The Rogue You Know (Covent Garden Cubs) (2 page)

“My mother does not make bon mots.” Clearly the woman did not know Lady Dane.

Even clearer was Susanna’s mistake in speaking out. Lady Litton’s dark eyebrows slashed together, and the ribbon of her pink lips thinned further.

“That was not my point.”

No. Her point had been to encourage Susanna to run away. Undoubtedly, Lady Litton had a rendezvous with a friend or lover planned in this room. Though Susanna did not know who that could be, as this was a ladies’ garden party. For a brief moment, Susanna wished she had simply run away.

But then something made her square her shoulders. Perhaps it was the thought of adventure. Perhaps she was still locked in her fantasy of Vauxhall, still imagining she could be someone else on those dark walks.

Someone brave and interesting and desirable.

“Why don’t
you
run back to your mama?” Susanna said, surprising herself when the words from her thoughts came out of her mouth. “I am using this room at present.”

“Then use another.” Lady Litton advanced, her parasol held before her like a weapon.

Susanna’s legs threatened to bolt for the exit, but she stood firm, even though she shook inside.

“
You
use another.”

Lady Litton’s eyes widened. Then she smiled, a very snide sort of smile. “Oh, I see. Your new sister has been influencing you. Tell me, Lady Susanna, what is next? Will you pick pockets and raise your skirts for every man in a dark alley?”

Susanna’s arm rose without her permission, and her hand made loud contact with Lady Litton’s cheek. A flower of red bloomed on the viscountess’s pale skin, and with a look of shocked horror in her eyes, she raised her hand to the offending mark.

Susanna thought the look must have mirrored her own. What had she done?

What if her mother found out?

She opened her mouth to apologize, but Lady Litton shrieked before Susanna had a chance.

“You little bitch! Now look what you’ve done!”

As Susanna stared in silent amazement, a tear slid down Lady Litton’s cheek.

“If you want the room, then take it.” The viscountess stomped away in a flurry of skirts and flounces, her hand still on her abused skin.

Susanna stared after her until the door slammed, then looked down at her hand, still stinging with the force of the slap.

Perhaps she was not as much of a coward as she’d thought.

And perhaps now was the perfect time for that adventure.

* * *

Gideon stood in the Golden Gallery in the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. All of London sprawled before him. The sun set on the River Thames, clogged with ships of all sizes and shapes. The forest of masts jutted from the foul, murky water like dead tree branches in winter. Just beyond, the soot-blackened buildings of London were crammed together as though huddled in fear. The day was hot and the streets teeming with short-tempered people jostling their way through the throngs. Peddlers pushed carts, children chased dogs, and horses pulled rattlers. The noise on the streets deafened him at times.

High above it all, blissful silence reigned. The wind whooshed in his ears and ruffled his hair.

“I could get used to a view like this,” Gideon said, spreading his arms like a king surveying his kingdom. He breathed deeply for effect, as the air up here wasn’t much cleaner than that on the streets. “Smell that fresh air. The wind in my hair. This is the life.”

But even in the heavens, he found only temporary escape from the world below.

Beezle stood just behind him, his gaze as dark as the dirt under his fingernails.

“You do the trick, and you can have any life you want,” Beezle said quietly. With Satin dead, Beezle was the new arch rogue of the Covent Garden Cubs. Gideon had tried to distance himself from the gang since then, but old habits were hard to break. That, and Beezle was none too willing to allow one of his best rooks to walk away.

Reluctantly, Gideon abandoned the indigo-and-orange skies of London. “I pinch the necklace, and I never have to see your ugly mug again?”

“And here I thought it was the blunt you were after. A hundred yellow boys will make you rich as a gentry cove.”

“The necklace is worth ten times that.”

“The necklace is mine, and I choose to let you in on the game. Do we row in the same boat, Gideon?”

He didn’t want to row in Beezle’s boat. Hell, he didn’t want to be in the same ocean as the arch rogue, but this was his chance. The blunt from this job would allow him to walk away from rooking. He could be his own man, start over in a new place, with a new name. Be whomever he wanted.

