Page 70 of A Deal With a Notorious Devil
He gave another grunt of displeasure as he looked over the stacks of books Phoebe had spent the afternoon compiling upon the owner’s desk. “’Ow many you got there?” he asked, folding his arms over his chest.
“I don’t know,” Phoebe said. “I haven’t counted.”
“Forty-six,” the owner said cheerfully, rubbing his hands together with the sort of glee that could only be induced by the knowledge that he’d likely made several months’ worth of income in a single afternoon.
“Forty-six!” The footman barked the words in astonishment. “What do you need forty-six books for?”
Phoebe gave a nonchalant shrug. “To read?” she suggested mildly.
“Bloody feckin’ ‘ell. Take me all night to get ‘em to the carriage.”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. It would take two trips on the outside, if the beefy bulge of his arms were anything to go by. At least the shop owner had not been offended by the crude language, but then this was Whitechapel, and he was hardly likely to say anything that would jeopardize such a sale. “If you would be so good as to begin moving the books,” she said to the footman, “I’ll settle the bill.”
Another grunt—of assent, she assumed, for he lifted one massive paw and swiped a stack straight off of the counter and into his arms. “Be back fer the rest,” he said as he plodded toward the door.
The books wanted an astronomical sum, but Phoebe had it to spare. She counted out the coin from her reticule, assured that the footman would return for the remainder of the books, and at last headed for the door.
Buried as the shop was deep down an alley, the setting sun burning above the rooftops did not fall into her eyes as she exited, but the darkness of the alley compared with the brightness of the sunset hanging above produced an almost eerie sort of air, as if she had stumbled into the sort of place the light had never been meant to touch. There was a queer odor that permeated the air, like a coalescing stink of too many unwashed bodies too tightly packed together. The rankness of weeks passed without bathing and the rotting of teeth.
She had hardly edged out of sight of the dusty window of the shop before a cold, damp hand curled around her arm and yanked her into the darkness that lurked behind a stack of discarded crates. A scream caught in her throat, silenced only by the sharp tip of a blade that pressed against the side of her neck.
Hot breath, rancid and moist, floated past her nose as those fingers tightened upon her arm, carving deep gouges into her flesh. “Scream and ye’re dead,” a hoarse voice hissed at her ear. “Rather ye live to carry a message fer me to that ‘usband o’ yers, but a body’s a message in itself. Nod if ye understand.”
Through the veil of fear that had enshrouded her, Phoebe managed a tiny nod, only too cognizant of the tip of the knife notched now just beneath her chin.
“Ye tell him,” that rough voice said, “ye tell him ol’ Russell ‘as got men everywhere. ‘E oughta make ‘is peace with God now. ‘E’ll be meetin’ ‘im soon enough.” A foul chuckle, and then the press of that knife until it pricked her skin and she had to bite back a yelp. “Got eyes and ears on ye. I can get to the both o’ ye anywhere I please.”
Distantly, Phoebe heard the crunch of her footman’s boots upon the ground as he headed back toward the shop. Relief washed over her in a wave as that cold, hard hand removed itself from her arm, leaving behind a stinging pain from the gouges carved into her flesh as sharp fingernails pulled themselves fromher tender skin.
The knife hovered still at her throat, and that voice rasped, “Ye tell him—”
In a burst of anxious energy, Phoebe jammed her elbow backwards, catching the villain in the ribs. The knife dug just a little deeper as the man grunted at the blow, and Phoebe yelped at the bright flare of pain there at the hollow of her throat. Another jab with her elbow swiftly on the heels of the first, and the man doubled over with a wheeze.
“Help!” she screamed, sprinting away from the man who had accosted her and toward the pounding sound of shoes on the ground, and she barreled straight into the footman, who caught her by the shoulders.
“What the devil’s ‘appened to ye?” he asked, his bushy brows lowering over his dark eyes.
Panting with encroaching hysteria, Phoebe wrenched herself out of his grasp, skittering in a strange, unbalanced stride behind him in an effort to put still more distance between herself and the man who had wielded the blade. Her knees trembled beneath the flounces of her skirt in a sort of helpless knock-kneed quaver. “There was a man—he had a knife—” She took several gasping breaths, peeking round the footman’s burly shoulder into the depths of the alley.
Deserted. The villain must have used her panic to flee into the shadowy reaches of the alley, and now it was as empty and silent as if he had never been there at all. She touched the tips of her fingers to the hollow of her throat, and the kidskin of her gloves came away stained with blood.
“Ain’t no one there,” the footman said. “Anymore, leastwise. He come away with yer reticule?”
“No.” Phoebe lifted her wrist to display the reticule still dangling from it. He hadn’t wanted her money. He’d wanted to send a message—to use her, her fear and the terror he’dimparted to her, to convey one.
The footman scoffed, though he presented his glower toward the alley and not to her. “Sorry to say ‘e’s likely long gone. That sort—well, they make their coin roughin’ up anyone they can. Like as not ‘e’s got a bolt hole on every street, so’s ‘e can make a quick escape.” He folded his arms across his chest and turned back toward her. “Ye’re safe enough now,” he said.
Safe enough? Her heart still shuddered in her chest. Her face felt cold and clammy with sweat. She’d never been so frightened in all her life.
“Please,” she said, in an odd, warbling voice. “Please, I would like to go home.”
“Awright,” the footman said. “I’ll take ye to the carriage and bring the last o’ the books. Coachman’ll stay wiv ye until I return.”
He meant it to be reassuring, she supposed. But she had been frightened out of her wits, and they were still scattered. He could get them anywhere, the villain had said.Anywhere.
A shiver slid down her spine. Would she ever feel safe again?
Chapter Twenty
