Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (5 page)

“Ahhh.” Isaiah waved away her apology, pulled on his overcoat, and started for the door. People had their secrets, and there were some things best left unknown. “
Swan of Yorkshire
,” he repeated from the open door. “If you change your mind, we sail the day after tomorrow on the morning tide.” He looked down as a calico cat, its fur ruffled against the cold, glided between his legs and padded into the room. “Remember … River Street, the day after tomorrow.”

“I will,” Adriana promised, picking up the cat and cradling it in her arms. “Godspeed, Captain Hawkins.”

The door closed and she was alone with the cat and the fading sound of footsteps on the stairs.
And why not follow him? Why not sail off to a far fairer place?

“Free, kitty,” she whispered, her cheek warm against the calico fur. “But not of Giuseppe's ghost.”

Damn Trevor Bliss! Damn his soul to eternal hell! It was he, not I, who wrote his name in blood and sealed his fate
.

“And mine, too,” she told the cat. “My fate, too.”

The dream ended in cold. She stood at one end of a long hall carved in ice. The light was dim and blue, and at the far end, a laughing Trevor Bliss mocked her and beckoned to her. Half-mad, she ran toward him, only to discover that the gap between them never closed no matter how fast she ran. And how Bliss laughed to watch her try and try, and run and run and run.…

Adriana stirred under the quilt and the tumble of patched blankets and looked up as the door to the apartment creaked open and closed. She glanced at the window and saw light through the cracks. “It's morning already?” she asked.

Her only answer was a noncommittal grunt, followed by a puffing sound. Seconds later, a candle flared, illuminating the room. “You were out all night?” she asked.

An old man with scraggly white wisps of hair poking out beneath a wool cap set the candle on the table and squatted to hold his hands over the coals in the fireplace. “And you let the fire go out,” he rasped.

He looked as if he lived in his thick, baggy wool coat. In truth, he wore the garment all fall and winter. Only when spring came did he take it off and begin to peel away the layers of clothing underneath it. As the weather warmed, off would come a thick sweater, a vest, and two shirts, right down to the ragged, stained undershirt he wore during the heat of summer. A gold earring gleamed in his ear. His teeth—the five he had left—were yellow and cracked. They were also a source of constant pain, a pain he endured rather than risk his life with one of London's barbers, who had been known to extract chunks of jawbone in the process of pulling teeth. He was as thin as a reed, he limped, and he reeked of the cheap tobacco he continually smoked in an ancient clay pipe, which was, considering the years he had gone without a bath, a blessing. He looked as much a discard of the human race as a man could, and still be alive.

Paolo Belisarrio was also a magician—or had been at one time. He had left Adriana's tribe when she had been an infant and had gone to London to seek his fortune. He had been forty at the time, and his dark good looks, long and wavy hair—more elegant than any wig—and his flashing teeth and deep laugh had attracted a highborn lady with a title. The lady's husband was in his dotage; Paolo was vibrant and alive, as well as wise and thoughtful in the ways of love. Charming her, he had lived a charmed life until, one day, the spell was broken and his brush with prosperity came to an abrupt end. Though he never again attained such heights, neither did he forget those he'd once ascended. Old, bent, frail, and decrepit he might have been, but his spirit lived on.

“It's bad luck to let a fire die down this far,” he grumped, removing a handful of kindling from one of his pockets. “I let you sleep in my room, and what do you do?”

“Clean it,” Adriana said, baiting him.

“Bah. You forget to log the fire.” He blew on the coals and added the kindling stick by stick until he'd built a cheerful blaze. “And I must sleep in the street or break my back on the floor because you steal my bed.”

“There's room for both of us, Uncle, if you'll only scrub off a half-dozen layers of dirt.”

“You're an ungrateful child who'd have me freeze to death. So tell me. What else did you pilfer while I was gone?”

“Oh, it's a thief I am now?” Adriana asked, rising and handing Paolo a burlap sack she pulled from under the bed. “I ask you, what kind of thief is it who brings you cheese and bread and a jug of wine to fill that shrunken parcel you call a stomach? Uncle, your only virtue is ingratitude. It will make a poor epitaph.”

