His sons.
Never again. He’d lost far, far too much because of a witless passion two parts lust and one part heady stupidity. When he married a second time, to the calm, gentle woman who even now was comforting Kit, it would be for friendship and companionship. A mother for his children and a mistress for his home.
Peter stirred sleepily in his arms. “Papa?”
Hugh opened his eyes. “Yes?”
“When’re you leavin’ again?”
Peter had asked him this question before. He gave the boy the same answer he always gave. “I’m not leaving.”
Peter clutched Hugh’s waistcoat, his face bent downward, playing with one of the buttons. “Kit says you’re gonna leave.”
He tried to think of the words to say to make a little boy believe in him. A little boy who had already lost a mother and still didn’t really know him.
In the end he said the only thing he could, inadequate though it was. “I won’t. I promise.”
“YOU’RE GETTING SLOW, old man.” Alf grinned that evening as she skipped back quickly, like a bird in flight.
Godric St. John didn’t even crack a smile. St. John wasn’t much for smiles—not unless it was at the sight of his lady wife or his little girl babe—but his ice-gray eyes narrowed and he lunged at her with his sword and if she didn’t know any better she’d think he was bent on gutting her on the spot.
Good thing she did know better, then.
She brought her own practice sword up and parried his attack pretty as you please, then slipped under his arm, turning in a cunning move to drive her sword up into his exposed armpit.
Or it would’ve been a cunning move if St. John’s sword weren’t pressed into the padding at her throat.
Alf wrinkled her nose at the sword tip as she dropped her practice sword in surrender. The long room they dueled in was at the top of Saint House, the wooden floor bare, the only ornaments the swords and protective padding hanging on the wall. As far as Alf knew, the sole thing the room was used for was dueling.
“What,” said St. John, not breathing fast at all, which was a bit of an insult, considering the man was practically old enough to be her father, “was your mistake?”
“I-did-not-anticipate-my-enemy’s-movement-and-furthermore-underestimated-’is-intelligence,” she said all in one breath, because really every one of her so-called mistakes was pretty much the same. “But seems to me that unless I meet you in a St Giles alley one night I’m not going to ’ave this ’ere mistake with any other opponent.”
St. John sighed and lowered his sword. “This isn’t a game. I only agreed to help you learn to fight with the swords so that you could better defend yourself, but if you continue to go out there, full of foolish arrogance, it’s only a matter of time before you’re injured or killed.”
Alf scowled at St. John’s harsh words, spoken in his usual maddeningly even tone. Two years ago she might’ve shown him a rude finger, cursed him for a thick swell, and stomped out of the room.
But this man had been the former Ghost of St Giles. He was the one who had helped her save Hannah from the lassie snatchers. Had sought her out over weeks and months and patiently talked to her, even when she’d rebuffed him again and again. Until, in a fit of frustration, she’d finally demanded he teach how her to use the swords so that she could become the Ghost of St Giles herself now that he’d retired.
She’d figured he’d refuse and that’d be the end of it.
He hadn’t.
Instead he’d let her into his own home and taught her how to hold a sword. How to thrust and parry. How to angle her hips and slide her legs. When she was ready he’d introduced her to an elderly woman who had sewn her Ghost costume, and helped her purchase her swords. And he’d done all that knowing she was a woman. A woman with no name, no money, no family, a woman who came from the dung heap that was St Giles.
He’d asked nothing at all in return—not money or sex or anything else.
Alf had never met anyone like St. John in all her life.
She might be a little in love with him.
Not love love, mind. But love like the way she loved the sky and Hannah and the rooftops.
He was special and wonderfully strange, was Godric St. John.
So when he gave her that stare and raised his sword again, she picked up her sword and looked chastened.
Or at least tried.
But then there was a commotion belowstairs, and though nothing changed in St. John’s face, something lit within him, and she knew their sparring was over for the day.
His lady wife was home.
“I beg your pardon,” he murmured, sounding absentminded already.
She sighed, trying not to feel resentful of the woman she’d never met, and went to hang her sword on the wall and untie the padded waistcoat she wore for practice.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?”
She looked up at his invitation because he’d never asked that before. Not when his wife was about.
“And what would you tell ’er?” She couldn’t help it. She felt herself scowl like a child. After all, if his wife hadn’t come home, they’d still be practicing.
His eyebrows rose. “I’d introduce you, of course. Megs does know who you are.”
She stiffened. “You told ’er.”
“I don’t keep secrets from my wife,” he said, sounding so reasonable. “Alf, don’t look like that. Megs would never tell anyone, she promised me. She knows how important your disguise is.”
She shook her head, moving away. It didn’t matter what he said. What promises had been made. What mattered was that he’d told her.
That he’d trusted her secret to his wife.
That she, Alf, wasn’t anyone special to him.
That shouldn’t hurt, she knew, but it did. It did.
She turned and went to the window.
“Alf.”
But she didn’t feel like replying. She threw her leg over the sill, found a toehold below, and swarmed up the side of the house and onto the roof, without looking back.
