Abernathy gave his head a shake. “Yes, of course. Please, do. Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee, if you have it.”
The man blinked. “Coffee?”
Jack nodded as he set his hat on a small table and propped his walking stick nearby—within reach, of course. “Yes, please. I never imbibe when I’m discussing business. It’s bad...for business.”
“Yes, I see how it would be.” It was obvious, however, that he didn’t “see” it at all. Judging from the gin blossoms on the man’s beak, Jack would wager the man spent most of his time half-pickled.
The viscount pressed a switch on a little box on his desk. A second later the housekeeper’s voice came out of the box. “Yes, Lord Breckenridge?”
“Coffee, please, Mrs. Dean. And some sandwiches. And some of those little cakes you make that are so delicious.”
Good God. Was Abernathy flirting with his housekeeper?
“Of course, my lord.” And she was being all coy in return.
Jack eyed his walking stick and wondered if jabbing the blade up his nose and into his brainpan might take away the image of the two of them trying to put their parts together around their notable middles. Instead of testing the theory, he sat down in the chair—it was as comfortable as it looked.
When Abernathy was done cooing to Mrs. Dean, he came and sat down in the chair opposite Jack’s. “First of all, I want to thank you for responding to my request for a meeting so quickly.”
“You have impeccable timing. This is my only free afternoon for some time.” It wasn’t, of course. His business happened mostly at night, in the dark and shadows, but Abernathy didn’t need to know that his afternoons were open for at least the next three to four days.
“Oh, very good. I suppose you are wondering why I requested a meeting as we’ve never been introduced.”
“I rarely wonder at anything, my lord. And it’s not as though we’re totally ignorant of one another, is it?”
The viscount had to be a lousy card player. His cheeks flared red, and his left eyelid twitched.
All the ladies must find him so very attractive.
“Yes, quite right.”
Jack leaned back in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left as his hands dangled over the leather armrests. He was rather enjoying himself. “You are a friend of my father, are you not?”
If Abernathy flushed any redder, Jack could sell him to a freak show as “The Incredible Tomato Man.” “We are well acquainted, yes.”
“I wager it wasn’t he who pointed you in my direction, though, was it?”
Make that “The Incredible Lobster Man.” “Indeed not. I was given your direction by—”
“Don’t.” Jack held up his hand. “Who hardly matters. I’m more concerned with why.”
It was at that moment that Mrs. Dean arrived with refreshment. She set a silver tray laden with food and a large pot of coffee that smelled strong and rich on the table between them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dean,” Abernathy said. “We’ll serve ourselves.”
She curtsied—ignoring Jack—and bustled out of the room like an engine with a furnace full of burning coal.
“I think you intimidate her.”
Jack poured himself a cup of coffee. “I have that effect.” He took a plate and placed three little sandwiches on it before leaning back in his chair. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but why am I here, my lord?”
Abernathy, who was fixing his own cup of coffee, cleared his throat. “I understand that you occasionally avail yourself to the transportation industry.”
Jack wouldn’t necessarily call it an industry, or say that he availed himself to much of anything. He got involved in schemes and opportunities that promised to pay him extremely well for the amount of risk he had to take. “Do you have something that requires transportation?”
The viscount’s cheeks flushed. The man was hopeless. “Yes. Something that requires a certain amount of...discretion.”
Men like Abernathy only used that word when they knew they were doing something they oughtn’t. “I realize your circle considers it gauche to discuss remuneration, but I do not put my reputation or personal freedom on the line for cheap, sir.”
The man’s lips curled briefly, as though he’d bitten into something bad. Jack’s first thought was to poke him in the throat—hard. “Of course. What is your price? I suppose you’ll want it up front?”
He made it sound as though Jack had asked for a kiss on top of it all. “Half to seal the deal and half upon completion would be the gentlemanly agreement.”
“There’s nothing gentlemanly about this, sir.”
