To Tempt a Saint (13 page)
Authors: Kate Moore
“Welcome to Bread Street,” Will mumbled at Xander’s side. “Ready?”
Xander nodded. The loose, outlandish clothes felt freeing. He’d have no trouble swinging a fist in the purple velvet jacket Will had insisted he wear over a checkered waistcoat and baggy breeches. They were supposed to be pugs, prizefighters who had made it out of the rookery by the smashing skill of their fists, coming back to lord it over those whose grand escapes remained mere daydreams. Their movement drew all eyes.
“We’d do better to come with a detachment of the Ninety-fifth,” Will said. “That lot won’t talk to us. We got lucky with Cullen because he wanted to complain about being sacked.”
Xander kept moving, a deliberate challenge to the idlers, violating their territory. They exchanged sly glances, though not so much as a finger moved.
Even in full day, the narrow street was a place of shadows. Xander could see where his gas line would have to go and where to mount the lamps to cast the most illumination on the street. His mind began calculating. “I could hire forty men, women, too. Put a hoarding up on that building there. Offer decent wages.”
Will laughed. “Hire that lot? They don’t know what work is. They think doing a click is work. You put tools in their hands, they’ll break each other’s heads with them.”
“They need money.”
“But pour it down their throats. Cullen’s not the only thirsty sot in the neighborhood. Drink and gaming take any extra blunt that comes their way.”
“Some will jump at the chance to earn a wage,” Xander insisted. The thing in a man that was a man wanted to be recognized in spite of rags and dirt. “I’ll put up hoardings there. Cash will draw them, and someone will talk.”
They reached the midpoint of the street. The leather-faced fellow of button-popping girth pushed away from the building against which he leaned, and the others followed. The ends of sticks and rods, protruding from ragged sleeves, filled their lax hands.
Will took up the accent of the street. “We’re lookin’ for Mother Greenslade about a room.”
The idlers plainly doubted. “Maybe yer lookin’ for a mill.”
“Just Mother Greenslade.” Xander shifted on his feet at the man’s blatant challenge.
The big man’s glance sized them up. “Yer a pair of skirts, then, that won’t come up to scratch.”
An unholy grin broke on Will’s face. “I don’t know. My brother ’ere”—he thumped Xander on the back—“is always game for a bout. A short contest, lads?” He drew a leather purse from his coat and got their full attention. “Right hands tied in back. First man to three hits with his left wins five pounds.”
The idlers could not believe their luck. Easy pickings. They shuffled into a half circle behind the big man. Xander watched as the fellow slipped the long iron rod out of his sleeve and submitted to having his right arm, now weaponless, tied back.
Xander shrugged out of his coat and let one of the crowd tie his arm back with his shirt. Narrowed eyes assessed his build. Someone drew a charcoal line on the cobbles for them to toe. The combatants stepped up to shouts of encouragement for the local champion.
“Do ’im, Bob!”
“First one to get in three hits,” Will reminded them. He dropped his raised arm.
Bob flung his great fist at Xander like a boulder. Xander leaned back a fraction, turning his head and letting the blow roll past him, Bob’s knuckles just grazing his cheek. In reply Xander’s left shot out straight from the shoulder and cracked his opponent’s nose. Blood spurted. Bob shook his head, spattering the onlookers. Falling back, he swung again wildly. Xander ducked and rose, evading the big man’s long reach. The crowd howled and stirred, egging Bob on. He squared himself and pulled back a third time. The huge fist was still swinging Xander’s way when he administered two more unerring jabs to the man’s crumpled nose.
Will yelled, “Three!” and stepped between the combatants. The big man staggered back from the line, air gushing noisily through his flowing nostrils.
Will held the leather purse aloft. “Gents, the purse can still be yours. We’re looking for Mother Greenslade.”
“She’s takin’ an ’oliday for ’er ’ealth.” The bleeding man’s second pressed a filthy cloth to his gushing nose.
“Sometimes people talk that ought not to talk,” said another.
“It’s a fact.” Will shrugged. “You can tell ’er we want rooms at Number Forty. Gentlemen, thanks for the sport.” He tossed the leather purse high into the air and nudged Xander into motion as a scramble started behind them.