Paolo snorted to keep from laughing, dug into the sack, and took out the jug of wine. Immediately, he uncorked it and drank, then gasped and lowered it to the table. “Whoresons,” he croaked. “That's brewed from coals, not grapes. Live coals.”

“Far be it from you to offer thanks,” Adriana said with mock anger.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Paolo said, his eyes twinkling. “Watch.” He waved his hand and, fingers wiggling, plucked an imaginary scrap of paper from the air and held it out for Adriana. “For you. It's a note.”

“A note?” Adriana asked, playing along and pretending to try to read it. “The light's bad. Perhaps you've read it?”

“I didn't have to,” Paolo said, cackling. “I wrote it.” He sat down, emptied the sack, and rubbed his hands in glee. “How unfair your description of me. Paolo the ungenerous, Paolo the ungrateful.” He pointed a finger at the invisible note. “My gift may well prove your undoing, girl, mark my words. Still, it's the gift you asked for.”

Breathless, Adriana sat across the table from him. “You found Bliss?”

“He's in London.” Paolo carved a thick slice of cheese and tore off a chunk of bread. “But not for long. The press-gangs are filling out the crew for his ship, the
Druid
. As soon as men and provisions are aboard, he's setting sail.”

Adriana paled. She couldn't let Bliss slip through her grasp. She had to find him before he embarked, or lose all hope of avenging Giuseppe. “You know where he is?” she asked.

“It is said he frequents a particular tavern. A wench there caters to his wants.”

“The name, old man, the name!” Adriana snapped.

Paolo stuffed his mouth with bread, poking in a piece of cheese for good measure. “Written on the note in your hand,” he managed to say, crumbs spilling from his mouth.

Adriana crumpled the imaginary note in her fist and threw it into the fire. “Curse the note and you as well, Uncle, if you withhold the name. He killed Giuseppe. I swear, my brother's ghost will haunt you as he does me if you don't tell me.”

Paolo frowned, chewed deliberately, and appeared deep in thought. “Very well,” he finally said, swallowing. “But first you must disguise yourself …”

Paolo had given her the news at nine in the morning. At ten, dressed in rags and a heavy, nondescript greatcoat, looking for all the world like an urchin, she had followed Paolo to the back door of the Cub and Calf and was introduced to the maid who had been Paolo's informer. Bliss was still inside, the maid had said, but there was no telling when he would leave. Adriana would simply have to wait. Her wait had been long, boring, and cold. A north wind that cut through the heaviest clothes brought snow flurries. If it hadn't been for Paolo, who brought her warm bricks from the hearth, and the maid, who let her sneak into the kitchen and warm herself every hour or so, she wouldn't have made it through the day. What the night would bring, she couldn't imagine.

The temperature plummeted with nightfall. Six o'clock came and went. A young man entered the Cub and Calf. No one left. Seven o'clock. Four more newcomers. Eight o'clock. A particularly frigid gust eddied through the recessed entryway to Ashley's Coffee Shop, where Adriana huddled across the street from the Cub and Calf. She dug her hands deeper into her pockets, stamped her feet to keep them warm, and then forgot the cold as the tavern door opened.

At last
. She tensed, and gripped the handle of Giuseppe's dagger.
Let it be he before I freeze. Please, God
.…

Four gentlemen exited, cursed the brutal cold, and, hiding their chins in their mufflers, plunged down the street in search of a coach. Not one of them wore a uniform. Bliss was still inside.

Disappointment sapped her strength. Adriana beat her arms against her sides, sat disconsolately, and stared at the brightly lighted windows across the street.
How grand it must be to have one's pockets lined with silver, to revel over cups of hot buttered rum, to enjoy the toasty warmth of a well-fed fire, to feast on hot meat pies and sweet pastries!
The cold seemed even more intense. Paolo had promised to return with more heated bricks at eight, and was overdue. If nothing happened in the next few minutes, she'd have to go around to the back of the Cub and Calf again.
So cold … so tired.…

The jingle of a harness and the clip-clop of hooves brought her to her senses. Edging away from the door, Adriana watched as a carriage slowed and stopped in front of the coffee shop, and as the driver climbed down from his perch. “That'll be four bob, sir,” he said, opening the door and tipping his hat. “Hope you had a pleasant ride, sir. A nasty night.”