He’d never make it out of London without first lining his pockets. It took guineas to start over, and that’s where Beezle came in.

Gideon rocked back on his heels, imitating the swells who had all the money and time in the world.

Beezle waited. His expression remained hooded, but Gideon would have bet a shilling—if he’d had one—the arch rogue chafed at being made to wait. They were of a similar height—he and Beezle—and both had dark hair. That was where the similarities ended. Beezle had a narrow, birdlike face perpetually twisted into a malevolent expression. Gideon liked to think of himself as a rum duke. He bore no one ill will and was generally good-natured.

Gideon held out a hand, offering it to the devil.

Beezle’s icy fingers wrapped around his flesh, and Gideon’s belly clenched in revulsion.

“Let’s do the trick,” Gideon said.

After that it was a simple matter to make their way to Mother Cummings’s house at Six George Street. Mother Cummings rented rooms for as little as a shilling, but it was a bawdy house as well as a front for fencing goods. The molls’ game was to lure a man into bed—the more foxed the better—then purloin his property and make a run for it. Then everyone in the house would claim never to have heard of the moll who’d filched the goods. At the first opportunity, Mother Cummings was sure to fence it. If anyone was likely to have cargo of real value in St. Giles, it was Mother Cummings.

Mother Cummings had dozens of hidey-holes for the goods she acquired. Gideon had either seen or heard of most of them since he’d fenced cargo through Mother Cummings a hundred times or more before he’d joined the Covent Garden Cubs. Gideon’s job was to find where the necklace was hidden, filch it, and hand it over to Beezle. Beezle would fence it himself and give Gideon a hundred guineas.

A hundred yellow boys was more money than Gideon could even imagine, but he didn’t want to start thinking about the blunt before he did the job. He would be a thief in a house full of thieves. He couldn’t afford distractions.

Of one mind, Beezle and Gideon paused outside a gin shop on George Street, just across from Number Six. No one paid them any attention as they took careful note of the comings and goings at Mother Cummings’s. A steady stream of men filed in and out. Gideon would be all but invisible in the public rooms.

“You coming in?” Gideon asked after a quarter of an hour passed.

Beezle’s small eyes never left the door across George Street. “I’ll wait here for the drop.”

Gideon had been counting on that. He gave a casual shrug. “Suit yourself.”

He started away, but Beezle gripped his shoulder with hard, bony fingers. “Don’t even think about double-crossing me, Gideon. Racer and Stub are keeping watch in the back. Get the necklace. Give it to me. If you even think about keeping it, I’ll smash you myself.”

Gideon spread his arms in mock indignation. “Take the necklace for myself? Would I do that?”

Beezle dug his fingers painfully into Gideon’s shoulder.

Gideon covered his heart with a hand. “You don’t trust me. That hurts, Beezle.” He tapped his chest. “Right here.”

Beezle’s grip slackened, but his expression remained deadly. Gideon missed Satin. The old arch rogue was quick to cuff the cubs, but he was also quick with a grin. Gideon had usually been able to make him laugh.

“Get the necklace,” Beezle said.

“Work, work, work.” Gideon rotated his shoulder, shrugging off Beezle’s hand. “Be right back.”

“You’d better be.”

The interior of Mother Cummings’s house was as Gideon remembered. The well-worn stairs led to the drawing room where molls plied men with gin, then coaxed them to nearby bedrooms. The rooms for rent were on the second floor, and the ground floor was for dining and business. Mother Cummings was rarely in residence after two in the afternoon, so if a rook wanted to fence something, he learned to come in the morning.

It was a long time until morning, so Gideon should have plenty of time to search.

A large woman with a red face and bruised knuckles pointed upstairs. “All the rooms are rented, but go upstairs and find a rum blowen to entertain you.”

Mother Cummings was no fool. She had a guard on the first floor. Gideon had counted on at least one sentry. Upstairs, he made a pass through the drawing room, peeling the molls off when they tried to persuade him to sit or drink. Finally, he slipped back out and headed past the closed bedroom doors until he reached the servants’ stairs. He shut the door behind him and started down them, only to topple over a young mort sitting on one of the steps with a bottle of Blue Ruin.