“No,” Jack replied quietly, locking his gaze with the viscount’s. “On either side, else I wouldn’t be here, would I?” Let the arrogant nob chew on that for a moment.
Abernathy’s chin lifted defiantly. “Name your price, Dandy.”
“Before I know what I’m getting into?” He chuckled. “I am not a fool, my lord. I went to Eton, you know.”
“Of course I know. You were in class with my eldest. That’s how I came to know of you. Fenton Hardwick.”
It was a surname that made the boy in him want to snort with laughter, but Jack resisted temptation. He remembered Hardwick—annoying little prig, but always up for a bit of trouble. They hadn’t been friends, though. Very few boys wanted to align themselves with a bastard.
“Ah, yes. How is he?”
“He’s on the Continent with friends.” Where Jack would probably be had his parents married.
Jack’s smile was false. “Good for him.” He took another drink of coffee. “What am I to transport, my lord?”
“A crate.” The viscount gave him a narrow glance. “Though I’m tempted to tell you to go to the very devil and find someone else.”
“As you wish, but I’ve been to the devil, my lord. He sent me back.” He made to rise.
“Wait.”
Jack hid his smile as he sat once more. He knew the old man wouldn’t let him leave. Honestly, if he needed a reason to leave this should have been it. Abernathy’s desperation should have warned him off. Desperate men were not good employers.
But Jack didn’t leave. “Yes?”
The viscount squirmed. In his mind, Jack had the bounder pinned like an insect on a display board. “I will give you one thousand pounds to deliver a crate to St. Pancras station.”
One thousand, eh? Desperate indeed. “Two thousand.”
“What?” Abernathy’s face was purple. Was Jack about to witness a human head exploding? “That’s preposterous!”
Jack shrugged. “Find someone else then. I’m sure someone out there would do it for a thousand.”
The older man’s jaw clenched. “You are no gentleman, sir.”
“We already established that, I believe.” Jack crossed his legs and reclaimed the delicious coffee he was not yet ready to abandon. “Now, my lord, do we have a deal?”
Chapter 2
Two thousand pounds to pick up a crate on the docks and transport it to St. Pancras and then walk away. It sounded too good to be true. But it was true, because Jack had the first of the payments inside his coat pocket.
Logic demanded then that the situation was far from anything remotely resembling good. That realization floated around in his head, taking some of the shine off his latest influx of wealth. He was going to make the delivery—he kept his word, no matter what a bastard like Abernathy thought of him. He’d have to be extra cautious, use his best men, but he’d get the job done and be all the richer for it.
As he steered his carriage through the streets meandering toward Whitechapel, Jack wondered if Abernathy would tell his father that they’d met. Most likely not, because his father might ask for details and the viscount wouldn’t want to give himself away. Still, Jack could pretend.
Damnation. He’d thought more of his father today than he had in the past two years. This anger and bitterness were of no benefit other than to keep p
ushing him. Someday he was going to be one of the richest men in England, and when that happened, he was going to rub his old man’s face in it. He would never be his father’s social equal, but he could better him financially. If he could cripple him in the process that would just be buttercream on the cake.
When he finally reached home, Jack drove the carriage around behind the house, and after pausing at the small podium to use the punch card key, into the small shack there. After disengaging the engine he stepped out, closed the carriage door and inserted a key into the wall next to him. The platform beneath the carriage began to lower, taking the vehicle with it. It would deposit it underground with several other modes of transportation, and then the lift would return, looking like the scuffed floor of an old shack, with no hint of what was beneath. The vehicles would have all been stolen by now if not for this precaution. His reputation was fearsome, but the money from selling just one of his machines would feed a family for a long time, and children were a far greater motivator than fear.
He lowered a panel over the lock in the wall so that it was completely camouflaged and placed the key in its special pocket in the lining of his jacket. Then he left the shack and closed the door and bolted it.
