A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation (The Rookery Rogues) (7 page)

Eventually, he’d
become no more than a shell. His consciousness was frayed. The memory
of Dalton's last breath was spliced with the churn of the wheels on
gravel. He wondered if he'd make that sound when he died, if the
pressure of the rope around his neck would force his breath from him
in a particularly haunting hiss. Or would there be sudden silence?

He trained his eyes
forward, observing the officer assigned to transport. Strickland had
stayed behind, for now that his testimony had been given in the
hearing, he was able to return home. There was some comfort in the
fact that Strickland’s shift had ended hours ago, petty though
it was. If nothing else, Daniel had kept the bigot from his usual
breakfast with his family. One meal was not much revenge, when Daniel
would never again eat with Kate.

Devil take it, he
doubted he'd ever
see
Kate again.

Maybe it was better
this way. He didn't want to look out into the crowd at his execution
and see her there, surrounded on either side by Justine and Diana.
What would they say? That Kate needed to move on, that she'd made a
bad choice in him but she could have another chance at love and a
proper match. She wasn't his anymore, couldn't be, for no one could
save him from this.

He couldn't get word
to Atlas. The constable had refused his request to send a message out
to St. Giles. Once inside the prison, he doubted he'd be able to get
word out. Newgate was monstrously large, with records barely
maintained—if Atlas managed to find out which cell he was in,
an escape would be outside the depths of even the great thief.

He laid his head
back against the bench seat and closed his eyes. What was the point
in hoping? Down one street and then another the hack turned,
relentlessly moving. London traffic, which he’d come to think
of as a given, was unusually sparse.

Until suddenly, the
carriage came to a screeching halt, so quickly that Daniel was thrown
forward and then back against the seat, his head smacking the wooden
top rail of the bench seat. The patrolman hit the top of the carriage
with his truncheon to signal the driver to move on. When nothing
happened, he looked out the window. His brows furrowed. “I
don't see anything,” he said, more to himself than anything
else. “Idiotic drivers.” He pulled open the door and
stepped out.

As the door closed,
a great commotion sounded outside. Daniel had been in enough bar
brawls to recognize the sounds of a fight—the echo of a punch
connecting hard with human flesh, the scuffle of boots as opponents
thrashed in combat. Daniel leaned over the man on his right, peering
out the window.

“What the
devil?” The man who reeked of cigars stared out the window, jaw
dropped and ape-brained.

“What the
devil, indeed,” Daniel murmured, for he'd never seen anything
quite like this.

Two hefty men,
pugilists he surmised from the way they moved with precision and
agility, had cornered the driver and the officer. While the officer
attempted to beat them off with his truncheon, the driver had given
up and was huddling on the ground, trying fruitlessly to cover his
head. A third man stood off to the side, moving to the horse's heads
when they nickered.

The carriage door
slid open again, and a familiar face peeked in. “Aye, Danny
boy, let's get a run on,” Atlas said, his grin so wide it
seemed to stretch from ear to ear.

“How did
you—how are you—” Daniel gave up half-way through
the thought, giving himself over to relief. “I'm bloody happy
to see you.”

“Jump now,”
Atlas instructed. “I’ve got people everywhere. You ought
to know that. Did you really think I'd leave you to rot away? Where
am I going to find another honest lad?” With his hand wrapped
around Daniel's arm, Atlas helped him out of the carriage. The police
had bound his hands, but not his legs.

Daniel hit the
ground solidly, looking around him quickly to see if the officer had
managed to subdue the pugilists. He couldn’t see the patrolman
anywhere. Breathing in a sweet, wonderfully free breath, Daniel
sniffed the air. London and all its strange aromas hit him, but it
was the most glorious thing he'd ever smelled.

Atlas poked his head
back into the carriage, nodding at the other two prisoners. “Come
on lads, today's your lucky day.” At his command, the two
prisoners rushed the doors, making strange, awkward leaps from the
carriage.

Daniel followed
Atlas, while the bruisers took up the tail end. They didn’t
have far to walk, for Atlas's hired hack was stationed down the
closest alleyway. One pugilist pulled the door open and waited for
them to enter the carriage, while the other went to the front to
drive. Taking a seat next to Atlas, Daniel situated himself on the
bench. The carriage began to move, taking him far from Newgate.

