Chapter Twenty Four

C hris had been wrong. Again. Thank God he'd had the foresight to send Phoebe away for her own protection; Scratch had emerged from within the house with a sort of casual air that suggested he'd had plenty of time to acquaint himself with it. Probably he'd been sneaking about within for quite a while. "Ye look surprised," Scratch said, his lips splitting into a macabre grin, revealing the fact that he possessed even fewer teeth than Chris had once known him to have. "Ye didn't truly think I'd fall fer yer nasty little trick, now, did ye?" "I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to come to my home," Chris said. "You're an opportunist. You always have been. Low-hanging fruit; that's the first thing you taught me, after all." Snatch the easiest purse to grab; don't go digging in pockets if you don't have to. Target the distracted merchants, the drunkards, the oblivious dandies. Scratch shrugged. "Might've worked," he said. "Except for the damned police. Gettin' too bloody dangerous out there for us thieves these days." Hell. The police . The Metropolitan Police Act had passed in June. Chris might've cared, had he any interest in parliamentary issues—but he had been relieved to find himself freed of political machinations when he'd left spying behind. And he'd spent too much time secluded within the house just lately to give much notice to the police, who must have only recently begun patrolling the streets of London. "You look well," Chris said. "For a dead man." Though truthfully, he'd seen dead men look better. Scratch had aged considerably, well beyond the decades that had passed since last they'd met. His face had tanned and weathered, deep grooves lining his cheeks. He looked at least seventy, though if Chris had had to guess, he'd have said he was closer to his mid-fifties. His once-black hair had gone slate grey, and his clothes—probably stolen off of a cadaver, by their condition—hung upon his thin, rangy frame. His hands were gnarled, still with those overlong fingernails that the children had dreaded finding their flesh. The right hand held a pistol. The left curled around the handle of an all too familiar cane. "No thanks to ye, o' course," Scratch said. "I reckon ye owe me fer that. P'rhaps I'll take this fancy house once I've killed ye." "No chance of that. In the event of my death, it goes to my wife." Despite the weapon trained upon him, Chris could dredge up remarkably little fear for the threat. Scratch had seemed so much more imposing to the child he'd been, but perhaps that had simply been due to the terror he'd inflicted upon the children he'd held beneath his thumb. Probably, if he could goad Scratch into taking the sole shot his pistol could carry, then he could turn the tables—even with his bad knee. But keeping the man talking might provide an opening, an opportunity to act. "How the hell did you survive?" he asked. "I saw you go into the damned river." "Ye pushed me into the river," Scratch said, his lips turning into a scowl. "Rotten little bastard that ye were." "You couldn't swim. I know you couldn't swim." "Who'd be fool enough to want to swim in the Thames?" Scratch inquired. "Can't swim proper-like," he said. "But I float well enough when I gotta. And ye didn't stick around to make certain I didn't come up again, did ye, Chris? Just long enough to watch me go over. First murder, eh? Didn't take so well as ye'd hoped?" "I do find myself somewhat disappointed, in fact." Probably, he thought, there had been some truth to those tales the children had told after all. The local legend; the bogeyman that had stalked the streets for months thereafter. "But you made yourself scarce," he said. "Ye couldn't see yer own face, boy," Scratch said. "But I did, afore I sank. Ain't never seen such an evil look in me life. And ye were sneaky, canny—I knew ye'd get me if I came back. Might've been yer first go at murder, but there weren't no hesitation in ye. Didn't fancy watchin' my back lest ye sink