The interior of the coach was lighted and looked warm. An elderly gentleman wearing a gray greatcoat, a thick wool scarf, and a fur hat dug in his pocket and paid the driver while his companion busied herself arranging her fur-trimmed cloak and slipping her hands into a fur muff.

If I only had a muff. A nice warm lamb's-wool muff.…

“Poor lad.”

Adriana looked up as the gentleman stopped in front of her. “Evenin' to you, sir,” she stammered, her teeth chattering.

“What's your name, lad?”

“Really, Sir Charles,” the lady sniffed.

“Uh, John, sir.”

Sir Charles peeled off one glove, found a coin in his pocket. “No pillow for your head this wintry night, eh? Well, here's a little treat, then.”

“God bless you, sir,” Adriana said, staring at the warm penny that lay in her hand.

“And God bless you, John,” Sir Charles said. And then, warmed by his largesse, he waved his companion ahead of him and disappeared into Ashley's in search of conversation and a piping-hot cup of mocha.

A penny wasn't much, but at least Adriana would have something to give the maid to repay her for her kindness. The coach blocked her view of the Cub and Calf, but suddenly she was aware of bright light on the snow and a swelling of music and laughter.

“You there, coachman!”

Bliss's voice! Do you hear, Giuseppe?

“Aye, sir,” the coachman called back as he settled into his seat high above the ground.

“If you're free, my friends and I will hire you.”

Adriana ran to her right, peeked around the coach, and saw Bliss standing with two companions in front of the Cub and Calf. But how …?

“I'm free, but for a fee, good sir,” the coachman quipped.

“Better to pay a fee than freeze for free,” Bliss shot back, to the amusement of his friends.

You may laugh now
, Adriana thought,
but not for much longer
.

The coachman was looking toward Bliss and his friends, who were not aware of Adriana's presence. Giuseppe's ghost seemed to guide her. Warmth spreading through her, she padded soundlessly to the side of the coach opposite her quarry, turned the handle, and opened the door.

“Three bob to the Anacreon, sir,” the coachman said.

Slowly, being careful not to rock the coach, Adriana eased her weight onto the step …

“A bargain, coachman,” Bliss said. “Come along, lads.”

… and into the coach. It was a coach fit for a gentleman, for a captain in the King's Navy, for a murderer. Polished mahogany gleamed in the dim lantern light. The smell of fine tobacco lingered in the air. The leather was soft and smooth to the touch. Adriana slipped Giuseppe's dagger free, blew into her hand to warm it, and crouched, ready to spring.

How many months had she waited? How many days, hours? Unbidden, the scene in the tent replayed itself. Her fear, her pain; Giuseppe's anger, his love. And then the hated face of Trevor Bliss as he stood just inside the tent flap, the ugly muzzle of the pistol, Giuseppe's warning, the flash and explosion and Giuseppe's life-blood warm on her hands.…

Everything happened very slowly. She heard footsteps approaching, saw the inside handle turn. She felt the slight vibration as the door began to swing open, the blast of cold air. She saw an expanding wedge of dark-blue fabric and above it the paleness of an as yet unsuspecting face. She felt the carriage sag as it accepted the weight, heard the sharp creak of cold springs, clearly saw the face before realization dawned …

“My God! You!”

Adriana lunged. Bliss fell backward. The carriage rocked and threw Adriana off balance and her dagger went directly up Bliss's sleeve, slicing a long, deep furrow in his arm.

“No!” he shouted, falling into the arms of his astonished friends. “Help!”

Like a cat, Adriana sprang, but lost her footing on the ice. She came up slashing before Bliss's startled companions could react. The blade ripped across Bliss's chest, but was turned by the heavy greatcoat. Screaming with rage, Adriana tried to stab him but lost her knife when it was torn from her grasp.

“I've got it! Stand back!” one of the men shouted.

Adriana heard the rasp of steel, saw the dim glow of light on a drawn cane sword, and barely avoided being run through.

“Foul play! Murder afoot!” the man shouted, pressing his counterattack.

Adriana leaped backward into the coach, rolled, and tumbled out the opposite door. The hatred that had driven her was replaced by fear. If they caught her …! She had to escape.

She tried to get up and run, but one foot caught in her coat and she tripped, falling onto the icy street. Pain ripped through her elbow and she gasped with shock.