Tangled Webs (3 page)

She inclined her head slightly. He took a long swallow from the glass of brandy clutched in his fat fingers. Just like that, she had the power again.

His gaze shifted over her shoulder to Nic, who stood with his back against the door. Arista glanced back and smiled. Nic’s arms were folded across his chest, his black jacket pulled tight
across lean muscles. Though he looked almost casual standing there, no one could mistake his deadliness.

Lord Huntington cleared his throat again. “I trust, after this, I won’t see you again.” He handed her a thick envelope with a red wax seal. It bore the insignia of his family
crest: an open-mouthed lion, crossed by a sword and spear. He seemed to relax enough to swallow the last of the brandy in several hasty mouthfuls.

The envelope was thicker than the normal payment. It appeared that Bones had set a much higher price on Huntington’s request. The going rate for a seat in Parliament, and a very powerful
position at that, was indeed high.

Now it only remained to be seen who would eventually pay an even higher price to lay Huntington low. Every secret could be sold. Bones played no favorites. And those who had a secret and wished
it to be kept—well, they would be forced to pay even more to keep it safe.

They never quite thought that part through—that someone else, someone more desperate, might be willing to pay dearly for
their
secrets to gain an advantage. Bones’s services
went to the highest bidder, plain and simple.

Those prices grew higher every day.

“Lord Huntington.” Her voice came out perfectly manicured and a tad bored. It was all part of the aristocratic image she had to convey—her elaborate deception. “Whether
you’ve fulfilled your side of the bargain remains to be seen. Bones will decide after he receives this. Until then, consider your obligation outstanding.”

Lord Huntington’s face turned beet red. He threw the crystal glass, and it flew past her head to shatter on the stone hearth. Arista did not flinch. She’d seen it coming. Nic,
however, immediately started across the room.

“You’ve gotten your bloody secret from me as down payment, and now a small fortune to keep it quiet. If you think for one second you’re not done with me…I could snap you
in half, girl.” The words exploded from his mouth and spittle flecked his chin.

He took a single menacing step toward her, and Nic growled a soft warning. Arista saw the surprise on Huntington’s face, and then something else. A tic began in his right eye. The fingers
on his right hand flexed, and he shifted his weight to his right foot.

He would fight after all.

She knew he had a knife under his vest. The earl really should have chosen a more relaxed fit of clothing if he’d wished to use the element of surprise.

“He has a weapon.”

Lord Huntington shoved his hand into his pocket, but Nic was faster. He twisted the earl’s right arm behind his back. The buttons that had been on the verge of exploding flew across the
room as Nic ripped open Huntington’s vest and disarmed him. Disbelief filled Lord Huntington’s eyes and he stumbled away from them. Arista chuckled.

The sound seemed to shock Lord Huntington. He pressed against the wooden doors as if trying to disappear through them. They thought they were so much better than her, men like Huntington, but in
moments like these, she held all the power. Arista walked toward the sputtering man until she stood close enough to smell his overindulgence of cologne. It did little to mask the odor of sour sweat
and hard liquor.

“You would do well to remember…” She lifted her booted foot and rested it against the door by his leg. Slowly, she raised her skirt well past the curve of her knee with a sly
smile. “Cooperation would be in everyone’s best interest, and much less…messy.”

His eyes ran down the length of her exposed flesh, and he visibly balked at the sight of the knife strapped to her thigh. He swallowed nervously, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down
like a dinghy adrift on the Thames.

“You’re mad.” Lord Huntington fumbled behind him, his cheeks getting redder as he struggled to find the lock. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you stay away
from me or I’ll put a reward on your head the size of the palace, and
then
we’ll see who pays.”

He sneered at her, but his lips trembled.

Arista slipped the knife from its sheath. The earl’s gaze darted from the blade to her face as she lifted the knife and slowly ran the tip down his cheek. Not hard enough to draw blood,
but enough for him to know that she was deadly serious.

“Are you threatening me, sir?” Her voice lowered and turned deceptively soft, coating the steel lurking just beneath the surface. If he thought he could scare her, he would be
disappointed. She did not cower at the raised voice of a man like him. “You made a deal, and you
will
honor it. Are you not a gentleman of your word, Lord Huntington?” She lifted
one eyebrow and let her words, and the blade, trail off.

He sputtered but did not reply.

“Good evening, then, my lord.” Arista sheathed the knife and sank into an exaggerated curtsy. Lord Huntington remained silent. With a dismissive turn, he clicked the lock and swept
out the door in a flourish of peacock green.

As soon as the door shut, Arista leaned her forehead against the cool wood. She closed her eyes and exhaled.

“That went well.” Nic’s wry chuckle sounded very close. “Thought we’d have a real fight on our hands for a second. Ready to head back to the palace,
princess?” Arista lifted her head. He stood no closer than a foot away, and held out his arm like a gentleman would.

With a relieved smile, she took it without hesitation. Now that their business was done, the high from being in charge faded instantly. Exhaustion set in and her body felt heavy. His arm was
strong and solid under her hand.

Nic was her rock, the wall between Arista and Bones. He made sure that no matter what, she remained safe from their brutal guardian. There had been opportunities over the years when she might
have slipped away—away from Bones and her life on the streets. But she had never taken them. She had nowhere to go. Not without Nic.

Once, she’d had the childish dream that they might get away from London together. But as Nic grew into a man, Arista saw the reality of the situation. He liked this life.

Nic liked the power that came with controlling those better than them. Lately, Arista had started seeing traces of Bones in Nic, and it scared her. Maybe there was a way to convince him to leave
with her before it was too late.

