No Place for a Lady (7 page)

"Do not even begin to suggest—" began Marcus in stiff accents, but then they ran out of time. Marcus was leaning against the door, using his weight to keep it shut, but it shook as a mighty fist banged against it.

"Ballast!" came a muffled voice from the other side. "Wot's up?"

"Kill us now," said Fantine in a low whisper, "and yer boy will never see the inside of Harrow, never collect gambling cits from an earl's son, never treat a future duke to 'is first diddle in yer fine establishment."

Marcus swallowed, both appalled and amazed by the things her mind could think up.

"Ballast!" called the voice with more urgency.

"Betray us," whispered Fantine, "and I will slit yer throat right 'ere." Then she let up on Ballast's windpipe just enough for him to take a deep breath.

"Let be, Corey," Ballast called. Then he lowered his voice, his face squeezed into a frown of concentration. "Let me think a minute."

Fantine did not give him a minute. She pushed against him hard with her shoulder, making him gasp for breath. "No more time, Ballast. I want that name."

Apparently coming to a decision, he lifted his head and glared at Fantine. "I ain't got no name. Just Teggie."

Marcus frowned. "Teggie? As in teeth?"

"Yeah," Ballast continued, his face cracking into a soundless laugh. "Seems some swell wi' three gold teg paid Hurdy t' pop Wilberforce."

Marcus needed a moment to unravel the man's cant, but he eventually figured it out. Some nobleman with three gold teeth paid Hurdy, Ballast's chief rival, to kill Wilberforce.

"Hurdy cain't decide," continued the man. "Do he pop th' swell for 'is teg?"

Does he kill the gentlemen for his gold teeth?

"Or do he take th' game?"

"He decided to take the job," said Fantine dully.

More's the pity, thought Marcus. If he had chosen to kill the culprit, then Marcus would right now be sitting by a warm fire with a brandy rather than having to choose between his own demise and sponsoring a thief into Harrow.

Sweet heaven, he still didn't know what he would decide. Did it have to be Harrow?

"More details, Ballast," Fantine said, cutting into Marcus's thoughts. "Was the swell tall? Fat? Ugly? Anything?"

"All I knows is that 'e gots three gold teggie."

"Are you sure it was three?" asked Marcus. "Not two or four?"

Ballast grimaced as if Marcus were an idiot, but he answered anyway. "It were three. Less, an' it ain't worth the pain o' killing a nob. Four, an' there ain't no question. Three, an' ye think an' think an' think."

"Wot about the gentlemen's clothes, hair, eyes?" demanded Fantine.

"I don't know nothing more!"

Marcus frowned, trying to gauge Ballast's expression. The man wasn't lying. He knew nothing more. Apparently, Fantine came to the same conclusion as she switched the topic.

"All right. 'Ave we got a deal? The daft and I leave safe, and Sprat gets an education?"

Ballast shook his head, the movement slight since Fantine still held the dagger at his throat. "The daft goes. You stay." His hands slid around her bottom for good measure. "Ye still owes me fer Jenny."

Fantine hesitated, and Marcus clenched his teeth in frustration. Nothing about this evening had gone as it should. First the grubbing through every Cheapside gutter and sewer hole, then having to choose between his life and sponsoring the boy into Harrow, and now this! Having Fantine sacrifice herself to this brute for him? The entire affair was humiliating, and he absolutely refused to allow it to continue even a moment longer!

He stepped forward, resolution knotting his shoulders and fists. His movements were awkward considering he had to keep one hand on the boy, but he managed nevertheless. With a single well-aimed blow, he smashed Ballast into unconsciousness.

Fantine jumped back from the villain's body, gasping with dismay as the portly man slumped to the floor.

"Nice hit," she said, and he was surprised to hear a note of admiration in her voice. "Next time, ye think ye could warn me?"

"He ain't dead, is he?" asked the boy in a small voice.