It was dark already, the moon hidden by clouds, but she ran over the roof. Jumped down onto the next building and then climbed down to the ground. Saint House was by the river, and she stuck her hands into her pockets, bent her head, and headed north into London and back to St Giles. She wouldn’t think about St. John. Wouldn’t think about him in his warm house with his wife and baby.
She could take care of herself by herself, and that was all that mattered.
So. She’d think about business instead. She’d buy her supper at the One Horned Goat and nose about there. Maybe talk to Archer and the regulars and see if anyone knew who had hired the Scarlet Throat gang to attack Kyle last night. She was a bit wary of alerting the Scarlet Throats themselves, so she was going about her information gathering in a roundabout sort of way. She’d already talked to the pickpocket gang, to a couple of the shadier pawnbrokers, and to the linkboy who’d been with Kyle. She had a bit of news, but not enough to earn that second purse yet.
And some of her best sources came out only at night.
She was nearly to St Giles, the streets getting darker because the shopkeepers didn’t bother putting lanterns outside their shops to light the way, when she twigged that she was being followed. The streets weren’t empty—there were people going home to St Giles—so it wasn’t obvious at first.
But then she noticed that the lanky fellow in the battered tricorne had been across the street, in step with her, since Covent Garden.
And he was wearing a red neckcloth.
Alf pretended to step in something nasty, and made a show of bending and scraping her shoe against the cobblestones as she took a quick look behind her. There were two men just steps away. They might not be following her.
And the sun might not come up in the east tomorrow.
She straightened and kept her stride the same, her shoulders still hunched against the cold, her head still bent as she hurried past more sho
ps.
At the next alley she darted inside and legged it.
Footsteps pounded behind her, so close she could almost feel the hot breath on the back of her neck. If she could get a little bit of a lead she could go up and over the roofs and lose them in a trice.
But on the street…
This was how they’d caught Kyle last night, she thought as she ducked to the right into another lane. They’d herded him like a ram to slaughter.
Best not let herself be cornered, then.
She deliberately didn’t take the next, smaller lane. Instead she headed west and back into the better parts of London.
Someone cursed behind her and then she felt fingers catch at her coat.
She staggered, off balance.
Shoved her hand into her coat pocket and palmed the dagger.
Whirled and stabbed blindly at the attacker. High, up under his face.
She didn’t hit anything, but he swore and let go of her coat, raising his hands to protect his throat.
Alf turned and ran again, panting now, the dagger still clutched in her hand. The lane opened up into a bigger street, and she was so relieved she nearly didn’t see the tough coming from the left.
He barreled right into her without stopping, knocking her clean off her feet, and slammed her to the ground. Her knife clattered away into the dark street as she felt the first blow to her back. The second to her thigh.
Curl into a ball. Cover your head and eyes, throat and belly. All the soft bits. All the parts that could be gouged and hurt the worst.
That was the first thing you learned in St Giles. It was practically a lullaby taught to the babes at their mothers’ paps.
But if she curled up they wouldn’t stop with a blow or two. They’d kick her until her ribs broke, until her skull caved, until she lost sense and uncurled and they could get at her soft bits.
And then they’d kill her.
So she kept moving. On hands and knees. Scrambling to right herself, though she knew it was near hopeless. Even as someone kicked her in the side, again and again. She got her hand into her waistcoat pocket as she crawled, and when the next kick came, she caught that leg and stuck it with her second dagger.
The man howled and fell against one of the others. And that was all she needed. Just a second’s breath of time.
She was up and on her legs again, running. Limping, to be honest. Her arm and side were all afire, and something in the right side of her face was just numb, no pain or feeling at all.
But she jumped and caught the lower rail of a balcony. Swung and brought her legs up just before one of the toughs swiped at her feet. She clambered onto the balcony, scaled the window and the next and thence to the roof.
And once there? She took flight. Spreading her wings over the rooftops of London.
Running from the dark woods and the monsters.
Chapter Four
One day through bribery and blackmail the Black Warlock found a weakness in the White Sorceress’s defenses. He did not hesitate. Why should he? Had the sorceress discovered one of his weaknesses, she would not have spared him or his.
So the warlock stormed Castle White and set it aflame with magical fire with all the White Sorceress’s family trapped inside.…
—From The Black Prince and the Golden Falcon
Hugh swallowed a mouthful of white wine and set the glass beside his plate at supper that night. He sat alone in the dining room, a fire blazing in the hearth at his back, the long, dark, polished dining table set for only one. The room was big. Huge, actually. Katherine had envisioned many convivial parties here early in their marriage.
Perhaps she’d thrown those dinner parties while he’d tramped all over the Continent and India.
He took a bite of his beefsteak. He should’ve had his supper served in the library. Various papers and maps were spread out on the table next to his place. Among them was a letter from the Duke of Montgomery, now the ambassador to the Ottoman Empire and living in Istanbul. Montgomery had written in his usual flowery and maddeningly cryptic style to say that the last leader of the Lords of Chaos had been the old Duke of Dyemore and that to his knowledge there was no successor to the leadership.
