“And unlike Miss Woolsey’s experience in the garden”—he straightened the cuff of his sleeve—“this one truly was a deadly viper.”
A shiver ran the length of her spine. “A Russell’s viper?”
Admiration deepened the blue in his eyes. “You do know your snakes, don’t you?”
Unfortunately, she did. That particular venom was highly toxic. He’d have suffered internal bleeding in a matter of hours and died within a day. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly. “How did you survive?”
“God’s providence.” He sank into his chair, looking more tired than she’d ever witnessed. “A native found me shortly after the strike. He slung me over his shoulder and ran me to his village, straight up the side of that mountain. I still marvel at his strength. I outweighed the man by at least six stone. He knew exactly what to do, and though it took nearly a month of recuperation, he never left my side ... which earned him the ostracism of his tribe. Sanjay lost all standing in the village for his care of me—a white man.”
“And it is this Sanjay who is in need right now?”
He nodded. “Because of me, Sanjay was forced to move his family to Calcutta. I helped him start a small textile business, and he and his family had quite the knack for weaving the traditional fabric patterns they grew up with. He struggled to sell it, though, the Calcuttans preferring nothing so quaint, so I exported some samples to London. That’s when his business really took off. Once his extended family heard of his success, they left the village and moved in with him as well. As you’ve likely deduced, he is a very conscientious fellow and would not turn any of them away, which has been fine up till the present.”
“Why?” Her brows pinched. “What changed?”
“There’s an exorbitant new export tariff set to go into action at the end of next month, one that will drain all of Sanjay’s current English sales—which makes up the bulk of his income—dooming him and his family to poverty.”
Ami tapped her lower lip with one finger. “So you mean to sell this cargo and send the money to Sanjay. I am surprised he would take such charity. Men are generally very proud creatures.”
“Not when it comes to saving the lives of loved ones. But to ease any discomfort he might feel, I’ll send the funds along with a contract, making us official business partners, so no charity involved.” He lifted his chin, defiant. “That will get him through until I can figure out a way to reverse the pending tariff legislation.”
Most rich patrons with whom her father dealt clutched their purses with a death grip. She found it sweet that Edmund had the opposite mindset. She laid a light touch to his sleeve. “I think it is very noble of you to help your friend.”
His gaze flicked between her touch and her eyes. “Just as I think it is noble of you to wish to stay here.” His eyes hardened to gunmetal grey. “But I still insist you leave, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
18
A killer bunion slowed a man down. Brudge knew that from experience. A dog bite and a gunshot, however, well ... that had stopped him in his tracks for a week. Blast that Price for putting armed guards around his property! He’d barely made it to his horse before those men had scaled the wall behind him.
Turning aside, Brudge spit out a wad as he limped over the broken cobbles of Cranham Street. The past week had been insufferable, what with Scupper moaning about his tender jaw from yet another rotten tooth. The man really ought to have them all yanked out and be done with it. Brudge swiped his hand over his mouth, annoyed with his hired muscle, the ache in his leg, and most of all Wormwell. Time was nearly out for paying back that villain.
A frown weighted his brow. Hopefully his boy, Neddie, was still alive. Would to God he’d had some other form of collateral to leave with Wormwell than his only son.
Next to him, Scupper kicked a stray cat out of his way, the screech of the wiry creature an affront to the ears. “Don’t quite remember it bein’ this far, guv’ner.”
“Quit yer whining.” He shot the big oaf a dark look. “Heaven knows I’ve heard enough.”
But apparently God didn’t agree, for ahead a costermonger yowled behind his cart, attempting to sell onions that were more mold balls than anything edible. Their decomposing stink added with the other pungent stenches of the Jericho neighbourhood. A fitting name for the slum of run-down hovels. It wouldn’t take an army of horn-blowing Israelites to cave in this rookery. A good wind could take it down any day.
Just past the end of the Black Raven, he veered down a narrow passage running the length of the nefarious pub. A door with a slot at eye level stood at the back, where he rapped once, thrice, paused, then twice. The metal covering the slot scratched open. A bloodshot eyeball appeared.
“Password?” The voice was as raspy as the slot casing.
Brudge sighed. What a tiresome game. Dandrae wasn’t that big of a player to require such security. “Noose and needle.”
The slot slammed closed. The door creaked open. He and Scupper passed by a man reeking of rum and unwashed stockings. Climbing the rickety steps took effort, wrenching a wince out of him with each lift of his sore leg. Though it was only afternoon, ribald singing from the public room haunted the narrow stairwell.
At the top of the landing, another man stood with a gun at the ready and a scowl on his face. Without a word, he eyed them, then banged his fist on yet another door. “Fresh fish for ya, Boss.”
“Send ’em in.” The words filtered out with a thick Jamaican accent.
The thug swung the door open. Brudge, with Scupper trailing behind, entered a thickly carpeted, multicoloured room. Fresh flowers perfumed the air. Bright textiles hung on the walls, woven with Caribbean motifs. Dandrae sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, the chair cushion at his back aswirl with reds and oranges.
“What are ye selling this time, Mr. Brudge?” There was a melodic lilt to his words.
Brudge shored himself up against a nearby bookcase, forsakingthe chair in front of Dandrae’s desk. He played by his own rules, and it was best to remind Dandrae of that. Besides, it was as hot as a blast furnace in here. Just the thought of parking his backside on the velvet-covered seat beaded sweat on his forehead. “I’m not selling. I’m buying.”
“Is that so?” The big man laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in his seat. Not so much as a dot of perspiration glistened on his skin. “What ye in the market for?”
