Chapter Ten

C hapter T en

H unter sat bolt upright with a gasp that completely racked his chest, beads of perspiration at his hairline, and his lungs seizing at any and all air in their vicinity.

It took him a moment to recognize his surroundings, as they were a far cry from the dark and dank alleys he had just been exploring, but once he did so, he fell back against the chaise with a relieved exhale, putting a hand to his brow.

He didn't normally dream so dramatically. In fact, he rarely remembered his dreams at all, when he had them. But he hadn't expected to find his sister in the dangerous places he investigated, and certainly not with the focus of his current investigation, the elusive Mr. Martin, holding a knife to her throat. Of course, Mr. Martin was, by all accounts, such a scrawny and limply build chap that Hal could have set the man flat on his back and had the knife in her possession before Hunter would have had to even move for his own weapon, but rationality rarely made itself a part of dreams.

Rubbing at his face, Hunter blinked hard, trying to force the remnants of sleep from his eyes and his countenance. How long had he managed to rest for? If he was dreaming so intensely, and of his sister, he either had slept for a very long time, or had simply been in far greater need of that sleep than he'd anticipated.

Why had he dreamed of his sister anyway? He rarely worried about her. She was a capable operative and asset in her own right, and was married to one as well. Not to mention, their home was filled with more operatives posing as servants than they likely even knew, so they were quite well protected. But better spies had died with less, and he was well aware of it. He ought to visit Hal and John one of these days, just to get whatever inkling of worry that was inhabiting his deeper mind out of his system. Assuring himself of their mutual safety and protection of each other would do him good.

Hal would mock him incessantly if she knew he was dreaming about her safety. And then she would scold him for getting distracted from his work, which was going to risk his safety.

She understood him and the world he inhabited too well, and their relationship was only stronger for it.

Her last letter hadn't indicated any trouble in her life, but she was very careful not to tell him anything that could cause worry. He had learned very early on that he needed to have his own set of eyes and ears involved in his twin's life in order to know the truth, and the reports he received lately matched her letters.

There was no cause to worry. None whatsoever.

But the panic still hovered right above his chest, and he knew it would not go away until he had seen Hal for himself and talked with her.

Hunter allowed himself several long, slow breaths that settled his lungs and calmed his still-rattled pulse. He fumbled about his pockets for his watch and glanced at it lazily, then started and jolted back to a sitting position. He would need to leave within the hour for his patrol if he did not want to rush things. How in the world had Tilda let him sleep so long? She was typically rather exacting with her allowance of his use of her comforts, but he had been in here hours taking his rest. He hadn't needed all that much, especially for tonight's functionality.

And yet…

He craned his neck from side to side, feeling an invigorating crack or two there, then swung his legs from the divan and set his feet solidly on the floor. He took a minute to inhale a slow breath again, then pushed himself up on the exhale and moved to the door of the room, yanking it open and striding out in the direction of Tilda's office.

Or drawing room, parlor, workshop, or whatever she was calling her private room these days.

The place was far less bustling now than it had been earlier, but that was how things went around here. The ladies had work to do, in one sense or another, and the later in the day it got, the more varied their places for that work became. Tilda, on the other hand, he knew would be here, given she had begun living on the premises in the last year or two. Whether that was for her own comfort or safety, or it was something that financial demands required, Hunter couldn't say, but nobody, not even the Shopkeepers—those in charge of all operative assignments and tasks in England—could tell Tilda what she could or could not do with her personal life.

He was fairly certain that was how Weaver had gotten the scar over his left eye.

Hunter gripped the back of his neck absently as he rounded the corner, his step slowing as he heard a chorus of loud giggles in at least three different tones come from one of the rooms up ahead. Laughter wasn't uncommon here, but people were usually too busy for so many of them to laugh at once. And given the time of day, he couldn't imagine who would be gathered around to do so.

Ah, Tilda had mentioned something about a supper. Perhaps she and Lucy had recruited some others to eat with them.

Perhaps he could grab a few of the foodstuffs for himself to devour as he headed to his patrol. His stomach rumbled hopefully.

The closer he drew to the room, the louder the voices within became, though there were no repeated peals of laughter during his progress. Still, he was curious, and he wasn't certain if he was going to need to apologize to Tilda, encourage Lucy, or beg a favor of Callie after missing so much of the day. Knowing better than to just push a door open in this place, Hunter knocked lightly.

"Come!" Tilda called out, laughter rampant in her voice.

Nudging the door with his foot, Hunter fixed a polite smile on his face, his eyes scanning about in instinctual observation.

He froze when he saw the large screen drawn about a section of the room and only saw Tilda and Callie on this side of it, both of them in thick dressing gowns over the dresses he had seen them in earlier, their hair half-down but by no means unkempt.

Lucy was nowhere to be seen.

"Did you have a nice nap, Trick?" Tilda asked him as she ran her fingers through her hair, her other hand cradling a glass of something or other, which could account for the slight looseness of her tongue.