a dagger into it. Leastwise, until I could get ye by surprise myself." But he hadn't. He'd abandoned his gang of child-thieves entirely; the sole source of his income. And it had been well over two decades since. "And you couldn't do it before now?" "Naw," Scratch said with a sneer. "Fellow's got ta eat, ye know. And it turns out my fingers weren't so nimble as they ‘ad been. Got pinched fer nicking a bloke's purse only a few months later. Got m'self transported. So I suppose I owe ye fer that as well. Fourteen years hard labor in Australia. And it took eight more to come up wiv the blunt to buy my passage back." That, coupled with the time each journey would have taken—Chris supposed Scratch had been back in England for a year, perhaps a little longer. He'd gotten a new name for himself, one that would not be well-known, and he'd transformed so much in that time, his face weathered from the hot Australian sun and his body changed by years of hard labor that it was unlikely that even Chris would have recognized him if they'd passed one another on the street. He'd been meant to be dead, after all. "Didn't come home fer revenge," Scratch said. "I thought surely ye'd ‘ave been caught and ‘anged years ago. Didn't even know ye was still alive until a few months back, when ye got arrested fer treason. All o' London were talkin' about it. But ye got yerself out o' that scrape, didn't ye? And then ye started pickin' off my children. Running the other kidsmen out of London or worse. Knew ye'd find me sooner or later." So he'd contrived to find Chris first. Perhaps revenge hadn't been his aim—but he'd seized the opportunity that had presented itself. Low-hanging fruit indeed; an old enemy who hadn't even known his nemesis had come back to haunt him. "So you had your men throw me into the Thames," Chris said, with a nod to indicate the cane clutched in Scratch's hand, which he could only have come into possession of if he'd been behind that little debacle. "Thought it fittin'," Scratch said. "And you shot me?" "Hell, no," Scratch said. "I been transported once. Weren't eager to risk ‘anging. I had one o' the children do it. Easier fer one o' them to slip away into a crowd. ‘Course, the little bugger could hardly hold the pistol upright. Cried somethin' awful about it afterwards," he added with an exasperated roll of his eyes. A small blessing, Chris supposed. Probably he'd only survived because Scratch hadn't wanted to risk doing the job himself. "But he hit ye nonetheless. And do ye know what I thought when I learned o' it? I was glad ye didn't die," Scratch said, with a malevolent smile of delight. "Because ye were sufferin'. And I thought—oh, I'd like to see that, I would. Where's the fun in killin' ye so quick? Ye took decades from me." "But you do mean to kill me," Chris said, striving to inject his voice with boredom. There was a stone in the grass just behind Scratch, dislodged from those which bordered Hieronymus' pond. If he could just maneuver the man into taking a step back, he might well turn his ankle upon it and stumble. "I do. But I mean to have me fun wiv ye first." "Bound to make a hell of a racket," Chris said. "It's a quiet street this time of night. Someone's going to take notice." He had a houseful of servants sleeping within, and while he could not guarantee they'd come to his aid, still it would be a risky move. "But ye ain't exactly well liked, now, are ye? I'll wager no one would come runnin' even if ye were to shout about it." Scratch canted his head to the right, that terrible grin turning still uglier. "Ain't foolish enough to do the job here, besides. Got a place all picked out already. Nice and private. And ye're gonna come along real quiet-like to it." "That will not happen." "'Course it will," Scratch said, with a sly cant of his head. "Weren't foolish enough to come alone, either. So ye'll do as I says, else I'll have my man find yer pretty little wife, drag her out here by her hair, and snap her neck right in front o' ye."

