Page 69 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
Chris huffed. “Said his name was Albert.”
“He lied. They all lie. We’ve come to expect it,” Rafe said. “His name is Martin, and he’s eleven years old. Quiet little mite, tightlipped about his kidsman.”
Quiet? Chris snorted. “Suppose you’ve seen a different side of him, then.”
“Yes,” Rafe said. “And…no. He was coerced into staying with us, it’s true, but I suspect a few of the other children presently in residence were once part of his little gang, and they’re all appallingly fearful. Won’t take part in outings with the other children. One of them—a little boy called Billy—has recurring nightmares about being snatched off the street and taken back. They want to stay,” he said, “but they’re terrified of theirkidsman. Won’t speak of him at all in our hearing.”
Like a bogeyman, Chris supposed. As if to speak of evil might summon it to them. “They’re learning,” he said. “The kidsmen, I mean.”
“I suppose they must be. Hard to track down a bastard you can’t name,” Rafe said.
And infinitely more difficult to send them fleeing from the city, or to be rid of them in other, less ethical ways. So long as they could put enough fear into the children to keep them quiet, Chris’ ability to purge London of the kidsmen plaguing its streets was necessarily limited.
“You think Russell was responsible for your…er, incident?” Rafe asked.
“Don’t know,” Chris said. “Possible, I suppose. There’s dozens of people with reason to want me dead.” Though he hoped he’d stifled the worst of them. “Wouldn’t have paid it any mind if not for Phoebe.” What hadn’t succeeded in killing him was not worth expending the effort to worry over.
“I daresay a few children removed from a gang is hardly reason enough for murder,” Rafe said. “You’re certain you haven’t offended this Russell in some other manner?”
No, he damned well wasn’t certain. It was just that nothing had sprung immediately to mind. “You don’t know how it is on the streets,” Chris said. “You’d have no reason to, growing up as you have. But criminals talk. They know one another, share information with one another. Coin is the currency of the upper classes, but information—information is the currency of criminals. All the coin in the world won’t save a common fellow from getting pinched by the authorities and transported. How the hell do you think I got pressed into service for the Home Office?” He’d possessed a fortune by then, which he’d made by raking debtors over the coals, by blackmail and extortion and illicit gaming establishments. But it still hadn’t saved him whenhe’d gone a step too far.
Rafe lifted his brows in interest. “You think he’s coming for you…before you can come for him?”
“Safest course of action,” Chris said. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” He might have taken only a few of Russell’s children off of the streets, but he’d taken a goodly number of children from other kidsmen as well. And if any of them snitched—well, then, Russell’s days as a kidsman would be numbered.
Chris was a known figure, both by polite London society and otherwise. Anyone who had spent any amount of time within the city was bound to have at least a passing familiarity with him, if not personally, then by reputation alone.
Russell’s name had only come up relatively recently. It was possible that he was new to the city, that he’d gleaned a bare-bones understanding of Chris through the kidsmen that had come and gone during his tenure. Possibly he’d decided to get rid of Chris before he could be gotten rid of himself.
A fool’s strategy. Chris had been dodging attempts on his life for more years than he cared to count, and he’d escaped worse scrapes than this. Perhaps notunscathed, but he’d always lived to tell the tale of it.
A short sigh from Rafe pulled Chris from the cloud of his thoughts. “Lord,” Rafe said. “Order another brandy. You’re going to need it.”
Chris felt his brow furrow. “Why?”
Rafe lifted his hand in the air to summon a steward. “Because your brothers-in-law have arrived. I imagine they’ll come over for a drink or two. Social fellows, they.”
Christ. Chris slouched in his seat. “Which ones?” he asked, slinking as far as he could in what was likely a futile attempt to go unnoticed.
“Counting Laurence?” Rafe inquired, peering into thedistance over Chris’ shoulder. “That would make it…allof them.”
∞∞∞
Phoebe had made good progress on filling Kit’s library, but she feared the cost of it would soon grow too onerous even for his sizeable bank account to bear out. She had not exactly been selective with her choices, but as the entirety of his library had contained only six volumes when she had moved into his house, she had reasoned that he could benefit from some of the more popular titles that a gentleman would be expected to be in possession of before rounding out his burgeoning collection with pieces more rare and prized.
She’d exhausted most of the nearest shops of the wares she had wanted, and had found—to her chagrin—that Kit had sent ahead instructions to have her purchases billed to him. Which was rather irritating, as he’d done the same with her modiste and several other shops that she frequented. It was growing difficult to find a shop that would accept her money, and she had a great deal of her own to spend.
Ifshe could find a place to spend it.
Happily, she knew of just such a place in a tiny little shop tucked away down an alley in Whitechapel. A rougher part of town to be sure, but it was the same shop in which she had found the French translation ofOne Thousand and One Nights. She hadn’t visited in a number of months, but the last time she’d been in, the owner had assured her that had she the desire for any particular book, he could find it for her. At a premium, she didn’t doubt, for the service he provided.
She spent the afternoon browsing the dusty old stacks,finding rare volumes in Latin and Greek which would naturally find a place within a gentleman’s library—even if he could not read them. There were some newer offerings, which had been shipped over from America, as well as a few of the more popular modern novels, which seemed to have been shoved all together on a single shelf, as if they had been a resentful concession to their present popularity. She collected volume after volume of poetry, novels, plays, philosophical treatises, and then on impulse, a copy ofA Vindication of the Rights of Woman, which she thought Kit might appreciate for its subversive nature. The author’s daughter had gone on to pen the novel that Phoebe was presently in the midst of reading—though bits and pieces of it had hit a little too close to home for Phoebe’s comfort, and she was only just approaching the end of the second volume.
Frankenstein. A creature loathed and feared by the one who had given him life, and by everyone who made his acquaintance. With a monstrous appearance; the very perception of that monstrosity skewing reality. She had found it quite sad thus far, that the creature, who had not asked to be given life, had suffered such severe judgment for having the audacity to live.
She shook herself free of the melancholy thought—it was past time to be going home. Day was swiftly fading, and Whitechapel was no proper place for a lady even in the daylight hours. But she had known well enough the reputation of her destination when she had set off, and she had taken Kit’s carriage with a footman in accompaniment just to be safe. He was a bruiser of a man; several inches taller even than Kit with fists like ham hocks and face that looked as if it had seen the wrong side of a few too many tavern brawls. Most likely, she thought, he was one of the employees whom Kit had dragged with him up from the gutters from whence they had spawned.
He had not approved of the hours she had spent poring over the books within the shop, and it had been obvious with everysigh, every irritable grunt he had issued, and his ever-deepening scowl—though she supposed it was possible scowling was simply his natural expression.
