Lois Greiman (4 page)

“Your talents?” Poke said.

He turned his attention to the Den’s master. “I’m an exceptional dancer,” he said.

The room was quiet for a prolonged moment, then Poke laughed, but the willowy woman’s expression remained absolutely unchanged, as if her face were carved from purest marble.

“I fear we don’t have a great many grand balls here in Darktowne,” she said.

He met her gaze straight on and smiled. The expression felt strangely out of place, but he held on to it. “How do you slip into the parties of the wealthy then, Princess, if you don’t know how to dance?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I slip into their purses and out. Quick as that.”

“My lady is an exemplary pickpocket,” Poke admitted. “Little Gemini is an excellent thief, and Mr. Oxford…Well, Oxford’s methods are a bit less artistic. And you…” He paused. “You dance?”

“When the queen’s orchestra takes up residence in
Tayside we may well need him,” Princess said. “But until then he’d be nothing but trouble to us.”

Poke tilted his head, but didn’t turn his gaze away. “Are you suggesting we kill him?”

Will’s heart bumped hard in his chest, but he dare not show fear, or even surprise, so he held Poke’s gaze for several seconds before turning his attention casually back to the Den’s cool lady. Her eyes never flickered. Silence stretched out for an eternity.

“Someone will surely be looking for him, and dead bodies tend to cause unforeseen problems.” She exhaled as if disappointed with her own conclusion. “Thus it would be best to return him from whence he came.”

“And what is to keep him from returning here on the morrow?” Poke asked. “With a troop of Her Majesty’s brave men close behind.” There was sarcasm in his tone. Sarcasm and hatred, deeply ingrained and tightly leashed. Princess ignored both.

“We shall cover his eyes,” she said. “He’ll not remember his path here.”

“He doesn’t look particularly daft.”

“Not daft,” she said, though her tone suggested that she didn’t quite agree. “Addled.”

Poke looked surprised and mildly interested. “How so?”

Reaching out, she touched the side of Will’s skull. He winced at the contact. “He has sustained a head wound,” she said.

“Hmmm. Is she right, good sir? Are your wits scrambled? Do you remember how you came to visit us here at the Den?”

“It was dark,” Will admitted. “And I was in something of a rush, but…” He shrugged. The movement sent crisp shards of pain sprinting like darts through his cra
nium, but he remembered enough to know that some deep emotion had driven him toward the Den, some burning desire. And though he couldn’t remember what that desire had been, he would stay on pain of death. “My sense of direction is nearly as well developed as my dancing ability,” he said.

“So perhaps Mr. Oxford was correct,” Poke deduced. “Perhaps we have little choice but to kill you.”

“What do you remember?” Princess asked, but as Will’s mind scrambled for an answer, not a color or a fragrance or a scrap of music could be recalled.

She turned to Poke. “His mind is wiped clean,” she said. “’Tis not uncommon with such blows to the—”

“Slate,” Will said and knew she was right. His mind was wiped as clean as a child’s writing tablet. Except for his name he could remember nothing. And if he hoped to survive he’d best keep that bit of information to himself.

Every eye was trained on him.

“What’s that?” Poke asked.

And Will’s mind repeated the word rather frantically in his throbbing head.
What
? “Slate. ’Tis my name,” he said.

“Slate,” Poke drawled, his eyes predatory. “Tell me, is that your surname or your Christian name?”

He forced a shrug. “’Tis simply what the ladies call me—in London.” What the devil was he talking about? But at least he hadn’t mentioned Malkan Palace. The thought zipped through his mind. What did he know of Sedonia’s royal palace? Who the devil was he? A spy? A mercenary? A trained assassin?

“London. And what do you do there, Mr. Slate?”

How the hell should he know? He couldn’t even remember his hat size. “I dance,” he said, and Poke laughed again.

“The waltz or the
contredanse?
”

“Whichever will gain me access to the
ton
’s soirees the quickest.”

“But how do you secure an invitation?”

Slate—it was as good a name as any, so he gave a shrug and a tilt of the head as if his methods were his alone. He was Slate, clever and accomplished.

“Ahh, a man of mystery,” Poke said.

Will smiled.

“If you are so successful, why aren’t you in London even now?” Princess asked.

Will shifted his gaze to hers again, hoping naught but confidence showed in his eyes. And why shouldn’t it? He had probably been in a score of situations just as deadly and come out unscathed. “I thought my welcome was wearing a bit thin in Londontown.”

“The same might be said here.”

He laughed and wondered at the unfamiliar sound of it. “Perhaps ’tis not your decision whether I stay or go…Princess.”

