No Place for a Lady (14 page)

Finally, he took a breath. "I understand you promised to get Sprat into Harrow."

Fantine frowned, her thoughts momentarily distracted from her stomach. She had expected that news of her run-in with Ballast would be common knowledge within moments of her escape, but she had hoped her deal with Sprat would remain secret.

"Well?" prompted Hurdy when she did not answer.

"Well wot?" she returned.

"Can you do it?"

Fantine shifted her pose into one of arrogant disdain. "I promised to."

"And can you?"

She hesitated, wondering how best to answer. She finally decided on a show of strength. "Yes, I can. For Sprat because I like him. I will not do it for anyone else."

He smiled. "That almost sounds like a challenge."

She shrugged. "Call it what you like. I will not be putting your bastards into 'Arrow."

"But you could if you wanted to," he pressed. "Or that daft peer of yours could."

She shook her head. "No." But despite her calm assertion, a shiver of fear chilled her blood at Hurdy's mention of Marcus. The last thing she needed was for Hurdy to get Chadwick involved, especially when the mere thought of Marcus tangled her emotions anew. "The daft peer is simply that. Daft. My contact to Harrow was a onetime bit o' luck. Ain't no more where that came from."

She fell silent, hoping she had convinced him.

Apparently she had because suddenly she was done. Hurdy sighed and waved her away. "Very well. Go away."

Fantine blinked. Go away? She peered at Hurdy, her thoughts reeling. He had truly just wanted to get some child into Harrow? The thought was ludicrous. Especially since... "You ain't got no children." Or at least none that he appeared to care about, none that he would pull strings to get into an elite school. She stepped forward, frustration and exhaustion making her bold. "Now look here, what's this all about?"

Hurdy glanced up from his food. "It is about nothing. I find you are unimportant after all. Go away."

Fantine dropped her hands onto her hips. "What a bloody waste o' time!" she exclaimed. Not only had she been knocked on the head, but Hurdy had learned very little from her, and she had gotten nothing out of him at all! She didn't mind being dragged in here. That was all part of the game. But to get hit on the head for no point at all, to tell him something he could have found out on his own, and that he did not want anyway... Why, the whole situation was ludicrous.

"Bloody hell," she said, spinning on her heel as she went for the door. "No wonder neither you nor Ballast can gain control of the docks. Neither one o' you got enough brain to feed a rat!"

She should not have been surprised when one of the thugs suddenly slammed the door in her face. She should not have been, but she was. And that surprise made her even more angry.

And reckless.

She spun back and glared at Hurdy. "I thought you said I could leave."

Hurdy slowly picked up a thin silver fruit knife. "You have a remarkable amount of nerve for a woman in my house at my mercy. I could have you killed."

Fantine folded her arms, letting her voice becoming more cultured by the second. "Oooh, I am mightily impressed," she drawled. "You have big, burly brutes. Ballast has big, burly brutes. But do either of you use them for any good? No. Ballast drinks and diddles with anything that moves. You cannot even kill a lame MP. Why should I think either of you worthy o' me?"

For better or worse, she had his attention now. He was not dismissing her like an annoying puppy dog. What he was doing was standing slowly, fury knotting his brow. "What do you know about 'oo I kill and why?" Despite his attempts at culture, his accent slipped as his voice rose in power and fury.

Fantine shrugged. "I know you have tried to kill Wilberforce and have not even succeeded in scratching the man."

"'Oo told you that?"

"Don't matter. What does matter is that you are already doomed. Whether or not you succeed in killing the MP, there ain't a single gent who will hire you again. And you do not even see it."

She had expected him to bluster at her, trying to intimidate her without giving anything away. But for all his vulgarity, he was not stupid. Hurdy simply looked at her, like a dog sighting a really fat rabbit.

She knew what he was thinking. He needed her. He had not had the benefit of her early training, learning how the peerage worked in all its twisted nonsense. And that gave her the upper hand.

With a slow, lazy smile, Fantine settled in to enjoy her newfound position. It had been a long time since she had felt like she had an upper hand. The moment was temporary, she knew. But for now, she reigned, and she intended to exploit it to the fullest.

First and foremost, she decided to eat. After being tormented by the smell of his delectable dinner, she could not think of anything but filling her stomach. Easing herself down at his table, Fantine scanned the food. There was only one plate—Hurdy's—and she took it, heaping roast mutton onto it with singular abandon. For his part, Hurdy could only drop down opposite her with barely concealed impatience.

Too bad. She was ravenous. Savoring the smell, Fantine cut her first bite, lifting it delicately on her fork, intending to draw as much pleasure as possible out of this simple act.

* * *

"Right there," said Giles, pointing at what appeared to be a tall, comfortable-looking house in the middle of a long row of warehouses. "They took 'er right in the front, clear as day."

Marcus stared at the house, unable to hold back his surprise. "Hurdy lives there?"

"It were the talk o' the rookeries fer months."

Marcus nodded, still staring at the structure, clearly visible in the light of the full moon. It was a bloody castle. True, it was short and squished between the long rows of warehouses, but it was a castle nonetheless, complete with a central turret containing a single arched window. And the whole thing was right in the middle of the dark menace of the docks.

"That light up there." Giles pointed to the turret window where a light shone clear as a beacon. "Hurdy likes to sit there and watch wot goes on out 'ere. An' 'e likes us to see wot 'e does in there. She will be in that room. Less'n 'e's got 'er in 'is bedroom."

Marcus dismounted his horse, not wanting to consider what the child was suggesting, but unable to rid himself of the image. Fantine in Hurdy's bed? Brutalized in the worst possible ways? He could not allow it.

He focused his mind on his task, removing the rope he had brought with him and neatly looping it over his shoulder. "Can you ride back without me?"

