4. Chapter 4

Chapter four

On the train back to Liverpool, Rowland couldn’t get Iris’s face out of his mind. Every frown, every curve and arch of her brow over the blue depths of her eyes, the way her golden hair framed her perfect jaw. She was even more beautiful in person. And up close…she was a work of art. He could still feel the sting on his face from where she’d slapped him. Both times. And he welcomed it. He’d let her slap him until his cheeks went numb if it meant she’d touch him.

“So,” Ezra said, drawing him out of his thoughts. “How’d it go with the earl’s sister?”

“Good, I’ve got her all set up,” Rowland replied.

“I figured that was what you were doing. I know how you are.”

“It’s not how I prefer to do business, even faking it, but it’s better this way. I don’t want to kill an earl anymore than that earl wants to be killed.”

“She’d have given you a rough go of it too, the way she was acting,” Ezra said with a chuckle.

“That one’s a pistol, to be sure,” Rowland said with a smile. “She smacked me.”

“Did she?”

“Twice.”

Ezra barked out a laugh. “That’s why your face was all red. I thought it was from the struggle.”

Rowland’s smile faded. “It showed me something important about her.”

“And what’s that?”

“Not only is she smart, she’s not afraid of me.”

Ezra’s brows rose. “Ah, she probably doesn’t know any better.”

Rowland shook his head. “No, I looked in her eyes. That woman doesn’t know the meaning of the word fear.”

In his line of work, he’d looked into countless eyes. Men he was about to kill, men he was about to fight, women he was about to fuck. All of them, no matter what they did to put on a brave face, had some flicker of fear in their eyes. Even the women, who he treated kindly. But they knew who he was, and what he was capable of. He’d never seen a gaze like Iris’s. Deep blue, piercing, and cold as ice. Almost as cold as his own.

Ezra pulled out a cigarette and offered one to Rowland, who accepted. They puffed in silence for a moment, the only sound the rumble of the train along the track.

“Back to our regular business,” Ezra said. “What are we gonna do about Bishop Goddard and his boys?”

Rowland blew the smoke from his mouth with a huff. “What do we know about him?”

“Not much yet. We learned he’s originally from Belfast—”

“Protestant or Catholic?”

“Protestant. In fact he called us all ‘sons of Fenian whores’, so he’s made his feelings about us pretty clear.”

Rowland rolled his eyes. “Any idea of numbers?”

“From what our boys could gather, it’s less than twenty. They lost a good bit when they were run out of Manchester by those Jewish blokes. More are on the way.”

“So he thinks he can roll into Liverpool and take it instead?”

“That’s the word. Says he wants a port city so he can send supplies back to Ireland.”

“Does he have any contacts in law enforcement?”

Ezra shook his head. “Not from what we could tell. One of our coppers already apprehended one of Bishop’s men trying to steal a shipment of pistols headed for the police station.”

Rowland took a long drag. “Okay, so they’re idiots. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right, I’m thinking we should send him a message, see if that scares him off.”

“I’m thinking the same thing.”

Rowland nodded, then turned his face toward the window to watch the countryside fly by.

***

“Uncle Row!”

Rowland barely had a foot in the door before his niece’s familiar form came crashing into his legs. He caught himself on the door before falling into the rack of dresses along the wall. But he had to straighten the CLOSED sign hanging on the front window of the shop.

“Hello, Claire,” he said, patting her head.

She stepped back and blinked her green eyes owlishly at him. “Where have you been all day?”

“I had some work to take care of in Yorkshire, but it’s all settled now,” he said. “Have you been a sweet girl for your mum?”

“Yes, I sorted all her thread and ribbons by color,” Claire said with a proud smile. “Did you know we have three different shades of blue ribbons?”

“I did not, but I’m glad to know it now.”

The sound of heels clicking against hardwood made him glance up as his sister was coming around from the back of the shop. Her tape measure still hung around her neck like an undone tie, her curly brown hair rolled up in a bun she secured with a pencil. She had her pincushion on her slim wrist, though it was free of any pins. They must have just closed up.

“Claire, who is—oh, Rowland.”

“Evening, Jo.”

“Where’s Ezra?”

