“What the deuce are you talking about? What makes sense?”
Dunkeld tipped his head. He wore his hair unfashionably long, gathered in a leather thong at the nape of his neck. The tail slipped over his shoulder. “You have higher standards than chasing a doxy. Not that you won’t get your prick wet in a prostitute, but your mistress must be of a higher caliber.”
“My prick doesn’t discriminate.” Max tightened his jaw. He was growing tired of the conversation.
“No, but your heart does.” Dunkeld held up his hands as though expecting an attack. “You’re always searching for the better life, one filled with perfect people doing perfect things. You’re a dreamer. A suffering and noble widow you can save is right in your shire.”
“I am not a dreamer.” And why that word sounded like an insult, he didn’t know. “I see life how it is. Every dirty, fucking bit of it.”
“Yes.” Was that pity in his friend’s eyes? “And you always try to burn it clean.”
Fingering the flint in his coat pocket, Max gritted his teeth. The problem with friends was that they knew him too bloody well. Understood his fascination with fire had deep roots. That he craved the fresh start that flames always brought.
It was his own fault. He’d set himself up as the torch in their group, using fire to smoke out the cutthroats the Crown sent them after. If he took a little more joy in the act than necessary, was that any of his friends’ business?
The arrival of another hackney saved Max from finding a response. “Pinkerton’s finally got his arse here. Let’s go.” He pushed out of the carriage and crossed the street, not needing to see if his friend followed. Dunkeld would. Max shot a look down the road but didn’t see Rothchild. Unlike the Scotsman, the earl was prodigious at going unnoticed.
The door to the coffee house swung open before him, and two men stepped out. Max caught the door before it closed. Pushing into Garraway’s, he made a mental picture of the room with one glance. Pinkerton sat alone at a small table in the corner, looking down and blushing furiously when he saw Max enter.
Montague and Summerset lounged at a table by the window, two servings of meat pies half-eaten before them. They didn’t spare him a glance.
A serving girl bustled past. She jerked her head towards the center of the shop. “Get yourselves a free table. I’ll be by in a jiff to take your order.”
Max nodded, the brim of his hat slipping over his eyes, and he swept the bloody thing off in disgust. He could never find one big enough for his head; instead, the blasted things perched daintily on his curls rather than settling sturdily over his crown. Tapping the brim against his thigh, he weaved through the crowded coffee house, Dunkeld at his heels. He tossed the sodding hat onto an empty table and dropped into a wood chair.
Dunkeld settled himself more gently and rested his elbow on the table which tilted under his weight. He sat up, and the table rocked back into place. “Feck me, this won’t do.” He bent over, looking at the legs, trying to determine which one was uneven.
“Leave it be.” Max lounged back in his chair. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“How can I leave it be? It will distract me the whole time.” He waved over the serving girl. “Miss, do you have a paper?”
“Some coffee and a couple of those meat pies would be appreciated, too,” Max said. His stomach rumbled agreement. That luncheon had been too liberal with the cakes and not enough with the meat dishes. But the workers at The Black Rose had seemed to appreciate it.
The serving girl pushed a lank strand of hair off her cheek with the back of her hand and nodded. She took off with admirable speed.
“Now, about this widow.” Dunkeld propped an ankle on one knee. “What do we know about her?”
“Weknow how she became a widow. And whose fault her current matrimonial state is.”
The door banged open and three boisterous young swells burst through. One had his friend in a headlock, laughing his arse off.
Pinkerton flinched at the noise. The American was nervous, and Max could only hope he was always nervous when he met with Zed’s man. Otherwise, things could turn to shit very quickly.
“You forget who was with you,” Dunkeld said quietly. “You had no way to know the wind would shift. You’ve set the same fire a hundred times, and it’s never burned out of control. You can’t keep putting yourself through the mill over it.”
Max’s eyes burned, but he looked at his friend evenly. “I started a fire that killed a man. That made my manager a widow. I hardly think a little self-condemnation is amiss.”
And he still questioned that wind. It had been the only possible explanation for why the fire had spread to the building next door. To the clock shop. But he hadn’t noticed any breeze that night. And he’d checked. He always did.
The Crown had considered that night a success. The evidence against a government official had been destroyed, and the man responsible for gathering it scared into submission. Liverpool had nary blinked an eye at the death of a Cit. Only Colleen had cared that her husband had died. Colleen, and Max.
The serving girl returned with two mugs of steaming coffee and a copy ofThe Timesfolded under her arm. She placed the coffees down, making the table rock, and handed Dunkeld the paper.
“Many thanks, lass.” He folded the paper once more and shoved it under one of the legs. When he pressed on the tabletop again, it held steady. A small smile broke across his face, one that flattened when he turned back to Max.
“We’ve all made mistakes in our line of work.” Dunkeld palmed his mug. “None of us have clean hands. You just have to think that the good you do makes up for the harm.” His gaze turned steely. “We do more good than harm.”
They told themselves that. It was the only way to sleep at night. But did Max believe it anymore? He didn’t know. And he no longer wanted to wrestle with his conscience over everything he did. His retirement was the best idea he’d had in a long time. A simple life lay in front of him. One where fire was only used to bring warmth and pleasure, but never destruction.