Hugh snorted, tossing aside the missive.
Why Montgomery hadn’t thought to give him this information months ago when he’d set him after the leaders of the cabal, he didn’t know, but it was just like the man. The Duke of Montgomery was a villain with obscure motives and nonexistent morals. Hugh suspected that the majority of his actions were undertaken purely for his own amusement, and the rest for reasons known only within the dark corners of the duke’s own mind.
He sighed and pushed aside the remains of his beefsteak on his plate. He had the beginnings of a violent headache behind his right eye. Sometimes his headaches were accompanied by nausea. Best not to overindulge.
He drained his wineglass and set it down, rising from the table.
Dyemore had perished sometime last autumn—in somewhat mysterious circumstances. Had the Lords of Chaos truly been leaderless for months? From what little Hugh and his men had been able to gather about the society, it seemed unlikely that they were that unorganized. Surely by now someone was either in power or trying to gain the leadership position. If he had to guess, he’d point to Sir Aaron Crewe. Though neither the eldest, the richest, nor the most highly ranked of the four men on the list Montgomery had given him, Crewe had amassed a great deal of political power for a man not much past thirty. Hugh’s investigations had revealed that Crewe had risen rapidly from an obscure country family. If—
The door to the dining room burst open and slammed against the wall, Bell running in. “Your Grace, Alf’s been ’urt!”
“Show me,” Hugh snapped.
Bell was out the door again, Hugh right on his heels.
The boy ran to the kitchens.
The room was crowded with people.
The cook, maids, butler, housekeeper, and footmen were grouped at one side. The long kitchen table was still set with half-eaten dishes. His household had obviously been eating their supper.
By the back door were his men.
Riley leaned, arms crossed, against the doorjamb as if bored. Talbot stood next to him, alert and frowning. Jenkins squatted close to, but not touching, Alf, and as Hugh neared he could see why.
Alf was sitting on the kitchen flagstones, curled into himself, his upper lip lifted like a feral dog’s, his hat missing, his eyes glittering dangerously.
The lad held a bloodstained dagger in his right hand.
Hugh halted behind Jenkins and thrust out an arm to keep Bell from coming any closer.
Alf swung his gaze to meet Hugh’s, something sparking in his eyes.
Without taking his eyes off the lad, Hugh said, “I’d like the house servants to leave, please.”
Behind him he could hear the tromp of feet and the rustle of fabric as the town house servants left.
Then it was just his men and Alf.
The boy’s breath was ragged. The dagger in his hand trembled.
“What happened?” Hugh asked.
“Burst in the kitchens like this, sir,” Riley replied. “Won’t let us help him.”
“Jenkins?” Hugh asked softly.
“Ribs, sir,” the former soldier said just as quietly. His black leather surgical case was on the kitchen floor by his side. “Wound on the head. Maybe stab in the leg. Blood on his coat from somewhere. Hard to tell from where.”
“’M fine,” Alf said, his voice cracking. There was a spreading bloodstain on the right leg of his breeches.
“No,” Hugh said evenly, “you’re not. You came here for help. Let me give it to you.”
“Just let me rest ’ere awhile. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Hugh snapped. “Jenkins here is one of the best men for fixing a body up after a scrape. He stitched my own wound last night.”
Alf was already shaking his head. “No one touches me, guv. No one.”
>
Hugh felt his jaw clench even as he felt a stab of pity. The boy reminded him of a hurt feral terrier, growling and snapping at the hand offered in help. But he couldn’t let sympathy keep him from doing what must be done. “Be that as it may, I’m ordering you to let Jenkins doctor you.”
“No.”
“Talbot,” Hugh said, giving a well-established order.
“Aye, sir.” The former grenadier nodded.
Alf tensed, his eyes swiveling to Talbot.
Hugh took two steps forward, knocked the dagger from Alf’s hand, and caught him in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides.
The boy arched his back. “Oi! Not fair!”
Hugh grunted, but Alf was lighter than he’d expected. He threw the boy over his shoulder and clamped an arm firmly over his wriggling legs.
“With me,” he said to his men, and strode from the kitchens and into the servants’ hall.
Bell lit the way with a candelabrum.
Hugh turned a corner, found the servants’ stairs, and mounted them, climbing to the servants’ quarters. The boy had gone limp on his shoulder. Perhaps he’d fainted.
“Is there an empty servants’ room?” he asked Jenkins.
“This one, sir.” Jenkins opened the fourth door on the right.
The room was under the eaves, the ceiling sloping down from the doorway to the casement window. There were two narrow single beds on either side of the window, a row of hooks on the wall, a stool, and a chest of drawers with a washbasin on top by the door.
He stooped to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling and gently dumped the boy onto one of the beds.
Alf stared solemn eyed up at him. “Not my master, guv.”
He was such a tough little thing, even wounded and surrounded by bigger, older men.
Hugh brushed the boy’s tangled hair off his delicate, bruised face. “I know I’m not your master, imp. But let Jenkins see to your leg as a favor to me, hmm?”