The 7th of London (3 page)

Sev listened to the water droplets sizzling steadily slower, like a clock running down. He realized the extent of his exhaustion as his mind wandered to the dark stranger in the stovepipe hat. “What’s his game, Henry?” The owl cooed in response. “Ye’re no help,” Sev whispered just before sleep claimed him.

A
S
S
EV
drifted off to sleep, an almost silent auto-carriage crept along Great Russell Street, carrying the object of his most recent consideration. Kettlebent hunched awkwardly in the cab of the carriage as it made its way to Stafford House, the odd, tiny driver atop the vehicle, bundled head to toe against the chill night, manipulating the various levers, pedals, and wheels with ease. Kettlebent drummed his fingers impatiently on the door of the black carriage and wondered if it were wise for him and his people to trust William Wrathsbury, the third Duke of Sutherland. The man had never given them any reason to distrust him, but Kettlebent knew how corrupt the upper echelon of society could be. Wrathsbury’s grandfather had assisted William IV with the Highland Clearances. His original Wrathsbury Clockworks had been integral to the reform of Scotland, and the young inventor’s prowess had attracted the notice of the Countess of Sutherland. She forsook her original suitor, the Marquess of Stafford, George Leveson-Gower, and in a desperate attempt to regain her affections, despite his agreement with their goal, Leveson-Gower tried to stop the clockwork juggernaut, only to be trampled unceremoniously. The king bestowed Leveson-Gower’s lands and titles on Professor Lawrence Wrathsbury upon the former’s death and named the inventor the first Duke of Sutherland. The title had passed from father to son twice over since.

Kettlebent’s carriage pulled up to Stafford House, the duke’s city residence. The current Lord Wrathsbury’s grandfather had purchased the partially completed mansion and incorporated his own designs into the original construction, making the building one of the most lavishly furnished and technically advanced dwellings in all of London. Kettlebent had heard that the queen, upon entering Stafford house, said to the Duchess of Sutherland, “I have come from my house to your palace.” Kettlebent had visited Stafford House before, but each time inspired awe. He disembarked his carriage and approached the front doors to knock. He adjusted his collar and shifted his weight as he stood listening. Soft footsteps approached, and Kettlebent stood straight, exaggerating his full height. The butler who opened the door flinched at the sight of the huge dark man. The aged manservant quickly mastered his fear in the spirit of fine British stewards and greeted the visitor. “Good evening, sir,” the older man simpered. “His Grace awaits you in the library. He’s expecting you. Shall I show you in?”

“I know the way.” Kettlebent’s deep, metallic rasp echoed in the entryway.

“Very good, sir,” the old man sneered. Kettlebent shouldered past the manservant and stalked to the library. The butler allowed this but stood, watching the strange guest diligently. The decadent surroundings unnerved Kettlebent, and he wanted nothing more than to be done with his task as he approached the elaborate doors to the duke’s library. Kettlebent placed a hand on the rich wood and opened the heavy door. Sutherland sat behind a great, polished desk, reading a huge tome.

His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland looked every inch the cultured, upper-class British gentleman with his perfectly coiffed golden locks and his impeccably tailored, respectably gray waistcoat atop his crisp white dress shirt. Even with the collar open and his silk ascot untied, Sutherland looked dapper and well-arranged. The man was fully in his twenty-ninth year and was obviously more fit than most of his class, with a face that could have been carved by Michelangelo. He looked up as Kettlebent entered, fixing his piercing, ice-blue eyes brimming with intelligence and intensity on the dark guest.

“Your Grace,” Kettlebent growled.

“Damn it, Kettlebent.” The duke waved his hand. “What have I told you?”

“My apologies, Wrathsbury,” Kettlebent answered. The duke had insisted numerous times that Kettlebent should address him as William. The duke expressed his distaste for needless formality but Kettlebent still didn’t feel comfortable addressing the duke in such a manner. Using the man’s surname seemed a proper compromise.

“No matter,” Sutherland returned. “What news?”

