Paxton and the Lone Star (64 page)

Isaiah stared quizzically at her, at last let himself lean back and relax. “Aye,” he said, his face softening, “it's been a long time since anyone's refused to take my money or offered me something for nothing.” His eyes crinkled with a rare smile. “I'll take that tea, lass, and gladly.”

The tea was hot and strong. Adriana warmed her hands on her mug and sat looking into the fire. “I wish you well, you know,” she said, her voice soft against the hiss of the fire. “It's not easy when the world turns against you.”

“No, it's not.” Isaiah propped his feet on the hearth, felt the tension drain from his joints. The coin lay untouched on the table. The girl's hair spilled silk-soft and deep-auburn from under her kerchief. Her lips, full and sensual in profile, invited kisses. Her emerald eyes—he could close his own and see them—had the power to delve into a man and set his soul to singing. His mouth dry, he glanced at the coin and then back to Adriana. “You could earn it yet,” he said.

Adriana sighed and looked around the apartment. The single room, not even her own, overlooked Angel Street. It was furnished with a broken-down chest of drawers and a rickety bed large enough for two, a table with one broken and splinted leg, a ladderback chair, and a stool. Three age-cracked wooden truncheons were propped on the mantel next to a small box that held four pewter spoons and a bone-handled knife. A candle in a rough wooden candlestick stood at each end of the mantel, and a third sat on the table, providing the room with its sole source of illumination. The only bright spot in the otherwise somber interior was a torn and threadbare multicolored quilt that covered the bed.

And so it comes to this
.… But what man, under the circumstances and considering the surroundings, wouldn't try to buy her? God only knew that others had tried, though usually—the comparison amused her—for much more than a shilling. “I don't want your money,” she said with a shy smile meant to ease his embarrassment.

Her quiet, unassuming dignity shamed him: he had offended her, and cheapened himself. Isaiah's face reddened. He lowered his eyes and then, realizing that he was staring at the soft line of her breasts under her heavy shawl, averted them altogether. “Your pardon,” he stammered. “'Twas an ill-conceived notion. I mean … oh, damn it all, what've I come to? I knew you weren't no tart. The apology of a fool carries little weight in this world, but it's the only kind I can offer. I'll not take the shilling, though,” he said adamantly. He stood and once again slid the coin toward her, then froze as she reached out and covered his hand with her own.

“Gypsy women give freely of themselves for pleasure or love, but not for money. I hold no ill will toward you. It was an easy enough mistake to make. Angel Street tends to do that to a man. And who knows? Perhaps if we'd met under different circumstances …” The room was cold and bleak, but her smile made it a cheerier place. “I'd guess a woman could expect many a pleasurable hour with a kind, handsome man such as yourself.”

Pleased by the compliment, Isaiah straightened his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles out of his waistcoat. “You ought to quit this place, you know. Get yourself somewhere decent, with clean, fresh air and trees and sky.” The idea struck him so suddenly that he blurted it out without thinking. “Come with me, then! Quit this whole bloody black island. I've room for a fair lass like yourself aboard the
Swan of Yorkshire
. And no demands, either, save perhaps you read a palm or two for my lads.”

“Come with you?” Adriana asked, taken aback.

“Have you ever been to America? Or the Caribbean? They're far fairer places than this hellhole, by m'oath.”

Adriana almost laughed, but stopped herself when she saw his proposal was serious. “You're very kind,” she said gently, “but I can't. I couldn't possibly until …” Her mood darkened. “There's … something, a task I've got to finish. I'm sorry.”

“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.”