Viscount of Vice (11 page)

Gideon finished lacing, and she tied the petticoats on and pulled the dress over her head. Gideon had to help her with the ties and pins on that too. And then there were shoes and her hair, and she'd forgotten to tie her bloody pockets on. She needed them for her knife. Finally, she was ready. What an awful ordeal!

Marlowe stepped out of the curtain and walked back to the main room. Gideon and his cubs were ready—Tiny, Stub, and Joe. Tiny and Stub were young but quick. Joe was fast, and sometimes Satin called him Racer. Joe would stand lookout and race to tell them if they'd been discovered. It was her task to ensure the boys were not discovered.

When she stepped into the common room, every pair of eyes fastened on her. Not on her, exactly, on her bubbies. This was why she hated dressing like a girl. The boys forgot she could give them a black eye, and started slobbering over her female parts. Marlowe put her hands on her hips. “What are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen bubbies before?”

Some of the boys looked down, but a few grinned at her. One was a cub who'd joined the gang a few years after she had. She didn't know his real name, but he went by Beezle. He was almost as tall as Gideon, and he was strong. Marlowe wasn't certain she could beat him in a brawl. The bawds tended to avoid him, and Marlowe knew he had a reputation for violence. Beezle's gaze stayed on her long after she met his glare straight on. Any other boy would have looked away.

Satin stepped between the two. “Off you go. I want a good haul. I'll meet you at the fencing ken.” Gideon handed Marlowe a large burlap sack, and the four cronies stepped outside.

Seven Dials came alive at night. In daylight, it sometimes appeared the sole haunt of the lowest prostitutes and invalids who stooped in every doorway. The bawdy houses and taverns were shuttered and dark, though the gin shops were always open and filled with drunks. In the weak daylight, children and maimed soldiers who were out and about slinked by or crouched in corners, forgotten and forlorn, with their hands out. But darkness had descended now, and with it every man, woman, or child who thrived in the shadows. The streets were crowded, with men and women spilling out of brightly lit public houses. Marlowe watched gentlemen from Mayfair stumble about drunkenly. They would be easy pickings.

“We'll make more on the better-racket,” Gideon said, tucking the bess under his coat. He'd use the tool to force the house's door open. He walked beside her, almost protectively. She drew more attention in the dress than she liked. She nodded at the truth of his statement. Besides, she was in no hurry to encounter any more gentlemen tonight. She hadn't forgotten her run-in with the man who called himself Sir Brook. Now she found herself studying every swell they passed, worried it might be he. But he'd said she could come to him. He'd told her where his office was located. Actually, he'd tried to give her his card. Was the man a fool? She couldn't take his card. What if Satin found it?

“You know how this works,” Gideon said now as they moved toward the sundial, marking the entrance to Seven Dials. It also marked their exit. Marlowe focused on Gideon's words, rather than think about the events of the afternoon. She couldn't afford to be distracted.

“Marlowe will knock on the door and spill her tale.” He handed her a sheet of parchment. She opened it and sighed. She could pick out a few words and saw this was the shipwreck cock-and-bull. She'd used it a hundred times. The paper was a forged passport for Theodosia Buckley. She'd show it to make her story seem more credible. She'd ask for money so she could take the post back home to Shropshire. She probably wouldn't get much blunt, if any, but that wasn't the point. While she detained the owners of the house, Gideon, Stub, and Tiny would gut the place. Joe would stand guard in case the Watch or a carriage passed by. The boys would check all clear before they climbed back out the windows, and when she heard Joe's signal, she'd finish her Banbury tale and meet at the rendezvous.

“Where is the rendezvous?” she asked when Gideon had finished going over the boys' jobs. They all knew what to do, but Gideon liked to make sure everyone was prepared.

“The house is in Cheapside, near a bookstore,” Gideon told her. “We meet there. I'll point it out when we pass.”

They passed out of Seven Dials, and Gideon suggested they split into two or three groups. A gang of five might look suspicious. Marlowe moved toward Tiny. Usually she walked with the smallest boy because people often thought they were mother and son, but Gideon put his hand on her arm. “Walk with me.” He tucked her arm in his, and the two strolled ahead as though they were lovers out for a walk. When they'd left the boys behind, Gideon said, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“Marlowe, I know you. What's wrong?”