She looked up at him with bleary, red eyes. “Shh. Don’t tell.”

“It’s our secret.” Gideon pressed a finger to his lips. He moved around her and cracked the door on the first floor, peering out. The entry was just a few feet away, where the guard woman growled at a young man. Mother Cummings’s library—if a room with no books could be called such—was across from him. That library was the most likely hidey-hole for the necklace.

Gideon slid across the corridor and lifted the library door latch.

The door didn’t open.

He cursed under his breath and, with a quick glance at the guard, retrieved a dub from his coat pocket. With slow, steady movements born from years of practice, he slid the tool into the lock and maneuvered it about until he felt it snap into place. His gaze never wavered from the guard. If she saw him now, he was stone dead.

A group of coves came in, but they were looking up the stairs, thinking about what lay ahead. They had no reason to note a man standing near a door by the servants’ stairs.

He twisted his wrist, hearing the lock click. The sound was deafening in his ears, but the guard dog didn’t turn. Withdrawing the dub, Gideon slipped it back into his coat, turned the handle, and slithered into the dark library.

Gideon felt his way toward a window and tossed several gowns draped over it onto the floor, allowing more light inside. He was met by a dozen haphazard piles of random treasures. Silk handkerchiefs lay on top of a table beside slabs of cheese and bacon. Brass knobs and shutters shared space with a mound of ladies’ petticoats, hats, and shoes. In the corner, a duck quacked. Stacked beside the creature’s cage were pails and coal scuttles. Gideon scanned the larger items, noting a tall chest in one corner. He crossed to it quickly, opening drawers and feeling inside for the contents—lead, glass bottles, a mirror, brushes…no baubles.

He tried another drawer and another until they’d all been searched. Perhaps she kept the necklace elsewhere. A parlor? The dining room? It could be anywhere, but this was the only room he’d never seen anyone but Mother Cummings enter. If the necklace was in the house, it must be in the library. A valuable necklace like that: Would she have left it here? It was widely known that Mother Cummings didn’t live at Six George Street. Maybe she’d taken the necklace to her other home to keep it safe until she found a buyer.

Gideon scanned the room again, looking for a hiding spot, something he’d overlooked. The necklace had to be here. If it wasn’t, his future was as lost as a pamphlet thrown into a fire.

He couldn’t allow that to happen. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life diving into pockets or cracking houses. He wanted out.

He leaned against the cold hearth and tapped his hands against his thighs as he meticulously studied every spot in the room. He had to be missing something. Why hadn’t he found any ladies’ fal-lals? Not a ring, not even an earbob. His foot kicked back, hitting the grate in the hearth, and he pulled his boot forward before the ash could coat it. But when he looked down, he didn’t see any ash.

Gideon crouched and stroked his fingers over the grate.

Stone cold.

No sign of wood or coal in the hearth. That was interesting. Even in summer, these houses were drafty. Surely Mother Cummings would want a warm fire while she inventoried her treasures. Gideon wished he had a glim-stick, but his eyes were so used to the dark, he figured he could see almost as well without one. Lying on his back, he shoved his shoulders into the hearth, wiggling until they fit. Then he reached up and felt the chimney stones. Bits of soot and ash dropped onto his face, but he ignored them as his deft fingers explored.

Brick, brick, brick, hole.

Gideon grinned in triumph, angled his wrist, and reached into the hole. His fingers closed on a velvet bag, and he tugged it out. Wrenching his shoulders from the hearth, he pulled the bag open. Inside, several rings tinkled, and a rum thimble ticked the minutes away.

Even better, something flashed and winked. Gideon lifted the diamond-and-emerald necklace. He whistled softly to himself.

“There you are,” he murmured.

He thrust the bag into his coat and stood. Now all he had to do was cross the room, open the door, and make his escape.

Footsteps clomped without, and the door handle rattled.

Gideon cursed. He’d used the dub to open the door. Why the hell hadn’t he locked it again?

He had two options: hide and be found or not hide and be found.

He patted the velvet bag, still hidden in his coat. The door creaked open.

