The Spiritglass Charade (5 page)

If Florence saw me, she would be overcome with vapors. But in truth, I hardly looked any more daring than some of the barmaids, who hiked up their skirts while serving.

“Good evening, Bilbo,” I greeted the bartender. I'd only met him once, when in my disguise as a young boy. He
gawked at me, overfilling a mug of ale or some other liquid that splashed onto the counter.

I sailed through the crowded place with ease, due to my short skirt and the fact that most of the patrons stepped back as they ogled me. My movements were as free as the rare times I wore trousers. I appreciated the way the chunky heels of my boots made firm, powerful clumps across the wooden floor.

I was halfway to a table when two bulky men appeared, blocking my way. Based on their dingy smiles, I was sure they'd never even heard of tooth powder, let alone used it. One of them might have shaved last month, but I doubted the other had used a razor since he sprouted his first chin hair. And maybe they'd bathed at Christmas.

“Weeeel . . . wot a peachy blowen we gots 'ere,” said the one who might have once used a razor.

“Shore ain't no slavey, eh, Garf?” They laughed in apparent agreement. “Look'en 'ow nobby this one is. I'd like t'see wot's under dem daisy roots she gawt there.”

“'Ow kind o' ye t'join us, fresh jenny,” said Garf as he grabbed my arm. I gasped and reared back in pretend fright.

“Don't touch me,” I said, struggling a little.

“Now, now, li'l loidy. We e'en 'ave a place t'sit,” the nameless one said as I was propelled roughly toward a table in a dingy corner. He leered at me, his face coming much too close. The stench made my eyes sting.

The numbfists must have thought I was light-headed because of their charming personalities, for they laughed and
congratulated each other as I was shoved onto a chair. They took a seat on either side of me; the rest of the patrons were watching without appearing to be watching.

“No, thank you,” I said, attempting to stand. But a heavy hand shoved me back in my chair.

“'Ave a seat, missy. Yer 'avin' a drink wi' us. And then later . . . we'll 'ave a bit more fun. If'n ye know'at I mean.”

I hid a smile. Idiots were going to get the surprise of their lives if they tried anything with me.

My so-called companions hollered for a round of whiskey, and three small glasses were delivered to the table.

“Drink'm up, jenny,” ordered Garf as his friend gulped down the spirits. Great. Rotting whiskey breath. “Things'll be much mo' fun if ye do. Loosen t'ings up a bit, eh? Like them laces on yer side, eh?” He poked at them.

“No, thank you. Do you have any lemonade, Bilbo?” I called to the bartender. “With a bit of ice in it, perhaps?”

This suggestion caused great guffaws of laughter and some backslapping from my so-called escorts, as well as some snickering from the other patrons. Bilbo seemed as shocked as if I'd asked for a new parasol, and Garf gave a long, aromatic belch that probably rattled his teeth. I gagged.

I'd attracted enough attention and if Pix was around, he'd know I was here. I placed my hands on the table to push my chair back. Bad choice. I should have known it would be sticky, and now I'd gotten it on my gloves and fingers. I thought about wiping them on my seatmates' shoulders, but decided that'd probably make things worse.

“It's been quite a pleasure, gentlemen.” I stood. “But I fear your conversation is boring and your table manners leave much to be desired. Have a—”

“Where d'ye think ye're goin'?” The nameless one clamped a hand on my shoulder and slammed me roughly into my seat.

“Remove your hand from my person,” I said in a voice Mina Holmes would have used. “Now.”

“Now wh' would I wanna do 'at?” he asked, tightening his fingers around the top of my arm. “Ye ain' goin' nowheres, little jenny, wi'out me and Garf 'ere. We gots a goo' time planned fer ye. Jus' t'tree o' us. And dem laces o' yers. We're gonna r'lieve ye of them tight laces, ain't we, Garf?” His laugh was unpleasant.

“If you don't remove your hand from my arm by the time I count to four, I'll break your finger. Can you count that high?”

Oh, he didn't like that. At all. His eyes, already squirrelly and beady, narrowed. A glint of malevolence showed there for the first time, and I was quite glad of it. I didn't want to break his finger if he was just a drunken sot acting silly.

But this man was mean. How many times did a woman have to tell him to take his hands off her?