“And perhaps it is…Dancer. In truth—”

But her words were interrupted by Poke’s laughter. He rose to his feet. “How very entertaining,” he said, and gazed almost fondly down at Will. “It isn’t every day we have a guest who can raise my lady’s hackles, is it, Gemini?”

The girl shook her head. Her hair was the color of a chestnut horse, long, gleaming and loose about her shoulders. Her skin was milky white, her mouth as soft as a baby’s, but her eyes showed caution and a worldly experience far beyond her tender years. “You gonna let ’im stay then?”

“Would that make you happy, lass?”

She scowled a little, cautious to the end. “’E’ll be needin’ time to mend afore ’e leaves.”

Poke watched her with careful interest. “And when he leaves us where do you think he shall go?”

The girl shrugged.

“So you’ve not met him before?”

“Me?” She sounded genuinely surprised, and Will supposed she was, for though he searched the far banks of his misty memory, there was nothing about her that seemed familiar. Nothing about any of them…except, perhaps, the princess’s regal bearing. “Course not. When would I ’ave met ’im?”

“’Tis difficult to guess,” he said, and pulled his gaze from hers.

“Well then. ’Tis nearly dark. Time to return to work.”

“But what about Slate ’ere?” asked Gem.

Poke raised a brow as he turned his attention back to Will, then he smiled, slow and sly. “My lady shall see to him.” He shifted his gaze to hers. “Any objections, love?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “So long as you do not care whether he lives or dies.”

T
he room emptied quickly. Poke closed the door behind him, leaving Will alone with the woman called Princess. He glanced at her, then shifted his gaze to the window. Light was indeed fading, and now that the drama had come to an end, he felt kitten weak and in dire need of a drink.

“Nearly dark,” he murmured. “How long have I been here?”

“It has been two days since Peter brought you in.”

He wasn’t certain if he was surprised. “I’ve been unconscious that entire time?”

“Have you?”

He turned to look at her. Her upswept coiffure left her neck all but bare. It was long and smooth, as elegant as a swan’s above the worn shabbiness of her gown. An interesting contrast. “Tell me, Princess, were you hoping to get me killed?”

She watched him carefully, her linked fingers relaxed against the gray fabric of her skirt. “If I wanted you dead, Dancer, you would have ceased breathing sometime ago.”

“You have such power with Poke, do you?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly as if mildly curious. “Who are you?”

“I believe we discussed my name at some length.” He felt battered and tired. Weak beyond words, but damned if he weren’t still alive. And he would accomplish his mission. Once he remembered what it was.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever known a Slate before,” she said.

“And I’ve not met another named Princess.”

She tilted her regal head at him. “Think of it as a title rather than a name.”

“Ahhh, as in
the
princess.”

“Just so.”

She was a sleek, perfectly sculpted column of ice, but he had been wrong. Her gown was not gray, but a faded powder blue. Outdated and worn, it hugged her slender form from shoulders to hips. Above the bodice, her breasts shone as pale and smooth as snowy hillocks. Her waist was narrow, her belly flat, and when she walked, she moved with an elegant, feline grace.

“And where is your kingdom, Princess?” he asked.

She lifted her hands, palms up as she glanced about. “Can’t you tell? You are in the midst of it.”

He eased back, trying to lie down with a modicum of grace, but pain conspired against him, stabbing deep, and he fell against the mattress like an axed cockerel, squeezing his eyes shut against the ripping agony.

Waves of pain wracked him, but he grappled through the darkness to the surface, finally opening his eyes to find her staring at him as if he were some strange new specimen. It almost made him laugh. Weakness, he was certain, was not a trait she would admire. Perhaps not even one she could comprehend.

“And tell me, Princess,” he rasped finally, gritting his teeth and struggling to roll onto his side before he
passed out like a misty-headed debutante. “Is Poke your prince?”

“Lie still,” she ordered, and, reaching down, moved to reposition his pillow. He fought to raise his head while she waited impatiently and finally shoved the goose-down under his ear.

Stifling a moan, he braced himself against the impact of that slight motion and peered up at a cockeyed angle. “I’m certain I shall be fine without your tender ministrations,” he said, when finally able to draw a breath.

She tilted a glance at him, perhaps reminding him that he could not quite lift his head.

He tried a one-shouldered shrug. It hurt like the devil, ripping pain through his entire being. “I can see it distresses you to see me in such anguish.”

