It wasn’t as if Patrick Murphy needed the old boxer at his side for fighting advice anymore. But Patrick Murphy could be a little too trusting, in Tom’s opinion. He needed a bruiser at his back and Tom had been happy to volunteer, even if it did mean having to feed on blood once a week or so. He missed the sun, but if he was honest, he’d been living the last years of his human life at night anyway, hustling through Dublin and even over to London with Murphy, trying to scrounge enough money with fighting to make it worth the blood.
Now, the blood came from donors and Murphy was the one in charge. At least, that’s what it looked like to outsiders. For now, Murphy, Tom, and Declan presented themselves as brothers to mortal society. No one questioned their connection. In time, they’d have to adjust.
“If Shaw is truly looking to sell, he will want someone who’ll invest more than money,” Tom continued. “Someone who cares about the workers. That’s my take, anyway.”
“Agreed,” Declan said.
“No harm in calling on the man,” Murphy said. “We’ve already been introduced. Perhaps I come to him asking about improvements for my own millworks…”
Tom nodded. “Show him you’re the kind who cares. A boss willing to invest for the long term.”
Declan said, “Plus, he might have something to help with the dust problem in Whitechurch.”
“True.” Murphy set his pen down. “Declan, write up a letter, will you? Ask Shaw for a meeting next week if he’s amenable. Let’s see if John Shaw is a man willing to work with creatures of the night.”
THE meeting had been six months coming, at least, and Tom had watched Shaw deteriorate in that time. The once-robust man had grown wan and pale as Tom and Murphy’s respect for the human grew stronger.
“You know,” Shaw said. “I spotted your intentions in our second meeting Mr. Murphy.”
Murphy smiled. “And yet you kept meeting me.”
“It’s the same kind of tactic I would have used when I was young,” Shaw said with a drawn smile. “Of course I kept meeting with you.”
Shaw was a hell of a businessman, but Tom approved of the core of honor in the man. When he’d been human, he would have felt privileged to work for a man like John Robert Shaw.
“And so,” Murphy said more quietly, “we come to the sticking point. I want to buy the factories, John. You know that. What I need you to know is that it’s not just about the money to me. I respect what you’ve done. I’m no Englishman to see only the profit in them. I see what the boat works have the potential to do for Dublin. For the whole of Ireland.”
“I know.” Shaw took a sip of his whiskey and Tom noticed his hand trembling, just a little. “I’ve made a study of you, young man. And while there are some… curious things rumored about you, I know a good man when I see one. I like your wife. I like your brothers. You’re a man who understands family.”
Tom cocked his head. Shaw talked more than a little about family, which made the relative secrecy around his own something of a mystery. It was well-known he had a daughter, but Tom had never seen her. Neither had Murphy. She was a mystery. One that Tom Dargin couldn’t help but wonder about.
“Family is very important to me,” Murphy said.
“And me.” Shaw dabbed at his brow. “I had this all planned and now I find myself nervous to speak of it. Perhaps I’m absorbing some of Jo’s fancy after all.”
“Jo?” Tom asked from the settee. Shaw has asked both Tom and Declan to join Murphy and him that night for a drink. Tom felt as he always did in company, like the prized ox that had been accidentally let into someone’s parlor.
“My daughter, Josephine.” Shaw took a deep breath. “As I imagine you have heard, she is not well. She has been unwell for years, despite the efforts of numerous physicians.”
Tuberculosis, they called it now. Consumption his mam had said. If the disease had progressed as far as rumors said, there would be no cure for Josephine Shaw, and Tom could see the knowledge in her father’s eyes.
“Your own health,” Murphy said cautiously. “You fear you are deteriorating.”
“I am deteriorating. And faster than my daughter. She will be alone.”
Tom knew Shaw was worried about his daughter’s protection after he died. Those with consumption could linger for years. And while she might not hurt for money, a woman without a family to protect her was still at risk to be taken advantage of.
Murphy said, “Her family—”
“She has little to none. She has friends—good friends—but mostly in England where she went to school. Her cousin should be the one to care for her, but Neville has little interest in anyone but himself, and he will be furious when he learns that I am looking to sell the businesses. He expects to inherit.”
