Chapter 9
9
8 . February, 1827
No.’s 25-27, Mercer Street
Edge of Seven Dials
Con sat at the head of the long table in the Four Horsemen's war room on the first floor of his headquarters and studied the faces of his three brothers. He'd sent Wu and his guards to search the rookeries for Marianne as well as the warehouse he'd been foolish enough to rent to her. His brothers had already chastised him the night before for what they'd heard about the strange woman dressed as Robin Hood stealing from his customers, not to mention the poisoned orange he'd picked up thoughtlessly. And now, less than twenty-four hours later, he'd had to call them back for an emergency session because of his idiotic obsession with a thief whose antics were jeopardizing all they'd worked to build in the rookeries over the years.
Warrick slowly shook his head and looked around at the others. When he realized everyone was waiting for him to speak, he weighed in. "Con, we've all been together since we were babes barely able to survive on the streets of Seven Dials." He spread his arms wide and gazed around at the others. "Haven't we always taken care of each other...first?"
Fam slowly shook his head in assent. "It's always been all of us or none of us."
Ban stopped his restless fidgeting and leapt to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at Con. "You've endangered everything we've worked for, everything we have for this...this woman. I certainly hope she's a Venus between the sheets. Because, after all...she is just a woman, and we could have a hundred of London's finest Cyprians lined up tonight outside your bedchamber. Hell, you have that sensuous hellcat of an Italian opera singer, Caterina, stashed in a fancy townhouse over on Leicester Square."
Con buried his head in his hands and moaned as if he were in pain. When Lugh and Aengus rushed in at the sound of their master's agony, Fam, who always carried food with him, tossed them chunks of dried beef which sent them scurrying to opposite corners of the room with their treasures.
Ban pointed to Fam. "I say we have you hunt this crazy woman down and end all this nonsense once and for all."
When Con raised his head a bit, Warrick's eyes widened, and Con caught him winking at Ban.
At the sound of Ban's plan to send Fam after Marianne, Con leapt to his feet. "This is not her fault. I take full responsibility, and I'll gut the first man who dares harm a hair on her head." To emphasize his intentions, he pounded a bit too hard on one of the carved war room chairs and busted it in two.
"I told you so." Warrick pointed at both Fam and Ban. Our brother is so in lust, he's broken."
"He's like a lovesick puppy," Ban agreed.
Fam's face took on a terrifying look. "Con, you've lost all sense of what's at stake here. I'll find this wench and make her disappear. We can't continue to let her careen around London dispensing counterfeit notes, stealing from your best clients..."
"And making all of us vulnerable to our enemies," Ban added. "God knows, they've been looking for a way to take us down for years."
Warrick walked to Con's side and put a firm hand on his shoulder. "Brother, Fam is not going to hurt her. But when we bring her back, you'll have to make a hard decision."
Con gave his younger brother a look so evil, Warrick stepped back a pace. "You either have to send her to another country where no one can use her against us, or..."
"Ye'll have to marry the rattle pate and keep her guarded under lock and key." Fam spoke the words they'd all been thinking.
"Lock and key," he said, with a bitter laugh. "She's a master of the Black Art," which is why she's out there somewhere now." Con glared at his brothers but admitted they were right. He'd never before lost all sense of self-preservation over a woman. "I know you're absolutely right, but I'd rather take care of this myself." He leaned forward on the table and glared at his three brothers.
Fam stood and shook his head slowly. "Con, ye had two chances to take her in hand and ye didn't. It's time the Four Horsemen brought this wild filly back to the stable."
All three of his brothers closed in around him and stacked their hands atop each other's on the table. After a moment's reluctance, Con added his to the top of the pile, in the sign they were all in agreement.
After Fam and Ban had headed down to the kitchen to see what they could beg from Cook, Warrick voiced another concern. "Someone tried to kill you with that damned orange, Con. We can't figure out which one of our enemies is that brazen to try to take you down so openly."
"I can handle myself," Con insisted.
"Apparently not. Grabbing an orange someone throws you from a costermonger? You're losing your edge, Con, which unfortunately sometimes happens when a man's brain is commandeered by his cock."