"Quite satisfactory," he replied without much effort, looking at Callie questioningly.

But Callie, it would seem, was spending too much time with Tilda and only grinned mischievously at him. She held no beverage, but there was an empty glass nearby.

Marvelous. Inebriated women were watching his charge for him while he engaged in dangerous work.

His charge who was missing from this space.

"It ought to have been," Callie said bluntly. "You were at it long enough. We've gotten so much done in that time."

"Congratulations," Hunter told her, looking at Tilda again. "Where is Lucy?"

"Here!"

To his immense internal horror, Lucy stepped out from behind the screen in a dressing gown that matched that of the other two, but her hair was completely down, soaking wet, and her bare feet and ankles exposed as she walked into view.

She was the most beautiful, tempting, distracting sight he had ever seen. Ever.

His throat clenched painfully, and his eyes were instructed to move to the floor, but all they did was move to Lucy's feet, focusing on her toes as though he had never seen such a thing in his entire life.

"Sorry," she continued in a low voice just for him, unmoved by or unaware of Hunter's present state of torture. "Tilda offered a hot bath after we finished our fittings, and I just could not resist. You are not supposed to know about that, so pretend I said nothing. Your flat is very nice for where it is, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I might have nits or something, and I just felt coated in a state of dirt in some way. Perhaps from the carriage travel? Who can say? And Tilda does have some marvelous soaps and oils, but don't worry, none of it will set me aside from anyone when we have to be out and about tomorrow. And the water was perfectly hot…"

Bloody actual hell. The woman needed to stop talking about the bath, the water, the soap, and anything else regarding pretty much anything at the moment, rambling or not.

He lacked the power to tell her so, but his thoughts raced back and forth between scolding and imagery with such furious speed, his head was beginning to ache.

"…and you should see the gowns that Tilda has being made for me! Whenever we get me to where I need to go, I am going to have to send for them because there is no possibility of my wearing anything of the sort while I'm with you."

Hellfire. That was what was currently licking at his ankles, the inside of his left knee, the pit of his stomach, and his right ear. It burned like the devil and the smell of brimstone was definitely infiltrating his nostrils.

What he had done to incur such eternal torment, he couldn't say. Nothing recent, certainly, but perhaps some of his older assignments…

"You'll be very pleased with what we're dressing her in tomorrow, Trick." Tilda's voice pushed into his non-burning ear, reminding him of his present place and situation. "She'll be a perfect little street urchin."

Now that was an image he could dwell upon without any problem, and a blissful cooling sensation began to settle on him, starting inside his own mind, ironically enough.

"Good," he heard himself say, his eyes shifting over to her without traveling over any other part of Lucy's person. "Does this mean I can have my coat back?"

"That is your concern?" Lucy demanded with a laugh. "Utterly ridiculous, that thing is so tattered and torn."

"Shh," Tilda soothed. "They have been through a lot together, my lamb. He's very attached to it."

The women giggled again, and Hunter couldn't find it within himself to even smile. The cooling bliss hadn't gone that far to settling him.

He didn't give a damn about his coat. He was simply trying to get through the conversation so he could get out of there and get to work. Actual work. Focusing work.

Non-distracting work.

But it was a nice coat, all things considered. Tilda had made it for him.

Where had it gone, anyway?

Tilda tilted her head at him, her knowing eyes seeing far too much. "Trick? Still with us?"

Hunter blinked. "Yes, of course. I trust you will all be quite well here while I am gone on patrol?"

One of her trim brows rose. "Yes…"

He nodded once. "Good." He made himself look at Lucy, just her face, and forced a smile. "I will see you in the morning. Hopefully, I will have news of your father."

Her forehead furrowed amidst the damp tendrils currently dancing against the skin. "I thought you were not focused on him tonight."

"I'm not. But my contacts are still looking, so information could come while on patrol." He cleared his throat and took a step back, though no one had come anywhere near him. "Tilda, might I avail myself of whatever is ready to wear?"

"Yes, yes," she said with a wave. "You know where to go. Bring it all back in a timely manner. The laundress gets most fussy when things are out of proportion."

"Supper is in the Skye Room," Callie told Hunter, reaching out to take his arm quickly. "It's very good. Take something for on the way out. You know they don't have good food in those places."

Actually, the food was improving in the gaming hells, so Callie would be wrong there, but he would let her think she was doing him a kindness.

"I will do that, thank you," he replied with a nod in her direction, backing up farther. Taking in a quick breath, he met Lucy's eyes once more. "Enjoy your evening. But don't let these two take you out of the building. I don't trust them that far."

"I beg your pardon?" Tilda protested in a shrill voice, while Callie cackled with glee.

Lucy grinned, looking between the two of them with the sort of air that told Hunter she was already too fond of them. "I don't know, I think it could be rather fun."

"Ha!" Tilda pointed at him with a victorious finger. "Get out. Go patrol. Collect my winnings, if you don't mind."