Tom’s ears perked, and he vowed to keep an eye on Neville Shaw. A disappointed would-be heir was nothing to trifle with. The quicker Shaw sold the whole works to Murphy the better it would be for everyone. Let Neville become accustomed to disappointment while his uncle was alive to manage him.
“Mr. Shaw,” Murphy said. “If you are concerned about your daughter, you needn’t be. You have met my wife. Mrs. Murphy is a generous woman, both of heart and attention. And I’m sure Miss Shaw has inherited her father’s good sense. My family would be happy to count your daughter a friend, as I have come to think of you as a fri—”
“She doesn’t need a friend, she needs a husband,” Shaw said abruptly.
The whole room fell silent.
Murphy stammered. “John… I say, I’m already married.”
“And you’ve two brothers who aren’t.”
Tom glanced at Declan, who looked closest in age to Murphy. His eyes were the size of saucers. Declan knew Tom’s taciturn demeanor and scarred face, hardly made him husband material, especially for a young woman of not yet thirty. Tom glued his lips shut. Let Murphy talk them out of taking on some consumptive spinster. He was the one with the silver tongue.
“John, wouldn’t it be wiser to—”
“She doesn’t think she needs a husband,” Shaw said. “Has always resisted any attempts at matchmaking. Says she’d only be a burden. Foolish girl.” Shaw’s whole face softened. “She has been the delight of my heart. She deserves any happiness I can give her.”
Tom saw Murphy trying to tread carefully. “If the young woman doesn’t wish to be married, then wouldn’t it be more prudent to find a reliable companion for her as she declines? Anne’s and my offer of friendship remains. We are more than willing—”
“If one of your brothers marries Josephine, then it settles the whole business, don’t you see?” Shaw said. “You will be family. There will be no one to contest your purchase. There will be no one to wrest Josephine’s fortune from her if she takes a turn. An employee cannot protect her from unscrupulous relations, Mr. Murphy. You know that.” Shaw’s face grew even paler. “The moment I pass from this world, the vultures will circle, particularly my nephew.”
“How sick is she?” Tom asked quietly. “I don’t mean to be indelicate, sir, but you may be seeing too dire a circumstance. Your daughter could very well—”
“Her last doctor said that she could expect two years,” Shaw said. “At the most.”
Shaw looked at Murphy, then at Declan sitting quietly beside him. “Two years, young man. Surely any honorable gentleman understands my concern as her father. It would be nothing to give her two years. She is educated. Independent. And when she passes—”
“Mr. Shaw,” Declan interrupted. “While I am sure your daughter is a most pleasant young woman, I do not know her, nor does she know me. Surely she would not consent to this.”
“She would if you charmed her,” Shaw said. “As if all of Dublin doesn’t know of the Murphy brothers’ charm! Surely, Mr. Murphy, you could persuade her. I would not try to hide my machinations, of course. But she’s a practical girl, my Jo.” Shaw grimaced. “When she wants to be.”
Tom’s mind was racing. Courts could be unpredictable, especially when it came to issues of in
heritance. And Beecham was always sniffing around Murphy, watching the younger vampire with jealous eyes. He would use any excuse—manipulate any connection—to thwart Murphy, though he couldn’t do it openly.
Shaw was right. If Declan married the Shaw heiress it solved everything. Murphy would buy Shaw’s businesses without argument. Shaw would be seen handing over the reins to his daughter’s new family. Not even Beecham would be able to manipulate Murphy’s claim to the boat works.
And when the girl died… it wasn’t as if she didn’t have a fortune of her own. In away, marriage to the Shaw spinster would mean they were getting Shaw’s businesses for little less than the cost of a wedding and care for a consumptive.
But Declan looked like he was steps away from execution.
Ninny.
Murphy saw the terrified look on Declan’s face and leaned forward. “John, as much as I want to buy your factories, I cannot force my brother—”
“I’ll do it,” Tom said quietly. “If Miss Shaw would consent to marry me, I will marry her.”
