Nero's Fiddle (7 page)

Cara’s imagination had conceived a tiny run-down cottage with only a couple of rooms.
Got the run-down bit right.

She regarded a modest two-storey home constructed of rough-hewn pale stone. The insipid sunlight lit the brickwork. It glowed like honey and emitted a visual warmth, drawing her closer. The entire structure oozed a charming appeal. Boston ivy rampaged up the walls and reached arms around to embrace the windows. Winter stripped the plant’s frame bare and the scattered leaves formed a dense blanket over the frozen earth below. A banksia rose refused to acknowledge winter and clung to the little portico with a profusion of dark green leaves, waiting for the slightest provocation to burst forth with toffee-coloured blooms.

“This would be beautiful in summer.” The image before her was far easier to imagine swathed in spring growth than the Styx at her back.

Nate stood on the narrow path behind her. “This whole spot is, despite the fact you think my family home is fit only for firewood.”

“Having seen where you grew up, I can only assume you modelled your demeanour after its dark exterior.” She still dreamed of torching the house and starting from scratch in a more modern and welcoming style.

Silence descended, broken only by the rustle of dry leaves captured by a faint breeze. For one beat, Cara’s heart stood alone, without its constant companion as Nate withdrew into himself. She reached out a hand to him and with a sigh he reopened the bond. She moved closer to his side, aware she scraped an old wound deep in his soul.

“I learned to guard my emotions by watching my family, and it’s been a valuable skill. It doesn’t pay to show your cards in my line of business, or to let the
ton
spot a weakness.”

He squeezed her hand and then released her. He put his shoulder to the heavy door, cracking it open on protesting hinges. A gust of wind caught the pile of leaves on the doorstep, swept them inside, and scattered them down the hallway.

Cara stepped into the gloomy interior. Entering the first room on her left, she discovered the charming exterior hid a rotten core. Once bright chintz wallpaper had given up vertical hold and slumped to the ground. Leaves and dirt littered the floor and piled up along the skirting. Spiders were so large in the corners they looked like they dined on lost birds. The only furniture was a chair, left in the window overlooking the lake.

“Clean this place out, and it will make a lovely home again.” The cold ate through her fur-lined coat and seeped into her bones. “Especially if you add a boiler and those heating pipes Jackson had installed in the main house.”

“The men have been up in the roof and say she is structurally sound.” Nate rapped on a wall. “Jackson is going to move in, he is taking on the role of running this branch of our empire.”

Cara’s gaze roamed around the leaf-littered rooms. Broken glass in the window allowed the wind to push leaves inside to dance around the floor. A mouse darted out and disappeared through an opening in the skirting. Above their heads, the cast iron arms of a simple chandelier hung on an angle, as though a large creature roosted every night and threw off the balance. Looking underneath, she spotted the tell-tale pile of excrement, but couldn’t tell if it was bat or gargoyle.

“It does bear a striking resemblance to places he likes to frequent in London.”

Nate moved on silent feet beside her. “Tread lightly there, he lost everything.”

Grief washed over her and she cocked her head to regard her husband.

“I saw the house behind the hangar.” She thought back to Jackson’s movements down in the dusty kitchen. The way he handled the embroidered apron hanging by the cold range and the caress he gave the wooden high chair. “What happened?”

Nate strode to the window and leaned on the side, looking out over the still water. “It was four years ago. My influence started to be felt by a certain individual. Turf wars erupted between my men and the leader of the larger rookeries, but we didn’t shut them down fast enough. I made mistakes as my business expanded.”

His voice drifted away and Cara moved closer, to nestle into his side, waiting for his story to continue.

“Saul Brandt, the leader of the St Giles Rookery, sent men to slit their throats and left them in the kitchen for Jackson to find. It was a warning. I was expected to run and hide in Mayfair.”

Her arms stretched around his torso, tears welled in her heart for all the bodyguard lost. “Did you go to the Enforcers?”

He gave a snort. “And what would they have done?”

“So what happened to the men responsible?”

“We found them. Nobody touches those we protect.” His tone chilled her, his voice as cold as the nearly frozen lake. “We took down thirty of Brandt’s men in a single night and brought the Rookery under my control. Since that night, nobody has ever doubted my position. It’s also why your Inspector Fraser hates the sight of me.”

Cara’s heart raced. “Thirty men?” she whispered, and took a step back. “How?” Her voice trailed away as her mind processed the new information.

He let her retreat to the far wall; his cold blue stare never left her face. The valve closed, leaving her alone with her turmoil.

“If I donned a uniform, went off to war, and killed in the name of England, would it make my past easier to bear?”

She shook her head. No, it didn’t make it easier. Killing an enemy on a battlefield was different. “This was no war—”

“Yes it was. It was a war that erupted on English soil and under the noses of impotent Enforcers.”

Uncertainty skated through her mind. War happened when countries clashed, soldiers fought for freedom, to protect, not for territory and profit.