Her eyes sparkled and for an instant he thought she might smile, but she did not. “Young Peter went to a good deal of trouble to get you here,” she said, and, reaching down, tugged the blanket higher on his chest. “We thought you were dead when first you collapsed on our doorstep, but Gemini found a pulse, and the bullet.” She stood back, studying him. “It was lodged against a rib. Took her half the night to dig it out.” His head felt light. “There was a good deal of blood.” And his stomach felt queasy. But certainly even the fiercest warrior felt the same now and again. “You would have thought we’d been butchering pigs in the parlor.”

He was going to vomit, he thought, but suddenly she laughed, and he realized that was her intent.

“Who are you really, Dancer?” she asked. “Where are you from?”

He had no way of knowing, but it made little difference, for only a fool would tell her the truth. But then the
question remained…was he a fool? “Have you ever been to Burnbury, Princess?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have,” she said, and watched him with curious closeness.

He gave her a smile. “Then I’m from elsewhere.”

She canted her head in concession, but when she spoke her tone was painfully earnest. “You don’t belong here.”

“What makes you think so?” he asked, and tried to turn on his side again, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Cease your wriggling before you do yourself even greater damage.”

Her hand felt warm against his biceps, and he realized for the first time that he wore no shirt, only a tattered bandage that crossed his chest at an oblique angle. He lifted his gaze from her hand to her face. Her Majesty had nothing on this woman, he thought, and realized with a breath-stopping jolt that he knew the queen of Sedonia, had known her for some time. He knew her because he was…who? Her guard? Her lover? Her hired assassin? Had she sent him here on some secret, royal mission?

“Are you about to swoon?” she asked.

He hustled his mind back to the present. He would wait, would bide his time. The memories were coming, and when they were complete he would fulfill Her Majesty’s command and return to her side. “Don’t look so hopeful,” he said, and forced his muscles to relax one by one. “Men don’t swoon.”

“But what of
you
?” she asked.

He would have laughed had he had the strength. As it was, he barely managed to speak. “You’re dreadfully skeptical, lass, for a princess.”

“And tell me, Dancer, have you known many?”

Memories crowded in again, pressing on his head, but he forced them back. Closed the door. Waited. “Dozens,” he said. “Or perhaps they only said they were princesses in an attempt to gain my favors.”

She gave him a sliver of a smile. “If you can manage to sit up,” she said finally, “I shall find you a bite to eat.”

His stomach felt queasy, and his mind unsteady, but he knew what he needed. Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. “I could use a drink.”

She stared at him. “Ahh,” she said finally. “So you don’t swoon, but you pass out.”

He shrugged as if conceding, though in truth he couldn’t remember. Perhaps he’d been drunk when he’d come here. But what man of action didn’t enjoy a drink now and again? “Entirely different,” he said, and she nodded.

“It matters naught to me. I believe Poke has a bit of Scotch in his chambers. I shall fetch you some.”

Struggling against the light-headed pain, he managed to sit up, then glanced around the room. Perhaps at one time it had been an elegant parlor of sorts, for it was large, with a high ceiling and arched doorways. But now it was nearly empty and hopelessly dingy, containing a few ratty pieces of furniture and a large stone fireplace. He lay on a divan of sorts. A crack ran diagonally across the wall opposite him, and a yellow stain covered a good portion of the ceiling.

Where was that drink? His chest hurt like hell. Glancing down, he saw with some surprise that blood had seeped into the drab bandage, and his hands were shaking.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and he looked up eagerly as she entered the room. She carried several things, but the mug was all that mattered. It seemed to take her
forever to cross the floor, but finally she was there. He curled his fingers around the cup. His hands shook in earnest now, but he managed to bear the Scotch to his lips, to drink deeply. His nerves eased immediately, and he tilted his head back, appreciating the warmth in his belly.

It wasn’t until then that he realized she was watching him.

“What does it cost you to feed that habit?” she asked.

“I take it you don’t approve of drinking spirits.” He felt more himself already. Whoever that was.

“As I’ve said, it matters little to me either way. I was just curious what you’ve given up for it.”

Tattered memories flashed through his brain. A funeral. He’d been drunk when they’d put her in the ground. But who was she? And how many times before that had he been just as inebriated? Memories of loss, of pain, sparked through him. He’d lost much. Is that what had driven him to his present occupation? Perhaps he had nothing else to lose. But in the back of his mind a tiny, disembodied voice taunted him. He still had his life. And if he wished to keep it that way, he’d best be careful with the Scotch, for despite his formidable abilities, he would need all his wits about him to survive the Den. Yes, for now he would put the drink aside. Just one more sip then. He took it. Warmth and comfort eased into his system. He kept his palms wrapped around the cup, but why should he not?

She was still watching him. He could sense her gaze on his face and looked up, feeling irritable. “You seem strangely judgmental,” he said, “for a thief.”