“You took your time about getting here,” Gideon said, hands on his hips. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

The man and the woman in the doorway exchanged confused looks. That was better than having them try to kill him, so he kept talking. “Do you have any idea how late it is?” Not that Gideon knew either, but it sounded good. “I’ve been waiting for you for an hour.”

Finally, the girl edged into the room. “Who are you?”

Gideon raised a brow in a way the ladies seemed to like. He’d perfected the art of brow raising.

“The question is, who are you? No one mentioned a rum duchess like you.”

She giggled, and Gideon took that as a good sign. He moved forward, lifted her hand, and kissed it. “Pleasure you meet you. I’m Gideon.”

She giggled again. “Alice.”

The man she was with—little more than a cub, really—snatched her hand back. He probably had some prior claim on the girl. Gideon would have assumed he’d interrupted a romantic meeting, except he doubted Mother Cummings ever allowed anything of that sort down here. The rooms upstairs were for let. Everyone knew that.

“Ye’re not supposed to be in here,” the cub told him.

Gideon scrunched his face into a confused expression. “Then why’d you tell me to meet you here?”

Now might be a good time to think about escape. He spotted several brass door knockers on the floor nearby and sidled closer to them.

“I didn’t.”

“Mother Cummings don’t let anyone in here,” Alice told him.

“You’re in here.” He needed one door knocker. Just one.

“She trusts us.”

“I see why.” He made a show of looking her over, inching closer to the door knockers as he did. “Rum blowen like you. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Why don’t we go outside and talk about the game?”

“There’s no game with you,” the boy said. “You think I’m some kind of nob?”

He swung his fist, and Gideon ducked, grabbing one of the door knockers. He came up swinging and caught the lad on the side of the temple. The cub went down with a yelp that was sure to attract attention. Gideon took Alice’s hand again.

“Another time, sweet Alice.”

With a kiss to her knuckles, he bolted from the room. He sprinted for the door to the house, ignoring the guard screeching at him to halt. He would flash her a grin and a wave when he flew through the door.

Except three short, thick men, fat as Norfolk dumplin’s, thundered down the steps and cut off his exit.

Gideon skidded to a halt and went back the way he’d come. Unfortunately, the lad he’d smashed over the head had recovered and was coming for him, blood streaming from the new gash on his temple.

“Not going that way,” Gideon muttered to himself and took the only option open to him, the door on his right. The handle turned, and Gideon ran through, slamming the door on his pursuers. That wouldn’t keep them for long, and he turned in a circle, looking for a way to escape. The only exit he spotted was a glaze. He ran to it as the door burst open. Gideon pushed the pane up and jumped out.

He felt his coat again, making sure the necklace was still secure, and took off running. Behind him Mother Cummings’s thugs climbed through the window.

They’d never catch him.

He pumped his legs, clearing the shadow of the house and screeching to a halt when Racer and Stub stepped in front of him.

“Gideon,” Racer said, crossing his arms in front of him.

Gideon panted, looked over his shoulder.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Racer demanded.

“Ye’re not trying to chouse Beezle, are you?” Stub asked.

“Me? No.” His lungs burned, and his legs twitched. His body screamed,
Run
. Voices exploded behind him.

“I was trying to get away from…them.” He pointed to the Norfolk dumplin’s coming through the jump. When Racer and Stub turned to look, Gideon gave them a shove and took off running.

He tore past the fencing ken where Mother Cummings kept her goods and onto George Street. Behind him, Racer and Stub yelled for Beezle. Racer was fast, and Gideon couldn’t outrun him. He’d have to lose him. With that in mind, Gideon cut down an alley, leaping over a broken wheelbarrow and attracting the attention of a scavenging dog. He must have looked like a better meal than the dog had found, because the beast nipped at him and gave chase.

“Oh, come on!” Gideon said with a glance at the heavens. “A dog too?”

With the buffer nipping at his heels, he dove into a doorway, slammed the door on the mongrel, and stumbled up the stairs. His legs felt like lead bars. He was winded when he reached the roof, and he had to bend over and catch his breath. His legs cramped and threatened to fail him.

