Sixteen

Julia shuddered at the dark street, which seemed menacing tonight and such a contrast to the warm, comforting hand on her shoulder. Neil took her arm then and led her away from Sunnybrooke and into the heart of Spitalfields.

“I know you are angry,” she said, as they stepped into the street, keeping to the side and out of the way of any carts and horses. She glanced at Neil, but his face was stoic and unreadable. He had a look of menace, a look of danger that was probably intended to keep criminals at bay.

“That is not the word I would use,” he answered.

“Furious? Enraged? I know you are worried, but you cannot expect me to stay home.”

He slanted her a look. “This won’t be a garden party, sweetheart.”

“I am well aware, sir, but neither must it be the battle you have made it out to be. Perhaps my presence might have a positive effect on the negotiations. At the least, we can all behave civilly.”

Neil laughed, and she huffed and looked away from him. She would reason with Slag, to buy them all more time. Perhaps if she gave him part of the money, he would be mollified.

Fall was upon them, and the days had begun to grow shorter. Men and women made their way through the streets, ostensibly to homes where they would see family and eat a meager evening meal. The beggars sat on every corner and every stoop, hands out, eyes pleading.

Julia looked down. The children were the ones who tore at her heart. When she had first come here, she had tried to take some of them in. For her efforts, she’d been chased away and accused of kidnapping. She’d quickly learned the children’s parents—at least that’s what the adults had claimed to be—benefitted from the pitiful, little beggars and were not eager to part with them.

The sad-eyed dogs and skinny cats were as omnipresent as the dirt and the smell of burnt onion. She would have liked to rescue them if she could ever gather the funds for some sort of kennel.

Prostitutes were another staple of the streets. Julia had learned stay away from them. She’d always thought them poor women forced into selling their bodies for blunt. Perhaps that was true, but they were not kind—at least not to her. She had the sense most of them would slit her throat and rob her blind before they’d ever consider any charity from her.

Not that she could blame them. A hard heart kept them alive in the rookeries of London. They could not afford to trust anyone.

Julia kept her head down and avoided the malevolent stares of the prostitutes, the pleas of the children, and the whines of the dogs. Neil must have known where the alehouse was located because he walked confidently past wipe shop after wipe shop—all selling stolen handkerchiefs. Julia clutched her own handkerchief—in her hand and ready should she need to cover her nose—tightly.

Finally, Neil stopped, and she squinted up at a low, dark building that looked to have been built at least two hundred years before. The small windows were grimy and the building’s paint had chipped off. The sign out front must have portrayed proud illustrations of an ox and a bull once, but they had faded to almost unrecognizability.

It was the sort of establishment Julia would have crossed to the other side of the street to avoid. Too late now. She swallowed. “Are we going inside?”

“Not yet.”

To her relief, Neil waited for a passing cart, then led her across the street. As she was about to inquire where he was taking her, a tall, fair-haired man with pale-blue eyes stepped into view. Mostyn. Julia could not have said where he had been a moment before, but his height and Nordic appearance made him stand out in the crowd of stoop-shouldered, dirty passersby. She had the sense that she would not have seen him until he wished to be seen. Clearly that was now, as Neil was leading her directly for him.

When they reached Mostyn, Julia looked up to meet his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Mostyn.”

He nodded at her, not speaking. In fact, he barely glanced at her before he returned his attention to Neil.

“Report,” Neil said, sounding very much like she imagined a general on the battlefield might sound.

“No one new in or out since I’ve been here,” Mostyn answered.

“The boy is still inside.”

Mostyn lifted a shoulder. “I can’t see the rear exit.”

Neil looked at her. “Then I suppose there is only one way to be certain. You have my back.”

It wasn’t a question, and Mostyn didn’t dignify the remark with an answer. But when Neil turned to lead Julia back toward the alehouse, Mostyn stepped in front of them. They had no choice but to pause. To do otherwise would be to attempt to walk through a stone wall.

“The lady,” Mostyn said.

Neil sighed, sounding weary. “I cannot leave her alone outside, and she refused to stay at the orphanage.”

Mostyn’s gaze flicked to her, then back to Neil. Whatever he saw when he looked at her must have convinced him persuading her to return to the orphanage was not an option. “I can go in alone,” he said.

Neil shook his head. “I considered that on the way here, but I want to attempt negotiation first. You are not known for your skills in that arena, my friend.”

“Why bother?” Mostyn asked. “Give Slag all the words you want. It will end the same way.”

“Are you implying violence is inevitable, Mr. Mostyn?” Julia asked.

He looked at her. “I never imply.”

“True enough,” Neil said. “But you have your orders.” He looked at Julia. “Revised somewhat, but basically the same. Are you ready?”

“I have my dancing shoes on,” Mostyn replied.

Julia wondered what that was supposed to mean. But she had no time to ask as, a moment later, she was ushered inside the Ox and Bull. It was even darker inside than she had anticipated, and it was rank with the smell of urine, smoke, and the odor of unwashed humans. She put her handkerchief to her nose, but even the rose fragrance she dabbed on the cloth could not disguise this stench. She coughed and attempted not to wretch. The sound seemed unbearably loud because as soon as they entered, all conversation ceased.

