Prince of Hearts (7 page)

At least on the outside.

The first time Aline had come here following her parents’ deaths, the sensory experience had been overwhelming. But she rather came to enjoy her visits here, and her uncle’s reputation had offered her a measure of protection.

One of the pioneers of the Steam Revolution, Thaddeus Finch had turned his back on his career and devoted himself to the plight of the Machinists and other victims of unsanctioned Welding after the War. He’d earned a certain measure of respect in the stews, even among the criminal classes.

Now, years after his death, Aline continued to visit, excited, as always, by the thrill of doing something not entirely without risk. She was, alas, a born gambler. She had, in fact, received inspiration for her column in the
Post-Dispatch
from the people and events she’d witnessed in the narrow warrens near the Embankment.

For instance, she’d based Ping, her hero’s valet, on one of the Chinese “doctors” who peddled herbs, roots, and tinctures smuggled from their motherland in the shadows of Fleet Street. She had even set the denouement of her first series in Covent Garden, wherein her villain tried to escape justice in the crowded market place. He had, in the end, been felled by a basket of overripe melons.

That first series of
The Chronicles of Miss Wren and Doctor Augustus
had been wildly popular by the end of its run, surprising the newspapers’ editors and even herself. She had fallen into writing the serial novel rather by accident, submitting the half-cocked idea to the newspaper in a moment of desperation – brought on by a bad run at the Automaton Races, her favorite venue, and a particularly draining week doing Romanov’s bidding.

She’d been penniless and despairing over her job and wondering why she never made an effort to do something that she wanted to do. So she had written a story and the
Post
had agreed to run it. Thus A.F. Riddle was born. Despite the column’s success, however, the money wasn’t good enough to allow her to resign as Romanov’s secretary – especially when one factored in her little habit.

Aline passed a fruit stall and smiled wryly at a crate of honeydews well past their prime displayed to one side, a painted sign above them reading “Augustis Melens: 2 p”. Horribly misspelled, but nonetheless gratifying to the ego. The cockney street vendors had taken a proprietary view of the Covent Garden melon scene in the
Chronicles
. Now any overripe species of melon were Augustuses.

Though Aline held no romantic illusions about her current environs or its denizens. She knew exactly how the rouged women loitering at the lamppost she just walked by made a living. She knew that the small, underfed, unenhanced, and often light-fingered boys who hawked oranges were runaways who lived in flash houses along the Embankment.

She knew, from listening to Inspector Drexler recount various misadventures, how very dangerous a place this area of London could be. She knew, for instance, that the Chinese “doctor” she’d used as Ping’s inspiration probably earned his money selling opium under the table, not from his boxes of desiccated roots and foul-smelling poultices.

Even worse than the opium blight devastating this part of the city was the all-powerful Black Market, a consortium of underworld gangs who controlled the illegal Welding industry. Horror stories of Weldlings who wandered into the wrong part of the city and were murdered for their parts were not uncommon. The Black Market was Scotland Yard’s greatest adversary, and, unfortunately, nearly untouchable.

Aline had little to offer in the way of parts for the Black Market, however, considering her particular affliction, and was therefore relatively safe from its attentions. But Aline certainly appreciated the risk she ran when she went to Witwicky’s. The last time she’d come here, having lost it all at the Races, she’d been literally quaking in her boots.

She’d not prayed in years, but after that dreadful meeting, she had returned to her flat, buried her face in her pillow, and muttered an incantation of thankfulness to the Lord on High for the reprieve. She’d vowed before God there and then to leave off gambling for good.

After she paid Witwicky, she was never visiting a bookmaker’s or the tracks again. She was about to become a respectable, married woman after all, and if Charlie ever learned about her problem, he would simply faint from shock, then ask for his mother’s ring back.

Thank God she’d not gambled
that
away.

No, she was never even playing a round of cards again unless she wagered in buttons and thimbles…

Well, perhaps she’d put a few quid down on her favorite automaton at Ascot this year, but aside from that, no more betting.

With a huff of decisiveness, Aline slipped into
Witwicky and Sons: Bookmakers
, a shabby, unobtrusive business on the corner of Aldwych and Fleet Street, the doorbell jangling above her head.