“This wasn’t the slaughter of innocent people, Cara. Military warfare is indiscriminate, it kills children and women. We targeted each and every man because of their involvement. They all had blood on their hands. They used their positions to abuse those without protection.”

“You make killing them sound like a humanitarian act.” Nausea broke in waves through her gut. She put a hand on her stomach, hoping she wouldn’t lose her lunch.

“Do you know how many people died each week in the Rookery?” His tone softened.

She didn’t understand his question. She knew he had killed in his past, but thirty men in a night was slaughter. “What do you mean? People die all the time in London.”

“Exactly. Is that not worth fighting for? Can those dwelling in poverty not have a better life?”

She frowned, trying to puzzle out his motives. Was he a crime lord motivated only by profit, or a philanthropist?

“Since I took control of the Rookery, children are no longer deformed by their parents to make better beggars. Women can walk the streets without fear of rape. I set up kitchens to provide one hot meal a day to whoever needs one. Victoria was not amused with my methods, but she damn well approved of the results. After that incident, she agreed to stay out of my business as long as the gutters never ran red again.”

Would she ever understand how his mind worked? He married her to save her and took on the Rookery to feed starving children. “And what did you get in return?”

“Loyalty.”

They stood in silence, each lost in reflections of the past.
When is a war not a war?
Did the deaths of thirty men justify saving hundreds of women and children from the shadow of abuse and murder? Her stomach settled and she let out a slow breath.
I don’t know the answer.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Victoria knew?” Would the queen let a cold-blooded murderer walk the streets, or did she see this as an act by one of her soldiers?
There’s something to ask next time we’re hauled in for an interview.

How so many broken people could come together and heal each other. She needed time to process her thoughts. “After Christmas, I’m going back to London. Alone. I need some time to think.”

His hand curled into a fist at his side. “You knew what I was the day you stepped into my carriage. I have never hidden the nature of my activities from you.”

She gave a small smile. “I’m not saying I don’t love you, but this—” She waved her hands trying to conjure the words, but none appeared. He killed thirty men in cold blood; it was no sky-high battle between pirate airships. She didn’t know how she felt apart from conflicted. “Let me go, Nate, to think.”

He gave a terse nod and she headed out the door on her own.

hristmas was a subdued affair. Cara saw the shades of murdered men loitering against the dark wood of the dining room. She found herself fixated on Nate’s hands as he carved the turkey and wondered how much blood he had to scrub from under his blunt nails.

On Boxing Day, she planned a quiet exit and packed a few belongings before saying goodbye to Amy, Nan and Nessy. Bag in hand, she descended to the main entranceway and waited in the hall for Nate.

He strode through from the front parlour with an enormous man on his heel. “Cara, this is Brick. Jackson suggested him as his replacement and he will accompany you to London.”

Cara’s gaze started at steel-riveted work boots and rose up, and up. The man stood at least six foot six and could barely squeeze through the door frame.

“You call him that because he’s built like a brick sh—”

“Yes, he does bear a striking resemblance to an outdoor convenience.”

The man’s eyes stayed locked on the middle distance, not meeting her stare. Like all of Nate’s men, he kept his hair military short so an opponent had nothing to grab. Tree trunk arms folded over a barrel sized chest.
He’s a flesh-covered automaton.
Although a well-dressed flesh-covered automaton.
Nate’s standards dictated all the men wear suits and waistcoats, handmade by his own tailor to conform to the large and muscled bodies. This one wore a wide green pin-stripe. Black leather peeked out at one cuff, holding the blade strapped to his forearm.

She walked around the man, spotting various bulges, and tried to guess what weapons he concealed about his person. “Where do you find them, Nate? Big and brawny?”

He kept his hands in his pockets. Over the last few days, he found other things to keep them occupied rather than reaching for her, and honoured his word to give her space, both physical and mental. “Many of the men are pugilists looking for better employ. I recruited Brick five years ago. He normally works the machine room, but Jackson hand-picked him to protect you.”

Cara remained to be convinced; knowing Jackson selected her new shadow made her suspect an underlying joke. She just didn’t know what the punch line was yet.

“He tells me you won’t be giving Brick the slip.” The faintest smile quirked his lips and then vanished.

Cold dread formed in her gut.
What has Jackson lumbered me with?
Raw power and menace rolled off Brick like he doused himself in eau d’lethal. She gave a sigh. Nate would let her go, but he would make sure someone had her back. “The airship is waiting, let’s go.”

Nate searched her face; after a pause, he reached out and took her hand. He stroked his thumb over her skin. “Be safe in London. I will join you after New Year’s.”

The Hellcat made short work of the trip back to the captial and she avoided her new tail the entire time. Cara stood at the bridge and stared out the window, watching the patchwork of fields below turn into houses and streets. They descended and landed on the ample lawn of the Mayfair mansion. Cara trotted over the frozen snow and headed straight inside.