Julia looked at the low-ceilinged room packed with small tables and chairs. At each table sat men who looked more dangerous than the last. She suddenly regretted her decision to come along. That regret intensified when the barkeep called from the back of the room, where he stood behind a scarred and battered wooden partition, “We don’t serve your kind. Get out.”

“Want me to kill him?” Mostyn asked so low only she and Neil could hear.

“Not yet,” Neil said. Then louder, “I wish to speak with Mr. Slag.”

Julia was relieved Neil could speak. She could not move, much less form a coherent sentence.

“What do ye want with ’im?” a lad of no more than fifteen asked from the table closest to them. A weak lantern sat on top of that table beside several empty mugs, but the light did little more than illuminate the boy’s small features and dirt-streaked face.

“It’s a private matter,” Neil said.

“Oh, a private matter,” an older man said in a tone meant to mock Neil’s upper-class accent. “Well, la-di-da. I ’ave a private matter I’d like to discuss with your wench.” He grabbed his crotch, and Julia’s face flamed.

“Want me to kill that one?” Mostyn asked, this time his voice a bit louder.

“Yes, and slowly.” He raised a hand when Mostyn began to move forward. “But not yet.” Neil looked around the room. “If Mr. Slag won’t come out, I can only assume he is afraid to face me.”

Julia’s heart froze at those words. She knew men liked to taunt each other, but a remark like that seemed purely suicidal. Perhaps she would fare better outside with the rabid dogs and the greedy prostitutes. But as her gaze swept the room, taking in the angry looks of the patrons, one face looked back at her with fear.

“Mr. Goring?” she said. Her voice was loud enough to carry and, as it was a female voice and quite proper in tone, the rumbling rolling through the room died and every man to a one followed her gaze to the back table where her servant sat, head down, shoulders hunched over his ale.

“Is that you?” she asked. She forgot her fear for a moment. “I did not want to believe Mr. Wraxall when he said you were a patron here, but I see I have been deceived and betrayed.”

Goring looked up then back down. “I apologize, my lady.”

“You have a lot more to apologize for than this. It was you, was it not, stealing from the larder?”

Goring didn’t answer.

“Shame on you,” she said, directing the comment to the room at large. “Stealing from poor orphans.”

“Cry me a river,” one man called.

“I was an orphan, I was, and no one gave me so much as a crumb. Bollocks on orphans.”

Too late, Julia realized her mistake. She’d let her emotions get the better of her and forgotten her audience. These men didn’t care a whit for orphans. She took careful step back and her back collided with Neil’s chest. He caught her and held her in place. “Is this the bit where you inspire civility?”

“Shut up,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps we might engender more goodwill if you keep quiet and let me speak.”

She doubted it.

“Not another word.”

Now was not the time to point out that she didn’t take orders from him.

“Protector,” Neil said, as the group of men began to rise and move toward them. “It might be time to start dancing.” He backed up, taking her with him, and then stopped just as abruptly. She felt Neil stiffen, then heard Mostyn growl.

“So nice of you to call on us, Mr. Wraxall and Lady Juliana and…friend. Won’t you join me for a drink?”

Julia closed her eyes as Neil turned, moving her in the process. She knew what she would see—the harsh, cold stare of Mr. Slag.

* * *

Neil had known this was a mistake. It was a mistake to go after Billy, a mistake to give Slag the advantage of choosing the battlefield, and a mistake to refrain from tying Juliana up and locking her in her room. The situation—two dozen angry men behind them and one homicidal monster in front of them—looked bad. In fact, the situation looked very bad. But he’d been in bad situations before, and he and Ewan had always gotten out alive.

I have my dancing shoes on.

But this was one devil even Neil did not want to dance with.

“Finally someone who understands the meaning of hospitality,” Neil said. Ewan growled his disapproval of Neil’s flippant tone, but Neil felt levity was the key now. “I find I am quite thirsty. You, Mr. Mostyn?”

“Parched.”

“And you, my lady?”

“Not really,” she squeaked. He squeezed her arm reassuringly. It was too late to give in to fear. The feeling was useless and dangerous. She would have to show some of that backbone he’d seen in her time and again.

She cleared her throat. “Tea would be lovely. Thank you, Mr. Slag.”

Slag gave her an amused look, then inclined his head toward the rear of the alehouse. “Join me in my private chambers then, won’t you?”

The men in the room parted, like the Red Sea before Moses’s staff.

Slag moved first and Neil followed. He worried he might have to drag Julia with them, but she walked on her own, head held high and looking every inch the earl’s daughter. Ewan followed, of course. Neil could always count on Ewan at his back.

Slag’s ebony walking stick thumped on the floor as he led them past the bar and into a dark corridor. If the crime lord had an ambush planned, this was the time and place for it. Behind him, he heard Ewan’s steps slow as the Protector prepared for an ambush. It didn’t come. Instead, Slag opened a door and led them into a room lit with lamps and made cozy by a crackling fire.

