A Wayward Man: A Prequel to A Dangerous Invitation (The Rookery Rogues) (3 page)

Three days later

Dismissing the hack,
Daniel trudged down the alley that would lead him to Newton Street.
He tugged his greatcoat tight around him, taking a sip from the flask
in his hand. It would dull the chill of the winter, but one sip was
all he would allow himself in these parts. One sip, no, possibly
another...only to quiet his beating heart, which drummed like the
firing of a cannon.

St. Giles was a
twenty-minute carriage ride from his quarters in Wapping, but he
might as well have crossed all of England for the difference. Daniel
lived in moderate housing, in a small one room flat that boasted
neither window nor private commode. Compared to Morgan's townhouse in
Bloomsbury, he was a pauper. To the residents of the St. Giles
rookery and the neighboring Seven Dials, he lived in a palace. Never
did he feel as fortunate as when he traversed these roads, his worn
boots stomping down on soiled refuse. One hand was shoved deep into
his pocket, his other hand wrapped around the handle of a bully
stick.

This was a London
for those who couldn’t afford kindness or selflessness, a
London of the poor and blighted. Children ran past him, their bare
feet red from exposure to the crunched snow lining the ground. Every
impulse told him to stop and offer his scarf, but he’d learned
to ignore those impulses. Taught from early age to steal, vagabond
orphans were trained in the black arts—lock-picking,
pickpocketing, house breaking. While the Bow Street Runners could no
longer collect rewards for the return of stolen items, children could
be sent to gaol as easily as adults. Daniel wouldn’t risk
losing an item to one of the children when it might mean seeing the
kid off to gaol.

Daniel passed
through these areas somewhat easily, for he was marked as the
compatriot of a thief shrouded in mystery. In the heart of the Seven
Dials rookery in Westminster, a man that the criminal sort had deemed
“The Gentleman Thief” resided in a secret loft, its top
floor location known only to a few people. A wanted man for most of
his life, Atlas Greer had avoided prosecution by the constable. The
Charleys couldn’t catch him, for the watchmen were old and
feeble, and Atlas had spent his entire life in the rookeries. Though
his background differed depending on which sect of the underworld was
delivering the story, Daniel knew well that the man had grown up in
one of the parish orphanages.

Maybe that was why
the two men had bonded early on. Neither fit in with a large portion
of London's populace. Atlas was an artist in a city of criminal
amateurs; Daniel was an Irishman who had been raised on a farm in
Sussex, with one foot in the world of the English and one foot firmly
mired in Irish mud.

He arrived in front
of an unremarkable, rambling two-story shack. Atlas had done his best
to blend the building in with its surroundings. Chunks of wood had
been taken out and stuffed with mud and rags. Daniel slipped his key
into the lock and stepped inside a cavernous room with sparse
furniture. He spent little time there, proceeding to the back wall
and touching the spot in the bricks that would make the wall slide
back and a staircase appear.

At the foot of the
steps, Atlas stood with a lantern raised high. Poised between his
fingers was a knife, ready to slit into the ribcage of whoever had
managed to break into his haven. In the lantern light, the knife
glinted oddly.

“Aye, Atlas,
it's me,” Daniel called, eying the knife warily. He had no
doubt Atlas could slice him before he formed a counterattack. The man
was shockingly agile.

The shorter man's
round, loveable face was twisted up with concern until he heard
Daniel's voice. “Danny, you ought to tell me when you're
coming. I'd greet you with a sixth of gin, not a chiff.”

Following Atlas
inside the loft, Daniel shut the door behind him. “I shall try
to warn you next time, but this was the only time I could sneak away
without Morgan knowing. I've got news and it isn't exactly the sort
I'd want to leave in a missive for one of your scouts.”

Atlas arched a brow.
“Don't trust the honor of my boys?”

“They're
thieves,” Daniel pointed out.

Atlas smiled. “As
am I, lad, but you'd stake your life on my word and you damn well
know it.”

“You are a
special circumstance,” Daniel said. Never had he met a man as
capable as Atlas Greer, who distilled information from complex
sources in minutes and recalled it years later. He had a mind like a
vault, and a child's delight in the world around him.