She bit the pad of her thumb. Of course she hadn't been able to hide anything from Gideon. “Gap and I were doing a dive on Piccadilly. Gap picked a bubble, and when I bumped into the game, he grabbed me and called me Elizabeth.” She whispered the name, though she knew no one could hear her.

“You looked like someone he knows,” Gideon suggested.

Marlowe shook her head. “I was dressed like a boy, but even if he'd seen through my disguise, he was looking for me. He told me he'd been waiting.”

“But Gap picked him.”

“I know.” The inspector must have been watching them for several days, noting their movements. It troubled her, but not as much as what he'd said when he'd pulled her into a private doorway. “He said my parents hired him to find me. They want me to come home.”

“Satin said—”

“I know what Satin said. He found me lost and abandoned in a park. He saved me.” But if that was true, why did she remember being loved, being happy? Satin had said she hadn't known her name, probably hadn't been given one. He claimed she was the daughter of a bunter—a half beggar, half whore. But she remembered a mother who was soft and smelled sweet. She remembered she'd been sung to and cradled and called Elizabeth.

As though he'd read her mind, Gideon said, “Are those memories or…” He trailed off, and she filled in the rest. She'd often wondered herself if her remembrances were just wishful thinking. But if they were just fantasies, how did she know that
dilly,
dilly
lullaby? It wasn't as though she'd heard it in St. Giles.

“Sir Brook couldn't have known about any of that,” she said finally.

“Sir Brook?”

“He said that was his name. He's an investigator.”

“Bow Street? Marlowe, either he's trying to crimp you, or this is some sort of new rig.” He sped up. “That's the bookstore.”

They ducked into the doorway, and Marlowe realized the conversation was over. Gideon was probably right. After all, how likely was it that she was the daughter of a great rum mort? More likely, she was the by-blow of a bunter. Brook had set up some sort of rig, and she was the bubble. But if it was a game, it was a good one. He'd even known when to walk away. He'd caught her attention and then told her to come to him if she was interested in meeting her parents. And then he'd walked away, leaving her standing on Piccadilly with her mouth hanging open. He hadn't even asked for his blunt back.

“So what are you going to do?” Gideon asked as they waited for the boys to join them.

“Nothing,” she said. She hadn't exactly decided, but if she told Gideon she was considering Sir Brook's offer, he'd give her a long lecture about what a bad idea that was. And Gideon would be right. As Satin liked to point out, he spent a lot of time and effort training her and the other cubs. He'd fed them, clothed them, sheltered them. He took it personally when one of his cubs ran away. Few did so more than once. And if a boy did run away again, he was likely to be found floating in the Thames.

Marlowe had only ever tried to run away once, when she was about twelve. For her pains, Satin had beaten her to within an inch of her life. As she'd lain there, bleeding and crying, he'd leaned close to her ear and said, “I will never let you go, Marlowe. You're too valuable to me. I'd rather you were dead than free.”

“Satin will never let me go,” she said.

“He has plans for you,” Gideon said without looking at her. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets and looked as if he didn't care what Satin planned, but Marlowe had a feeling Gideon didn't approve. “A big racket. He'll have to cut line without you, and he's invested too much for that.”

Marlowe suspected Satin was saving her for a big racket. She'd seen him whispering with Beezle on several occasions. Once or twice, they'd glanced her way. It was no surprise. She was the best thief the Covent Street Cubs had. But the better the suit, the more likely she'd be caught and thrown in Kings Head Inn. Newgate was not where she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

Neither did she want to spend it bilking for Satin. But what would she say to her parents now? If they had the blunt to hire a nob like Sir Brook, they were rich—by her standards, at any rate. They'd take one look at her and tell her to get out. At least she was wanted and needed by the Covent Garden Cubs.

“Here they come,” Gideon said, alerting her to the boys' arrival. “You ready, Marlowe?”

“Always.” And she meant it. She put away thoughts of mothers and fathers. She couldn't afford to feel mushy inside or worry whether someone would love her or not. If this racket produced only dead cargo, she'd have a lot more to worry about than whether lovebirds sang in the trees or if Mommy would tuck her in at night.