“Already dropped him home.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she said, and paused for a beat. “Bernie’s going half mad taking care of all those boys, and with the new baby as well, it’s not easy on her.”

“I imagine it’s hard enough just being Ezra’s wife,” he joked.

The corners of Jo’s mouth turned up in a fleeting smile. She swept her frizzy, dark curls out of her pale face, and Rowland furrowed his brow. His sister appeared…unsettled. Her shoulders were drawn up, and she covered herself with her arms. Her eyes were fixed on Claire, who chattered away about the events of their day.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

Jo glanced between Claire and the door, which she promptly swept over to lock, something Rowland neglected when he came in. She held Rowland’s gaze.

“A man was here today,” she said, almost under her breath. “He left a jacket for tailoring.”

“Is that unusual for a seamstress?” he questioned.

“The jacket came with a note.”

He bit back a sigh. “I suppose it wasn’t his measurements, then?”

She shook her head.

“Claire,” he said, and his niece stopped talking and looked at him. “Why don’t you fetch me those different blue ribbons? I want to see them.”

“Okay!” she chirped, and ran to the back of the shop.

When she was safely out of earshot, Jo walked behind the counter and retrieved the jacket. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she pulled out the small piece of parchment and handed it to him. Rowland took it, unfolded it, and looked it over.

Sweet girl, your niece , it began. Would be a shame if anything happened to her pretty face . - BGB

Rowland locked eyes with his sister again, a chill going up his spine. “This man, was he Irish?”

“No, English,” she said. “Manchester, maybe, by the sound of him.”

“So, Bishop’s doing some research of his own, eh?”

Rowland turned the note over in his hands. Bishop had some smarts, he wasn’t foolish enough to show up to Jo’s shop himself.

“Who’s Bishop?” Jo asked.

“Bishop Goddard,” Rowland told her. “He’s…new in town.”

Her eyes flicked to the note. “Is he legitimate?”

“He’s trying to be, from what we can tell. I’d bet the initials stand for Bishop Goddard’s Boys, they haven’t even got a name yet.”

“Fuck the name, they’re sniffing around my shop and threatening my little girl!” Jo hissed.

“Don’t worry, we’re working on it,” Rowland assured her with a hand on her shoulder. “Did the man say when he’d be back to pick up his jacket?”

“Saturday.”

“Right. You’ll be out on Saturday.”

“I have appointments.”

“Cancel them.”

“Fine.” She huffed and snatched the pincushion off her wrist, letting it hit the counter. She pointed her finger directly at his chest. “But mind yourselves. I don’t want any blood on my dresses.”

“No dresses will be harmed.”

“Good.” She set her tape measure down with considerably less ire. “How’d it go in Yorkshire? Did you get your money from that earl?”

“We came to an agreement,” he said, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his chest.

“What sort of—”

She didn’t get her question out before Claire returned, ribbons in tow. She’d collected more than the blues, every color of the rainbow fluttered around her little fist.

“I wanted to show you all the colors, Uncle Row,” she said, holding them up. “I’ll tie them into a bow for you, if you want.”

He shot Jo an I’ll catch you up later look before crouching down to his niece’s level. “You can tie a bow all by yourself?”

“Of course. Mum taught me. I thought of you because bow rhymes with Uncle Row. You should have lots of bows.”

“Right you are, Claire.”

“Which colors would you like, then?”

“Let’s see…” he tapped a finger to his chin theatrically, but his mind did wonder. He remembered Iris’s eyes. “Dark blue.”

“Dark blue?”

“Yes, please.”

“All right. That’ll be two bob and tuppence.”

“Claire!” Jo scolded.

Rowland only laughed and reached into his pocket for the coins, dropping them with a clink into Claire’s outstretched hand. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

They shook hands and Rowland stood back up.

“Claire, darling,” Jo said, reaching out to stroke her daughter’s hair. “How about you and I go visit Daddy’s grave on Saturday, eh? We can have a little picnic, just the two of us.”

“Will you bring biscuits?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’d love to.”

Jo offered a sad smile, the one she wore every time she talked about her late husband from the moment he died. Claire was born a day before Jesse shipped out to France. He only ever held her once. Rowland tried to fill the void wherever he could, but he knew he could never replace Jesse. Not truly.