Panting, he peered over the edge and saw Racer entering the building. Beezle, Stub, and the rogues from Mother Cummings’s weren’t far behind. He needed an escape plan. Somewhere they’d never find him. Somewhere he’d be safe.

Fog and haze from coal fires shrouded the city. To the south, the river’s countless ships’ masts resembled bony fingers pointing to the sky.

Skeletons.

Not that way.

East led to more rookeries, more men to chase him. West—
west
. West meant Hyde Park, Piccadilly, Mayfair…

Gideon forced his beleaguered legs to attempt three large steps back, then tested his endurance. He ran across the roof and jumped across to the closest building, landing with a thud. The roof sloped, and he slid down and down.

Shit.
He was dead.

His hand snagged a loose piece of wood that cut into his skin. He dangled, blood from his hand dripping into his eyes. Ignoring the pain, he slammed his feet against a glaze below him.

Shit again. The glass was too thick to break, and his fucking hand hurt like a hot iron had branded it.

Then the pane lifted, and a woman peered up at him. “What the bloody ’ell is going on?”

Good question.

A slug hit the building beside him.

Very
good question.

Gideon peered over his shoulder. Mrs. Cummings’s men hunched on the building he’d jumped from. With their heads together, they watched as one primed the barking iron again.

“This is bad. This is very bad.”

Gideon looked up. Not that way. He looked down at the window and the not-insubstantial drop below.

Neither path was desirable, but out of all his options, being popped was the least desirable. With a muffled curse, Gideon released the piece of wood and slid down until his feet balanced on the window ledge. The woman had ducked back inside when the next pistol shot rang out, and he swung inside before the slug hit, right where his head had been a moment before.

“Hey!” From the safety of the room, he shook his fist at the thugs.

The blow to his head came from nowhere. Gideon staggered back and closed his eyes to stop the spinning.

“Get out!” the woman screamed, slapping at him.

Gideon held up his hands and danced around her.

“Just show me the door.”

Still avoiding her blows, he reached the door, threw it open, and fell into the corridor.

“There’s got to be an easier way,” he muttered as he stumbled to his feet and down the stairs. He burst into the street outside the building, paused to find his bearings, and started west. He took off at a light run, ignoring his leaden legs. There’d be time to inventory his injuries later. He turned down a side street and smacked into a tall, lanky form.

Beezle stepped into the light. “Going somewhere?”

Gideon fell backward, recovered his balance. “I was looking for you.”

He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Of course you were.” Beezle held out a hand. “Give me the necklace.”

The hand was dirty and scarred, much as Gideon’s. The long, sharp nails had dirt underneath. Behind him, Stub and Racer called out.

“Give it to me now, and I’ll kill you fast,” Beezle said.

“A generous offer, but I’m not ready to die.”

“Too late.”

Beezle lunged, and Gideon caught the glint of the long, deadly dagger he held. Gideon shielded his face with his arm, crouching instinctively. The low growl made him flinch.

Beezle looked over his shoulder. “What was that?”

The mongrel stepped out from the shadows behind Beezle. His teeth were bared, the only white on his otherwise black form.

“Have you met my friend Killer?” Gideon asked.

Beezle swung the blade, and the dog lunged for him. Gideon shot away, running on fear as much as thrill. He exited the alley and tumbled into the street when he heard the dog’s growls behind him.

“Not much of a meal, is he?” Gideon called over his shoulder.

The dog barked, and Gideon pushed his body to the limit.

“If you want to eat me, first you have to catch me!”

* * *

“Why are you in here?” the Dowager Lady Dane asked, holding a lamp aloft.

Susanna turned from her father’s bookshelves. She’d been tracing the spines of her father’s collection in his darkened library. She hadn’t bothered to light a lamp or to ask Crawford to stoke the fire in the hearth. She wanted the peace of the dark.

But peace was fleeting.

“I repeat, why are you in here?”

Susanna shrugged.

“Do not shrug. It is not ladylike.”

“I’m sorry. I would choose a book to read.”

Her mother huffed and held the lamp higher as though to view Susanna’s choice. “And did you? Make sure I approve it first.”