Suspicious eyes fastened on her through a haze of tobacco smoke, Witwicky’s lunchtime regulars lounging in the cramped public area talking statistics and studying the charts posted at the back of the house. It was not exactly forbidden for women to come to such places, but neither was it the usual order of things. A bookmaker’s was one of the few establishments in the world where Aline was noticed.

Her heart plummeted as a hulking figure bounded off a stool and clanked in her direction. The Bull himself, Witwicky’s favorite henchman, and more automaton than man. She squinted through the smoke, noticing he looked even worse than usual. His nose appeared to have been recently broken – again – and he was missing an entire mechanical arm. He glared at her venomously from a pair of crude, goggle-like Black Market eyes.

Or at least she thought he was glaring. It was hard to tell, since he only had one eyebrow left.

He bellowed for Witwicky, who came barreling out of his office at the back of the house. Witwicky’s right arm was in a sling, and both his eyes were blackened. When he caught sight of her, his face drained of color, as if she were a ghost. Or Jack the Ripper.

“Wot’re ye
doin’
‘ere! Are ye wantin’ to get me bloomin’ ‘ead shot off?” Witwicky breathed, taking her by the arm and leading her into the shadows of one corner of the room. The Bull hovered menacingly over his boss’ shoulder.

Aline had no idea what had gotten into these men. The last time she had been here, they had been as oily smooth and full of themselves as a pair of snakes toying with a mouse.

“I came here to settle my debt,” Aline said, reaching into her reticule for her purse.

Witwicky gasped and stepped away, holding up his hands as if she were about to extract a gun. “I won’t be takin’ your money, Miss Snitch, so just turn that little rump of yers out the door and don’t be comin’ back.”

“What are you talking about? I am no … snitch! And I thought you rather wanted my money, since last time I was here, you made that point very clear.”

Witwicky’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Aye, after that ye sent yer friend from the Yard ‘ere to settle your debt for you,” he said, gesturing towards his broken arm, then at the Bull’s missing one.

Aline was thoroughly baffled, but deep down in her belly, an awful suspicion was unfurling. “I sent no one. Who came here?” she demanded.

“The Devil Inspector’s mutt. Wot’s ‘is name, you know, the muscle wot looks like a bloody battleship wif’ fists.”

“Matthews,” Aline murmured. Inspector Drexler’s cockney prizefighting lieutenant, with literal fists of steel. Aline had met the man on many occasions when she accompanied Romanov to Drexler’s offices. He’d always seemed so nice, despite his bulk …

“’E came in ‘ere, told me we hain’t to be doing business with you, little miss, for the duration. In no uncertain terms.”

“Bleedin broke me nose,” the Bull wailed. “Again.”

“Aye, and gave our Reg” – an inveterate gambler who rarely left the premises – “a facer that right popped ‘is eye out, just for bein’ nearby.”

Aline gazed at the two men and almost felt sorry for them. Almost. But it was more out of outrage at her own situation that drove her to exclaim, “But he had no right!”

“’E’s the law, Miss Snitch. Right got nofin’ to do with it,” Witwicky murmured.

“Them two foreign pikers wif ‘im weren’t no law,” the Bull muttered.

Aline’s ears pricked. “Foreign pike …? You mean, someone accompanied Lieutenant Matthews on this … this ridiculous errand?”

“Oh, Aye,” Witwicky scowled, scratching the skin under his cast, his look angry and not a little frightened by what he was remembering.

“Describe these men,” she said in a low voice.

“Fine
gennellmen
by the look of them. One of ‘em were dark, evil-lookin’ like one of them Algerians, with yellow eyes. Spoke gibberish, mostly.”

Aline’s breath seized. Romanov. She was certain of it. Who else on earth had yellow eyes?

“Devil cant,” the Bull said, and spat on the floor. She eyed the offending blob, a mere speck upon a floor so filthy she reminded herself to take off her shoes before entering her boarding house tonight.

“The other were a big blond bruiser. One of them Abominables, by the look of him. Made Maffews look like a runt. That one didn’t talk. But ‘e sure is a fine listener. The dark arab wot’s with ‘im mumbled somefin in ‘is devil’s speak, and next fing we knows is me arm’s in a cast, and the Bull’s ‘ere’s in the bleedin’ Thames.”

Aline was outraged. Shocked. A little sickened. “How dare he!”