Every shocked eye turned toward Tom.
“But only if she consents,” he said again. “I won’t force the girl or put up with having her coerced. From what you’ve said, Miss Shaw has little enough time left without her being miserable in a marriage she doesn’t want.”
Murphy’s mouth was gaping open. Declan finally took a breath. And John Shaw was smiling.
“Good man,” Shaw said.
Tom nodded, uncomfortable being the center of their attention. “Don’t be too certain she’ll accept me. She’s the one who’ll have to look at this ugly mug every night.”
“Tom,” Murphy said. “You don’t have to do this. Shaw, I promise we will ensure your daughter—”
“It’s little enough, Murphy.” Tom glanced at Shaw, interrupting his sire before he could offend their host. “Little enough to ensure the protection of a young woman. I’m no prize. But if she’ll have me, I’ll have her.”
Murphy looked at Tom a long time until Tom looked his sire in the eyes and nodded. Murphy’s shoulders relaxed and he turned to Shaw. “John, why don’t you talk to your daughter first. We can wait to have my attorney draw up the paperwork. Perhaps you could arrange a dinner sometime this week so my brother and your daughter could meet. I think we’d all like to meet Miss Shaw.”
“CHRIST, Tom. Did you have to go and offer for the spinster?” Declan stormed into the room while Murphy and Tom were throwing back a pint of ale. Declan had stayed behind talking to Shaw’s family solicitor.
“Did you have to act like marrying the woman was such a torture?” Tom asked. “You’d have thrown the whole deal off with your clumsy excuses, Dec.”
His brother pointed at him. “You’ve no business marrying the girl. Sure, we can fool Shaw and avoid the daylight when we do business with him, but have you thought about the consequences of trying to fool a wife? She’ll have a staff. Servants. What the hell do you think you’re going to do?”
“Be very careful,” Murphy said. “This is Tom, Declan. Who’s more careful than Tom?”
Tom didn’t feel very careful, and for the first time in thirty years he wished he could taste the sweet oblivion that liquor had once brought him. For the first ten years of immortality, it had haunted him. He still had all the same reasons to drink with none of the relief alcohol once afforded.
When he finally turned his mind to controlling the base urges that had driven him as a human, he found some peace. Now he was voluntarily taking on the care of a wife. A sick wife. He had no business taking care of anyone, much less a sick spinster.
Murphy looked at him with an expression that told him he could hear all of Tom’s doubts rising to the surface.
“It’ll be fine, Tom,” his sire said. “If you need to, you can touch her mind. Or have Anne do it. She has the most control.”
“Jayzuz,” Declan groaned. “What’s Anne going to say? She’ll have your head for this, Murphy.”
“She’ll not,” Tom said. “I’m the one that put us all in this by offering. I’ll tell Anne.”
None of them wanted to anger Murphy’s mate. She was the glue that held their small family together. But Tom knew she’d be keen to protect a vulnerable human woman, even if it meant inconvenience for the rest of them for a couple years. Anne had a soft heart.
“I’m going out,” Tom said, placing his glass carefully on the bar in Murphy’s office.
“I saw some of Beecham’s crew on the way here,” Declan said. “Be careful. They’re sniffing.”
Murphy had taken the space near the docks because Beecham never dirtied his fine leather shoes by the waterfront. Their crew could operate with some amount of discretion there, away from the finer eyes of Dublin immortal society and the corruption of its lord.
And Tom’s upcoming marriage might blow that all to hell.
“Don’t think of it,” Murphy said, reading Tom’s mind. “We always knew that we’d attract attention with a move to take over Shaw’s boat works. There was no avoiding this. Marriage to the Shaw girl won’t make that any better or worse.”
Declan shrugged. “At least she’s not popular in society. She won’t have to explain your lack of social graces. I inquired discreetly after you both left. The woman is practically a shut in. Twenty-eight years old, but her health started failing soon after she came out in society. Most of her education was in England. She maintains correspondence, but hardly leaves the grounds unless she’s going to their house by the sea for her lungs. Very few callers. No one mentioned her looks, which means she’s plain. Probably dim, too. Otherwise, she’d have an offer of marriage, even if she was on the edge of death, solely for her fortune.” Declan laughed. “Probably more than one.”