Xander freed his right arm and shrugged back into his shirt and purple coat. “Were you trying to get me killed?”
“Good thing you’ve still got that left.”
“I haven’t thrown a punch in three years.”
Will shrugged. “I’d say you were overdue, and don’t tell me this place doesn’t make you want to smash something.”
Xander kept moving until he came abreast of Number Forty at the edge of the open court. The building had no door, just a gaping hole where a door had been, long since burned for fuel, or broken up and used in battle with neighboring streets. At street level, two dark, mine-like openings with multiple numbers tacked to the jambs led to basement rooms. Rows of empty pint pots marked each entrance.
Above him in the room Cullen now had, Kit had been chained. Will was right. Xander wanted to smash something. Up the street he could see Cullen’s view of the backyard of Truman’s Brewery. Above the crumbling brick wall that surrounded the brewery were three wooden vats, dark with age, each over twenty feet high.
“Now there’s a sight for a thirsty man,” Will said. “No wonder Cullen’s throat is bone-dry. He looks at ten thousand gallons of ale every day and knows he lost his free wet.”
Opposite the brewery the brick corner of a plain, dark building poked a sharp edge onto Bread Street.
“Bredsell’s school?” Xander asked.
Will nodded. Both the brewery and the school stood with their backs to Bread Street, as if the place offended.
“Does Bredsell get all his boys from the court?” Xander asked.
“He offers them cake.”
“Cake?” Cullen had mentioned Mother Greenslade bringing cake to the chained boy.
“I’m serious. He offers the boys cake. Never underestimate the power of wanting something you can’t have.”
Xander glanced back down Bread Street to the knot of idlers. Change Bread Street and change London. “I’ll put up signs tomorrow.”
S
HEPHERD Market was the last stop in Cleo and Charlie’s outing, a tangle of streets with shops favored by the servants of Mayfair. In the maze of narrow streets, where their father had taken them both as children, they gawked at shop wares hanging from the awnings and exclaimed over the season’s last apples piled high in hawkers’ carts. The Flying Pieman went by, all in white, with his powdered wig and tray of hot puddings. They had milk at the dairy on Queen Street, stopped to watch a puppet show, and Cleo gave alms for the first time in four years to the old soldier sweeping the crossing at Charles Street. She thought for a moment that he knew her, but the recognition faded from his glance almost instantly.
HEPHERD Market was the last stop in Cleo and Charlie’s outing, a tangle of streets with shops favored by the servants of Mayfair. In the maze of narrow streets, where their father had taken them both as children, they gawked at shop wares hanging from the awnings and exclaimed over the season’s last apples piled high in hawkers’ carts. The Flying Pieman went by, all in white, with his powdered wig and tray of hot puddings. They had milk at the dairy on Queen Street, stopped to watch a puppet show, and Cleo gave alms for the first time in four years to the old soldier sweeping the crossing at Charles Street. She thought for a moment that he knew her, but the recognition faded from his glance almost instantly.
She had not enjoyed spending her advance from Xander Jones rather than her own money, but it was only practical to order calling cards for herself and shirts and breeches for Charlie. With her last coins they bought gingerbread men to sustain them on the walk home.
Cleo had forgotten that unspeaking Alice was with them until her voice made them both turn.
“That boy is following us, ma’am.”
“What boy?”
“A boy with white teeth and a dark blue cap.” Alice’s gaze was fixed on the crowd outside the gingerbread shop.
Cleo swept a glance back at the market. Dozens of people maneuvered in the narrow street, errand boys among them, bustling about their business. An empty doorway caught Cleo’s eye. A jackdaw in a wicker cage squawked. Hadn’t there been a shop boy leaning there where doormats and birdcages hung, cap pulled over his eyes and grimy apron about his waist? The boy had been so still Cleo could not be sure whether she had seen him or imagined him. Now the doorway was empty.
Chapter Eight
C
HARLIE woke late in the unfamiliar room. Bright morning light startled him upright. He threw off the covers and swung his feet to a warm carpeted floor before he remembered he was on Hill Street, not in his room at Fernhill Farm. He had neither chores to do nor Bess to thump her tail and hurry him along, and Cleo had not sent for him, either.