Witwicky and the Bull both stared at her, nonplussed by her reaction. She gave them a contrite, shame-filled look of apology. Poor sods. They were rascals, thieves, and general ne’er-do-wells, but they hadn’t stood a chance.

“I apologize for this high-handed behavior, gentlemen. I did not send these men to you. Indeed, I had no idea they even knew I came here. Rest assured, I shall get to the bottom of this.”

“Oh, no ye don’t, Miss Snitch,” Witwicky snarled, grabbing her elbow and herding her towards the exit. “You’ll be getting’ to the bottom of nofin’, far as I’m concerned. These friends of yourn …”

“They are not my friends …”

“Whatever. I”ll not be crossin’ the likes of ‘em. I value me livelihood. And me limbs. You’ll be leavin’ ‘ere now han’ not returnin’.”

He pushed open the door and shoved her onto the street.

“At least let me pay you …” What was she saying?

“No!” Witwicky cried, paling. “I’ll be takin’ none of yer money. Debt is settled.” He moved to shut the door, but then paused, gave her an assessing glance. “And don’t fink to try your ‘and at another establishment. Word is your protectors ‘ave been up an’ down ‘alf of London scaring the bejeezus out of me colleagues.”

Aline thought she was angry before, but now she was shaking with her fury. “You mean I’ve been blackballed?”

“Somefin’ like that,” Witwicky sniffed. “Doubt you’ll be placin’ another wager any time soon.”

With that, he slammed the door in her face.

Aline stared at the grimy door in stupefaction for several long moments.

Romanov. Damn his eyes! The utter nerve of the man!

She could almost see the scene that must have unfolded in Witwicky’s place of business. Matthews pounding his version of the law into the Bull’s nose, Fyodor rushing in to underscore the point by breaking a few bones, and tearing a few limbs off, and the Professor himself standing in elegant attendance, enjoying himself immensely.

She could see in her mind’s eye her employer’s smug smile of satisfaction curving one edge of his lips, probably congratulating himself on having tidied up his secretary’s little peccadillo.

How did he even
know
about Witwicky? How did he even know about her habit, full stop? She had been so discreet, so careful.

Oh, oh, oh!

Aline stomped her foot on the pavement and whirled around. He thought he could strong-arm her into ceasing her wagering, did he?

She forgot all about her vow to quit gambling as she strode over the threshold of one of Witwicky’s rivals. She now had a full purse and a sudden hankering to pick a few winners in the afternoon’s races.

She’d show him that she’d not be coerced into developing fiscal responsibility.

She made it all the way to the counter and nearly had her wager lined up when a rather surly-faced bodyguard – also missing a mechanical limb – caught her under the arm, and hauled her to the door.

She nearly fell into a puddle from the force of her ejection.

Damn, damn and triple damn!

By the time she’d been thrown out of the seventh betting office and a handful of gaming hells, many of them run by men with plastered or missing arms, her hope that Witwicky’s ominous prediction was an overstatement was fast fading.

She’d been marked. Blackballed. Stymied.

It was unbelievable. It was not to be born.

Aline trudged back through the throng of Bow Street and Covent Garden in a daze of bafflement and fury, barely seeing where she went. In her stupor, she forgot the cardinal rule of negotiating the vendors’ stalls – that is, avoiding eye-contact with the hawkers and their wares – and found herself haggling over various goods and knickknacks she didn’t need simply because it was easier to buy the blasted things than walk away.

By the time she reached the opera house at Covent Garden, she was several pounds poorer, in the possession of two bruised apples, a bouquet of wilting daisies, and a quarter pound of turmeric.

Turmeric!

What was she to do with turmeric? She didn’t cook – she hadn’t the barest of inklings what turmeric tasted like or what purpose it served in a dish other than to muddy it with its hideous color. And she was probably allergic to it, with her luck. Yet somehow a Hindu spice trader who had hovered at her side in his steam-powered cart all the way down the street had assured her that she could not live without a pouch of his finest spice.

She’d been glaring at the heap of turmeric atop his stall because in the afternoon light it seemed to match the color of her employer’s eyes when he was feeling self-satisfied about something. She had little interest in purchasing a reminder of those devious eyes, but the vendor had convinced her otherwise.