Carky pursed her lips. “I could still take him out an’ split the profits with ye.”
“I think not. Knowing Jackson, he got that carriage moving the second I flew out the door. Likely even now the barrister’s guards have surrounded Coleman and are escorting him through the front gate.”
Carky glanced back over the roof’s edge, then threw down her gun and shot to her feet, foul oaths spewing like hot lava. “Ye always were a burr in my side, pet!”
“You’re the one who brought me into this whole mess. So…” She dared another step closer, the morning breeze cool against her hot cheeks. “Who hired you?”
A grin slashed across the woman’s elfish face. “Ye should know I ne’er kiss an’ tell.”
“If you won’t sing now, then you can rot in a gaol cell until you do.” She tipped her head towards the door. “Start moving.”
Carky folded her arms, not budging a whit. “Ye think yer little threat frightens me?”
“The time behind bars, no. That’s nothing you’ve not done before. But once word spreads you’ve been apprehended—and trust me, it will—then you’ve got a whole other demon to fear, for the man who hired you won’t like it a bit. Might make him as nervous as you when we took in Gruver and Blackjack.” Emboldened, Kit drew ever closer, stopping but five paces from the woman. “Tell me what man is bankrolling you, and I promise we’ll see him put away. Furthermore, upon your testimony against him, maybe your sentence can be lightened a bit.”
Sneering, Carky applauded with grotesquely exaggerated claps. “Bang-up performance, pet. A real Drury Lane slip-slapper!” She dropped her hands, jaw jutting. “Though I hate to disappoint ye, ol’ friend, I’ll hafta say no to yer offer. Even assassins have their honour, ye know.”
Stubborn, prideful woman! As bullish as when they were girls. And yet…well…that could as easily be Kit standing there, all stiff-necked and flouting justice, if God had not lavished His grace upon her at a young age. Save for God’s great mercy alone, she would have been no different than Carky Smathers.
“Please,” Kit softened her tone. “Let me help you. If you don’t give me the name of the man behind this scheme, there is no way Jackson and I can protect you.”
For a moment Carky said nothing. She just stood there, the wind catching her skirt and rippling the fabric of her blouse, as ordinary as you please. Had fate been different, they might be taking morning tea in a garden instead of facing off on the roof of a London hotel.
“Ahh, but that’s just it, luv. Don’t ye see?” A small smile curved her lips. “I don’t need yer protectin’. I don’t need anythin’. I live life on me own terms. Always have. Always will.” Her cat eyes hardened to jade rocks. “And I’ll die on such too.”
Carky whirled.
Two strides later, she plummeted over the edge.
And was gone.
Jackson could still scarce believe it. Gone. In an instant. A life snuffed out like the pinching of a candle flame. God have mercy. Though he’d been far enough away not to hear the thud of Carky’s body hitting the cobbles, the screams of pedestrians would haunt him for nights to come, and no doubt would for Kit as well. Thank heavens she’d had enough wits about her not to peer over the roof’s edge. Still, she’d been so shaken that she’d allowed him to usher her home and see her settled with a large cup of chamomile.
And everything inside him yearned to join her.
But first, Bella.
He followed Mrs. Crumplehorn, Charles’ landlady—who was more bulldog than woman—into the sitting room where Charles paced like a madman in front of the window.
“A caller for you, Mr. Baggett.” The woman snipped out the words like a sharp pair of garden shears. “And if you are planning on cramming this one in my boardinghouse with the rest of your menagerie, my fee has since doubled.”
“No, Mrs. Crumplehorn.” Baggett stopped in his tracks, crescents beneath his eyes, hair mussed as if he’d been tugging at it. “Mr. Forge will not be staying the night, and I suspect Mrs. Jones and her children shall be leaving posthaste.” He glanced at Jackson, a hopeful lift to his brow.
Jackson nodded.
“Very good, then, Mr. Baggett.” She dipped her head at Jackson, her mobcap so tight it cinched lines on her forehead. “Good day, Mr. Forge.”
“To you as well, Mrs. Crumplehorn.” Jackson waited for her skirt hem to swirl out the door before turning on Charles. “Quite the cryptic note you sent me. Where is mypackage,as you put it?”
“Don’t worry, old man. Bella is quite safe and likely even now scattering biscuit crumbs all over my bedroom floor. Take a seat?” He gestured to the sofa.
“And the rest?” Jackson sat, glad for the soft cushion after such a harrowing morning. “Mrs. Jones? Her children? I take it they are here as well.”
“Mostly.” Charles sank onto the adjacent chair. “Frankie has gone to the glassworks. The older girls are at the soup kitchen letting everyone know there will be no meal served today. And Martha—er, Mrs. Jones is in my room tending the younger children.”
Jackson smirked. “No wonder Mrs. Crumplehorn was so put out.”
“She ought not be. The woman’s purse is five pounds heavier for the inconvenience.” Charles rubbed his shoulder. “And I’m the one who suffered on that sofa last night. It’s fine enough to perch on but not so great a bed.”
