Page 20

Fifteen

Simon bristled at the very sight of James Brody.

The fact that he was in the same space as Eliza only served to put Simon further on edge.

Brody was unpredictable. Circumstance dictated his wickedness, but it was often complemented by the delight he took in his own moral decay.

Most knew that Brody had a strong hand but thought he could be reasoned with.

They had good reason for thinking that. Brody wanted them to think that.

But Simon had seen with his own eyes what happened when his tightly moderated control snapped.

He’d seen the man go too far. He’d seen how his eyes lit up with the ecstasy of unbridled power.

Simon had seen him break a man just because he could get away with it.

“Brody,” he said in acknowledgment.

“Wot are ye doin’ here?” Brody asked. He gave no clue to what he wanted.

Simon came back frequently, and it was no surprise that Brody knew that. Brody had men everywhere, knew what was happening on every corner of his part of the city. The only surprise here was that the criminal had sought him out.

“Wot do ye want?” Simon asked, though he kept the annoyance from his voice.

Eliza’s hands were pressed to his back, and he took comfort in the fact that she seemed willing to stay behind him and allow him to lead the talk.

He’d turned them slightly so that their backs were facing the wall and not Brody’s men who followed them in the alley.

“I’ve arranged your next task. Thought we’d discuss it.” Brody’s eyes roved over what he could see of Eliza. “Who’s this?”

Simon couldn’t appear too defensive; it would only draw more of Brody’s attention to her. Instead, he said truthfully, “A new friend. Anne.”

“Anne…” Brody let the name roll over his tongue. “You’re a pretty gal, Anne. Wot are ye doin’ with a bloke like this one?”

She shifted and Simon put his palm against her thigh, a subtle indication that she should stay behind him. Her fingers tightened around his coat. “He bought me a gin,” she said in a low voice. Her accent wasn’t American, nor was it Cockney, but something indistinguishable.

“Bought ye a gin, has he? Ye should make him buy ye more than that before ye go deep into these parts.”

“Let’s have it, Brody. I need to get her back.”

Brody’s eyes narrowed on her, but he raised his chin in acknowledgment. “Not in front of her. Come.”

The last thing he wanted to do was leave her alone. “She’s nothing. Tell me now and let’s have this done with.”

A stony silence followed. Simon turned and Eliza was staring up at him with her wide eyes. “I have to talk to him or he’ll never let us go.” He kept his voice low so that it wouldn’t travel. “Stay here and don’t let anyone touch you.”

She gave a firm nod of her head and glanced toward the men that had been steadily creeping toward them from the alley.

“Leave her be, Beck,” he said to the one he recognized in the group.

The man shrugged. “Hurry along, then.”

Simon touched her hand in encouragement and turned to follow Brody across the street. He wouldn’t leave her out of sight and thankfully Brody didn’t require this. No one else followed them, leaving them in relative privacy.

“This about that big fight ye mentioned?”

“It’s set. You and Rouse.”

“Rouse?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Rouse had a reputation as a strong brawler, and Brody had been angling to set up a fight between them for a long time now. “When?”

“Same as usual. A month hence. Midnight. He’ll come here, so we’ll have the advantage.”

“Why the privacy, then?”

“Because I don’t want ye to win. Ye’ll lose this one.”

“Lose it?”

Brody nodded. “You’re too good. Odds are shit if ye win. Ye want a big score? Ye want enough to be out for good? Then ye lose. I’ll make yer fee and ye’ll leave. And when ye do leave I don’t want to see ye here ever again.”

Simon shook his head. “I don’t lose fights.”

“Ye will if ye want to be done with it.”

“Ye want me to take a tumble. Why would ye ask it of me?” Most of the people who bet on him were the people here. Men and women who labored in factories and the docks to live in squalor.

“As I recall, it was ye who asked me to arrange something. To get ye out. Well, here is yer chance. Or do not fight and pay the price. Which do ye choose?”

Brody had done this on purpose. He’d arranged the most loathsome scenario he could to make it hurt.

Simon ground his molars together. There was nothing for it.

This isn’t what he wanted, but he’d do it if he had to.

The subtle threat Brody had tossed in made it clear that Simon, and possibly Daisy, wouldn’t be safe if he refused.

“Then ye promise I’ll be free. That I’ll be out for good. ”

Brody raised his hands. “On my honor.”

“Daisy, too. You’ll let her go.”

“The brat, too.”

“Fine. I’ll do it.” He’d do whatever it took. He turned to head back to Eliza, but Brody stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Ye could stay,” he said. “It’s not too late.”

Simon paused, knowing what it took for Brody to say that.

The plan had been for Simon to run things with him.

Brody had never said it, but he’d once trusted him like he’d trusted no one else.

He’d meant to share power as much as someone like him was able to share anything.

Once, Simon had bought into that plan, but that had changed with Mary’s death.

He’d promised to get Daisy out and he would.

“It is too late. We both know it.” Even if Simon agreed to stay, he’d already lost Brody’s trust. He’d be dead once Brody realized he’d never trust Simon like he had before. He’d be killed as a warning to any others who might think to go against Brody’s wishes.

