Lois Greiman (8 page)

“Yours and Poke’s?” he asked.

The dream disintegrated, leaving naught but a bitter taste behind. “Leave him be,” she said. “He can do you no harm?”

His lips twitched. “But perhaps he already has.”

She held her breath. “Did he steal from you?”

The world was absolutely silent, then he laughed. “From me? Of course not. I’m naught but a thief myself, remember? But perhaps he’s stolen from others. Others who are looking for him. Who will pay handsomely for—”

She hadn’t planned to threaten him physically. But she always had a knife hidden in her skirts, and suddenly it was in her hand and pressed up against his groin.

She watched him jerk at the brief prick of pain.

“Princess,” he said, “there’s seems to be a blade pressed into a rather sensitive part of my anatomy.”

She gritted her teeth and pressed harder. He tensed. “Leave him be,” she warned. “He’s been hurt enough.”

“Pardon me for saying so,” he said, “but speaking of another’s pain at this particular moment seems rather…ridiculous.”

“Promise me,” she rasped. “And I’ll not tell Poke you plan to kill him.”

“I didn’t say—”

“Make the vow,” she ordered, and gave the knife a careful twist.

He didn’t even flinch. “Is he yours?” he asked.

She clenched her teeth and tightened her grip on the knife.

“Is he?” he asked, and moved closer.

She could answer or drive the blade home. “No,” she gritted, “he’s not.”

His eyes narrowed as he watched her. “Why would the ice princess care about some ragtag lad with no hope of a future?” She almost dropped the knife, almost slipped to the floor, but she kept herself perfectly still. “There’s hope,” she whispered, and found she could say no more.

Silence whispered into the room.

“Because you’ll keep him safe,” he said.

She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to relax, to find her cool persona, to pull back from the precipice.

“You can’t harm Poke,” she reminded him. “But I can hurt you.”

His lips curled. “That I believe.”

“Then believe this,” she said. “If you so much as touch the boy, I’ll tell Poke you’re a spy.”

His eyes widened as if shocked by such a ridiculous notion, then he laughed. “Tell me, Princess, why would I be here if I were a spy?”

She shook her head at his naïveté. “So you still underestimate him. He is everywhere. Has his fingers in a thousand pies. Every government from here to France wants to know his plans.”

“Is that pride I hear in your voice, lass?”

She felt sick suddenly, weak and shaken, when he was
the one who was wounded. “It’s truth, Dancer,” she said. “I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know what you want, but I suggest you go back to where you came from, before it’s too late.”

H
e was healing. There was no doubt about that. His hands were all but steady and he could manage to make it unassisted to the privy, which was a huge improvement over the humiliation of the week past. More than a week by his calculations, and he felt certain his calculations were fairly accurate, for though he was still weak, his mind felt unusually clear, his perceptions startlingly sharp.

It was almost frightening how crystalline things seemed when undulled by the haze of liquor. Not that he wouldn’t kill to find that haze again, not that he didn’t yearn for it with the very marrow of his bones, but now, after days of abstinence, he realized the lunacy of drinking in his current situation. Although the noble acquaintances of his past may have been less than trustworthy, at least they weren’t likely to put a knife between his shoulder blades if he turned his back. He glanced around the room. The same couldn’t be said here.

Including himself, seven people sat around the dinner table. It was the first time he’d been asked to join in a meal. Indeed, it was the first time he realized there was a meal. But he had already learned that this was so much more than a simple dinner. It was the time when the
thieves presented their loot. The time when Poke meted out humiliation or compliments, depending on the circumstances, or his mood. The tension was like the tide, pulling Will in, roiling him under.

“Two oranges and a bouquet of wilted posies,” Poke said now. “I’m disappointed, Nim.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Jack. The boy had grown since his time at Landow Manor. He was taller, but no broader. His face was thin, his cheeks hollow and though he had almost certainly not continued to learn to read, it was clear he had learned other things, for he could act as if William was not even in the same room, as if they had not shared the remote comfort of another world. “I’ll do better tomorrow, if’n I get a decent meal.”

Poke tsked like a disappointed father. “As you well know, that’s not my decision,” he said, “though the others have not done a far sight better.” He glanced at the women, who sat side by side. Gem had produced a small wooden box with a broken hasp and Princess had donated a tattered bag of vegetables.

“So, Mister Bald,” Poke said as he poured a bit of whisky into a glass, “I hope your night was more successful.”

Peter sat down across the table from Will. Tall and angular, he looked lean and chagrined. “’Fraid the pickin’s was slim, Master Poke. No one about much what with the cold and the rain.”

Poke cocked his head. “If you let a bit of precipitation stop you, Mr. Bald, you may be dreadfully hungry by spring.”

“Well, I did get this,” Peter admitted.

He moved his arm and presumably something fell into his hand, because young Jack gasped.

There was a moment of silence, then, “Ahhh, Mr. Bald,” said Poke, reaching across the table. “Very good.”

