LITMIR.BIZ

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pointed a muzzle at each head. “He’ll give you the money by the end of the day.”

      They scrambled back. They raised their hands above those oily heads, those weapons going up with them.

      Matthew advanced, cocking both pistols with the flick of his thumbs. “Given you both know who I am, it means you also know that my jurisdiction runs between here and Little Water. So get the hell out of my ward. Now.”

      The men sprinted through the open door and out of sight.

      He released the springs on the pistols and shoved them back into his leather belt. With the heel of his worn boot, he slammed the alley door shut. Turning, he strode over to the pile of crates. “I feel like all I’m ever good for is giving you money and getting you out of trouble, Ronan. It’s been that way ever since I first saw you shuffling along in those oversized boots.”

      Several wood crates were frantically pushed out of the way by two bare hands. They clattered to the floor as Ronan crawled out. Still on fours, the youth peered up from beyond a lopsided cap, strands of unevenly sheared brown hair pasted to his brow. “If it had been one man, I would have taken care of it.”

      Taking a knee, Matthew smirked. “Thank goodness there were two. So. How much do you owe those cafflers? I’ll pay it. As always.”

      Ronan hesitated, then blurted, “Two dollars.”

      He choked. “Two! What, did they introduce you to God?”

      Ronan winced. “It was for this girl over on Anthony Street. She said it was free. It wasn’t my fault!”

      “You’re fourteen, you—” Matthew flicked that cheek hard with the tip of his finger and rigidly pointed at him before jumping onto booted feet. “What the hell were you doing over at Squeeze Gut Alley? You could have been killed.”

      Ronan scrambled up, adjusting his brown coat. “She was worth it. She not only knew what she was doing, but had tits the size of jugs.”

      Matthew stared him down. “They could have been the size of Ireland and it still wouldn’t have been worth two dollars or your life. Did you at least sheathe yourself?”

      Ronan blinked. “What do you mean?”

      Matthew groaned. “You need a father.”

      “What? You offering? Do I get to live with you, too?”

      Matthew snorted, knowing the boy would move in with him. “I need a wife first.”

      “Go find one then. I ain’t going anywhere.”

      Knowing his days of having a family were fading fast, given he’d be thirty in less than a year, Matthew grouched, “Not to disappoint you or myself, but all the good women in these parts are either dead or taken.”

      Ronan snickered. “Ain’t that the truth. And the dead ones are the lucky ones, I say. So. I got a message from Coleman. You want it?”

      Matthew paused. “Yes, I want it. What’s this business of him overriding me?”

      Ronan eyed the closed door and lowered his voice. “There’s talk of another swipe on your life. Only, this time, it involves seventeen men from a neighboring ward, hence why Coleman up and put Kerner in charge. Coleman says he’s got business abroad he’s been putting off, so he bought two tickets on a packet ship to Liverpool and wants you on it with him tomorrow at noon. That way, you dodge the swipe, until these boyos are taken off the street by marshals, whilst Coleman ties up strings in London.”

      Matthew set a heavy hand against his neck, pinching the skin on it. Another swipe. God. He should have been dead years ago.

      Dropping his hand, Matthew dug into the inner pocket of his patched waistcoat, and pulled out all the money he had on him—three dollars. He held it out. “Here. Pay off the debt and keep the rest for yourself and out of your mother’s hands, lest she drink it. And next time, if you want a girl, Ronan, do the respectable thing and marry one.”

      Ronan searched his face. “Thanks for... Thanks.” He took the money and tucked it deep into his pocket. He cleared his throat and adjusted his cap and trousers, trying to appear manly. “So, um...what should I tell Coleman? He’s got business over at the docks.”

      “Tell him he’s a son of a bitch for caring.”

      “Which means you’ll be on that boat.”

      “Exactly.”

      Ronan sighed, grudgingly turned and made his way to the door, flinging it open. “I’ll tell him.” Ronan glanced back. “You’re coming back, right? You’re not leaving me?”

      Matthew hesitated, knowing the boy depended on him for far, far more than money. “I’ll be back once I get word from the marshals that the swipe is over. I promise. In the meantime, take my tenement whilst I’m gone. I’ll give you the key in the morning. The rent has already been paid for to the end of the year.”

      “I’ll take it.” Ronan’s face tightened. “I’m done cleaning up whiskey and tossing men out on the hour. No matter what I say and despite all the times you’ve gone over there to talk to her, nothing ever changes. I hate her. I do.”

      Matthew swallowed and nodded. Ronan’s mother, who had once been a successful stage actress in Boston when the boy was two, was nothing but a drunk and a penniless whore, who now brought all of her cliental home, whether Ronan was there to see it or not. “She’s still your mother and you’re all the woman has. She needs you.”

      “More than I need her,” Ronan muttered, disappearing.

      Matthew threw back his head, exhausted. London? Why did he have this feeling Coleman was saving him from one mess, only to drag him into another?

      CHAPTER THREE

      All that you see, judge not.

      —The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

      The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row

      WHY, OH WHY, DID SHE feel like Caesar about to be stabbed by Brutus? Directing her horse alongside the stunning redhead who Mr. Astor was ardently gambling on, Bernadette Marie fixed her gaze on the remaining path leading through the rest of the park. She tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins, endlessly grateful not to have been ambushed or stoned. Yet.

      Glancing over at Georgia, Bernadette withheld a sigh. She really was going to miss the girl. The idea of handing her off to London society made her cringe. Georgia was so much bigger in character and in spirit than these stupid fops around them, and after ten months of the girl’s eye rolling and giggling and huffing whilst Bernadette attempted to mold her into perfection, Bernadette realized that she was about to lose a friend. Something she really didn’t have. For whilst men flocked to her in the name of money, women never flocked to her at all. They only ever saw her as competition or a threat to their reputation.

      Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”

      Bernadette tried not to smirk. “This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to Town to wed and stay in it.”

      “Oh, yes. That.” Georgia’s green eyes brightened as her arched rust-colored brows rose. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”

      Ah, to be twelve years younger and still think men were worth more than their trousers. “He will most likely faint.”

      And Bernadette meant it. After the astounding transformation Georgia had undergone from street girl to American heiress, not even her waiting Lord Yardley was going to recognize her.

      As Bernadette scanned the path before them, wondering if they were done showcasing Georgia for the afternoon, two imposing gents on black stallions made her pause. She lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet.

      Both well-framed men wore ragged great coats, edge-whitened black leather boots and no hats or gloves. In

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