The backyard of his house wasn’t large by any stretch, but there was a little garden and a place to sit and read if he so desired. The alley between his building and the next was just wide enough to drive his carriage through, so when he spotted the two young gents waiting for him in that narrow space he knew there was going to be trouble.
“Good day, lads,” he greeted as he approached. How long had they been watching for his return.
“You think so, Dandy?” the taller of the two demanded. He was a ginger, with a smattering of freckles across his nose and a sneer on his lips. The other was a blond with green eyes and a pretty face. Both of them were shorter than Jack, and heavier. Anger rolled off them in waves, along with a healthy dose of arrogance. They thought they could intimidate him. They thought two against one would work in their favor.
Idiots. “I reckon a day is unable to ‘ave any concept of good or evil, so saying it’s a “good” day is somefin of a fallacy, ain’t it? Suppose I ought to ‘ave said that it is a pleasant day, or a fine day. Does that satisfy your philosophic nature, or shall I expound furver?”
The ginger scowled. “What the hell are you jawing on about? I don’t care if a day can be evil or not.”
Jack shrugged. “Fair ‘nough. What do you care about?”
The blond straightened his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height and sticking out his chest. A good punch to the solar plexus or throat would take care of him. “A friend of ours was murdered a few months back. Popular theory is that you did it.”
Setting the tip of his walking stick between the brace of his feet, Jack placed both hands on the top, ready to pull the saber free at a second’s notice. “You’re goin’ to ‘ave to be a tad more explicit, mate. I gets blamed for lots of fings.”
The ginger glared. “Felix August-Raynes.”
“August-Raynes?” As though he didn’t remember. “Oh, the bloke who liked to ‘urt girls. I remember ‘im.”
“I would hope you remember the people you kill, you cretin.”
Cretin? If only he had a quid for every time he’d been called that. Oh, right. He did. “Tell me, boys, did you see me murder your friend?”
“No.” The ginger’s petulant tone was beginning to grate. “We would have stopped you.”
Of course they would have. And they would have been big heroes too. “So you didn’t see nuffin’, but you believe I did it, regardless.”
“Everyone knows you did it, Dandy,” the blond retorted.
Jack arched a brow. “Oh? Such as?”
“As if we would give you their names.”
“If I done it, then why am I standin’ ‘ere, jawing with the two of you when I should be trussed up in Newgate, eh? No one saw nuffin’ ’cause were nothing to see.” They wouldn’t believe him, of course. Couldn’t blame them, really. He wouldn’t believe himself either.
The ginger clenched his fists. “You did it, and now you’re going to pay for it.”
Finally! Jack removed his hat and hung it on his walking stick, which he then leaned against the outside wall of his house. Then he removed his coat and draped it over the rickety rail of the back step. He rolled up his sleeves.
The younger men stared at him. This time Jack raised both brows. “I assume payment is to be in blood, yeah?”
Blondie started stripping off his own outerwear. “Indeed, you bastard.”
That word. Jack really, honestly and truly despised that word. He lashed out while the other fellow was still struggling to remove his coat—arms bent behind his back. A solid right to the gut, followed by a knee to the face when he doubled over. Jack entwined his fingers and bought the double fist down on his opponent’s back like a club, and as he fell to the ground, Jack stomped on the outside of his knee. It made an awful sound, and Blondie screamed.
Jack took two steps back and turned to the ginger, whose mouth was agape. It was difficult not to feel a little pride at having caused that expression. The whole altercation had been over in a matter of seconds.
“That wasn’t fair,” the redhead said. “That wasn’t sporting or gentlemanly at all.”
Jack shrugged. “I ain’t any of those fings, mate. Neever is life.” It was with that safe pronouncement that he pounced—right jab, left hook, solid slam to the solar plexus, a kick to the wedding tackle and, finally, a dislocated shoulder.
At his feet, the two moaned in pain, clutching the parts he had damaged the most. They’d recover from the beating, of course, but they’d always have a little reminder of what tangling with Jack Dandy meant.