So he had decided to hand over the prize he’d offered Gem. Relief mixed with regret and sluiced through Will in equal amounts, but in that instant Peter handed over his treasure—a pillbox made of porcelain. It was no bigger than a copper but even from this distance, William could tell its quality. It was gilded with gold and boasted an exquisite cameo on its lid.

“And pray, lad, where did you obtain this little jewel?” Poke asked.

“A lady in Uphill. She was givin’ her maid a sore scoldin’. Poor wee lass was barely the size of a butterfly.” He grinned. “I figured it was only fittin’ if she lost a bit of somethin’.”

Poke smiled with predatory pleasure. “Mister Bald, as masterful at righting wrongs as he is at filching treasures.”

Peter rubbed his hands together. “Looks like I’ll be divvying up the meal tonight.”

“What ’bout me?” Oxford had been absolutely silent so far, but when William glanced his way, the man’s excitement was clear. His body was tense, and his eyes glowed with some emotion Will could not quite identify.

“Ahh, Mr. Oxford,” Poke said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers. “Have you a gift to contribute to our happy family?”

Oxford’s sharp eyes skittered sideways and back. “Could be I got me a little somethin’.”

“Well…” Poke lifted his hands palm up. “Don’t keep us in suspense. What is it?”

Oxford licked his lips. “Just this,” he said, and dangled a strand of pearls over the table.

Gem gasped. Peter swore. Princess remained absolutely
still, frozen in place. Perhaps she saw what William saw—a streak of blood, marring the perfect, gleaming orbs.

His stomach roiled.

“Mr. Oxford, that is truly lovely,” Poke cooed. His tone was impressed as he reached for the necklace. But Oxford curled it back into his grimy fist and pulled his lips away from his teeth in the facsimile of a smile.

Poke settled slowly back into his chair. Silence sifted into the room. “Decided to go your own way, have you, Mr. Oxford?” His voice was soft, his lips smiling. Not a soul moved. Not a breath was drawn.

Ox swallowed. “’Course not,” he rasped. “But this little trinket wasn’t got easy.” There was blood on his hand, smeared with the dirt that caked his knuckles and nails. “And I just wants ta make sure I gets what’s comin’ ta me.”

Poke lifted an elegant hand, indicating the table in front of him. “As you well know, the spoils go to the night’s victor. The entire meal is yours if you like. Or you can distribute it as—”

“I want the Princess,” Ox growled.

The room went deadly silent. Will snapped his gaze to hers, but nothing showed in her eyes. Not fear, not anger, nothing.

“What’s that?” Poke asked, canting his head as if he hadn’t quite heard.

Oxford leered at his coveted prize, then spurted his gaze back to Poke. “I want ’er,” he said.

Poke laughed. “Granted, there’s not much flesh to her, but still, I fear you could never finish her off in one meal.”

Oxford licked his lips. Jack’s face was as white as death.

“I want ’er for the night.”

“Well, Mr. Oxford, as you know…” Poke smiled. “Princess is my lady. I hardly think it would be seemly to share—”

“Master Poke!” Gem interrupted, her tone sharp, her eyes ungodly large. “Ya only said food. We only choose the food for the night. You can’t—”

“Stay the ’ell outta this!” Oxford growled, leaning across the table and baring his dark-stained teeth. “It ain’t your turn tonight, missy.”

“Master—” Gem tried again, but Poke shushed her.

“Hush now,” he crooned, and gave Oxford a whisper of a smile. “I fear young Gemini is correct, Mr. Oxford. In the past the victor chose only the meal.”

“I don’t want the meal.”

“Well…” Poke turned up his palms and glanced around the table with a sheepish grin. “That would surely leave more for the rest of us. What say you, my young cubs?”

Jack’s hungry eyes were as wide as his plate. Peter’s were narrowed, and Gem’s knuckles were white atop the table’s rough grain.

“No response? Then I suspect—”

“This ain’t right.” Peter’s voice was low. Gone was the good-natured lad. In his place was a young man, teetering dangerously on the edge of explosion.

“Not right?” Poke said and blinked as though confused. “Are you saying this is morally wrong, Mr. Bald, or that you want our princess for yourself?”

Peter’s face reddened. He flickered his gaze to Princess and back. “It should be her choice.”

Poke laughed. “The spoils don’t choose. Isn’t that correct, Princess?”

Something sparked in her eyes, but she said nothing. William’s throat ached with the tension. Beneath the
table, he loosened his fists and remained perfectly still.

“I fear it is my unhappy decision to make, and I shall have to say…” Poke sighed as he scowled at the faces around him. “Oxford brought in a lovely prize. He deserves to choose his reward.”

Peter jerked to his feet. “Over my dead body.”

Poke smiled. “If needs be, Mr. Bald,” he said, and reached languidly into his jacket.

Peter stepped back and froze, his eyes wide with terror, but Poke only pulled out a cheroot and inhaled the scent. Oxford laughed as he rose to his feet. His chair grated against the floor and his footsteps rapped sharp and hollow as he paced around the table toward his prize.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Poke said, and shrugged as he struck a match and touched it to his cigar. “I shall save you some supper.”