Susanna had tugged her shawl close, shivering in the coolness of the large library.

“I haven’t chosen one yet. I…I was thinking about Dane.” Oh, treacherous ground! She should scuttle away or risk being smashed underfoot.

She squinted her eyes closed and pressed on. “Have you had word from Dane and Marlowe?”

Her mother put a hand to her forehead. “Do not mention that woman’s name to me. She is the reason we have no invitations tonight. Lord Braybrook is hosting a musicale, and do you think we were sent an invitation? No. We are little more than pariahs. That is what your brother and his mésalliance have done to us.”

“We are hardly pariahs.” She should shut up now, but then she would never know. And she would have to call herself
coward
. Again.

“We are not as popular as we might have been, Mama, but you cannot blame Dane for following his heart. He loves Marlowe.”

“
Love
.” Her mother fanned her face with a gloved hand. “What do you know of love? What about duty? What about honor? How could he shame us by marrying a…a common thief?”

“Haven’t you ever been in love, Mama?” Susanna flinched back at the impertinence of her question. Generally, she refrained from asking her mother even the most basic sorts of questions, but Lady Winthorpe’s conversation at the garden party had made her inexcusably curious.

“Of course,” her mother snapped. “I loved your father.”

“There was never anyone else?”

Her mother’s thin lips pressed together. “Why do you ask?”

Susanna almost shrugged. She caught herself in time. “I just wondered.”

“You wondered?” Her mother stalked into the room, bringing the slash of light from the lamp with her. “There is nothing about me to wonder. I married your father and birthed three children. Why the three of you insist on plaguing me now is beyond me.”

“Have you ever been to Vauxhall Gardens?” Susanna asked. Was it her imagination or did her mother’s face go white?

“Of course. But it was a long time ago. The gardens have deteriorated since then. It is not safe, full of rakes and courtesans.”

“I want to go.”

“Out of the question.” Her tone was imperious. Not even the Queen could have done as well.

“I’m out now, and it’s a fashionable setting.”

“Absolutely not,” her mother said, her manner more forceful than Susanna felt the suggestion warranted. “It’s not safe. Pickpockets and rogues of all sorts frequent Vauxhall. Even Lambeth is no longer safe.”

Susanna would not back down, not after her triumph over Lady Litton. She wanted an adventure, and Vauxhall was the most romantic and daring place she could think of. If she didn’t go now, her mother would keep her in the prison of this town house for the rest of her life. Even if Susanna married, she’d only move to another prison. For once, Susanna wanted to be free, to go somewhere of her own choosing, to go somewhere for her own amusement—not because she was obligated to.

“Then we should ask Brook to escort us,” Susanna said. “We would be safe with an inspector who has his contacts at Bow Street.”

Surely her mother could not object to that argument.

“Your brother is far too busy with his work to be called upon to escort us on such a frivolous journey.”

Susanna’s jaw dropped. “But you hate Brook’s work! You always say he should go out in Society more. You said his insistence on associating with Runners is an embarrassment. You—”

“I know what I said, young lady,” her mother snapped. “I do not need my words repeated by you. And what I am saying now is that we will not trouble your brother with this.”

“But—”

The dowager held up a hand. “Furthermore, this is the last I want to hear of this. Not another word. Do you understand me, Susanna? We are not visiting Vauxhall Gardens.
Ever.
”

Susanna stepped back in surprise at the vehemence in her mother’s voice. The dowager put a hand to her forehead. “Now look what you have done. I have a megrim. Edwards!” She took the lamp out of the library and called a second time for her lady’s maid. “Edwards, I need a compress.”

Susanna crossed the room and closed the door, muting her mother’s voice. Then she returned to her father’s desk—Dane’s desk now. She felt for the chair, wobbled, and slid to the floor. A sob welled up in her throat. “I’ll never be free of her.”

She sounded pitiful, and she didn’t even care. She was trapped, like the butterfly her brothers had once caught at Northbridge Abbey and imprisoned in a glass jar. The butterfly had flown about the jar, beating its wings on the glass until it finally ceased in exhaustion.