She straightened her shoulders, gave a nod to Gideon and the boys, then went around the house they'd be robbing. She gave them a moment to get in position before crossing the street and starting up the walk. She heard the clop of horse hooves on the street behind her, but it wasn't unusual for people to be out and about this time of evening. She glanced back at Joe, who stood in the shadows on the corner, and he gave her the all clear. Just a carriage passing by. Nothing to concern her. There was nothing wrong with knocking on someone's door, and that was all the carriage's occupants would see her do.

She started up the steps, and too late spotted a movement from the servants' steps leading to the basement below. Before she could react, a man grabbed her, lifted her as though she was a sack of potatoes, and threw her over his shoulder. She fought and she screamed, but for all her clawing and scratching and punching, he held on. Joe was coming for her, and she screamed for him. He'd save her. If not Joe, Gideon. She would not be spirited away like this. She was certain of that.

And then she was shoved into a carriage, and a sack pulled over her head. Darkness descended.

Dane stared out the window of his coach and wondered what the hell had possessed him to lend it to Brook. How was staring at a street in Cheapside more interesting than Lady Yorke's soiree?

Oh, very well. Just about anything was more interesting than Lady Yorke's soiree. Watching grass grow was more interesting, and sitting in his carriage for the last hour, circling the same street, was about as interesting as watching grass grow. He sighed and massaged his temples. He might as well sit here. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do, since Parliament did not sit tonight. He smiled, thinking of the speech he'd given at the last session. It had been a rousing denunciation of a proposed bill to allocate more funds to help the poor.

The poor! What about the military or the farmers? What about the deuced Irish problem? Dane had argued quite successfully—as the bill had been defeated—that the poor deserved their fate. They were lazy or preferred sloth to hard work. Dirty, uneducated, and immoral, the lowest classes were barely human. Best the country look to the future—feeding its people and defending them.

As an earl, Dane not only had the responsibilities of a landowner, a peer, and a member of Parliament, he had social duties as well. He was so utterly weary of the same balls, the same insipid debutantes, the same ridiculous conversations about the weather. He hated London during the Season. And this was only the beginning. Duty could be extremely tedious.

He'd thought if he accepted invitations and made appearances, his mother, the Dowager Countess of Dane, would stop haranguing him about finding a wife. If anything, she was worse than she had been before. He should just pick a girl already and be done with it. They were all the same, at any rate.

If Brook had been sitting here, he would have rolled his eyes and said Dane had it
so
hard
, being the earl. But not everyone could be a hero like Brook. Not everyone could go about saving people. Someone had to be ordinary.

But devil take him, if this was what Brook's position entailed, then the man was welcome to his heroics. Dane was about to fall asleep from the sheer tedium.

The coach began to move, and Dane frowned. He hadn't ordered his coachman to drive. Were they being waylaid by highwaymen? At least that would make the evening a bit more interesting.

And then he heard the scream.

Dane shot up and opened the curtains just as his brother's voice called out, “Open the door. Open the bloody door!”

Dane threw open the carriage door, even though the conveyance was still moving. It slowed briefly, and Brook threw a wild animal inside the carriage. Dane jumped back, out of range of the creature's claws, just as Brook dove inside and slammed the carriage door. “Drive!” he yelled.

The carriage lurched forward, racing at a speed that could not be safe, even had they not been on the crowded streets of London. But he had no time to worry about the jehu's dangerous driving. The creature lunged at him, scratching at his leg and managing to get a pretty good bite of his calf. “Ow!” he yelled, shaking it off.

It fell back, and Brook threw a hood over its head. That confused it, and his brother took advantage of its disorientation and bound its hands.

Hands? It was human?

“What the devil is that?” Dane asked.

“It's a who, and her name is Elizabeth,” Brook told him, teeth clenched with the effort it took to secure the knot in the rope binding its—her—arms.

“That is a woman?” A woman had just bitten him? Damnation, but his leg hurt like hell. He peered closer and noted the dirty dress she wore. His gaze traveled upward…yes, she was definitely a woman.

“That,” Brook said, falling back into the squabs in exhaustion, “is Lady Elizabeth Grafton.”

Dane had always thought that when the day came and his brother made a mistake—a monumental mistake, the sort Dane was exceedingly careful never to make—he would be glad. But damn if his leg did not hurt him, and he was too worried for his brother's sanity—and truth be told, his own safety—to be able to say
I
told
you
so
.