He snorted softly and bowed with all politeness, not in the least surprised that Tilda had standing bets with the clubs he would be frequenting. She probably had understandings with owners all across London. That could even be where the steadiness of her income came from, if the costuming returns were down.

One never knew with Tilda.

"Is it wrong to wish you a good night when you are going on patrol?" Lucy asked, innocently following him to the door.

He tried not to back up more quickly. "No, not wrong. I hope it is good. There's a lot to do and wasting time has never been enjoyable for me. I wish you a good night as well."

"You said that."

Did he? Time to go, it seemed.

Lucy smiled, beginning to plait her damp hair, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing his eyes to her fingers, which made his fingers itch to feel her hair, which made him picture plaiting her hair himself, even if he didn't know how to do it. "Will you bring me a souvenir? I've never been where you're going."

He cleared his throat again and stepped out of the room. "If I remember it and find something suitable, perhaps. Good evening." Before he could say or do anything else stupid, he turned on his heel and walked pointedly down the corridor as fast as he could without looking suspicious.

He barely remembered to go to the ready racks, as Tilda called them, and pick up a new shirt and coat as well as a hat, and it was fortunate that he remembered the Skye Room and the food within, let alone that he stuffed his new pockets with things.

It was fortunate that he remembered which way to turn when he left the building, and it was fortunate that the scent of whatever soaps or oils Tilda had given Lucy had faded from his nostrils by the time he was four blocks away.

Now he would forever think of Lucy fresh from the bath when he smelled that.

He prayed it was some foreign scent he would never encounter again. He could not afford to.

The sun was close to setting now, and he was grateful for the increased darkness of the winter months. It was much easier to accomplish his tasks in the dark, and when night fell earlier, the men he needed to associate with appeared earlier as well. Of course, he was farther away from his usual haunts today than on other days, but there was still plenty of time.

He needed any and all information he could garner from this patrol. If Martin liked gaming and was keeping his nose to the dirtier London ground than he had been before, it was entirely possible that he might find the man himself tonight. There were far too many dens and clubs to inspect in one night, even with his eager bunch, but he could get to the most likely locations and find out what others were saying. He had contacts in all of them anyway, and they knew enough to report key words to him.

It needed to be a useful night after a fairly useless day. How could he have let himself sleep so much? He could have been making himself useful somehow, and instead…

Well, there wasn't much to be done about it now.

He would just have to make the most use of the time he had. He wouldn't hear a thing about Lucy's father tonight, no matter what he had told her. Not unless her father was in one of these places, but that wasn't likely. Even the worst Mayfair folk never set foot down there, preferring what they thought were the filthy haunts over in St. James.

The gentlemen were never as dark and villainous as they liked to think. Those qualities belonged to an entirely different breed of men, and it was Hunter's job to know those ones particularly well. After all these years, he could think like them, track them, and even smell them, and anticipate their next actions.

It was what made him so good that he had stayed in his deep-cover position for this long.

Adjusting the cap on his head to sit lower and tugging his collar to look a little unkempt, Hunter turned down a block that would allow him a more direct route to the Thames, preferring the darker river walk towards the clubs than the street level. People were more likely to avoid him and more likely to behave naturally, which made his observations more accurate.

He needed his thoughts to be as clear as possible for the night ahead. And if he could practice his observational skills while he walked, even better.

The smell of the river soon wafted around and through him, and though it wasn't a classically pleasant scent, he inhaled it deeply. This was a smell as familiar to him as that of home, and there was an odd comfort to it that he might never be able to explain. Some of his finest as well as most dangerous times had taken place with this smell pervading his senses. In some ways, he wouldn't know how to do this if that smell were gone.

He found himself smiling as he strode along the darkening river walk, the comfortable mantle of his position and cover falling across his shoulders perfectly and sinking deep into his chest. Becoming part of him, and soon encasing the entirety of him.

This was the beauty of his persona as Trick. It was so much him that the lines between truth and alias were impossible to fully distinguish. He could have lived his entire life as one or the other without anyone knowing the difference, and as far as he knew, he would be doing so. Not because he was that good and anticipated working as Trick until he was old and grey, but because he would probably die while he was doing it, and he had become perfectly accustomed to the idea.

But he would take growing old and grey as Trick too. If the option was possible.

He walked a while more, finally finding a good side street to turn up, and settled into his stride, winding his way through various blocks until he was to the Black Dolphin. One of his men was already outside of it, cigar in place, the glow of its tip one of the few lights in the street.

"Anyone inside?" Hunter inquired as he reached him.

He nodded once. "Two. Still early, though." He puffed out a long breath of smoke. "Drink before we go?"

Hunter snorted once. "You buying?"

His man shrugged. "I'll buy you one. Any more, and the others will have to do."

"You must be confident we'll find something, if you're willing to buy even one." Hunter laughed and clamped a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take the one and pray that you're right."

The cigar was tapped against the wall, glowing ash tumbling to the ground. "Don't pretend you have religion, Trick. Just trust me."

"I don't," Hunter replied. "But I trust your instincts, so that will have to do."