“This way if you please, my lady.” Nic led her through a set of doors hidden by heavy drapes, and they slipped out onto a brick courtyard, away from the partygoers. Thick fog had
rolled in as it did most nights, creating an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Buildings rose up into the dark shadows above them.

Away from the stifling heat of the crowded ballroom, the air chilled her flushed skin, making her shiver involuntarily.

A lady of quality always has a shawl.

Becky’s admonition sounded as clearly as if the girl were there with them. The damned gentry had a rule for everything, and it exhausted Arista to remember them all—but tonight, a
shawl would be welcome.

Not that she was a lady of quality, by any stretch of the imagination.

Sensing her need, Nic shrugged out of his jacket and slipped it around her bare shoulders. He brushed his fingers over her skin, and this time, warmth quickly spread from the spot he had
touched. Nic tucked her arm in his and led her through the heavy front gate. They passed by several couples too engrossed in each other to even lift their heads. Arista pretended not to see
them.

A sleek black carriage rolled by, the wheels rattling on the cobbled street, hooves clopping a steady rhythm as it passed. The sounds of the orchestra faded as they walked farther from Dover
Street.

Tonight’s task had been completed; the thick package was tucked securely in Nic’s jacket. It pressed into her ribs as they walked. Exactly how much money was she carrying right at
that moment? Enough to buy passage on a ship for all three of them—her, Nic, and Becky? The thought came and went quickly.

She would not look. Not ever again. Only once before, when Bones first sent her out as Lady A, had she dared to peek inside an aristocrat’s envelope. She hadn’t thought Bones would
miss just one shilling from the package. It had taken weeks for the bruising to heal. Of course he knew, to the halfpence, how much to expect.

“Do you think he’ll ever have enough?” Arista asked softly.

Each time Lady A made an appearance, the risk to Arista grew. At first, she’d only collected secrets and delivered information back to the clients. Then Bones had started sending Lady A to
collect the actual money as well. That’s where the real danger came into play for Arista.

Bones used the aristocracy’s own secrets to blackmail them: they paid up or risked having their secrets sold to a higher bidder. Bones often left out that part of the deal until he had
what he wanted
and
his client had what he or she needed. Only the most desperate or devious people resorted to the service Bones offered—ones who would lose big if their truths ever
came to light. So they always paid. Only one had ever refused.

He’d hung himself from the London Bridge when his secrets had been exposed in the
Spectator
. A powerful message to all who thought to double-cross Bones; it also put a larger target
on Lady A.

They might pay for silence now, but none would hesitate to kill her if given the chance. It was why she never went out in public as herself. If anyone found out what she looked like under the
disguise, she would never be safe.

Nic never worried about his own safety, though he, too, wore a mask when they met with clients.

“I doubt it,” Nic replied. “He’s greedy, and he enjoys the power more than the money, I think.” He expertly whisked her down another maze of alleyways filled with
dark shadows, where the light from the street lamps didn’t reach. There was no need to illuminate this part of London. No one cared what happened in the dark there. Her skirt swished in the
silence.

None of the people who used Bones’s services really understood what they had done—the true ramifications of trading their darkest secrets for more power and money. At some point,
there would be no more secrets, but it wouldn’t matter. Bones would have the means for a lifetime’s worth of blackmail, if not multiple lifetimes—generations of noble families.
No, these people who thought themselves so clever had become pawns in a game only Bones would win.

After several minutes, she stopped and looked up at Nic. “He could destroy every single one of them, if he wanted to.”

Though she couldn’t see his face in the shadows, Arista could hear the smile in Nic’s voice. His words chilled her even more.

“Aye. Whoever controls the secrets controls those rich bastards.”

T
he walk back to their “home” only took a short half hour. Taking shortcuts through alleys was second nature to Arista and Nic, and few
dared maneuver them in the darkness of night. Nic gripped her arm, and his muscles tightened and released at her touch. Always in a constant state of alertness. To be mistaken for gentry in this
part of London would not end well.

In her usual attire she wouldn’t have attracted a second glance, but clothed in silk and paste jewelry, she was a walking target. Thankfully, Nic’s dark jacket covered most of the
skin exposed by the cut of the dress, and the black silk blended with the shadows. Still, she would not be completely safe until she made it back to her room.

Arista felt no pleasure, no rush of warmth, upon seeing the run-down tenement buildings she called home. Off Fleet Street a row of gutted buildings stood, so badly damaged from the fires that no
one had bothered to rebuild them.

That’s where the worst of the worst made their homes. The murderers, thieves, and those hiding from the Watch. The rest of London could pretend people like Arista didn’t exist if
they remained cloistered away from sight, but they were there, waiting in the shadows for some unsuspecting fool to stagger by after a night at the alehouse.

It was the perfect place to live unnoticed. And the worst place to grow up.

At the orphanage where Arista had been dumped at barely three, all had treated her as the devil’s own daughter, except for one woman. While the rest called her a gypsy, spat in her face,
and made her do the most menial tasks like scrubbing the floors and emptying the chamber pots, Nalia wrapped Arista in her arms and told her thrilling stories about her home country of India.

Her lilting accent became Arista’s safe place. The exotic smell of Nalia’s tea soothed Arista’s spirit after days of scrubbing until her tiny hands were raw. The laundress
would rub salve on the blisters and distract Arista with tales of monkeys riding elephants; she’d let Arista wrap herself up in the brightly colored scarf that Nalia wore over her head.

For two long years, Arista had endured life at the orphanage, sure that everyone except Nalia wanted her to die. Indeed, after her refusal to climb inside the huge kitchen chimney to dislodge an
obstruction, she’d been banished to a dark broom closet. If not for Bones, she might have starved to death in there, alone.