“One,” I said.

He tightened his fingers and grinned. I could feel them digging into the soft flesh at the front of my shoulder. His filthy nails cut through the flimsy linen of my shirtwaist. “Ye
don' tell Big Marv what 'e kin and kinnat touch. Ain't no one 'oo does 'at.”

“Two.”

The obnoxious beast's nasty grin turned nastier, and he reached over and yanked at the edge of my corset, causing me to jolt. “Oh yeah?” His words were tainted with whiskey and rotting teeth. Then he moved his hand down and rested it flat on my leg, curling those fingers tightly
over my thigh
.

My breath caught. I'd never been touched so intimately in my life. I wasn't ashamed. I was furious. Definitely a finger was going to get broken. No, two.

“Ye kin stop countin' now, jenny. Ye're gonna 'ave some oth—”

“Three.” My voice was steady and I allowed the fury to show in my gaze. Other than that, I didn't flicker an eyelash. One would think the numbfist would be wondering why I wasn't writhing on the floor in agony, for his indecent grip was tight as a vise.

Instead, Big Marv chuckled and nodded for another drink from Bilbo as if he hadn't a care in the world.

“Four,” I said, then reached up with my free hand, grabbed one of the sausage-sized fingers digging into my shoulder, and twisted.

He squealed like a train coming into the station. Before he could react, I snatched up his other hand from my thigh and smashed it into the edge of the table. Marv gave another
roar of pain and rage and swung out at me, teeth bared, eyes burning with fury. I ducked half under the table and, with one slick, smooth move, used my hand and foot to yank the leg of his chair out from under him. The dinkus landed on his arse on the floor with a loud, satisfying thud.

“I told you not to touch me.” I don't think he heard me over his howls.

Then I stood, shoving the chair away from the table. When Garf made a halfhearted move to stop me, I looked at him. “You can't be that stupid. At least you know how to shave.”

Sinking back down onto his seat, he picked up Marv's new whiskey and glugged it down.

Every eye in the place was on me, of course. “I'm finished here.” I dusted off my hands then smoothed my hair. Not one curl out of place, my hat still intact.

“'Oo
are
ye?” whispered Bilbo.

“A tempest in a bloody teapot is wot she is.”

I turned. Pix was leaning against the wall beyond the countertop where Bilbo reigned. I had no idea how long he'd been standing there or where he'd come from, but it didn't matter. I'd accomplished what I set out to do.

Tonight he wore a long dark overcoat that covered everything but his hands (ungloved) and his lower legs and feet (booted). He was hatless, revealing a dark head of thick and mussed hair and long sideburns, which likely were fake. He also needed to shave the rest of his face. Other than that,
he wasn't in disguise—at least, as far as I could tell. But then again, I wasn't sure I'd ever seen him when he
wasn't
somehow altering his appearance or hiding in the shadows.

“Ah. Just the man I was looking for.”

“I should'a known ye'd be makin' an appearance.” He moved with easy strides across the room. His dark eyes gleamed beneath heavy brows and I saw a hint of exasperation in them as he came closer. “Per'aps next time, ye migh' gi' the bloke to a count o'
five
, ye ken? Marv 'ere . . . 'e don't remember 'is numbers too well.”

A low ripple of laughter trundled through the pub. Marv growled, but remained where I'd left him, nursing his hand.

“I gave him fair warning. If he'd listened, I wouldn't have had to count in the first place.”

Pix shook his head and I saw his jaw move. Then he turned to Bilbo and said, “A gatter for me and the lady. In the back.”

“But she prefers lemonade,” the bartender ventured. “Wit' ice.”

“I don' care wot she prefers.” Pix gave the bartender a steely grin, then swept the same look over the rest of the pub. Then he took my arm with a firm grip. “This way.”

With that, the patrons seemed to lose interest and they returned to their cards, arm wrestling, dice, and conversation.

I lifted a brow at Pix. “I've already broken two bones tonight because a bloody facemark thought he could manhandle me. Do you really want to attempt the same?”

“Now, luv, y' know it wouldn' be only an
attempt
,” he said, his voice pitched only for my ears. His hold on me didn't ease, but I allowed him to lead me away. He was aware I could shake his grip if I wanted. “Ye came 'ere t'see me, and ye know it.”