In the confines of
this pristine carriage, he had a chance to think again. To realize
how buggered this entire situation was once more, for while Atlas had
saved him from death he knew the thief didn’t have the power to
reverse the arrest. How would he see Kate again? Perhaps he could
send word to her, and she might come meet him where he settled. He’d
be a fugitive...but what mattered most was that they'd have each
other.

“Let the
Tories say what they want, I do believe we can now prove good help
can be bought,” Atlas commented smugly, tipping his hat to the
bruiser across from them. The pugilist didn’t speak, but he
wore a slight smirk that indicated his pleasure with how the mill had
gone.

“How did you
find me?” Daniel asked.

“I've had a
watch out for you since the day you joined that bloody bastard's
shipping enterprise.” Atlas spat out the word 'enterprise' as
if it was the gravest of criminal organizations. “There's
something suspicious about companies that large. Monopolies are a
vicious thing, Danny.”

“Only you
would distrust a company because they've done well.” Daniel
arched a brow. “But your suspicions saved my arse, and so I'm
thankful.”

“As you should
be,” Atlas agreed. “I'm sending you back to Sussex. It's
an obvious place, yes, but I doubt those buffoons will chase you
there. It's not a high enough matter to attract the Runners. No
reward to be offered, unless Morgan adds one since it was his
employee. If such is the case, I'll send word.”

“What am I
supposed to tell Poppy? I'm a disgrace.”

“Then don't
tell her anything. Doubtful it'll be recorded in the broadsheets when
you’re counties away.” Atlas shrugged.

“I can't lie
to her, Atlas. She's my sister.” Daniel sighed, carding a hand
through his hair. He'd figure it out. Knowing Poppy, she'd be so damn
happy he was safe that she'd overlook the rest.

Atlas flipped open
his coat, pulling out a flask from the inside pocket. “Figured
you'd want this.”

“You truly are
a savior.” Daniel raised the flask to his lips. “That'll
do it.”

For a few moments,
they sat in silence, each staring out as the city of London faded
into countryside. Daniel turned to Atlas. “When do we send for
Kate?”

The thief’s
expression was blank. “We don't,” he said simply, as if
he couldn't imagine why Daniel would ask such a question.

A horrible sinking
feeling besieged Daniel’s stomach. He gulped for air, trying to
calm his racing mind. Atlas would see reason. He had the means to
bring Kate to Sussex—hell, he’d offered to send them to
Ireland before.

Daniel pushed the
flask toward Atlas. His hands shook slightly, but he attributed that
to the fear of losing Kate again.

“You can keep
the flask.” Every ounce of urgency he had, he poured into this
statement. “I’ll work to get better. I’ll do
whatever you think I should do, only you have to bring Kate to me. I
need
her—I've promised to marry her.” His voice
became louder with each proclamation. “I can't just leave her
without any contact. I can’t leave her at all, Atlas. What's
she going to think of me?”

“They stole
your woman when they stole your freedom. She's not yours anymore,
Danny. Surely you must see that.” Atlas took a drink from the
flask. “She's a society girl who's lived in London all her
life.”

Daniel let out a
shaky breath, dropping his head into his hands. For a few minutes,
it'd seemed so easy—send a letter, pay for her voyage, live
happily. It could still happen, couldn’t it? He didn’t
need Atlas, damn it, he’d figure out a way to get word to her
himself.

“I compromised
her,” Daniel confessed. “I can’t leave her to those
harpies. Do you know what they’ll do to her if they find out
she’s no longer pure?”

They’d
ridicule her, all because of what he’d done to her. He should
have known better. Should have kept his damn breeches on until they
were husband and wife formally.

“A woman can
fake that,” Atlas said. “It’s not a blemish on her
reputation if no one knows, like an engagement to an escaped murderer
will be.”

“I didn’t
do it,” Daniel objected.

“I know that,”
Atlas reminded him patiently. “But the best hope your lady love
has got is to cut ties with you entirely. Her father’s got
enough wealth that she’ll still have prospects. Money will cure
almost any evil.”

