To love. To cherish. To make her my own and never allow a single harm to come to her.
He shoved down the passionate thoughts. These men wouldn’t respect such soft sentiment—and that blade yet gleamed in the firelight. He forced a slow curve to his lips. “What does a man ever want a woman for?”
Coarse laughter guffawed out of them, curling Edmund’s hands into fists.
The tall one’s tongue poked about his cheek. He winced, sucking air through his missing front tooth. “What’s it worth to ye, guv’ner?”
“I can make it very worth your while if you tell me where she is.”
The man with the knife aimed the tip at him. “Or we could jes’ take it from ye. A toff like you is child’s play.”
Sweat mingled with the rain dripping off the ends of his hair, trickling down his neck. Showing weakness now would be waving red in front of that bull.
“You could,” Edmund admitted, “but I doubt you could dispose of my body before the police show up. If I’m not back on the street in one minute, my associate will alert the bluecoats. So either we conduct this business in a profitable fashion or in one that involves shackles and very poor meals.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket—which was either a baited hook or a death warrant. Hopefully the former.
The tall man’s eyes locked onto the money. “I know where she is, guv’ner. The Shadow Broker’s in Wormwell’s warehouse over in Rotherhithe. Leastwise that’s where ol’ Brudge were takin’ ’er an hour or so ago, an’ tha’s God’s truth.” He held out his hand, palm skyward.
It always paid to examine a man’s chin when cutting a deal. If it twitched to the left, he was lying. To the right, no malintent, but it was a bluff all the same. The big man’s jaw didn’t move a hair. Edmund handed him the money. “Good doing business with you.”
The big fellow tucked it inside his shirt. “’Tweren’t a fair hand Brudge dealt the little woman, but as me mum always said, shadows may bend, yet they ne’er break. Keep that in mind with whate’er you intend concerning the woman.”
Huh. He might almost think the man had a care for Ami. Even so, Edmund backed away, keeping an eye on the lot of them while listening for any movement behind him. He didn’t know a thing about the Wormwell warehouse, but he did know a fair amount about the Rotherhithe wharves.
And they weren’t any less dangerous than here.
29
How could it possibly be? Ami bit her lip to keep from gaping at the priceless artifacts being unloaded by men who wouldn’t know an amulet from an ax-head. These items should have been in Mr. Harrison’s possession, not here in a dirty warehouse smelling of dead fish and sweaty men. Besides an engagement to Violet, had Edmund kept this sale a secret as well?
She rolled the thought around in her head as the brute beside her led her closer to the treasures. But, no, the idea of Edmund negotiating a deal with Mr. Wormwell was even less plausible than him wedding a pampered princess he couldn’t possibly love. Surely he’d have gotten more money from that private collector than a criminal like Mr. Wormwell ... wouldn’t he?
Then again, Mr. Dandrae had been known to outbid the Ashmolean when there was a piece he wanted for himself, and he operated on a much smaller scale than it appeared Mr. Wormwell did.
The brutish man hustling her along stopped in front of what appeared to be a side office and pulled a slate off a nearby hook. A broken piece of chalk was tethered to it by an unraveling piece of string, and he shoved it in her hands. “Get to work.”
She clutched the board lest she anger the fellow. “I must know who brought in this shipment. Who is the seller?”
“Yer to price the lot, not ask questions.” He rammed her shoulder with a thick finger, prodding her toward the unloaded crates.
She stumbled, then planted her feet. “It is imperative I know where these relics came from in order to give Mr. Wormwell the value he desires.” A lie. Sort of. It was helpful to know where items came from to provide context for historical and cultural significance, which tied into price ... not that this thug needed to know she already knew the answer, however.
And the more she stalled, the more time she’d have to figure out a way to escape.
God, please, help me think of a way!
“Ask the man yerself, and be quick about it,” he grumbled. “Ye’ve a load o’ work to do by sunup. And if ye don’t get it done, Wormwell will have you fer breakfast. Ye’ll find the hawker waitin’ fer his due in here.” He hitched his thumb toward the office door, then shoved his face into hers. “But mind ye don’t run off. This wharf belongs to Wormwell, and he don’t take kindly to runners. Neither do I.”
She clutched the slate all the tighter to keep from whapping him over the head with it, for such an action wouldn’t do any good. Even if she managed to crack his skull, the other men would see and come to his aid.
She strode the few steps to the closed office door, fighting to keep her composure despite the fear weakening her legs. She never should have fled the Bastions’ town house. What an impetuous move! Her father and Polly had warned her that shadow brokering would catch up to her someday.
And this was the day.
Angry with herself, she yanked open the door—flinching as a gunshot split the night outside. Apparently there was just as much danger on the other side of these walls. She strode inside the office.
Then gaped.
“Mr. Fletcher?” The name on her lips made about as much sense as seeing Edmund’s business partner pacing in front of a scarred hulk of a desk. His trousers were muddied. His hair stood on end, wilder than her father’s. A grey pallor shadowed his face as if he might swoon dead away.