"Naw," said Fantine. "But I do not wish t' be 'ere when 'e wakes."

Both Fantine and Marcus turned toward the only door, but the boy, now reassured that his father still lived, found his courage again. Stepping before the door to block their way, he merely smiled at them. "Me father's men will stick ye as soon as ye step through that door."

Marcus sighed, his anger still simmering. "I will not be murdered in this hellhole," he said flatly. "It would kill my mother."

Fantine glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but her attention returned to the boy. "They cain't kill us if ye stop them. Tell them yer father is drunk. They'll believe that right enough."

The boy smirked back, his expression mimicking his father's earlier one. "An' why would I do that?"

"Because if you get us out safely, I swear t' see ye into Harrow."

Marcus stiffened. Good Lord, she could not be bringing that up again? Not when he thought he had just managed a narrow escape with Ballast. "Absolutely not!" he began, only to be cut off by the boy.

"'E won't do it," said Sprat, jerking his head toward Marcus.

"'E'll do it," returned Fantine. "Trust me." Then she crouched down far enough to look at the boy eye to eye. "It be your only chance, Sprat. Do you want to live like your father? Getting piss-eyed drunk every night and grabbing at anything what moves 'cause your life is too damned empty for anything else?"

Sprat paled at her bald assessment of Ballast, and Marcus feared she'd overplayed her hand. But the boy had intelligence. His gaze slipped to his father's slumped form, taking in the spittle that dribbled on the man's chin.

"Once in Harrow," Fantine continued, "you can create your own life. Become friends with the elite, learn what you need to know. Maybe one of them has a sister—"

"Do not even think it!" exploded Marcus. Then Sprat's gaze slipped to Marcus. He suddenly felt uncomfortable under the boy's scrutiny. Why, the lad was judging him, weighing his character! Yet, there was nothing he could do except hope he passed the test, because he had the feeling their very lives depended on it.

He failed.

Sprat spat at his feet. "'E won't do it."

"He will," returned Fantine. "If you cannot trust him, then trust me. I have never lied to you."

"Ye ain't never had to afore."

Marcus swallowed. Both Sprat and Fantine were staring at each other, measuring each other's worth in infinitesimal detail. Marcus himself had already been dismissed as unimportant, a mere detail in this game. He would have been insulted had it not been abundantly clear that he had no clue how to function in this dockside world. He could watch, readying himself for anything, but Fantine and this small boy were the true players.

Marcus almost smiled at the thought. Finally! A new game to learn!

And at that moment, Sprat made his decision.

"Best cover up," he said as he jerked his head at Fantine's clothing. "Less'n ye want everybody to know ye're a girl."

Fantine gasped as she glanced down at her clothing. Though her breasts were not exposed, they were handsomely apparent. She would not be able to repair that, Marcus realized. The damage was too extensive. So, rather than give in to temptation and watch her wiggling movements as she struggled with the torn fabric, he yanked the shirt off one of the unconscious thugs.

"Wear this. It will cover up most everything. With luck, people will only see what they want to see."

"They want to see a half-naked girl," muttered Fantine. But she did as he suggested. Within moments, she had tucked the overly large shirt into what was left of her breeches. There was nothing to do about the cut seam on her leg, but at least she looked vaguely like a boy.

"Let's get to it," said the boy. But before they could do more than take a deep breath, the boy pinned his steely gaze on Fantine. "Cross me an' I'll kill you."

Fantine nodded, her manner equally serious. "I know."

Apparently satisfied, Sprat raised his voice enough to carry though the door to any listeners. "Come on, ye buggers," he bellowed as he pushed open the door.

Marcus was just crossing the threshold into the main pub when Ballast began to revive. It started as a muffled groan, growing louder as consciousness returned. Fantine and the boy heard it too because they sped up their pace, pushing through the crowd almost before Marcus could shut the door behind them.