“She went to school,” Tom said, already feeling protective of the lady. “I highly doubt any daughter of Shaw’s is a dullard. Besides that, how do you know she hasn’t had an offer? Shaw said she’d never wanted a husband. Said she was ‘independent.’”
He found himself admiring her for it, even though independent might have been polite society code for foolish and stubborn. As long as the girl had her wits, Tom wouldn’t be miserable. He could respect a stubborn woman. He was no pushover himself.
“Why don’t we all withhold judgement until we’ve met the woman?” Murphy said. “If she’s anything like her father, I’d expect her and Tom will get along well. The details can be worked out in time. Tom, take your walk if you’ve a mind, but keep an eye out for Beecham’s lads.”
“Will do, boss.”
Tom left the warehouse, slipping down the back alleys along the river and heading south toward the Shaw’s fine house on Merrion Square. He had a mind to watch it. From what? He didn’t know exactly.
He wasn’t in any kind of rush, so he stretched the walk out for an hour or so, plenty of time for most of the city to fall asleep. Tom liked the quiet. He was a quiet man, and always had been, even in human life. It was hard enough to avoid gathering notice when you were over six foot tall and built like a brick wall, as his mam had told him. He was only ever going to be a brute with size like that.
It was pure luck that he’d fallen into boxing as a human. More luck that when his own body had started to give out, he’d run into the brash young Traveller who needed coaching and a companion to watch his back. Tom Dargin had thrown in with Murphy within weeks of meeting the young man, seeing in him the kind of luck that Tom had always admired and never captured.
And now he’d be marrying a proper society woman, if that woman would have him.
Wasn’t life unexpected?
He lurked across the way from the Shaw house, surprised by the number of lights still on. Comfortable in the shadows, he crossed the main thoroughfare on the north side of the square and walked down a side street, curious to see if the Shaw’s garden was accessible. He wanted to know who was awake. Who would be using gas lamps so late at night? Surely not one of the servants. Was it old Mr. Shaw himself, worried about his company and h
is failing health? Or perhaps it was Miss Shaw unable to sleep or discomfited by her illness.
Either way, Tom was curious. And a curious Tom was a stubborn thing.
He walked across the muddy road behind the house where delivery carts had left deep grooves in the mud. A light mist was falling, and he drank it in, replete with the surge of power it lent his amnis. Unlike Murphy, who preferred fresh water, Tom felt most at home near the sea. But any water would do. He’d never been a particular man.
Following the lights led him past numerous walled gardens until he finally arrived at the back side of the stately red brick Georgian home belonging to John Robert Shaw. It was handsome, but not ostentatious. Respectable, but not ancient. He’d watched Shaw exit the front of the house more than one night, but he’d never investigated the gardens. Declan may have looked through the Shaw books, but it was Tom who gathered information on the ground.
That night, Tom Dargin scaled the garden wall and dropped into another world.
Far from the well-tended, orderly garden he’d imagined from Shaw’s tidy appearance, this garden was a wild tangle of trees and flowers. Statuary hid among rocks that were tumbled artfully around the base of trees, giving the dark garden a fantastical appearance. A miniature glass house lit up the center of the lawn, sparkling from the inside with candlelight. Tom felt as if he’d slipped into one of the fairy stories his grandmother had been fond of telling.
And standing in the center of a lush lawn, dressed in a white dressing gown was a tall woman, as willowy as the trees that lined the garden. She stood, swaying a little, her pale skin touched by the moon’s silver light as she held a book in her hand and turned in place. Her feet were bare, her dark hair fell past her waist, and her long gown was drenched in the evening mist.
It must have been Miss Shaw. No servant would have taken a book out into the garden in the middle of the night. Certainly not in their dressing gown.
“‘But dreams come through stone walls…’” She held up the book to the moon’s light and spoke quietly, though his immortal hearing could pick the words. “‘…light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths.’”