HARLIE woke late in the unfamiliar room. Bright morning light startled him upright. He threw off the covers and swung his feet to a warm carpeted floor before he remembered he was on Hill Street, not in his room at Fernhill Farm. He had neither chores to do nor Bess to thump her tail and hurry him along, and Cleo had not sent for him, either.
He curled his toes in the carpet and ran a hand through his hair, trying to recall Cleo’s plans for the day. He was sure she had plans. He had a feeling he was neglecting important duties. It was as if he had returned to an earlier time in his life. The room around him seemed to belong to his younger self, filled with possessions like those he had prized before they fled London to live on the farm.
His Greek and Latin books looked out of place on the boy’s desk. In this room he could not believe that he had already memorized his Greek vocables and made his way through Aesop and the
Anabasis
. This morning he could not remember any Greek at all. So how could he be ready for Herodotus? He knew he wasn’t ready for Latin.
Anabasis
. This morning he could not remember any Greek at all. So how could he be ready for Herodotus? He knew he wasn’t ready for Latin.
His stomach knotted as much with uncertainty as hunger. He was supposed to prepare for his entrance examinations, but he had no idea what passages the school examiners would set him for the tests. And really, his schooling depended on whether Cleo’s marriage freed them from Uncle March.
It felt strange to be so near their old home and not in it. He knew Cleo had avoided taking them too close yesterday, but he wondered if Uncle March knew where they were and what he would do. Cleo believed Sir Alexander Jones would protect them from March, but why would Bluebeard protect them from anyone?
He stood and stretched and squared his shoulders and told himself he was older now; he was supposed to protect her. He was taller than Cleo, even though she had ruffled his hair last night as if he were still the boy he had been when they’d left London. He tried to summon a feeling of courage and strength, but felt instead a twinge in his stomach. He’d had a moment of weakness in the coach when he gave her the pig-sticking knife. The lowering thought that he had no courage at all made his shoulders slump.
In the market when Alice had said they were being followed, he had felt a red-faced consciousness of his mistake with the knife. He’d seen no danger, but he’d had no weapon. At least this morning Cleo was safe. He remembered that she was meeting with the dressmaker at the house. He was free to study after breakfast. That was the plan.
Once again his stomach complained. A man needed to eat to have strength. The kitchen was three floors away. He’d been there last night, and he would have to pass by Jones’s silent servants to get there. They reminded him of old Hades’ three-headed dog, Cerberus.
The good thing about hunger, he thought, was that it made a fellow brave enough to face a dog.
A
FTER breakfast on the morning of her second day back in London, Cleo found Serena Perez, olive-skinned, raven-haired, and disapproving, waiting for her in the well-furnished back parlor of Xander Jones’s house. La Perez drew two elegant curving black brows together in a serious frown as Cleo entered. Gowns hung in linen bags on a rod stretched between two tall cases. A cheval glass stood in the far corner, a sturdy deal box before it.
FTER breakfast on the morning of her second day back in London, Cleo found Serena Perez, olive-skinned, raven-haired, and disapproving, waiting for her in the well-furnished back parlor of Xander Jones’s house. La Perez drew two elegant curving black brows together in a serious frown as Cleo entered. Gowns hung in linen bags on a rod stretched between two tall cases. A cheval glass stood in the far corner, a sturdy deal box before it.
Cleo had to admit that she offered a challenge to even the most clever of modistes. In her four years at Fernhill Farm she had abandoned one by one the rituals of fashionable dress that had once been second nature to her. Alice offered a thin, reassuring smile.
“To begin madam is to have three gowns,” the Spanish woman announced. With a shrug of her shoulders and a snap of imperious fingers at her sharp-featured assistant, she ordered Cleo up onto the box and set to work stripping her of her worn green wool. At least a good coal fire burned in the grate.
Still there was a moment of shocked silence when Cleo stood in her mended shift, loose corset, and thin drawers. Cleo faced three pairs of dismayed eyes. She knew that hopeless look. Plainly, they thought her personal charms utterly unequal to the task of making a presentable wife for Xander Jones. No one moved.
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SHATTERED by ALICE SHARPE,