“Are you ready?” Rowland asked. “I’ll give you a lift home.”

Jo nodded and held out her hand for Claire. “Come along, darling. You can bring the ribbons with you.”

Claire acquiesced, stuffing the ribbons into the pocket of her pinafore. She held her free hand out to Rowland, who took it with a smile.

“Faaaamily,” she sang softly as they exited the shop and Jo locked up. “I love my faaaaamily.”

“What’s that you’re singing, darling?” Jo asked.

“A song I made up,” Claire said, as if it were obvious. She continued to sing. “I love my faaaaamily. They feed me and clothe me and protect me from harm. Because my Uncle Row is the big man in charge. If you talk bad about them, I’ll give you a smack! Because I love my family and they love me right back!”

Rowland chuckled as he helped her into the back seat. “D’you hear this, Jo? We’ve got a poet in the family.”

“Oh please, it isn’t bloody Shakespeare,” Jo said with a roll of her eyes.

Claire pouted, so Rowland kissed her head. “Your Mum’s right, lovie. It’s much better than Shakespeare.”

She giggled. “I love you the most, Uncle Row.”

For that, he dropped another kiss on her hairline.

***

Leaning against the counter, Rowland checked his watch. Almost midday. The man from Bishop’s gang should be arriving soon.

“Jesus Christ, where the fuck is he?” Ezra complained, and the four men they’d brought with them murmured their agreement.

Rowland lit a cigarette. “Any minute now.”

He glanced out the window. Jo had given as thorough a description as she could. The man was slight, with sandy blond hair and brown eyes. He was clean shaven, with a narrow jaw, and an Adam’s apple that stuck out. He also had a scar over his right eyebrow where the hair didn’t grow. The foot traffic on the street was light, which meant they should be able to see him coming.

A blond man crossed the street, and Rowland squinted, but couldn’t make out a distinctive feature. He whistled Ezra over.

“Oh, that’s him. That’s the scar,” Ezra said. “God, your eyesight is shit.”

“Fuck off and get in position,” Rowland replied.

Ezra led the others to the back of the shop. Rowland stood directly in front of the door. The man pushed it open and the bell above them chimed. He came to a halt when he saw Rowland standing there, his pleasant expression hardening. He swallowed, that prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Rowland didn’t give him time. He snatched his gun from the holster under his jacket and pistol whipped him clear across the face. The man cried out and dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding cheek.

“Expecting someone else?” Rowland asked, lifting a brow. “You left a message for me, did you not?”

“It worked, didn’t it,” the man grunted in reply. “You are Rowland Sinclair?”

“The one and only.”

“My boss wants to talk.”

“Oh, he left talking behind the moment he sent you into my sister’s shop and threatened my niece. Tell Mr. Goddard he’s got three days to get the fuck out of my city. By order of the Crimson Devils.”

The man glowered, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He spat, and a tooth shot out, hitting the floor with a small thunk .

“Mind your aim, if you get blood on my sister’s dresses, she’ll take your balls.” He paused for a beat. “Though considering your methods, I’m not convinced you have any.”

“We know you sold guns to the IRA,” the man said.

“All right, one ball, I suppose, for coming out with what you’re really here to say.”

“We can’t have IRA sympathizers running Liverpool.”

“You’re safe from that, I assure you. I’m not an IRA sympathizer, I’m simply a businessman. And I don’t deal in guns, I deal in textiles.”

“So you say to coppers.”

“So I say to everyone. I have a few side businesses for betting, but it’s all perfectly legitimate. I’ve got a license and everything.”

He whistled, and his backup emerged. The color drained from the man’s face. “We’ve got a message of our own to send. Take him out back, boys.”

Two of the posse hauled the man up by his arms and dragged him—struggling—toward the back door that led to the alley. Rowland pulled Ezra aside.

“Get anything out of him that you can, but make sure he leaves here alive,” Rowland said, voice low. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a note. “Send him back with this.”

Ezra read it out loud. “Shame about his face. You have three days.” He smirked and shook his head. “You got it, Row.”

Rowland left the shop, humming to himself. It was the song Claire made up. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his head.