He crouched over them. “Next time, I won’t be as gentle,” he assured them. “And in the future, when makin’ accusations, you may want to ‘ave some evidence to back ’em up, otherwise someone might take offense.”
He stood and collected his belongings. Then he stepped over the mewling pair. “Oh, and if you’re not off me property in five minutes, I’m going to demonstrate what ‘appens when someone really pisses me off.”
Jack placed his hat on his head as he left the alley and climbed the front steps to his house. He whistled a little tune as he crossed the threshold.
He hadn’t felt this good since he met Finley.
* * *
The two blokes had crawled off hours ago, and since a constable hadn’t come by yet to arrest him, Jack assumed one wouldn’t come calling at all, which was good because he had a delivery to make.
It was well past midnight, but that wasn’t terribly late for these parts—not the disrespectable ones. There was something comforting about night and all its shadows. They closed around him, protecting him, taking him into them and warming him like a soft blanket.
Night was really his preferred time. He knew he looked like a nocturnal creature, and he did nothing to discredit that. He always wore black—sometimes with a splash of color, but not often. His hair was almost black, as were his eyes. His own mother had told him he looked like Lucifer himself—a beautiful angel forever denied the embrace of Heaven.
But Mum had been so drunk she could barely stand when she’d slurred it at him, so he hadn’t given it any more thought than a seven-year-old boy ought. She’d meant it as a compliment; she always called him her angel. Certainly she had never meant to make him feel as though he were damned, or somehow inherently evil.
Though good people weren’t often suspected of murder, were they? Even Finley had asked him if he’d killed August-Raynes, the rat bastard who’d dared lay hands on her. She’d thought maybe she had murdered him herself during one of her “episodes”—as if his Treasure could ever be so cold-blooded. She’d never be able to live with the guilt.
The fate of Felix August-Raynes didn’t make Jack feel anything at all.
He took his walking stick, of course, and slipped on a pair of
thick-soled boots and a long black leather coat that flared out around his legs, fitting his upper body like a second skin over the solid black of his shirt and waistcoat. A small pistol with a dull finish so it wouldn’t glint in the light was strapped to his right thigh. The size of the thing was laughable, but he was secure enough in his manhood to carry it. Besides, it shot Aether blasts, not bullets, so size really didn’t matter. He had a dagger sheathed in either boot, and a garrote wire hidden up one sleeve. Oh, and a straight razor in his pocket—and brass knuckle casings sewn into his leather clothes.
It was rare that he had to resort to violence. Normally, he could charm his way out of most situations, but sometimes his talent failed him, or wasn’t enough, and he had to fall back on his fists and feet. He was a good fighter—not as strong as the remarkable Finley or her mate Sam, but he was extremely quick, agile and not afraid to fight dirty.
For tonight’s job, he’d asked Toby and Philippe to come with. He’d known the two of them for years, and though they bickered and tortured one another as only an Englishman and Frenchman could, they were dependable and loyal. He’d trust them in any situation.
Jack paid them both up front—two hundred each for the evening. It was a small fortune in Whitechapel, more than enough to make certain his faith in their loyalty wasn’t mistaken.
Philippe was the driver. He had a sleek carriage that he’d augmented himself with various gadgets and weapons. Instead of having a steam engine, it was driven by two mechanical horses. They were real beauties—engraved and sculpted. They looked as if they belonged in a museum or at the front of a king’s vehicle.
“Little flashy, ain’t it, monsieur?” Jack asked. He trusted them, but not enough to drop the accent. “I were thinkin’ maybe we’d be less conspicuous in somefing a little less identifiable.”
“Mon frère Jacques,” the Frenchman began, as though Jack had just told him a joke. “Do you take me for a fool?” He pulled a lever up by his seat outside the carriage. The backs of both horses opened and darkness billowed out. It took Jack a moment to realize it was fabric—fabric that, in the dark, made the horses look real.