Chapter 46 #2
“No offense taken, Mr. Brodia. You are right. But I would like you to tell me more about my husband. And why he is nice to me now when he doesn’t have to be.”
“Why, men are absolutely illogical creatures when it comes to women they fancy. Unlike women.”
“Women are not?”
“Women love men for their money, fame, confidence. No woman loves a man for the sheer beauty of him.”
“Interesting.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“If you assume that I want to get along with my husband because of his wealth, I do not. I was supposed to marry someone who didn’t have anything but a title.”
A newspaper boy ran up to Mr. Brodia and passed him a folded piece of paper. “A message, sir.”
Intrigued, Grace studied the boy and Mr. Brodia, who read the message, then produced a pen from inside his jacket, scribbled something on the paper, and gave it back to the boy, who disappeared in the crowd in seconds.
“You know him?” Grace mused as they resumed walking.
“He is part of the Bankees’ street runners.”
She creased her brows in confusion.
“Nothing is quicker and more efficient than children,” he explained.
“You employ children?”
“We give them work, yes, but also a home and protection. Why, you seem surprised. Don’t be.
Drasko and I grew up on the streets. We had neither.
We used to steal, sleep in the gutters, and burn fires in the winter to keep warm.
It was a matter of luck that we were adopted , if you may, by those who had more resources.
Most homeless children don’t get lucky. They die young.
Or, if they grow up, they don’t value things and others’ lives. ”
“Do you?”
“Absolutely. And so does Drasko.”
Elias’s words came to mind, something he had said to her during the dinner at their house.
“Drasko is the sort of man you ask for a thousand and he offers a million. He can get to know you and then cut your throat, metaphorically speaking. But only one look at someone, and he will offer his hand to pull that person out of the gutter. He has a unique sense about people.”
The words had fascinated Grace then. But of course, her husband had unlimited resources.
“He values diamonds, I assume,” Grace said in contemplation. “And what he owns.”
“Diamonds are simply a product of trade, Mrs. Mawr. As to what Drasko owns, he doesn’t own you , despite you being his wife. And yet…”
She turned to meet his smiling gaze. “And yet?”
“The way he talks about you…”
Her heart fluttered. “What does he say?”
“It’s not what he says but how he says it. Like he has no other business in the world besides making you happy. Though he doesn’t notice it himself. You are a woman. Women have a notion for those things, do they not?”
“What things?”
“Assessing men and their inclinations. Women are good at that. Unless, of course…” Mr. Brodia trailed off with a smile, making her even more intrigued. The way he talked left so much unsaid.
“Unless?” she pressed on.
“Unless a woman is blinded by her own feelings. Feelings make one lose perspective.”
“My husband never loses perspective.”
“Perhaps, you don’t know your husband well enough.”
“I wish I did, Mr. Brodia.”
He chuckled. “Tell me something, Mrs. Mawr. Do you suppose your life would be different if you married that earl?”
It stunned her—the question so brazen, yet the one that in all the time spent with her husband had never crossed her mind.
She absently scanned the crowded street, searching out couples, some seemingly happy, others with blank expressions as if they were mere strangers to each other.
“I never thought of it.” Embarrassment, mixed with repulsion, washed over her. “Nor do I want to think of it. And…”
“And?”
“And it petrifies me to think that I could’ve married that man.”
“Why?”
“Because he is not even a fraction of the man I thought he was. And my husband is… Well, perhaps you were right about losing perspective.”
Perhaps, she didn’t need to have this conversation with a man she barely knew. But she was greedy for any bit of information about her husband. Feelings bubbled up inside her when she talked about him.
A whistle came from the other side of the street, then a closer one. Another boy ran up to Mr. Brodia and whispered something in his ear.
“I shall be there,” Mr. Brodia said with a nod, and the boy took off down the street.
“Would you care to explain all this business with children?” Grace inquired. “You have me curious.”
“You see, when one of the Bankees is in trouble, we have code words to send a message around.”
“Code words?”
“So strikingly blue.”
“Pardon me?”
“The code phrase—‘so strikingly blue’—is for a kidnapping threat. ‘So strikingly yellow’ is for enemies infiltrating our establishments. ‘So strikingly red’ is for a blood fight or ambush. ‘So strikingly dark’ is for a life threat. We have a number of them and change them every season.”
“How does that work?”
“If you ever see street children salute with a flick of their fingers on their hat or blinder—they are ours, they work for us. And the code is a request for attention or help.”
“How unusual!”
“Helpful, I should say. When we are in public and surrounded by enemies but unable to speak clearly or give a sign, that’s when the code comes in.”
“And then?”
“And then”—Mr. Brodia grinned at her—“the fastest message system in the city goes in motion—Bankees’ street runners. Newspaper boys, flower girls, fruit sellers, shoe cleaners—there is always someone watching. Because there is always an enemy at your heels.”
The grim words made Grace shiver in unease.
Her gaze immediately swept across the streets, noticing children here and there, one of them, a crossing sweeper about ten years of age, nodded to her and flicked the underside of his blinder with his fingers.
“Huh.” Grace looked around, amused. “Do you have enemies, Mr. Brodia?”
“Not currently. The last one ended up on the bottom of the Thames.”
Her head snapped in his direction.
Mr. Brodia winked. “Don’t take it to heart, Mrs. Mawr.”
But the dangerous sparkle in his eyes did not escape her.
“Does my husband?” she inquired.
The humor in his face faded. He sucked in his cheeks.
“Mrs. Mawr,” he said, avoiding her eyes, “I am afraid I have urgent business to attend to. It was my pleasure.”
He bowed and, within seconds, was walking away, never having answered her question.