Atlas took Daniel's
greatcoat from him, hanging it on the stag's antlers that were nailed
into the wall. The thief’s collection of oddities was crammed
into every corner, surface, and spare space on the walls. In one
corner, a painting Daniel was almost certain was an authentic Jan
Vermeer rested up against a suit of armor. Books were scattered
haphazardly about the room, rare editions mingling with sensational
pamphlets.

An overturned metal
tureen a quarter the size of Daniel's bed was pushed up against the
wall, serving as the side bar. Atlas stepped over a box of silk
scarves and another box of rolled up maps, coming to stand in front
of the tureen. “Fancy a bit of Old Tom's today?” He held
up the bottle.

“Mm,”
Daniel agreed automatically because it was gin and it'd get the job
done.

As Atlas poured,
Daniel investigated the newest addition to the room since he'd been
there last: a diving bell, big enough for one man to fit underneath
it. The cast iron bell had an umbilical hose hanging off, with a pump
extending from the top of it.

Atlas passed him the
glass of gin. “Smeaton,” he said, as though that was all
the explanation needed.

“I shan't
ask.” Turning around, Daniel leaned back against the
rectangular part of the bell. He knocked back half of the contents of
his glass in one gulp. Warmth spread out through his gut, wisps that
licked at the seams of his stomach till he felt at peace.

Life would
proceed at an expected pace, and he could handle it all from here.

That idea seized at
him, filled him with newfound relief. Kate was going to be his
wife—nothing could go wrong for him now. With a sixth of gin,
he'd master his universe. The clear liquid appeared unimposing in his
glass; there could be no reason it had ever been termed “blue
ruin.”

Atlas watched him
quizzically. “So what's this news?” He held his hand up
to stop Daniel from speaking. “No, you needn't tell me. I
already know from your face. So the famous Miss Morgan has accepted
your proposal?”

Daniel paused, glass
half up to his mouth. “How did you...” He didn't finish
the thought. Of course Atlas knew. Atlas knew everything, apparently
even the things one tried to hide. “She did.”

“Suppose the
proper thing is to offer you congratulations,” Atlas mused.
“Though I don't have the foggiest notion why.”

“You don't
know Kate.”
My Kate,
Daniel corrected himself, for now
he could say without doubt that she was his.

“Aye, I don't
know Kate because you've never brought her 'round.” Atlas
attempted to appear dismayed. The expression didn’t reach his
jovial green eyes. “What's that about? Afraid I'll steal her
away from you?”

“That's
precisely it.”

“You're right
to be concerned. I am the most agreeable of men.” Atlas
adjusted the fall of his fine wool coat, tailored precisely to fit
him. His superfine pantaloons were tight, stylishly encasing his
thighs. “Why, the other day, I had to turn down three
courtesans because I had, how shall we say, a prior arrangement.”
He waggled his brows.

“Delightful,”
Daniel drawled.

“They miss you
down at the Musing Maiden.” Atlas winked, taking a drag from
the sixth of gin.

Daniel stiffened.
“I'm through with all that.” He hadn’t been to a
brothel since the first conversation he'd had with Kate. There seemed
to be no point. No woman could compare to her. He didn’t
believe in the custom of keeping a mistress—the vows he'd make
with Kate would be forever.

He might be old
fashioned, but he believed in the sanctity of marriage. His memories
of his own parents were growing vaguer with each passing year, but he
remembered the love in his mother's eyes when she looked at his
father. A carriage accident had ended their lives too soon. At least
they had known happiness with each other.

“You're a
simpering beacon of fidelity now,” Atlas remarked. “I
hope the lovely Miss Morgan is worth it, for if you were to ask me,
marriage is but another form of a collar day. Instead of a scaffold
at Newgate, you're leg-shackled to a bitch, pleasant though she may
be at first.”

“Most lads
would simply say congratulations,” Daniel said.

“Most lads
aren't us, of course,” Atlas reminded him. “I marvel at
your motives, that is all. Thousands of men in London, and half of
them married. I find it as a societal concept to be interesting.”

Daniel patted
Atlas's shoulder. With his upbringing, Daniel was not surprised that
Atlas saw no point in family.

“Tis all
right,” Atlas said. “If this is what will make you happy,
then you know I'm all for it. Hell, I'll even brave the church for
your grand wedding.” He raised his almost-full glass upwards in
a toast. “To you, Danny, may your road be smooth and your bitch
dimber for as long as possible.”