Dane glanced at the woman again. He didn't know who she was, but she was not the daughter of the Marquess of Lyndon. She was some sort of street rat. The smell of her alone was enough to prove bathing was not a luxury she frequently, if ever, enjoyed. And her language. No lady knew words like those she'd spewed at Brook. Dane didn't even know some of the curses. And the dirt. He'd have his valet clean these breeches immediately.

“Are you feeling well?” Dane asked. “Have you hit your head recently?”

Brook glared at him. “It's her.”

But before Dane could dispute him, the creature—female, if Brook insisted—must have caught her breath, because she began thrashing around again. She couldn't see with the hood over her eyes, and her claws were restrained, but she could still kick. Dane moved from one side of the seat to the other to avoid her quick feet. She would make a fearsome pugilist if her fists were as fast as her feet.

“I can't take her to Lord Lyndon like this,” Brook said.

Dane frowned. He didn't like the implications of that statement. When Brook didn't go on, he suggested, “You could toss her back out on the street.” He looked out the window and saw they were in Mayfair now. Perhaps they should not unleash such a creature on Mayfair. They might keep driving and leave her somewhere safer. Somewhere like Scotland. Or the Americas.

“I'm not tossing her back on the street.”

The woman quieted, as though listening for her fate.

“We could put her on a ship. Australia might be far enough away.”

“No!” the wench cried and began thrashing again. Dane held out a hand to protect himself.

Brook rolled his eyes. “Dane.”

Dane spread his hands. “You said yourself she was a thief. That's the least of the punishments she might receive.”

“True, but I was thinking we might reform her.”

Dane narrowed his eyes, and the girl spoke up for the first time. “I don't want no reforming.” Her voice was muffled beneath the hood.

Dane pointed an accusatory finger at the woman. “You heard her. She doesn't
want
no
reforming
.”

“Nevertheless, we take her home—”

“Home!”

“And we clean her up and make her presentable before we give her to Lord and Lady Lyndon.”

“No!” This from the creature.

This time Dane didn't avoid her kicks, and his knee suffered the consequences. “Damn it!” Those breeches would be past saving.

“Let me go,” she screamed, kicking again. “You bloody cockchafer! Let me out, you bastard boat-licker!” She went on, and Dane glanced at his brother incredulously. He'd never heard a woman speak thus.

“I feel as though I should take notes,” he said over the noise. “I might impress the fellows at Gentleman Jackson's.”

“You might be thrown out,” Brook observed. “In any case, I'm taking her to Derring House.”

Now Dane was out of patience. “No, you are not. Susanna is there, and Mother. We cannot inflict this”—he gestured to her contemptuously—“upon them.”

“Nonsense,” Brook said, folding his arms across his chest in a gesture Dane knew meant he had made up his mind. “Unlike you, they love a good charitable cause. And it wouldn't kill you to smudge those lily-white hands once in a while.”

Dane looked at his spotless gloves. It might not kill him, but it would certainly pain him. “I thought the idea was to keep the rabble and the criminals
out
of Derring House. It's bad enough one can't walk the streets without having one's pocket emptied, or that highwaymen all but own the roads. A man's home should at least be safe.”

Brook scowled. “You sound like Father.”

“And look what happened to him. The last housebreaking killed him.”

“He was already ill and fading.”

“The pilfering and ransacking of his home certainly hastened the end.”

Brook did not argue, and Dane took his brother's silence as tacit agreement. Dane had lived in London for part of the year all his life, and he was familiar with every sort of crime and criminal. He'd been the target of crime more often than he could count. But Dane carried a heavy walking stick or a pistol when warranted. He could handle himself. The death of his father, though, had angered Dane and fueled his hatred of the lowest class, what he thought of as the criminal class.

When they arrived at the town house near Berkeley Square, Dane stood firm. He was the earl, though his brother often conveniently forgot, and he was not going to allow this wench—that was the only polite word he could think to call her—in his home. Unlike many of the older homes, the kitchen and scullery of Derring House had been situated in the rear yard, which was accessible either through the service rooms or from the outside via a short walkway. The location reduced the risk of the house burning if the kitchen caught fire, and provided for a larger suite of service rooms. His mother and Susanna would still be out, and most of the servants would be in their quarters at this hour. The kitchen should be empty.

