a jangling chain was another crime in the rule book of her gaoler.

She stared up at Jem, wide-eyed but unmoving. He pulled the tiny files from his pocket and squatted in front of her. Back in his old life, he'd planned to someday get better picklocks and practice more—he wasn't such a perfect hand at the trickier locks. He pointed at her neck. Her face paled, and she shook her head. Did she think he'd stab her with the pointed bits of iron?

He moved closer and mimed opening the collar.

She stared at him with those huge, unnerving eyes. Precious long seconds ticked by. At last she reached up and swiveled the band so that its lock lay at the base of her throat. Such a little neck it was. Schivvers must have taken the exact measure of it, for the band had no room for more than a single adult finger between her skin and the metal.

Jem leaned close and examined the lock. He heard her breaths, fast and with a tiny whimper at the end of each. Or was that a wheeze and there was something wrong with the girl's lungs?

She shook like a whipped dog, and Jem laid a hand on her leg to steady her. It only made the shaking worse. Thickskull thing to do, he scolded himself. No touches the girl didn't invite. He took his hand away at once and shrugged his apology. She simply stared.

The lock was tiny. In the end he filed it enough so he could simply break the collar with his fingers. A grown man could manage such a thing, but not a puny little girl. The sound of metal scraping on metal had made her turn away and watch the door. When it broke, she looked at him again.

With exaggerated care, he lowered the shackle and chain to the rug and smiled encouragingly.
See? No jangling. You can trust me.

He pointed at the door.

She shook her head frantically and pointed at the window.

Jem walked over and looked out. Two stories up, and the stone building was smooth, with no handholds or convenient drain.

He looked around. Bedsheets? Likely they didn't have time.

He leaned very close and whispered so quietly he could barely hear himself. “No. Gotta be the door. But girl, listen well. I might run into trouble. Could be you'll have to do a big job. A huge one.”

She gave a tiny, careful nod, as if the jingling chain were still attached.

“My carriage is just beyond the big hedge at the churchyard. Blue and gold and fancy. If I tell you to run like hel—the blazes, go to the carriage. If I'm not right behind, loose the horses and turn 'em around. Can you?”

She nodded, more easily now.

“Sure. That'll be easy. Get up on the thing. It's a big climb, but you can manage because you're about as brave as they come. The reins. You might have to shake 'em hard and yell at the horses to gee-yup. You've seen that, haven't you? Watched the coachmen?”

A nod.

“Hold tight to the armrest. You're not big enough to control the horses.” He recalled something Alan had said about horses' behavior. “I think they'll likely head for home, which is an inn. It's got a picture of a dog with a tankard and knife on the sign out front.” The girl could probably read, but he couldn't recall exactly what the place was called. “Got it? It's straight down to the main road and a right toward Sheffield.”

She nodded again, and her body trembled so much that he worried she might shake something loose inside.

“When you're there, run and find the captain. You know. Sir Alan Watleigh. He'll protect you and keep you safe.”

She looked at the door.

“Likely it won't be a problem. I'll be right with you. In fact, I'm going to carry you.”

She cringed again and gave the tiniest of headshakes.
No.

He gave an encouraging smile and leaned close to her ear again.

“I'm faster than you. You gotta do this. Climb on my back. Pickaback.” He shrugged off his coat and held it out for her to stick her arms into. She'd be cold in only her shift when they'd reach the outdoors. Besides, she could cling to his back better if he wasn't wearing the bulky coat. He swiveled and crouched before her. “Come on, then.”

Her thin arms went around his neck and suddenly tightened, nearly choking him. She was strong for a slip of a thing. He risked a slightly louder whisper. “Not so tight. It'll look bad if he comes back and finds my body on the floor.”