∞∞∞

"I really do think we ought to summon the police," Brooks said as bent to stuff a wad of cloth into the mouth of the behemoth of a man who laid, unmoving, upon the once-pristine marble floor of the foyer. Phoebe thought that the precautions he'd taken—binding and gagging the villain—had been utterly unnecessary, when one considered that the man was unlikely to go much of anywhere or say much of anything with a stiletto lodged in his gut. His fault, really. He oughtn't to have surprised her like he had. She hadn't even had the luxury of a scream before he'd clamped one hand over her mouth. But she'd had practice enough in drawing her dagger. That instinct had won out, and she'd freed herself ably enough. Brooks had found her here moments later, on his nightly rounds to secure the house for the evening—a little too late to be truly useful. "No," Phoebe said. There was a man in the process of bleeding out upon her floor, and she could not take the time to weigh the potential ramifications of bringing the authorities into this matter. Kit's reputation was something of a nebulous thing at present. Perhaps he'd see the inside of jail cell right alongside the men who had invaded their home. Perhaps he'd swing from the gallows beside them. Perhaps the courts would decline to charge them at all, and they'd be released to plague them another day. No. She was going to let Kit handle them, exactly as he'd suggested. Right after she'd saved his life. When she'd peeked out the window nearest the garden, all she'd seen was what had appeared to be two men engaged in pleasant conversation. But for the pistol Russell had trained upon Kit, at least. Phoebe drew a swift breath, the words coming in a rush. "I need you to fetch Lord Rafe as soon as possible." Mama was already in the process of sending someone for Laurence, and Papa had gone hunting for his pistol. They hadn't understood, exactly, and there had been no time to make explanations, but they had trusted her judgment implicitly. Best to keep it quiet—or at least as quiet as possible. Bring in only those whom she knew could be trusted. "Me?" Brooks echoed incredulously. "Madam—" Phoebe shoved her hand into the reticule that dangled from here wrist and withdrew the tiny muff pistol that Kit had purchased for her. "Oh," Brooks said. "Still, I don't think—" "Now," she hissed. Before the conversation taking place just a little ways away turned ugly at last, as it was bound to. "The carriage is waiting on the street. I think they meant to make off with it." It had been readied when she had arrived, though for what purpose, she could not guess. "He's going to murder me along with them," Brooks muttered beneath his breath, but he managed a short nod nonetheless. Dear God, she hoped he wasn't correct, she thought as she tiptoed toward the garden door. She'd grown rather fond of the man. But probably Kit would be angry. If he survived. Her heart pounded in her throat. Her palm slipped upon the grip of the pistol, clammy with sweat and terror. As she peered through the gap that had been left in the door, she bit back a sigh of relief to see that the conversation had continued in her absence. They were some distance away. Farther than she suspected she could shoot accurately. Good lord, she was going to have to sneak up upon him, the very same way he'd done to her in that alley. Close enough to get off a shot that she knew would kill, or he might have time to get off a shot of his own before he could be disarmed. "Good luck to you," she heard Kit say scathingly. "She's not here. I sent her away. Just in event that you were fool enough to come here." Phoebe swallowed hard. Her . They had been discussing her . She slipped one foot through the gap in the door, endeavoring to make as little noise as possible. The hinges tended to creak, but at least Russell had not given any particular thought to closing the door behind him. "Ye think I can't find ‘er?" Russell said on a noxious laugh. "Weren't difficult to get to ‘er before. Weren't even difficult to let m'self into yer fancy ‘ouse." Phoebe could not see Kit from her angle just yet, wedged as she was between the door and its frame. But she winced as she heard the roughening of Kit's voice, the changed tone and tenor, the stress of the situation causing him to slip into the common accent he was generally so proficient at masking. A tell, she thought—one his opponent would use against him. "She's got nothing to do wiv ye and me, Scratch." "She ‘as now. Ye married her." Phoebe emerged into the garden at last, moving slowly, silently toward the shadowy lawn. An inch at a time, careful to let her feet fall softly, cautious of moving too far into the scope of Russell's peripheral vision. He was facing mostly away from her, but any quick motion, even the subtlest sound might alert him to her presence. Another tiny step closer—another. She saw the moment