Dane instructed the coachman to stop near the servants' stairs before the carriage would be visible to the butler, who was undoubtedly keeping watch for their return.

Dane looked at Brook over the still-fighting woman. Didn't the wench ever tire? “How do we extricate her?”

“We carry her.”

That did seem to be the only way, but that didn't mean Dane had to like it.

“If we bring her into the house proper—”

Dane raised a hand, cutting his brother off. With a sigh, he removed his gloves and his coat and showed his brother with hand motions what they would do. If the woman didn't know what was coming, she couldn't plan her attack. Brook nodded, made some of his own hand gestures, which elicited a rather vulgar one from Dane, and then with a sigh, Dane opened the carriage door and hopped out. He nodded, and Brook shoved the woman out the door and into Dane's arms.

He knew better than to hold her too close. As he'd seen Brook do, he tossed her over his shoulder and held her knees close to his chest so she couldn't kick him as hard, or anywhere truly vulnerable. He winced at the stench of her and thought perhaps he would simply burn the shirt after this. Dane looked up at the coachman, who was staring at them open-mouthed.

“Not a word.”

“Yes, my lord.”

She was lighter than Dane had expected, and he carried her quite easily down the steps and into the kitchen. Brook went ahead of them, opening the door and lighting a lamp so they could see. Adjacent to the kitchen proper was a small common room where the servants ate or sewed or congregated when they had free time. Dane elected to put her in one of the chairs in the common room. It was farther away from knives and other items that might be used as weapons.

He set her down and jumped back. She immediately flailed around and fell off the chair. Brook nodded at her. “You should untie her. She can't use her hands to catch herself.”

“
You
untie her,” Dane said, but he knew he was going to have to do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't leave her tied up. It wasn't humane. Gingerly, he approached her. She seemed to sense where he was, because the hood turned in his direction, and she kicked out at him. He avoided her feet and managed to slide behind her. He grabbed her wrists and attempted to loosen the rope. That wasn't going to work. She'd tightened the knots with all her fighting. Dane went to the kitchen, found a small, sharp knife, and returned.

But he couldn't cut the rope without cutting her if she continued to squirm. “Listen,” he said, jumping away when she turned toward his voice and aimed a kick. “I'm going to cut the ropes, but you have to be still, or I'll accidentally cut you.” He spoke quietly and calmly, as he might when addressing a skittish mare.

“I'm going to kill you,” she screeched.

Brook's brows shot up. Dane tried to keep calm. “That would be much easier to accomplish if your hands were free.”

She stopped kicking long enough to consider these words. Finally, she said, “If you try anything—”

“Woman, I assure you, I have no designs on your virtue.
Nothing
you do could tempt me.” In the light of the lamp he could see even more clearly the stained dress she wore, the ring of dirt at her wrists, and the half-moons of black under her fingernails. And there was the odor of her unwashed body. He had no desire to move any closer to her. As he watched, she held out her wrists so they were away from her back. Cautiously, Dane stepped beside her and knelt. She didn't move when he slipped the knife under the ropes. He sawed once, and she was free. He jumped back as quickly as she did. Immediately, she pulled off her hood and crouched low, surveying her surroundings.

Dane could only stare at her. “You're just a girl.”

Her head whipped in his direction, her dark hair flying in front of her face. “I may be a girl, but I can take you.”

Dane held his hands up to ward her off. “I have no doubt you would like to try.”

“We will not hurt you,” Brook said.

“
You
,” she sneered. “You nabbed me. What is this place?” She looked around. “A bawdy house?”

Dane raised a brow. “It's a kitchen.”

She did not look as though she believed him, and she continued to jerk her head about, jumping at the slightest sound. Dane was intrigued. He'd judged her thirty or older. She had a woman's body, but her face was still that of a girl's. She couldn't be more than one and twenty, if that. And though her hair was a bit matted, her face had been scrubbed clean—or at least relatively clean. So perhaps she did not relish being dirty. She had large blue eyes that flashed with anger and hatred. This was no simpering miss. The ladies at Almack's would have fainted dead away.