Daniel clinked his
glass against his friend’s. “I can't imagine not finding
Kate pleasing.” He pictured her as she might be when they were
older, a streak of gray through her chestnut curls, shadows on her
high cheekbones. They would age together, each day becoming more
precious than the last.

“Does it
concern you?” Atlas tilted his head to the side.

Daniel swallowed
down another sip of gin. “Does what?”

“Her social
class, of course,” Atlas stated bluntly. “When you were
first considering courting her, it was all you talked about. One
doesn’t need to be a member of the bloody worthless
ton
to see she’s far above you.”

Setting the gin down
on the table next to him, Daniel scowled. “Pleasure to know how
you really feel.”
He tried to ignore the tight knot in
his stomach that occurred whenever he considered Kate’s
expected standard of living. If he could get through this month, say
his vows…he had to believe that Kate loved him far more than
she loved fine things.

Eventually he’d
earn all those creature comforts she was accustomed to having. But
how long would it take? Pressure rose higher within him, until the
knot became almost unbearable. Constrictive.

Atlas let out a long
breath. “Danny, don’t mistake me. I’m not saying
that is how
I
view you. You’re the finest gent I know,
but this is how the world works. Your gel’s got a nice
background. The rising middle class and all that sod off, thank you
much, beating down the backs of the laborers that got them there.”

Daniel scrubbed a
hand across his forehead. “The laborers like me, you mean.”

“It’s
not a bad thing to be in the muck,” Atlas said. “When I
met you, you were a porter and you didn't aspire to be anything else.
You were a simple man, doing as a simple man does.”

Daniel gave him a
skeptical look. “And you picked my pocket.”

“You were
foxed. I couldn't pass up the opportunity.” Atlas shrugged. “I
gave your purse back. You might credit me for that. It’s more
than I’d usually afford to a mark.”

“Forgive me
for the oversight,” Daniel intoned dryly. He remembered that
night in foggy patches. It had been his going away party, or so he’d
proclaimed at the Captain Kidd public house. Done with London, done
with the English, done with being cursed for his heathen Catholicism.

Until the next day,
when he saw Kate for the first time. She’d stood on the second
story landing, discussing something with those two friends of hers. A
purple hat slanted across her brow. Her dress was the same shade of
violet, trimmed in black and hugging curves that sent his body
thrumming.

She was the most
beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and suddenly London didn't seem that
wretched. He’d worked harder. Done every task assigned to him
with a dogmatic dedication that had finally impressed Morgan. Now he
was a man with responsibilities he didn’t fully understand.
With shipping memorandums to catalog, invoices to check, men to
oversee...bollocks, he ought to be getting back to work.

You fool Paddy.
Sullying up good English stock.
Bartleby’s words echoed in
his ears. He didn’t doubt Kate’s love for him—if he
knew anything, it was that she adored him. But when everyone around
her had expected her to marry well…

“So I’ll
make
them see I deserve her,” he vowed, but even as he
said it he doubted his ability to accomplish such a task. Was he out
of his mind to believe he could make this work?

“That’s
the spirit,” Atlas agreed. “I merely want you to be
realistic about this.”

Daniel looked from
one end of the room to the other, arching his brows. “You want
to preach to me about reality? There’s a stuffed bear, Atlas.”
He waved toward the carcass in the back corner of the room.

Atlas cupped one
hand around his mouth. “Keep your voice down. The very
impressionable Mr. VonWiggles can hear you.”

When Daniel frowned,
Atlas dropped his hand. “Look, mate, I didn’t mention it
to dishearten you. Whatever you set your mind to, I believe you can
achieve. It might be rough sailing for a bit, but you’ll right
those shipping bastards.”

Daniel forced a
small smile. “Thank you for that.”

Greedily, he drained
the last bit of the gin and headed to the tureen for more. He sloshed
gin into the glass and then turned around, bottle in his hand. Atlas
reached for the bottle. Before Daniel even noticed it had happened,
the bottle was gone. What was this new tactic? Atlas could afford
twelve more bottles of gin; it shouldn't matter how much Daniel drank
of his stash. It never had before.