Kit spotted her. He hadn't turned his head, hadn't let his gaze linger upon her—but his jaw went tight and he leaned just a little more heavily upon the support of his cane, as if he couldn't quite trust his legs to hold him upright. "So what's it to be, boy?" Scratch asked. "I seen ye survive a lead ball, and it's too good a death fer ye anyway. Come along quiet to the death ye deserve, and maybe yer lady only ‘as a tiny scar and an ‘usband to bury. Or I kill ye here anyway, and I send yer lady on to meet ye as soon as I get my ‘ands on ‘er." Oh, Lord—Russell wanted Kit to surrender to him to save her. He hadn't in mind a quick death for Kit but a protracted one. Slow and full of torture, most likely. And if she let Russell take him, then—then he would never be found. He'd go to ground in one of his bolt holes, as the footman had once told her, and this time he would take Kit with him. Three more steps, perhaps four, and she would be close enough to shoot. And pray her aim would be true enough not to strike Kit by accident. "All right, then," Kit said. "I'll come." What? No! But of course he could not hear the silent shriek that rang through her head. He steadied himself with his cane and began to take slow, careful steps toward Russell. Russell made a gesture with the pistol as Kit approached. "Leave the cane. Ain't foolish enough to let m'self get whacked upon the ‘ead wiv it." "I need it to walk properly." "Ye can damn well hobble fer all I care." Russell gave a gritty laugh. "Aye, and I'd like to see it." With a guttural growl, Kit let his cane drop to the ground, and began to slowly, painstakingly proceed with his steps in an ungainly limp. Phoebe closed her eyes for half a second, breathed in, held up the pistol. The middle of his back, she thought. If she could only collapse a lung, that would be debilitating. She wasn't certain she could manage to hit his head; wasn't certain the tiny lead ball with which her pistol was loaded was even capable of piercing a skull as thick as his. One shot. She had to make it count. "Do ye know," Russell said reflectively as Phoebe lined up her aim. "I think I'd rather see ye crawl." He lurched forward, lashing out with the cane in his left hand to strike at Kit's bad knee just as Phoebe fired. Kit collapsed onto the ground with a shout of pain. Russell reared back, dropping his own cane to press one hand to his side, where a spot of blood had begun to bloom and grow. Slowly. Too damned slowly. He bit off a harsh cursed, swinging about to train his weapon upon her. She'd hit, but it hadn't mattered. It was a minor wound; a graze at best. Infection might take him, if she were lucky. But not nearly soon enough. And now—now she was going to die.

∞∞∞

As the echoing report of Phoebe's spent pistol reverberated in his ears, Chris' heart thundered in his chest. He had never been so damned frightened in all his life. Phoebe stared down the barrel of the pistol that Scratch had thrust in her direction and he couldn't even rise to defend her. His leg, he knew, would not support him if he tried to, and his cane was too far away to reach. Instead he cast about for something, anything, to redirect Scratch's attention to him instead. His fingers slid through the grass, searching for something, anything—the stone that had once bordered Hieronymus' pond. His hand seized it, and he wrenched his arm back, hurling it with all his might. It thwacked Scratch in the back of a head, drawing forth a pained hiss, and a swing of the pistol in Chris' direction. Thank God . "Run!" he shouted, and Phoebe—Phoebe lunged instead, her fingers curling into claws as she fisted the left in Scratch's grimy hair, wrenching his head back. Her right caught him beneath the elbow, ruining his aim. "Ye nasty bitch," Scratch howled, and he shoved his elbow backwards, catching Phoebe about the ribs hard enough that it forced the air from her lungs. As she wheezed, he yanked his hair out of her loosed hold, then turned to lash out with his free hand, landing a ringing slap across her face. He was not a man who had ever pulled his punches; she stumbled with the force of it, yelping out a pained cry. In the shadows, her teeth were smeared with blood that looked nearly black. Behind the cage of his ribs, Chris' heart burned with a feral rage unlike anything he had ever known before. "Don't fucking touch her," he snarled, shoving his good leg beneath him in an attempt to gain his feet once more. Scratch gave a nasty laugh as he snatched up a handful of Phoebe's hair, almost yanking her straight off of her feet as he pulled her bodily back against him and nudged the barrel of the pistol beneath her chin. No. God, no . She whimpered in pain, cold fear in her wide open eyes, in the hollow of her cheeks, in the hard swallow that slid down her throat. And there was nothing he could do. He could not retake his feet, could not possibly