"But—"

"No buts, Giles. You cannot help any more than you already have. Go home." He slapped the rear of his horse and watched with a silent dread as his only means of escape trotted back to home and safety. Then, with a grim fatalism, Marcus prepared to risk his life for the woman he had recently vowed to torture at the earliest possible moment.

He stepped into the shadows of a nearby warehouse, studying Hurdy's home with care. What kind of man would build a castle in the center of the docks? Only someone who thought himself a king, someone who wanted to rule the dockside Londoners as a medieval warlord ruled his serfs. And Marcus had to breech the castle walls like some knight errant of yore.

When had he gone completely insane?

Marcus shook his head. There was little time to think of such nonsense. He had to find a way into Hurdy's castle. Fortunately, Marcus had spent a good deal of his childhood climbing and exploring a castle near his family's Yorkshire estate. He knew just how to gain entrance thanks most especially to a stable hand named Ty who had spent a good deal of time in the American colonies. Marcus had never quite managed to handle the lasso like Ty had, but he had some basic proficiency.

Marcus turned, scanning the surrounding warehouses. They were all squat formless buildings, lined up like bricks pressed one against the other. It took half a block before he found what he needed: a warehouse with a lookout, a small tower in the middle of the roof where someone could watch the ships coming in and out and thereby predict the shift and flow of commodity prices. Quite intelligent, actually. And quite useful because along the outside of the building was a single rickety ladder designed to give access to the roof and the lookout post.

Readjusting the rope on his shoulder, Marcus climbed the ladder, gaining access to the roof. It was then a relatively easy run from one roof to the next, all along the row until he came to the one right next to Hurdy's castle.

While he looped the rope into a lasso, Marcus searched for his best option. His only choice was to anchor the rope to the top of Hurdy's tower, then swing into the lit room Giles had indicated. He would fly through that window like a suicidal bird, shattering the glass, and making enough noise to alert everyone in a ten-block radius.

Unfortunately, much as he tried, he could not see a better alternative. He could only hope Fantine was there, because if he was forced to search through the house for her, he was a dead man. Of course, if he missed this particular jump he would be worse off than dead. He'd be a bloody splat on the side of a castle turret.

With that image in mind, Marcus gripped the rope, gauged the wind, then prayed. He threw.

He missed.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled back the rope and tried again. It took two more tosses before the loop caught and held.

Now came the hard part—the jump. Assuming he gauged his rope and momentum correctly, he could burst through the window, grab Fantine, then jump out, sliding down the rope to the ground below. Hopefully, they would then make their escape through the rookery byways. Again.

If their luck held. If Fantine was indeed in that room. If he had lassoed the turret correctly. And if he did not kill himself on the jump.

Marcus took a deep breath, then relaxed. He'd already admitted to himself that he was completely insane. Everything would go as planned because everyone knew the feebleminded were protected by God. With that thought in mind, he ran and made his leap.

He knew from the moment he left the rooftop that he had figured correctly. His feet crashed through the glass window, shattering it inward with truly awesome force. Keeping one hand firmly gripped on the rope, he landed with only a small stumble even as he scanned the room for Fantine. He saw two people at a table and two guards near the door. Then he looked down, searching the floor for a crumpled body, a prostrate form, anything to indicate a bound prisoner.

Nothing.

What he saw instead was a diminutive virago in a torn frock push up from the remains of a sumptuous dinner and round on him in fury, fork waving like a dagger in his face.

"Good God, I did not even have time to eat it!" she screamed. "Not one measly, tiny bite. And now it is covered with glass! Glass! Damn it, I am hungry!"

Marcus blinked, first once, then twice, but the nightmare remained. It was indeed Fantine, the woman he had come to rescue, screeching at him like some shrew and waving... was that roast mutton? He sniffed appreciatively. It must have been a good one, too.

Then all thought was cut off as the door burst open, neatly flattening one large person who had been standing there, but admitting three more big men all running straight for Marcus.

"Come on!" he cried, making a grab for Fantine, intending to snare her around the waist and leap out the window to safety. That was his plan, but she eluded him, stepping directly into the path of the oncoming men.

"Don't you dare!" she said, brandishing her fork. The men skidded to a halt, looking uncertainly at her, then at him, then at a third man who still sat at the opposite side of the makeshift table. "He is mine," she practically hissed. Then she spun back toward Marcus, her eyes blazing with fury as she threw her fork straight at his face.

"What?" he gasped, barely eluding the projectile. It sailed out the window, no doubt landing on the very place he had thought to carry her. "Fantine—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Why are you here? Why is it that everywhere I go, suddenly you are there? Sweet heaven, will you be in the privy too?"

Marcus stared at her, his breath stolen by her fury. Her chestnut curls whipped about her face while her bronze eyes burned him where he stood. Good Lord, she was beautiful. But she was also contrary. And exasperating. And absolutely fascinating.

He decided he would bed her. If he did not kill her first.

"Could we possibly discuss this later?" he asked, as much to himself as to her. "I am trying to rescue you, you know."

"Not a prayer," she shot back.

It was at that moment that the other man pushed leisurely to his feet. He was quite handsome in a boyish sort of way. His redhead and freckles gave him an endearing look, but Marcus had no illusions that the man would be easy to handle. Noticing the man's expensive clothes and his confident air, Marcus deduced that he was looking at none other than Hurdy, dockside warlord and Ballast's main rival.

At Hurdy's nod, the guards retreated to strategic points in the room. Two of them went to either side of the window and firmly pulled the rope out of Marcus's hands. He did not want to relinquish his one faint hope of escape, but he had no choice. Not only was he severely outnumbered, but one of the men by the door had a sharp, wicked-looking knife, ready to embed hilt-deep in his throat.