The Gentleman and the Rogue (24 page)

She loosened her hold at once, and a tiny whimper sounded next to his ear.

“Naw, I'm jesting, girl. It would take more to kill me. Ready?”

She might have nodded, or maybe her shudders only grew stronger at that second.

He rose to his feet. She held so tight, he didn't need to support her at all. Her bare legs clasped around his waist as well, grappling him to her as if he were an unexpected life preserver she must cling to or die, which he wagered wasn't too far from the truth.

The girl smelled of piss. She must have wet herself in fear. Jem wasn't afraid of a little dirt and piss, so he wasn't disgusted, but that old, dull ache of anger roiled through him that any child should be so terrified of her master she'd piddle like a whipped pup.

The door was locked, of course, and he squatted, wishing he'd told her to climb on
after
he'd opened the thing. He wasn't about to tell her to get off—not when she held on as if she were a desperate drowning creature.

Lucky for them both, fear made his fingers deft. Jerry once told him he was a contrary lad, because most people in a fright grew clumsy. The lock clicked, and after one frozen moment, when Jem was certain he'd face the devil Schivvers himself, he opened the door a crack and peered out. Miracle of miracles. No one waited in the hall. The servants must have been abed for the night. He moved through the house undiscovered. Her little whimpery breath and the occasional squeak of the floor under his silent feet was all he heard.

This time he found the kitchen door locked, but opening it was an easy job when one was on the inside already. He flipped the lock and was about to open the latch when suddenly the child on his back gripped him tighter than ever, her arms nearly choking him.

“He's here,” she whispered. The first words she'd uttered.

At the same moment, Jem registered heels tapping quickly across the floor behind him. He whirled to face Schivvers striding through the darkened kitchen like an avenging demon. The man was almost upon him. Even though Jem was already at the door, there was no time to run. Best he could do was get the girl out and buy her some time.

He dropped to a crouch. “Let go,” he ordered.

Annie slipped off his back instantly. Unquestioning and well-trained was just what he wanted at the moment.

Jem pulled open the door and thrust her through. “Run!”

“Ann, stop!” Schivvers's voice thundered from behind him, but his ward didn't hesitate. She ignored the command and tore off like a shot, her feet skimming the ground as she disappeared into the night.

Jem slammed the door shut behind her and drew his whittling knife from his trousers pocket as he turned to face the surgeon. He lunged toward his opponent, driving upward with the blade, aiming for the other man's gut as Jerry had once taught him. He'd never actually been in a knife fight but had no qualms about gutting Schivvers if he could.

Unfortunately Jem was fighting from a weak position, turning back from the door while the other man was already striking at him. And the good surgeon had a blade of his own. The dim hearth light illuminating the room glinted off a long, silver knife.

Schivvers sliced downward and cut through the sleeve of Jem's shirt, sending fire burning up his arm. His blow blocked the momentum of Jem's knife hand, and the little knife slashed through the other man's waistcoat, but no more than that.

He drew his hand back to strike again, but suddenly his opponent grabbed his shoulder and held the sharp blade to his throat. From inches away, Schivvers glared into Jem's eyes. The wild look in his eyes was akin to what Jem had seen in the faces of lunatics dismissed from Bedlam to wander the sewers and slums of London.

“Thief!” The man's spittle spattered his face.

Jem stopped struggling, stopped breathing as he felt the cool metal touch his throat. One little slice, and he'd be gushing red like a fountain. No more Jem.

This is it. This is what the end of my life looks like
. The thought was as calm and clear as the spring-fed pool along the road where he and Alan had stopped to water the horses the night they'd slept under the stars. Funny how he was too shocked to be afraid, and all he could think of was Alan's eyes that night and how they'd shone in the moonlight.

But Schivvers didn't kill him. Swift as a whippet, he removed the blade from Jem's throat. Before Jem had a second to react or fight back, his attacker punched the thick knob of the knife's bone handle into Jem's temple.

Stars exploded in his vision, and blackness followed.