"Out o' me way," cried the boy as he weaved quickly through the crowd. "Ballast's got a special treat fer 'is lordship, and th' swell is anxious t' see it."

Picking up his cue, Marcus shifted quickly into the pose of a drunk peer too stupid to realize his own danger.

"Hurry up, boy," he said, slurring his words slightly. "I want to shee this woman with four breasts." He grinned as he made a drunken grab for the barmaid while stumbling past a thick-shouldered obstacle. "One for each hand, an' my lips, then another for spare."

The boy rolled his eyes for the crowd's benefit, tugging Marcus away from Gilly. "Come along, guv."

Marcus nodded and lurched forward, making sure his motions speeded up their progress. From behind, he heard Ballast's roar as the man fully regained consciousness. Fortunately, they made it out into the street before the noise died.

"Go that way," said Sprat, pointing. "An' around th' back."

Fantine nodded, grabbing the boy's arm before he could escape. "Will 'e hurt ye fer this?"

"Naw," he said with a grin. "I'll jes tell 'im ye knocked me out while I was taking ye to the stable."

"The stable?" asked Marcus.

"Ballast's place t' initiate girls into whoring," Fantine answered grimly.

Marcus gritted his teeth, wondering how she could speak of such things as if they were of no consequence. But there was no time to think as the sounds from within the pub grew louder. "We must be going," he said urgently.

Fantine nodded. "Do it," she said, turning toward Marcus.

He blinked. "Do what?"

"Hit the boy. But do not hurt 'im."

"What? Now?" It was not that he misunderstood her meaning or even the purpose of the act. It was simply that his mind could not grasp that he must actually hit a boy with the intent of knocking him unconscious. "But—"

"Hurry," urged Fantine as she began stacking debris in front of the pub door.

"Very well," he said, forcing himself to knot his fist despite his reluctance. Then he pulled back and swung.

His blow landed neatly on the boy's cheek, knocking the child's head to one side. Then the boy turned his head back to him with a grimace.

"'At's it?" he asked as he slapped disdainfully at his cheek. "Me own grandma cain do better than that. There ain't gonna be no bruise!"

Marcus gaped at the boy. Did he actually mean he was to hit him harder?

"Aw, never mind, guv," Sprat said, disgust plain on his small face. Then he grabbed a nearby piece of wood and raised it aloft. "Remember," he said urgently. "Yer deal is wi' me."

"I remember," answered Fantine softly.

Then the boy hit himself with his makeshift club. He had not enough strength to do more than bruise himself, but Marcus winced nevertheless. Then tossing the club away, Sprat looked at Fantine. "Good eno'?"

"Aye. Good enough."

With an impish grin, he sprang backward as if thrown, smashing bodily against the wall only to sprawl on his side in the dirty gutter.

Marcus stared at him in shock, amazed at the sight. "Do you think he is really injured?"

"No," she said with a smile. "He is good. Almost as good as I was at his age." Then, before she could say more, the pub door burst open and three very large men armed with long knives appeared, easily pushing through Fantine's stack of debris.

"They's right 'ere!" one of them bellowed.

Marcus and Fantine ran.

* * *

Jump, scramble, duck, run. No thoughts. No noise. Run
.

Fantine scampered like the rat she took her nickname from. She scurried, she struggled, but most of all, she ran, searching through the black night for an escape.

Chadwick was right behind her, huffing and wheezing like an old dog. In truth, he had done remarkably well, especially given that Nameless had already run him for almost an hour before the evening began. But now they were racing for their lives. She had no doubts that if Ballast caught them...

Don't think, she admonished herself.
Run
.

She did. But with every turn, every street, she heard the heavy footfalls of her pursuers. Ballast's men were falling behind, but not nearly quickly enough. And she feared that Chadwick would soon give out.

Run. Quietly. Run
.

Then Chadwick stopped.

She didn't notice at first, but then the steady huff of his breath disappeared. Spinning around, she saw him leaning against a brick wall, gasping for air.