“Not at all,” she argued. She was not a woman who agreed easily. “The bottle is nearly full. Would you like me to fetch it?”

He snorted derisively. “I’m certain this will be plenty,” he said, but when next he glanced into the cup, he realized it was already empty. Something like panic burbled in his gut.

“Are you all right?”

He raised his gaze to hers, calming his nerves. The queen’s man could surely not be so easily unnerved. “I’ve been shot in the chest,” he said, and felt marginally better for the explanation.

“Ahhh. And so I should pity you?”

He gritted his teeth. His stomach roiled. “Did you know that some consider women to be the gentler sex?”

“Do they?”

“’Tis a widely accepted theory.” His legs shook, and he spasmed.

If she noticed she made no sign. “Maybe things are different here than in…somewhere else.”

He stared at her askance, trying to follow the conversation.

“Somewhere else,” she explained. “Where you come from. Are you quite well?”

“Certainly. I’m…” But suddenly his stomach was being ripped apart. “No,” he growled and leaning over the edge of the bed, spewed out the contents of his stomach. Spasms wracked him. He calmed, shivered, and spasmed again. It took him several moments to realize she had thrust a wooden bowl beneath his head. Rolling carefully back onto the mattress, he concentrated on breathing. Every fiber ached as if he’d been beaten.

Her face swam into view. His own felt hot, his mind the same, hot and heavy and barely coherent. “You poisoned me,” he accused and she laughed. The sound seemed loud and strangely musical in the closeness of the room.

“Don’t be daft, Dancer. You’ve poisoned yourself,” she said, then there was nothing but blackness.

“You feelin’ any better?”

Will looked about. Lucidity wavered in. Gem sat at his bedside, her wide eyes round and innocent, probably deceptively so.

“What day is it?” His voice was hoarse and broken.

“Don’t know. You need to eat somethin’.”

He croaked a sound.

“You want somethin’ to drink?”

He managed a nod.

“I think Master Poke’s got some Scotch. I’ll fetch—”

But his guts twisted threateningly at the thought. “Something easier on my stomach maybe.”

“Sure. Master Poke may be a—” She stopped, pursing her lips and glancing toward the door as if expecting a ghost at any moment. “We eat good ’ere at the Den. We got beer.”

“So you’re still alive.” Princess stood in the doorway.

Will’s stomach roiled at the sight of her. Anger flickered through him. She was probably the person he was supposed to bring to justice, he thought, and hoped quite passionately that she was. “Disappointed?”

She laughed. “Not a’tall,” she said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you dance.”

He scowled, but she was already gone.

“Want some beer?”

His chest ached like hell and his head felt fuzzy, light and hot and disoriented. Spirits would steady him, but his stomach crunched at the thought. “Water,” he said. “Just water.”

“You don’t drink no alcohol?”

His stomach cramped. His muscles twitched with pain, keeping him silent for a moment.

“I knowed a bloke once.” Her voice was soft and her expression dreamy, strangely out of place in this den of thieves. “He didn’t drink nothin’ but cider.”

Will tried to relax, though his body felt tight, his mind fidgety and irritable. “A past lover, Gem?”

“What?” She pulled herself from her reverie with a visible start. “Oh. No. ’E weren’t no lover. Just…” She paused and dropped her eyes. “You want some cider?”

“Can’t give Vic’s killer cider,” said a voice from the doorway.

Will glanced up, startled. A young man stood there. He was tall and lean, with a long angular face and eyes that sparked with mischief.

“What you talkin’ about?” Gem asked.

“Yes, Mr. Bald.” Poke entered the room, running a slow hand over the lad’s shoulder as he passed by. “What are you talking about?”

“Him,” said the boy, and easing away from the doorjamb, strode jauntily across the scarred floor. “He killed Vic.”

Holy hell. So he was an assassin! But who was Vic and why had he killed him?

The room went silent. Princess appeared in the doorway again and stopped to watch. The women’s gazes met and parted.

“Perhaps you should start at the beginning of this tale,” Poke said, and seated himself not far from the lone window. A bit of horsehair stuffing poked through a hole in the chair’s arm, but despite the state of the furniture, Poke looked as elegant as a princeling.

“I went down to Fairberry Square,” Peter said, his
voice rife with excitement. “Thought I’d see what was hatchin’. Sometimes there’s soldiers there.”

“I thought I told you to stay away from the soliders, Peter,” Princess said.

The lad grinned, letting his gaze stray to her. “You needn’t worry. They think they’re safe from rubbish like me. But you can distract ’em easy as kittens. There was a time—”

“Perhaps you should stick to the story, lad,” Poke suggested.