Chapter Fourteen

Jem's head throbbed. It felt like someone was thumping his noggin with steady blows of a mallet. And his eyes seemed to be gummed shut, which was fine, since he was afraid to open 'em, afraid of what he'd see and where he was. He listened to the quiet sounds of Schivvers moving around him and felt the flat, hard surface under his naked backside, the restraints around his wrists and ankles. It didn't take the brain power of the Lord Mayor himself to figure out he was lashed to the surgeon's operating table in his private dungeon.

There was something filling his dry mouth—a wadded-up cloth with a bitter tang, bound tight around the back of his head with another strip of cloth. From the smell, Jem realized the awful taste was shoe polish. He was parched, his throat so dry that when he swallowed, it clicked.

His body was stripped bare, and he was naked and vulnerable, his skin twitching and flinching in expectation of pain. His cock rested flat against his belly as if trying to hide itself in the thatch of hair there. Jem envisioned his tackle being cut off and added to the surgeon's collection of floating human bits, and swore he could feel his cock shriveling even smaller, his balls drawing tighter. He wondered if Annie had made it to safety. He hadn't been able to give her much time before Schivvers knocked his lights out. Sweet Jesus, let something good have come from his fool's errand.

“I know you're awake. You may open your eyes.” Schivvers was right beside him, his voice hovering over him. Jem would've jumped if he could move at all, but the restraints pinned him flat to the table. As it was, his heart thundered as if it would burst through his breastbone. Was it possible to die from fear? Lucky he hadn't pissed himself like the little girl. At least not yet.

“I'm going to take off your gag so I can ask you some questions.” The voice was conversational, almost friendly. “You must promise you won't yell for help. No one would hear you, and even if they did, my staff would not come down here. They've been instructed never to come near my room, no matter what they hear. They are paid very well to remain blind and deaf.” His soft chuckle made Jem's skin crawl and his balls try even harder to draw up inside him.

Still, he wouldn't open his eyes. If he could see the room with its horrible jars and hanging things, if he could see Schivvers's face, he would have to accept this as his new reality. But as the man loosened the gag and took the polishing rag from his mouth, Jem could see the glow of light through his eyelids.

“Did your master send you here?” the man asked.

Jem thought fast, calculating the possible consequences of either answer. If he said “yes, and he'll be coming after me soon,” he'd be indicting Alan should Schivvers decide to try a legal route to get the girl back. If he said “no, I acted on my own”… Well, the man might still try to implicate Alan, or he might decide Jem was expendable to his master and finish him off. Perhaps he was.

“He doesn't know I'm here. Had nothing to do with it. Sir Alan would never consider anything other than legal means to get custody of the Cutler girl. I thought I could make things easier for him.”

“Why does he want the girl so badly?”

Stinging hornets sent a trail of fire up one side of Jem's face from chin to cheekbone. A small, shiny scalpel. He hissed with pain.

“Look at me when I'm speaking to you.”

Reluctantly he unsealed his eyes, blinked away the gray fog, and focused on the face floating over him—pale, elegant, a cadaver with an impeccably tied cravat. Schivvers's fair hair was brushed back from his high forehead, which was furrowed in concern but not contorted with rage as it had been when he'd faced him in the kitchen.

Jem glanced past his shoulder, taking in the room at a glance. It was well lit with an oil lamp now, and he could better see the neatly labeled jars of organs and appendages. He could also see the hanging things that had been hidden in shadow before. Mummified cadaver parts, also carefully tagged and cataloged, suspended from the ceiling. Why not? This was a surgeon's study. Nothing amiss here should the law come exploring.

Schivvers held up the scalpel, its blade now rimmed in red, for Jem's consideration. “Answer my question. What does Sir Alan want with Ann?”

Jem's voice was a hoarse croak. “I believe it's just as he said, sir. A matter of loyalty to one of his men. No more than that.”

“I want the girl back. Will she run to him? Did you tell her where to go?”

Again Jem considered carefully before answering. On the surface, this was a straight kidnapping. It was entirely within Schivvers's rights to go to the authorities, explain everything, demand the girl be returned to him, and have Jem thrown in gaol. The fact that he was reacting in this furtive manner told him that Schivvers didn't want the law involved. Maybe he was afraid of what the girl might reveal about him should she be questioned.