She rose to her feet. Her gaze was steady on Poke, as though the Irishman weren’t directly behind her. As though he weren’t nearly touching her. His breath on her neck. His hand—

Fuck it to hell!

“Oxford!” William found himself standing, though he didn’t remember rising.

The Irishman flitted his narrow eyes sideways. “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, Mr. Fancy Trousers.”

He was right. So right. Holy hell! He was way over his head. He was a baron, for God’s sake. Wounded. Addled. Trapped. And she was a…

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you,” Will said.

The entire world went silent, then Oxford laughed, low and evil and happy.

“You?” He curled his lips away from his teeth. “You couldn’t kill a snake.”

Will’s mind was issuing a low, steady warning—sit down, shut up. Sit down. Shut up.

But he pushed back his chair. It scraped loud and jarring in the heavy silence. “Luckily,” he said, “I only have to kill you.”

Oxford faced him, then slowly pulled a knife. “’Ave at it,” he said.

Will’s legs felt weak. This wasn’t his way. This wasn’t him. He was a coward. A sniveling titled bastard who let others suffer rather than disturb his comfort.

“I ’ate ta kill twice in one day,” Ox rasped, “but a man’s gotta do what ’e’s gotta do.”

“Funny thing,” Will murmured. “It seems I just heard that recently.” All eyes were on him. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck. “Who was it…Ah, yes, that’s what Lord Rambert said.”

“What’s that?” Ox asked, turning his head slightly.

“Vic,” William explained and just managed to force himself away from the table. Far better to hide under it. Crawl away. Flee. “He said much the same thing. Just before…” He shrugged. Pain ripped through his shoulders and chest. Dammit all. He didn’t want to die. Not now. “But he was better armed than you.”

Oxford chuckled, but he skimmed the others as if looking for allies. “You’re a lying shit.”

“He ain’t,” Peter said. “Vic had him a gun in his hand when the watch found him.”

“Well, he shoulda used it then, eh?”

“’E did,” Gem whispered. “Twice. I took out the bullets meself.”

And the wounds burned like hell. Damn! He was going to pass out. Will took a step forward. “Take the meal, Ox,” he advised. “It’ll be healthier.”

Ox shuffled his feet and glanced about, but in the same second, he lunged.

Terror screamed through Will. Death! Pain! He reached out wildly, trying to block the charge. A chair crashed into Oxford’s face. The Irishman staggered backward and dropped to the floor like a dazed cow.

William stared down at his hands. The remains of a slat-backed chair dangled from his fingers. He lifted his gaze to Oxford, who lurched drunkenly to his feet.

Dammit all! He was going to charge again! He was going to—

“You’ll pay!” hissed the Irishman, and, wiping his bloodied mouth, staggered from the room.

Silence fell like nightfall, then someone clapped.

It took an eternity for Will to realize the applause came from Poke. “Excellent,” he cheered, taking the cheroot from his mouth. “Such drama. I couldn’t see better on a London stage.”

Will realized a bit belatedly that he had arrived at Shandria’s chair. Their gazes met.

“Are you well?” His voice sounded oddly normal.

“Yes, my dear,” cooed Poke, “are you quite well?”

Anger stabbed through Will’s system like poisonous needles. He turned and took a stiff step toward the Den’s master. But in that instant he felt something cold and sharp against his neck.

He scowled, turning his gaze downward.

Princess stared up at him, her cool eyes inches from his. In her hand was a knife, and its point rested against his jugular.

Sanity floated in like wispy clouds. What the hell had he just done? And why? If he was reading her sentiments correctly, and he thought he was, she didn’t want his help. He should have figured that out earlier, because it
would just be embarrassing to die now, on her blade. He’d just fought the villain for her. His mind felt muzzy, his hands unsteady. And damn, if he retched he was going to be a laughingstock.

So he smiled into her eyes. “My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were attracted to him.”

It almost seemed that her hand shook, but it didn’t matter, for the point stayed exactly where it was, and he had no doubt in his mind she would send the tip home. Dammit! He hated blood.

“No one fights my battles, Dancer,” she said.

“Even you?”

She smiled. There was not the least bit of joy in the expression. “I do what I will when I will,” she said. “And it has naught to do with the likes of you.”

For a moment he went insane. He knew it, because for one tattered second he actually considered yanking her up against him. Considered ignoring the knife and kissing her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said instead.

She nodded and drew the blade away from his throat. “You do that,” she suggested, “and you may live out the night.”

The room fell silent.

“Oh, bravo!” Poke was clapping again, but louder now and with immense enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen a livelier performance. Excellent. Just excellent. Well…” Rubbing his hands together, he reached for a bowl of turnips. “There’s nothing like the threat of death to stimulate one’s appetite. Let’s eat.”

Princess drifted into her chair.

As for Will, it was all he could do to reach his room before he silently expelled the contents of his stomach into the privy bowl.