“We’ve recruited a few more orphans to the cause.”

“Excellent.” Sutherland rubbed his hands together at the news. “Anything more?”

“We’ve made some progress refining the design.”

“Not surprising.” The duke rose and paced the room. “Mr. Kildeggan is nothing if not a perfectionist.”

“True,” Kettlebent agreed. Sutherland paused next to his guest and raised an eyebrow, presumably at Kettlebent’s tone.

“But?” The duke inferred the provision. Kettlebent was almost unreadable behind his goggles. Sutherland had to look up to even try to read his eyes as Kettlebent stood a full head and shoulders taller than the duke.

“But we’re running thin on funds,” Kettlebent confirmed, remaining stoic, his hands folded in front of him. “For raw materials.”

“I see.” Sutherland moved back behind his desk and removed his chequebook. He scratched the date and his name, leaving the amount decidedly blank. “You know where to take this.” The duke held the slip of paper out to his guest, who nodded. “Are we close?”

“We are,” Kettlebent confirmed.

“I hope so.” Sutherland collapsed in his chair. “Just keep gathering the children.”

“Of course.” Kettlebent slipped the cheque into his inner pocket.

“You weren’t observed coming here?”

“No, Your Grace,” Kettlebent assured him.

“Good. I can’t afford to be connected with this,” Sutherland sighed.

“No, Your Grace,” his guest repeated in agreement.

“You have what you need, then,” Sutherland observed. “It’s late. I must bid you good night.” Kettlebent nodded. “Keep me apprised of our progress.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Kettlebent bowed as he backed out of the library.

Sutherland pinched the bridge of his nose as his guest slipped away. “Kettlebent,” he called, stopping his co-conspirator.

“Sir?” He turned his goggled eyes back to the desk. “Something else?” Kettlebent waited for the duke’s answer.

“Have you spoken to Jonathan? Mr. Middlenight?” Sutherland asked without looking up. Kettlebent scratched beneath his beard but said nothing. “How go things on his end? Has he not sent any word?”

“I have spoken with Jack Midnight,” Kettlebent answered, using the man’s theatrical alias. “He’s keeping up his end of the bargain. He’s very good at what he does, sir. That’s why they call him the Prince of Blackside.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” The duke was silent, waiting for Kettlebent to answer his second question. Kettlebent wondered at the noble’s interest in Blackside’s most famous criminal mastermind.

“Mr. Midnight said to tell you to ‘Come round for tea, if you’re in the neighborhood’,” Kettlebent informed the man behind the desk. A smile crept cautiously onto the duke’s lips beneath the shadow of his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Kettlebent. You’re service, as always, is appreciated.”

“Sir,” Kettlebent said as he tipped his stovepipe hat.

The tall dark man stalked through the decadent surroundings toward the door. The butler emerged, seemingly from nowhere, to escort Kettlebent out.

“I hope your visit was beneficial,” the old man said.

“Yes, thank you,” Kettlebent agreed, his voice like the grinding of gears.

“Very well,” the butler observed. “Good evening, sir. Safe journey.”

“Thank you,” Kettlebent responded and descended the steps to his carriage.
Kildeggan will be happy when he sees this
, Kettlebent thought as he regarded the blank cheque from the duke. The auto-carriage pulled away from Stafford House and into the London night.

S
EV
heard the gunshots, felt the heat from the fire and heard children screaming, but when he bolted awake, he realized he was the one screaming. Henry flapped his wings and hooted at the sudden commotion. Sev flopped back into his hammock, sighing loudly.

“Shh, Hank.” Sev tried to calm the little bird, who dropped from the rafter onto his roommate’s stomach. The young man stroked the smooth, soft feathers of the owl’s head while he tried to ignore the talons scratching his skin even through the heavy wool of his blanket. “It was just the dream again, little friend,” Sev explained. The owl cooed in response. Sev closed his eyes, still tired. “I know,” he said, carrying on his one-sided conversation. “It never gets easier.” Comforted by the closeness of his feathered friend, Sev once again slipped off to sleep.