“I believe she'll try to go to him.” He licked his dry lips, still tasting boot polish. “I also believe if you don't try to get her back, Sir Alan will leave you and your secrets alone. All he cares for is the lass's safety.”

“I never hurt her, you know.” Schivvers lowered the blade to Jem's chest and trailed it gently from nipple to navel. The stroke felt like the light brush of a feather. It almost tickled. But when Jem glanced down, a thin red line, like a cat scratch, marked the scalpel's path.

The man's mad eyes, shining black as a polished boot, gazed into Jem's. “I'm a scientist. The study of the human body and mind are all that's important to me. Fear and the way that emotion shapes behavior are of utmost interest.”

Although the room was quite chilly, perspiration prickled on Jem's chest and slicked his face. His body trembled slightly despite his best efforts to control it.

“Did you know, for example, that words can be as powerful, if not more so, as acts? You'd be surprised at how the threat of pain or torture is as effective as the application in controlling a subject—although physical pain is a strong molder of behavior as well.”

“Your studies are in those journals, I wager.” Jem was surprised he found enough breath to form the words as the scalpel traced another cold line on the opposite side of his body—nipple to navel, then lower, coming terrifyingly close to the tip of his cock, where it lay against his belly.

Schivvers glanced at the crate full of books. “Yes.”

“Your experiments with Annie Cutler, training her to obey your will?”

The man's eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“Them books is on their way to my master. I gave 'em to the girl to carry.” They were still in the pockets of his coat, which Ann was wearing. Would merely the threat of exposure be enough to frighten Schivvers into letting him go? Or would it enrage the madman enough to finish off Jem right here and now?

“You knew I'd been in here, could tell the lock had been tampered with.” Jem continued to flirt with death. “See if any are missing.”

The man crossed the room in three quick strides and quickly flipped through the top few journals. His face, when he turned back toward Jem, was more terrifying than ever. He flew back across the room like a bird of prey, the scalpel his talon, and loomed over Jem. “What will he do?”

Jem swallowed, making that dry clicking sound again. His head ached badly, and his vision was fuzzy around the edges, whether from the blow to his temple or from sheer terror, he didn't know.

“I think this is what you military coves call a stalemate. My master's got the girl, which is all he wanted. Plus he's got your journals. You drop this fight now, and you can walk away. He don't expose your secrets. You don't accuse him of kidnapping.” He decided to press his luck. “You might even consider letting me go so's I can talk to him, help him to see reason.”

Schivvers paced around the table, once, twice, three times, every pass making Jem more nervous. He could hear the man thinking, considering his next move, and imagined him making it swiftly by abruptly plunging the scalpel into Jem's throat or heart.

The man stopped walking and stood at Jem's head, just beyond the range of his vision. Having him out of sight, invisible, was extremely unnerving.

“You must think a great deal of your master to dare to come into my house and steal my property for him. I wonder if he has some special…affection for you as well. Perhaps enough that he would not want to let you go, perhaps enough to make him come after you.”

He bent low; a hand braced either side of the table beside Jem's head. His whiskey-scented breath puffed into Jem's face as he gazed at him upside down. “Perhaps enough that he'd be willing to trade the girl and the books in exchange for you.”

“Don't think so, sir. I ain't that important.” Jem wished it wasn't true, but was afraid it was. Sure, he knew Alan enjoyed him, but now that the girl was safe, it was hardly likely Alan would come for him. Especially since it was Jem's own fault he was in this fix. He'd broken into the man's house, got himself caught, and couldn't expect Alan to risk what he'd gained.

“I'm an astute study of human nature,” Schivvers proclaimed from above him. “I watch people when they don't even know they're being watched—everyone around me, from gentlemen to rabble like yourself. I can read the fears and needs in them. During the several years I worked in proximity to Watleigh, I perceived his perverse bent by his glances, gestures, his very stance, and I guess now that you are more than his valet. I noted his expression when you entered my study today.”

Uncertain how to respond, Jem kept his mouth shut for once. Besides, he was feeling more unsteady by the second, liable to slip back into unconsciousness.