"What do you want me to do?" Con didn't try to defend his actions.
"I want you to meet with Archer Colwyn and me next week. If someone's out there hiring street assassins to eliminate one of us, we need to take that threat seriously."
"All right. Let me know when."
With that, Warrick gave him a half-salute and headed back toward his own center of business near the docks at the edge of the Thames.
* * *
9 February, 1827
Office of Detective Archer Colwyn
Great Queen Street
Col stood out on Great Queen Street in front of the boardinghouse where he kept his private investigation office. He looked both left and right amongst the carriage and foot traffic, trying to make sure no one would know one-half of the powerful Four Horsemen were about to descend upon his lowly place of business. Once he'd ushered them inside, there would be no one who would remark upon, or gossip about the infamous gang leaders. The danger was out amongst the crowds thronging Great Queen Street.
By pre-arrangement, Con and Warrick Dyer arrived by two different, plainly marked carriages, with a pause of about five minutes between them. One of the carriages slowed just short of Col, and Con swung down whilst the carriage kept moving. Warrick dropped from a similar carriage coming from the opposite direction and joined them inside the entrance hallway. Col now owned the boardinghouse outright, which kept his business as confidential as possible.
None of the men exchanged greetings beyond collegial nods of heads before heading up to the third-floor rooms that served as Col's office.
Once they were settled around the simple round table the agency used for meetings and imported cheroots had been passed around and lighted, Col spoke first. "What can I do for you gentlemen today?"
Con placed both of his huge hands out in front of him on the table. "I've made a mess of our business, and we need your help."
Col raised a brow. "That's a pretty severe assessment."
"But close to the truth," Warrick added. "My brother has been taken advantage of by an unscrupulous, wicked clever, but utterly captivating master female thief."
Col rocked back on his chair, a baffled look on his face. "Let me get this straight. Con Dyer, the famed, feared leader of the Four Horsemen...that Con Dyer? He's fallen under the spell of a thieving woman?"
Con growled and leaned forward. "That's right. Haven't you ever done something stupid because you were led around by your cock?"
Col returned his old friend's steady, serious look before breaking out in loud guffaws. He couldn't stop laughing. When he finally got his breathing under control again, he gave both men a sober look. "It's common knowledge all over England what a fool I made of myself trying to beat Goodrum's chess mistress...and then there was that time back in school when I was the on dit of all the women in Oxford, London, and beyond." He waved a dismissive hand after his admission. "But that's all water under the bridge. How can I help? Do you want her banished from the country? Sent to the Bow Street magistrates?"
And then he broke out into a wide grin. "But I can tell from the look on your face what you really want."
"What we need first is to find out who in the hell she really is." Warrick pointed an accusing finger at his brother. "He doesn't even know her name."
"I may be able to help there, and I won't charge you a farthing."
Both Dyer brothers gave him an odd look.
"Is she about so tall?" Col raised his hand to the height of a petite woman. "Dark hair, dark eyes, voluptuous and spoiled as week-old eels?"
Con stared in confusion. "How did you know?"
"Her father is Thomas Oxley, the richest coal and copper mine owner in Wales and probably all of England as well. He was here yesterday and offered me a small king's ransom for convincing his obstinate daughter to return to the family estate in Wales."
"Did you take the job?" Warrick asked.
"Hell no. I have enough trouble managing the women in my family."
"Do you know where she is?" Con's tone was so pitiful, both his brother and Col gave him a sharp look.
Warrick inclined his head toward his brother. "He's one lost cod, ain't he?"
Col laughed. "How else can I help you two?"
Con shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs in his brain. "The little thief turned up counterfeit notes that aren't ours, and someone is trying to kill me. Is that enough to keep you busy for a while?"
Col gave out a deep sigh and drew a small notebook toward him to take notes.
* * *
10 February, 1827
Prostitute's Crib
Off Maiden Lane
Marianne lay across the prostitute's bed and stared at the little green malachite casket, glittering seductively atop the rough-edged trunk the shepherdess used to store all her worldly goods. She'd already opened the pitifully inadequate lock and had gone through the poor woman's few things she'd deemed fine enough to lock within the chest. The shepherdess-whore had a surprisingly fine dress packed carefully with lavender, a few inexpensive trinkets, and several boxes of French letters she probably sold to the men she brought back to the crib.