move fast enough to get to her in time. A lead ball could fly ever so much faster. It would take only the slightest squeeze of the trigger. "Stop," Chris rasped, beyond shame, beyond pride. "For the love of God, let her go. I'll go with you quietly—only let her go." "Naw," Scratch said. "I like a bitch wiv a little spirit to ‘er. Think I'll keep ‘er," he jeered. "Give ‘er some good nightmares afore I'm done wiv ‘er, eh?" Another vicious yank of Phoebe's hair, another whimper she was helpless to stifle. "Ye can damn well crawl to the bloody carriage," he snarled to Chris. "I think I got all I need to make certain ye does right ‘ere." And he was right, damn him. Chris would have crawled across broken glass to keep her safe. He would go willingly to a certain death for only a fraction of a chance to spare her. "My man's got the carriage already," Scratch said. "Soon as ‘e's back—" "He's not coming back," Phoebe said, her voice tight with strain. Her fingers flexed at her sides, and her jaw tensed. Just as it always did during their sparing bouts when he'd trapped her in an unenviable position and she was forced to consider her options. "I killed him." For the first time, Chris felt the tiniest flicker of hope. She'd had only a pistol when she'd come out into the garden. Perhaps she'd wielded the dagger already. Scratch hadn't noticed, but she'd settled onto the balls of her feet, bracing herself. She couldn't possibly get the leverage necessary to slam the back of her head into his nose. There were two viable options at present: gouging the eyes, or getting rid of the pistol. She would know, though, always to prioritize disarming her assailant. Chris was mostly certain of it. "Lying bitch," Scratch said, twisting her hair in his fingers until she let out a cry. "I stabbed him," she hissed savagely, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain. "If he's not dead, he's dying. I stabbed my dagger straight into his gut and fucking twisted it." That's my girl , Chris thought with a surge of pride. Her hands shot up, wedging themselves between Scratch's arm and knocking it upward. With a quick, vicious motion that must have pulled free several strands of hair from the fierce clutch of Scratch's fingers, she sank her teeth straight into his arm hard enough to draw blood. Scratch howled in agony, his fingers clenching in reflex. The pistol fired its single shot, and the sound was loud enough to make Chris' ears ring—but the ball had gone flying up into the air. One shot, wasted. But the pistol wasn't yet useless as a weapon. Scratch growled out an oath as he slammed the spent pistol against the side of Phoebe's head and shoved her away from him, sending her reeling and stumbling across the lawn, dazed. With a feral snarl of fury, Chris hurled himself at Scratch. He had started from too far away, from too low a position. He couldn't have possibly managed the momentum necessary to tackle Scratch properly—but he came within arm's reach as he landed sprawled upon the grass, and he grabbed for Scratch's knees as Phoebe wilted to the ground, her fingers landing inches away from the cane Scratch had dropped. The cane . Chris banded his arms around Scratch's knees, took a heel to the chin as Scratch stumbled. "The cane," Chris gritted out past the coppery tang of blood that filled his mouth. "Phoebe. The cane. It's the one that Emma bought for me." He saw the significance of the words hit, saw her grapple for Scratch's discarded cane, her fingers seizing upon it. Unsteadily she rose to her feet once more. Scratch kicked out again, but he couldn't manage the leverage to wrench Chris' arms free with the movement, and in the doing he toppled himself, falling to his stomach with a slow lurch. There was a strange whisk of metal, the pound of footsteps across the grass. Scratch went suddenly still, all struggles ceasing. "You can let him go, Kit," Phoebe said, and there was a strange, cool inflection to her voice. "He'll not move a muscle. Unless he wishes to risk a sword straight through his back. Isn't that right, Russell?" "Go to hell, ye damned—" The furious statement halted abruptly in a yelp as Phoebe eased the point of the sword that had been concealed within the cane through the dirty linen of his shirt and poked his flesh. "I've already shot you," Phoebe said with deadly calm. "Stabbed your wretched cohort. Do you truly believe I won't run you through given half a chance?" Chris eased away at last, searching through the darkness for the cane Scratch had forced him to relinquish. His knee throbbed as he used the cane to climb once more to his feet, his chest heaving with frantic breaths, like he'd run for miles. In the moonlight, the blade glittered silver, and Phoebe looked like a Valkyrie fresh from battle; blooded and disheveled and vengeful. Chris had never been so damned proud in the entirety of his life. Or so fucking furious.