When Sev awoke a few hours later, he was starving, and Henry had flapped back up to the rafters, where the owl feasted on the corpse of a mouse. “That’s a good idea, mate,” he said as he dropped to the chilly wooden planks of the attic floor. He pulled his blanket off the hammock and draped it around his shoulders as he looked for something to eat. He found a tin of potted meat—Haversham’s Pleasantly Potted Meat, the label proclaimed with no indication of which animal the contents came from. Sev shrugged.
Food’s food
, he thought and looked at his little stove, now cold. He remembered his coal situation, decided against building a fire, and pulled the key from the side of the tin, then peeled back the lid. The contents smelled salty and his stomach growled. Sitting on a crate, Sev clicked open his pocket knife and dug into the tinned meal.

Finished, Sev placed the tin aside, stood, stretched, and cracked his back. He walked over to the window and peeked out to get an idea of the time. Judging by the crowd on the street and the sun, it had to be midday. Sev knew he had some people to see this afternoon. He hated trying to slip out of Fairside during the day, preferring evening or early morning to avoid detection, but today there was nothing for it. He looked into the mirror with its frame of gold leaf. He’d scavenged the treasure from one of the crates. He dragged a comb with only a few of the teeth missing through his mop of scarlet hair, preparing for his day. Henry crunched away on the bones of the mouse.

An hour later, without much resistance, Sev found himself back on the streets of Blackside, breathing the far murkier air. He pulled his hat down and his scarf up, recognizing a few of the plainclothes bobbies who wandered about Blackside to keep an eye on things. They were rough men, as likely to beat you as arrest you, and Sev had no desire to be recognized by them. No decent person in their right mind came to Blackside if they weren’t forced to. Sev brushed against one of the produce carts that ventured just over the Line from Fairside. The nobles’ vendors knew there was money, not much but some, in Blackside, and they took their carts just into the east side, close enough to dash back across the Line should the need arise. Sev pocketed a few apples as he passed a cart, moving deeper into Blackside.

Sev decided the first person he’d talk to was Anne-Marie at Madame Beauchamps’s Introduction Home. Annie had sent word to Sev that she needed to speak to him. He bit into one of the stolen apples as he pondered what Annie might need. They were friends, and Sev would help her out, no charge, but she always insisted on paying him for his assistance. A lot of girls were in a far worse state than Annie. Madame Beauchamps took good care of her girls and didn’t tolerate any tomfoolery or horseplay in her house. The madam had taken advantage of the dual exodus, the poor from Fairside and the affluent from Blackside, purchasing a fine manor house for her enterprise. Sev was too young to remember the former owners, but it was known as the Beauchamps House now. Sev turned onto Great Trinity Lane, the Beauchamps House looming in front of him. He skipped up the steps. At this time of day, the brothel was basically deserted. An ape of a man in fine clothes that fit him imperfectly sat behind a reception desk. Sev pinched the brim of his hat between two fingers and inclined his head.

“Hey, Sev.” The man reached up to tip a hat he wasn’t wearing. He dropped his hands self-consciously, realizing his mistake. “How’re things?”

“Things’re as they should be, Mikey,” Sev addressed him. “How’re things here?”

“Same old,” Mikey answered. “Annie’s expecting you?”

“She is,” Sev agreed.

“Ye c’n go on up.” Mikey reached beneath his desk and hit a button that unlocked the gate to the interior of Beauchamps’s. Sev pushed open the brass gate and entered the hallway beyond.

The interior remained one of the most well-kept in all of Blackside: hardly any peeling wallpaper, and most of the lighting fixtures were intact and in working order, though most of the rooms were dark this early in the day. Sev peered into a sitting room, a parlor, and a well-appointed dining room. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway, where a few early risers were eating breakfast. One of the girls tipped a wave to Sev, and he turned to ascend the stairway. He took a left at the top past a number of closed doors until he reached Anne-Marie’s room and knocked softly.