She had no intention of stealing any of the young whore's few possessions of worth. She was merely fascinated by the private lives of other people. The things they kept under lock and key seemed to define the lives they lived, the things that were important, or dear, to them. She tried not to examine too closely her own obsession with theft.
Nothing else made her feel so blood-pumping alive. Nothing else gave her more satisfaction than solving someone else's carefully laid puzzles. The only other experience that came close was having Con Dyer inside her body, moaning her name, pumping his life force into her. The fear of discovery she felt each time she stole from a home belonging to a high-in-the-instep member of the ton was multiplied a thousand times when she submitted to Con.
He could have her locked away forever, he could make her his slave, he could keep her under his thumb in the same way her father had for the first half of her life. The deadly racing fear inside her, though, that made her heart pound like the hoof-beats of a runaway team of horses was that she would let him do whatever he pleased as long as he'd allow her into his life...just a little.
Mere thoughts of the infuriating man had caused moisture to collect at the apex of her thighs. When she rolled over to pleasure herself, her usual rote method of arousal didn't work. She had to slicken her three middle fingers with spit and plunge deeply into her quim at such an accelerated frenzy, that by the time she'd reached completion, she was panting and sweat trickled between her breasts.
In that moment of relief, sudden clarity burst into her awareness. She knew what she had to do to unlock the secrets of the damned malachite box...and maybe discover the identity of the person distributing counterfeit notes in competition with Con's business.
The master at whose feet she'd learned the Black Art was also her beloved Uncle John. Although her father had claimed his brother had been dead for years, Marianne had used her generous allowance to pay informants to find him when she was thirteen. The two had immediately recognized kindred spirits in each other and had made a pact to keep her father in the dark as to their mutual bond. She still carried the address in Birmingham where, the last time she'd seen her uncle, he'd promised to be whenever she needed him.
She'd had no contact with him for years, but now that she was free, maybe the two of them could create their own criminal empire. Throwing her lot in with him would solve two problems. She'd be free of her father and his sneaks, and she'd have a bit of protection from the Four Horsemen as well...maybe.
She padded barefoot over to the carpet bag she'd brought with her and pulled out her sketch pad. Carefully lifting the charcoal sketch she'd been working on, she ripped off the blank sheet of paper beneath. She'd send a cryptic message to her uncle's old Birmingham address and hope he was still in the game.
* * *
10 February, 1827
Office of Detective Colwyn Archer
Great Queen Street
Col stuck a pencil behind his ear and poured himself a steaming hot cup of black coffee. After a deep sip and long sigh, he summarized what the Dyer brothers had told him so far. "What we know for sure is the competing counterfeit notes were printed on the Monmouth Citizen press. We're fairly certain, after your visit to the publisher, no further fake pound notes will be printed on those presses."
Con jumped in. "But the damned paper is out there and someone is still circulating those notes that are so similar to ours. That's the problem. We need to find out who, where he hangs out, and how we can stop him for good." He drew a finger across his throat to emphasize the impending doom for the rival counterfeiter."
Warrick weighed in. "And don't forget the poisoned orange."
"Right," Col said. "Yet another rival is out to kill one of you. We go through this every year and yet here you are. You, and your other brothers...still alive and fit as a troupe of fiddlers."
Warrick gave Col an ugly look. "You think someone trying to kill one of us isn't important?"
"Oh, no." Col put down his coffee cup and waved a conciliatory hand at his clients. "I think you have a much more serious problem right now."
Con leaned in, his facial expression like a late August storm bearing down from the Irish Sea. "And that would be?" His tone might have terrified another man, but Col had dealt with the Horsemen for years. They sometimes forgot he was merely their counselor on where the line lay between freedom and time in Old Bailey.
"Someone is out to not merely kill one of you, but to destroy all four of you." Col smiled. Now he had their undivided attention.