Brody dropped his hand and Simon walked back to Eliza. He kept his pace slow and steady even though he wanted to rush over to her. Beck had drifted closer to Eliza. He was standing in front of her, flicking the embroidered edge of her cloak with his filthy fingernail.

“Stand down, Beck. Anne.” Simon spoke harshly so that none of them would get a whiff of what she meant to him and held his arm out to her.

She stepped around Beck who leaned forward to catch her scent. She shrank back from him and hurried toward Simon. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. He’d been foolish to think that they could outrun Brody. He was lucky his flight hadn’t made the man more suspicious of him.

“I’ll see you home,” he reassured her.

She nodded silently at his side and he feared the worst, that he’d committed some unforgivable transgression. That she’d never forgive him for exposing her to those men. He should hope that was the case. If she never wanted to see him again, then he’d be well rid of her.

If only that’s how he could really feel.

No one appeared to be following them as they made their way back through the alleys of Whitechapel.

He didn’t bother going back through the hay market.

They needed to get out of the area as fast as possible before Brody decided that she meant more to Simon than he’d let on.

Brody wouldn’t hesitate to use her to toy with him.

Unfortunately, it meant going by the workhouse.

He always tried to avoid the looming brick building, but on the rare occasions he was made to pass by, it held him spellbound.

Today was no exception. He looked up as they passed.

The windows were dark, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t looking out.

He’d spent many evenings when he was supposed to be asleep looking out the window in the room he’d shared with thirty other boys and imagining a better life.

He’d almost found it. He wouldn’t let Brody keep him from it by throwing this last hurdle in his path.

“Simon?”

He hadn’t realized that he’d stopped until Eliza’s voice broke through his thoughts and her hand rested on his shoulder.

She followed his gaze to the building and back again.

There was no doubt in his mind that she knew what the building was.

The word workhouse was carved above the door.

Whatever mystique she had attributed to him must have been wiped away.

He wasn’t the Duke or the boxing champion that Montague Club endorsed.

He was Simon, a poor boy with no family who might as well have been born in that workhouse.

It was his birthright and the only one he would ever have.

But she didn’t shirk from him. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his and when he walked she fell into step beside him.

His feet found their purpose again, which was to get her as far away from this place as possible.

He took them out of there as fast as he could.

She kept pace beside him and he managed not to look at her again too closely.

Simon could feel Brody’s grip and the grasp of that workhouse lessen about his throat with every step. He always breathed easier when he left.

At the first streetlamp outside of Whitechapel he took her hand and drew her beneath its light. “Are you all right?” he asked in the safety of its warm glow.

She smiled up at him and he was nearly overcome by the trust shining out of her eyes. Who was this woman? He expected fear and censure mixed with repulsion. Not this.

“Yes, obviously. You seem to think I’m made of paper and glass.”

He touched her cheek with the pad of his thumb. What had he been thinking? He should have turned her down when she demanded he bring her here. Someone in this girl’s life should keep her under lock and key. She felt delicate. Too soft and fragile for the likes of him.

She wasn’t, though, and that knowledge filled him with something powerful that he was afraid to examine. “Brody isn’t a nice man. I’m sorry you had to see him. I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

“I’ve seen bad men before, unfortunately.

” She cupped the back of his hand with her palm.

His gaze was caught by the contrast of her soft hand against the roughness of his own.

His were scarred by a lifetime of work and thievery and evil deeds.

Hers were pristine. “In fact,” she continued, drawing his eyes back to her pretty face, “my father could likely give your Mr. Brody a run for his money.”

He did not need to know what she meant by that.

He wanted to know, but it was none of his concern.

One question would lead to others and where would it end?

He gave a nod and took her hand, pulling her behind him as he continued in his headlong dash to get her far away from Whitechapel.

The streetlamps came with more regularity, though it was so late the streets here were very nearly deserted.

He looked for a hansom cab, but there wasn’t one to be found. The area was too residential.

As they walked, his mind churned over what she’d said.

She had once told him that she didn’t have a father.

He’d taken that to mean that her father had died.

How could her father give Brody a run for his money?

Was the man not dead? It didn’t matter. He did not need to know more about this woman who was an enigma to him. He didn’t need to understand her.

And yet, the moment they turned a corner and found themselves under a lamp hanging from a storefront, he couldn’t resist the inevitable question. She was fascinating to him. He turned to face her, not too close, but close enough that he could read her expression. “What do you mean by that?”

“By what?” It was a reasonable question. Many minutes had passed since they’d last spoken.

“About your father. I thought he was dead.”

She glanced at the store behind him and he followed suit. The door was closed. Solid black wood scuffed at the bottom from countless boots. Looping white letters identified it as a coffeehouse, though it wasn’t particularly boisterous at this time of night in this slightly more boring neighborhood.

“You want to go in?” he asked.

“Assuming that it’s a true coffeehouse and not a brothel?

” She raised her eyebrows in question, and a memory of the night they met came back to him.

Mainwaring visiting coffeehouses in Italy.

Mainwaring was a bellend. He must be the most stupid man imaginable to go off doing that when he had this enchanting creature waiting for him.

“If we go in you’ll tell me about your father?” he asked.

She nodded. He opened the door and followed her inside.