His whole body
recoiled at the idea of Kate with another man. She was his, damn it.
She loved
him.

“Fuck,”
he spat. “There’s got to be another way.”

“You’re
being selfish,” Atlas reprimanded him. “Think of her,
Danny. She’s been used to a certain way of life. You really
want to remove her from her family? To live in exile on your uncle's
farm? That's no life for a woman of her caliber. She'll only grow to
resent you.”

Daniel squeezed his
hands into a fist, nails biting into his skin, little pinpricks of
pain. He was alive, but what did it matter without Kate? What could
he offer her in return for loving him? A life of running, of being
infamous. None of the things he’d promised her. Kate deserved
so much more. She deserved a husband who could return to London
without the threat of arrest. A man who didn't have 'murderer'
attached to him, whether or not the accusation was the truth. He
didn't even know how he'd ended up at that alley in the first place.

“You’ve
got to give her up,” Atlas said softly. “For her sake.”

Daniel let out a
shaky breath. Through the window, the picturesque scenery of outer
London passed by, a beautiful forest of trees. Quiet. Solitude.
Everything that he didn't want, for each step took him further from
Kate.

“I love you,
Kate,” he whispered, his gaze focused out the window. “I’m
sorry. I hope you find happiness.”

He should have known
they were doomed, for Irishmen didn’t succeed at life. Theirs
was a fortune to be broken until they turned to drink to staunch the
pain.

To be Irish, he now
knew, was to know that the world would eventually break him in two.

Will Daniel and Kate get their happily ever after?

Find out in the first full-length novel of The Rookery Rogues,

A Dangerous Invitation

Torn from her life
of privilege by her father’s death, Kate Morgan relies on her
knowledge of finery to survive in one of London’s dark and
depraved rookeries as a fence for stolen goods. The last man she ever
expects, or wants, to see again is Daniel O’Reilly, the man who
promised to love, honor and protect her, but who instead fled amidst
accusations of murder.

One drunken night
cost Daniel O’Reilly the woman he loved and the life he’d
worked so hard to create. If he ever wants to reclaim that life—and
Kate—he’ll not only have to prove he’s innocent of
murder, but convince the pistol-wielding beauty to forgive his many
sins.

With a killer on the
loose, time is running out for them…

London, 1832

Kate Morgan's neck
prickled with awareness. Someone was following her.

It was not an
unusual occurrence. As a fence for stolen goods living east of the
City in tenement housing with more thieves than honest men, Kate had
grown accustomed to being followed. They approached slowly, until she
crossed the alley that divided Upper Shadwell from Broad Street,
where the light from the lamps grew dim.

There they met her,
thinking the darkness would give them sufficient cover to filch her
valuables. That was their grave mistake.

She had nothing of
value left.

Her pace was steady
as she neared the alley, but her hand clenched around the worn wood
handle of a Forsyth flintlock pistol. She breathed in deep, instantly
regretting it when the sick smells of excrement and bodily fluids
assaulted her senses.

She glanced over her
shoulder discreetly and saw the tall, muscular frame of a man with a
hat pulled down low on his brow. Without a lantern, she could not
distinguish his exact features. She moved her finger to the trigger.
The pistol was fully cocked and loaded.

His footsteps echoed
in the alley. He made no pains to keep his presence unknown. When he
was several yards away, Kate spun on her heel, lifting the gun
upwards. She took a step back to lead him into the lamp glow that
shone bright in a nearby window. If he would attack her, he must do
it face to face, so that she could describe him to the Metropolitan
Police. The Peelers had at least one use: there were more of them
around than there had been of the old Watch.

No man would make a
victim of her again.

She leveled the gun
at the stranger's chest. “I don't want to shoot you.” Her
voice was calm, even confident. In the past two and a half years,
she'd learned to lie, to steal, and to brazen through the worst of
situations. She'd had no other choice.

One more step
forward, and she could see him clearly in the light.

The man stood his
ground. Fear tightened her throat and she forced it down, until it
was only a burning sensation in her stomach. Like every other useless
emotion, fear was meant to be mastered.