Though perhaps cozy was not the correct word. The furnishings were comfortable enough—several chairs and a couch set on a large, colorful rug and visible by the light of lamps on scattered tables—but the ceiling was low and there were no windows to speak of. To Neil, the place felt like a well-appointed prison.

“Take a seat, won’t you?” Slag pointed to the couch and chairs, but he remained standing, positioning himself near the fire.

“I prefer to stand,” Neil said. Ewan leaned on the wall beside the door and crossed his arms over his broad chest. Julia sank into one of the chairs, looking as though she was only now realizing her mistake in coming. Good, perhaps in the future she would be less likely to rush headlong into danger, although judging from her past behavior, he doubted it.

“It will be difficult to drink tea standing,” Slag said.

“You can drop the ruse, Mr. Slag,” Neil said. “You know why we are here. Let us waste no more time. Give us the boy, and no one will get hurt.”

Slag’s gaze drifted slowly to Juliana. She was peering about the room and missed his look. A small mercy that, for the crime lord’s leer turned Neil’s stomach.

“Give me my blunt or, better yet, the chit, and you have a deal.”

“Out of the question,” Neil said.

Juliana turned back to them. “Where is Billy? Have you hurt him?”

“Hurt him?” Slag laughed. “The lad came of his own free will. I offered him shelter.”

“Shelter? He was quite safe at Sunnybrooke,” said Juliana.

Slag shook his head. “That was not the tale he told, my lady. And the bruises on his face seem to imply he has recently been involved in a violent exchange.”

Neil did not know much about criminals. He knew they were usually caught, if not right away, eventually. He knew they were usually hanged. He knew that the large numbers hanged or transported or tossed in prison hulks did nothing to deter criminals. By necessity, he had associated with criminals on the Continent. He had no trouble deducing why they were usually caught. Most criminals were not very intelligent.

But Slag was no ordinary criminal. He had managed to survive the underworld and to come to dominate his small patch of it. Neil hadn’t investigated Slag’s criminal record—he was no Bow Street Runner—but he imagined if he had, he would have seen prosecutions for a several petty crimes when Slag had been young. Before he had learned to either evade the authorities, bribe them, or, as he did now, send others to do his dirty work.

Slag had probably grown up in Spitalfields, but he had enough wits to learn to speak properly, dress properly—if a bit garishly—and act cunningly. All of this information did not bode well for the rest of the interview.

“He and another boy had a dispute,” Juliana said. Neil had known she would not heed his directive to cease speaking. “But that is none of your affair. I would like to see Billy.”

“Absolutely,” Slag said, though he made no move to call for the boy. “And if he wishes to go back to the orphanage, I will not keep him here.”

Juliana was no lackwit either. She knew Slag would not give Billy up so easily. “But…” she hedged.

“But.” Slag spread his arms as though the situation were out of his control.

She swallowed. “I don’t have all the money. But what if I gave you some of it? I could get a hundred to you tomorrow.”

Slag wrinkled his nose, and Neil clenched his fists. Was she really attempting to bargain with a crime lord?

“I’d rather the full amount. If you don’t have it, then I am willing to accept substitutions.”

She exhaled and glanced in Neil’s direction. Clearly, she was considering accepting Slag’s offer. The fear in her eyes and the rigid stiffness of her shoulders told him what he already knew—she would do anything to save the orphans she loved.

“She won’t have you,” Neil said before she could answer.

Both Slag and Juliana glared at him. Neil was pleased to see the leer on Slag’s face had been wiped away.

“So you won’t have me?” Slag said, the look in his eyes murderous but his voice deceptively calm.

“I wouldn’t have put it that way.” Juliana stood, sensing as they all did that a storm was about to break. “You see, while I am indeed honored by your, uh, proposal, I fear we are too different to make a successful match—”

“Enough!” Slag roared. He thumped his stick on the floor.

“You should have left it,” Neil said, moving to block Juliana from Slag’s wrath.

But even as he moved in front of her, the door behind them burst open and four of the largest men Neil had ever seen lumbered inside. Two of them even made Ewan look puny, and that was no easy feat. Julia gawked at them, and Neil thought he might be gawking too before he recovered himself.

“Wait!” he said even as Ewan moved into a defensive stance. “I am certain we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

Slag stared at him.

“I have a proposal of my own.”

“Go ahead.”

“You tell these men to go back to whatever hole they crawled out of and give us Billy.”

“And in return?”

“We won’t completely destroy you.”

Slag stared at him for a long moment. Even Juliana turned to stare at him, her face clearly betraying her thoughts—he was completely and utterly mad.

And then Slag began to laugh, and Ewan had a moment when he thought, Bloody hell, it might all work out after all. He laughed too, and even Ewan curved one corner of his mouth upward.

But then Slag, still smiling, slashed his walking stick through the air and said, “Kill them all.”