“I have no other way of contacting you, and you know
that
.”

“Aye. I jus' didn' expect ye to 'ear 'bout it so quick,” he muttered.

I hid my surprise. Hear what? What did he mean?

By now we'd reached the pub's back wall, which was covered with heavy walnut paneling—an expensive addition to such a lowly place.

Pix must have pushed a button or stepped on some release, for the paneling slid open as we approached. We walked through and it closed silently behind us, leaving us in near-darkness.

My heart thumped as I wondered if he meant to try and kiss me, which he'd done once before. Instead, he directed me farther into the dim space. I drew back in surprise when I felt a cobweb brush against my face, then drift over my shoulders . . . only to realize it was a heavy curtain. Pix lifted the drapes away, revealing a brick passageway lit with a cool, crisp, white illumination.

Electric lights
.

The glass bulbs with their glowing interior wires were contraband in London since electricity had been banned by the Moseley-Haft Act.

“Will this lead us to your lair, Mr. Spider?”

“I didn' think ye'd be that eager t'visit me crib again, luv,” he said, releasing my arm and gesturing for me to precede him down a well-lit stairway. “But if ye insist . . .”

The steps were clean and well constructed. Brightly illuminated by glass bulbs, their naked wires dangling along the brick walls, the stairwell curved into a gentle spiral. I saw no sign of rats, sewage, or any other refuse as we descended.

At the bottom, Pix gestured to the left. We went only another short distance before the arched corridor ended in a brick wall . . . or so it seemed.

He pulled back the sleeve of his overcoat, revealing a curious device strapped to his wrist. A small glow emitted from it, and he moved something on the mechanism. I heard gears whirring and a soft sizzle. Even a little flash of light zapped through the air.

Then . . . a click, a low, long groan, and the brick wall parted.

P
ix bowed with a grand flourish. “After ye.”

I stepped into his private living quarters. I had been here once before, though via a much less direct route. We'd been running through a warren of streets and alleyways while trying to elude dangerous pursuers.

The chamber I entered was as comfortable as any parlor in St. James's. Settees and low tables were arranged in a neat group. Silk drapery covered two of the walls, fine rugs from India covered the floor, and a small dining area was nestled off to one side. A fireplace tall enough for me to stand in covered half of one wall and was currently empty of a blaze. Four large logs sat inside and two tall-backed brocade chairs were arranged in front of it. “So this is how you travel so easily to the pub. But it seems rather inconvenient for Bilbo to deliver your . . . what was it you ordered? A gatter? It sounds unpleasant.”

“Nay, 'tis simply ale. An' Bilbo pours a mean'n.” He gestured to one of the settees. “As I recall, ye took a bit o' likin' to the sip of a gatter ye 'ad before.”

“I'm not drinking anything from you,” I told him flatly, settling on the larger sofa. “Did you think I've forgotten what happened last time?” The tea he gave me as a soother had ended up being a literal one: He'd put a sleeping powder in it so I'd be unconscious as he delivered me home.

“Ah, aye. I thought ye might be still brushed up o'er 'at.” The grin flashed, then disappeared. “Bu' after what ye did t'Marv, I should be feedin' ye a
lecture
. Did ye 'ave t'break
two
fingers—an' one on each 'and? Now the bloke'll be useless t'me fer an 'ole month!”

Right. “Perhaps you need to reconsider the type of man you have working for you. I can't imagine he's useful for much other than terrorizing women.”

“Marv is a dangerous cove. Ye were foolish t'bait 'im as ye did.” His expression turned sober.

“Me bait
him
? He was the one who put his hand on my—who forced me to sit with him. And wouldn't let me leave. I warned him what would happen if he didn't release me.” My voice rose. Did Pix really think I couldn't handle myself? Did he really think I should have allowed that man to put his hands on me and do nothing? Blooming facemark!

“An' now ye've made an enemy o' Marv, 'ere in the rook'ry. As if ye weren't in danger enough as 'tis.”

“He has two broken fingers. What sort of threat do you imagine he might be? Especially to
me
?” I countered, still furious at his assumption that
I
had caused the altercation. Tempest in a teapot, my
arse
.